#why is he wearing so many layers with collars ..

[phyriaxi]

Haihai!

I think your art style is swaggin as hell, I don’t know if you still take these, but could I get a pic o’ Enforcer?

enforcer! did a lot of experimenting with my process for this one :)

[thank you for the request!]

[allisonlol]

chuuya dazai and fyodor when reader tries to remove the hickies they gave reader the next day OHKYIGOAHSS

a/n: hiii everyone i have crawled out of my void to offer you this post !! ty to the anon who came up with this wonderful idea. i've missed posting omg and we somehow are so close to 3k despite my inactivity??? slay. shall open reqs again once we get there mwehehe

warnings: slight nsfw

(Chuuya, Dazai, Fyodor) When You Try to Remove Hickeys

Chuuya

he's gonna be the most chill about this tbh

it's your body and if you don't want ppl seeing that on you then that's ur choice!!

however

hiding them is one thing, but that doesn't mean he wants to see you removing them

so yknow that hack where you take a whisk and like,,,twist it over the mark to get rid of it?

yeah so you tried that...and it was actually working until chuuya barged into the room and demanded to know what you were doing

bro is not happy to see the hickies he'd proudly left on you last night being somehow removed by a WHISK

grabs that mf thing and throws it across the room

chuuya's not angry at you, more so frustrated and insecure?? cuz like why would u wanna get rid of them

he's lowkey gonna start pouting tbh. won't say anything else but will glare & give u silent treatment

won't stop until you admit the only reason u removed them is because it was too visible with your work uniform and u didn't want everyone staring smh

insist that he should give you more in areas that people won't see and there's no guarantee y'all won't be late to work <3

Dazai

oh lord

so dazai really loves to mark you up

and last night was no different. your neck was black and blue with hickies

deadass to the point where you nearly had a heart attack when you saw it in the morning

"how am i gonna go to work like this?!" you practically sob to him while he LAUGHS

his only advice is "then don't go" as if both of y'all don't need to have ur asses at the agency in 20 minutes

you check ur phone for the time and when u see this you panic and sprint to your shared bedroom

you try everything you can think of to cover them

first you hastily layer concealer on your neck, to no avail as the marks were too dark

then digging through ur closet for clothes with a high enough neckline to hide it, to which you found none

whole time dazai is leaning against the doorframe, watching ur meltdown with an amused expression

he approaches and helps u up from the floor where u had collapsed with all the clothes strewn around you ☹️

"allow me to pick out something for you to wear" ….oh god

u guys are beyond late at this point so you sigh and accept defeat, to which dazai picks a shirt that of course displays all the marks on your neck

you got lots of stares that day to say the least

Fyodor

surprisingly fyodor doesn't usually leave too many marks on you to begin with

he's got that old fashioned take where it's like "other people don't need to see that and be in our business" if u know what i mean

however, he is also a very possessive man

^so when he gets worked up and does leave hickeys on you, the last thing he wants to see is you trying to hide or remove them

which is exactly what he walked in on u doing today

you were trying the good old "rub an ice cube on it" hack before u had to work

now this mf thinks you have some hidden agenda as to why you wanted them gone

"are you seeing someone else" 💀💀

PLS u didn't realize he had been watching from the doorway and this scares u so bad u drop the ice cube down ur shirt

u start frantically trying to get it out of ur shirt while yelling at him like "i have to work, wtf are u talking about???"

u immediately stop tho when he storms up to u and grabs your face to make you look at him

his face is so cold and unreadable omg it's scary

his eyes shift to the marks on your neck as he traces over them with his fingers

"leave these alone" he says lowly, then adjusts the collar of your shirt so they are partially covered

neither of u will say anything more about it after that, but fyodor sends sigma to secretly follow u to work to make sure that's where ur really going 😓

taglist: @deadmitochondria @miycutie @chuuyasboots @shy-socially-awkward-intovert @beandaifuku @stygianoir @sonder-paradise @irethepotato @serenareiss @ashthemadwriter @mrsdostoevsky @creamygojo @mianqo

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Monster Mania.

Pairing: Yandere!Vampire!Neuvillette x Reader x Yandere!Werewolf!Wriothesley (Genshin).

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Oral Sex, Mentions of Blood, Non-Human Anatomy, Possessive Behavior, Prolonged Imprprisoment, and Slight Dehumanization.

“Pouting won’t get you out of this.”

“I’m not—” You paused, gritting your teeth as his shoulder pressed uncomfortably into your stomach. In retribution, you did your best to drive your knee into his chest, to let him know he was hurting you without admitting that you were even more fragile than he’d assumed, but if he cared about your attempts at resistance, if he so much as noticed that you’d moved at all, Wriothesley didn’t waver. “I’m not pouting, I’m trying to get away from my fucking stalker and his—” Another fit of thrashing. This time, Wriothesley was kind enough to tighten his hold on your legs. “—fucking dog. Why is that so hard for you two to get that through your heads?”

He hummed, drumming his fingers against your thigh. “Might be how often call us… what was it, again? A stalker and a dog?”

You scowled, crossing your arms. From your current position, slung over his shoulder, the remnants of one of his rope snares still wrapped around your left ankle, you could only see the thin footpath he was following and the dense forest that laid beyond it. The tree canopy was too thick to let you see the sky (something you mourned and Neuvillette adored, considering his fondness for early evening walks), but rays of golden sunlight still managed to pierce the endless sprawl of branches and leaves, marking the first signs of dusk. Neuvillette had still been asleep when you slipped through the door Wriothesley had forgotten to lock when he left for his daily hunting trip, but he’d be waking up soon; you could already imagine him rising from his canopied bed, picture the diluted shock he’d wear as he stepped into your bedroom for his first meal of the night only to find it empty. You weren’t surprised Wriothesley was so eager to get you home. Neuvillette was stoic at the worst of times, but the thought of letting his pet blood-bag get away was one of the few things that could get a reaction out of him.

Not that Wriothesley was much better. He was more level-headed, sure, more likely to let you wear something aside from ivory nightgowns and untangle you from Neuvillette’s arms when his hunger left him in a blood-thirsty daze, but that never stopped him from taking Neuvillette’s side when you found yourself in another petty argument, from standing in the doorway with a smile and a dreamy look in his eyes as Neuvillette fastened a lace collar around your neck, a collar just a touch too small to cover the twin puncture marks at the base of your throat and just a touch too similar to the steel choker that sat at the base of Wriothesley’s throat more often than not. He might’ve been human, something as mortal and as delicate as you were, but he was still a monster. He’d be crushed under Neuvillette’s heel a thousand times before he ever considered showing you mercy.

The shadow of their mansion was coming into view, now – the lonely building just as dark and just as intimidating as it’d been the first time Wriothesley lured inside. It stretched on as far as the eye could see in either direction and towered above you like some awful, looming thing; thick curtains constantly drawn over its many windows and every surface of its exterior constantly covered in a thick layer of creeping ivy. The rotting boards of the front porch groaned under his weight as he approached the front door, and you braced yourself as he cursed under his breath, patting down the pockets of his heavy flannel. You weren’t sure why they bothered keeping the door locked at all – aside from what it took to keep you trapped inside, at least. Neuvillette was the most dangerous thing for the next hundred miles, and Wriothesley was a close second.

The inside of the mansion was just as ominous; any light from the outside world captured and suffocated before it could penetrate Neuvillette’s endless abyss. You squirmed, hoping Wriothesley would at least let you cross the threshold on your own, but he wasn’t so kind, only responding to your silent plea with a playful squeeze to your calf as he made his way past the entryway and down an unlit hall, passing several torn paintings and overturned tables before finally shrugging open the door to Neuvillette’s study. A bottle of red wine sat open and half-drained on his mahogany desk, a small fire smoldering in the stone hearth he only rarely used. Neuvillette sat beside it, dressed in a simple black robe, his eyes blearily focused on the low-burning flames. He looked concerned, but his apprehension faded as Wriothesley carried you into his line of sigh, disappearing completely as you were hauled off of Wriothesley’s shoulder and dropped into Neuvillette’s lap. One of his hands found its way to your waist, its twin cupping your cheek, tilting your head back and allowing him to press a lingering kiss into the top of your head. “Beloved,” he muttered, practically breathing out his pet name for you before turning to Wriothesley. “Thank you, duke. I’m sorry you’ve had to inconvenience yourself for the sake of what should be my responsibility again.”

With a groan, Wriothesley fell onto the foot of the fireplace, shrugging off his coat. Where Neuvillette chose to hide his bloodlust behind a thick veil of unwavering niceties and delicate elegance, Wriothesley leaned into his brutality; broad muscle straining at the confines of his black undershirt, scruff cropping up faster than he could clear it away, his hair an untamable mess of black and grey and his clothes caked in an ever constant layer of mud and wear (save for his metal choker, of course, which was always polished to conspicuous shine). His eyes lit up when he heard Neuvillette ask after him, posture straightening like that of a soldier called to attention. You’d been too generous when you called him a dog. He was a mutt, too mindlessly obedient to ever question his master’s orders. “How many centuries has it been since you’ve had a reason to call me that?”

“It should be four this year.” Another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. You could feel the points of his fangs, still tucked behind his lips but no less dangerous for their momentary concealment. “Don’t you have something to say to him, as well?”

It took a moment to register he was talking to you, another to recognize the hypocrisy of what he was asking you. Your pressed frown fell into an open-mouthed balk. “Absolutely not.” And then, when Neuvillette held strong, “You can’t expect me to thank him for keeping me trapped here—”

“Silence.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t bear his fangs or dig his pointed nails into your thigh – he didn’t have to. All it took was that tone. Assertive, but not quite forceful. Lulling, but no softer than the wood and stone of his hellish mansion. Immediately, you shut your mouth. Neuvillette closed his eyes, letting out a raspy sigh before taking you by the hips and turning you in his lap, so that you faced outward rather than into his chest. That was enough to earn Wriothesley’s full attention, perking up as you were perched on the edge of Neuvillette’s lap. “Why don’t we try that again. Do you have anything to say to Wriothesley?”

You glared pointedly at the floor. “Thank you. For bringing me back?”

“And?”

“And...” This was the part you hated the most. If there’d been an alternative – a dungeon they could’ve thrown you into, a brand they could sear into your skin – you would’ve embraced it with open arms. But, that was the worst part about dealing with an captor. He had all the time in the world to make you bask in your own humiliation, and he never seemed to tire of the pasttime. “And, thank you for making sure I didn’t get hurt in the forest.”

As if there was anything out there that could’ve hurt you more than they did. Still, it seemed to appease Neuvillette, who let out an approving hum as he turned to Wriothesley. “What do you think? Be honest, this time. No lesson was ever taught with a gentle hand.”

He took a long moment to look over you, another to wet his lips. Wordlessly, dependent on the pure desperation in your eyes, you begged him not to listen to Neuvillette, to take your side just this once, but your improvised attempts at telepathic communication proved unsuccessful. “It could’ve been more genuine,” he admitted, with a slight shrug. “Didn’t have much nice to say on the way back, either.”

“Is that so?” His fingertips drummed against your side. “Why don’t you join us?”

Wriothesley didn’t hesitate, practically stumbling over himself as he crawled to Neuvillette’s feet. He came to rest on his knees, hand braced against the rug between his thighs and his cheek only a hair’s width from Neuvillette’s leg, as if waiting for permission to press against him. He always looked at his most relaxed there, on the floor, patiently waiting for an order from his master. It was hard to tell whether it was a skill learned through time, or if subservience was just in his nature.

His obedience was rewarded with a breathy chuckle, a hand run through his unruly hair. Wriothesley was more lax with himself than he usually was, letting his eyes fall shut as he melted into Neuvillette’s touch. “Since your tongue is so uncooperative today,” Neuvillette started, leaning forward just far enough to rest his chin on your shoulder. “How do you think you can show our dear helper how grateful you are?”

A bolt of cold dread shot down your spine. You moved to stand, to get away, but Neuvillette’s arm wrapped tight around your midriff, keeping you pinned against him despite your resistance. “Neuvi’,” you mumbled, squirming against him. “Please, Neuvi’, I don’t want to—”

“Now you’re going to play nice?” His hand fell to your knee, drawing your legs apart. Wriothesley filled the space before you could clench them shut again, his mouth immediately latching onto the inside of your thigh, his dull teeth burying themselves in the plush of your exposed skin. You cursed under your breath, trying to shake him off, but he held tight, fists curling around your ankles to keep you spread and exposed as Neuvillette watched on, his grin pressing into the crook of your throat. “That’s a little cruel, beloved. Can’t you see how excited he is?”

You could. There was a glassy sheen over his half-lidded eyes, a hunch to his posture that meant he was too distracted with you to care about how he held himself. You’d slipped out in a rush, eager to get as far as you could before Neuvillette woke up. In your haste, you hadn’t bothered to change out of the simple, silken frock you were wearing; a choice you only came to regret as Neuvillette dragged the tattered hem to your waist, as Wriothesley’s attention drifted from your thighs to your panties, the lacey fabric torn away with little more than a curl of his fingers and a throaty growl. That, more than anything, caught you off-guard. It wasn’t a threat, but it was more hostile than anything he’d ever directed towards you before. It wasn’t a sound someone like him, someone like you, should’ve been capable of making.

Neuvillette must’ve felt the way you stiffened against him. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the curve of your throat, just a touch too close to the vein he preferred to drink from, then another into the dip of your shoulder. “Surely, you must’ve noticed how scarce Wriothesley makes himself around this time of the month.” He paused, laughing airily. “He’d already be safely locked away in the cellar, if you hadn’t made him run out and fetch you. I suppose it must’ve slipped his mind while he was looking for you.”

“I don’t—” A tongue, broader than it should’ve been, hotter than it should’ve been, ran over your slit. “But, he’s supposed to be—”

“Human?” You refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge what he was doing to you, but you could feel his teeth ghosting over your skin, their usually dull tips beginning to sharpen into something more pointed, more animalistic. His tongue slipped into your entrance, thick enough to stretch you open with little more than its curling tip, and Neuvillette’s focus fell to your clit, left neglected by Wriothesley’s unwavering concentration on lapping up as much of your (humiliatingly, quickly accumulating) slick as he could. His thumb toyed with the sensitive bundle of nerves as he went on. “He is rather young, as far as immortal beings are concerned. He made an adorable puppy, back when creatures of the night were free to roam as they pleased, but he’s matured since his days of village razing and cattle slaughtering. I think you’ll find he’s learned how to keep his fangs to himself.” Wriothesley nipped gently at the junction of your thigh. You winced and Neuvillette added, “More or less.”

You could only bring yourself to half-listen to what he was saying. Wriothesley was growing more wild by the second, his formerly languid movements now hasty and agitated, little groans and growls joining the wet, disgusting sounds quickly filling the study. You felt claws that hadn’t been there a moment ago dig into your ankles, his already impressive build taking on bulk that would’ve been possible for anything natural, anything human. It wasn’t enough to just look away, anymore – you shut your eyes completely, bowing your head and curling into yourself as Wriothesley ate you out like a man— no, not a man, a beast starved. The cool marble of Neuvillette’s chest was almost a comfort when compared to the raw heat of Wriothesley’s mouth. It might’ve been more soothing, had he not been taking so much joy in your suffering.

“He’s always been prone to getting carried away. I used to have to fetch him at dawn – he could never seem to make it home before the moon set and he was left bare and unconscious in the vineyard of some poor nobleman.” He pulled back, letting Wriothesley’s cold nose grind against your clit in his place. You weren’t free from his touch for very long, though. The array of ribbons that kept the bodice of your frock drawn tight were undone, the neckline loosened and allowed to fall to your shoulders. “I’ve always preferred a more direct approach. The occasional drunkard taken off the street and drained was always enough to keep me sated.” He paused, cupped the curves of your chest. “Until I came across you, of course.”

You felt his fangs scrape over your neck, but he didn’t have time to bite down before you lurched forward, the sporadic movements of Wriothesley’s tongue bringing you to a sudden, unsteady climax. It was abrupt enough, violent enough to make tears swell in the corners of your eyes, to steal a ragged gasp from your lungs despite your attempts to swallow back any pathetic sound your weak-willed body might’ve wanted to make. For the first time, you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at him, letting your gaze fall onto the black-furred, oversized thing between your legs. He was unrecognizable, black fur and a wolf-like muzzle swallowing any familiar trait you might’ve latched onto. Pointed ears laid flat against his scalp, a grey-tipped tail brushed over the floor lazily behind him as he moved to keep going, to milk every last drop out of you, but Neuvillette reached down and took him by the metal collar now pressing flush against his throat. There was a low, drawn-out whine as he was dragged up and away from your pussy, but Neuvillette’s cruelty was limited to you.

“We spent hours talking about what to do with you, when he first brought you home.” He spoke absent-mindedly, muttering against your throat as he guided Wriothesley onto his knees. Even at only a fraction of his full height, he was tall enough to loom over you, to replace your limited world with a towering shadow of black fur and white teeth. He was panting, his chin glistening with slick and drool, what was left of his tattered clothes torn away in a few aggerated swipes of his claws. You’d been wrong, again – not every part of him was unfamiliar. His eyes were still there, the grey clouded and his pupils blown out but still undeniably his. Still fixed entirely on you.

“I thought he should turn you as soon as possible, but he protested, claimed the transformation would be too much for you.” He bowed his head, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Between you and I, there might be a chance he’s hoping I’ll give in first. He does his best to hide it, but he tends to sulk whenever I choose to feed from you. I think he’s hoping we might both have to rely on him.”

Clawed hands curled around the arms of his chair, the wood creaking under Wriothesley’s weight. For the first time, you let your eyes drift lower, let yourself take in the massive, pulsing cock standing erect against his lower stomach. It looked too big; like a prop, made to only vaguely resemble the real thing. It looked like it could tear you in half.

“Then again, he might’ve grown fond of the idea of adding another wolf to his pack,” Neuvillette added, as you went limp against him. “We’ll have to see how human you feel when the sun rises.”

It was an awkward position, Wriothesley too tall and Neuvillette too unyielding. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around your midriff as his other hand drifted into the limited space between your body and Wriothesley’s, his pale hand curling around Wriothesley’s thick shaft and carefully lining it up with your dripping cunt. Wriothesley bucked into the stimulation, his body lurching forward and his head nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. You felt his breath, warm and humid, fan over your chest, then the rough reverberation of his voice against your skin. “Mate.” It was more of a groan than anything, one long breath that seemed to escape from some unseen vault. It was his voice, but there was something underneath it, too – something more guttural than you would ever want on top of you. “Mine.”

“Ours,” Neuvillette corrected, tightening his hold and drawing you close. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel it, pressing against your throat as his fangs reclaimed lost territory. “Our precious, misguided little pet.”

Wriothesley thrust into you as Neuvillette drove his teeth into your skin, both men piercing you simultaneously. Too stunned to scream, you could only silently wonder who would end you first.

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, emotional abuse, conditioning, hinted loss of voice, objectification, degradation, Adam is his own warning

Today you had to scream. You don't even remember why, perhaps you saw a bug or a spider, something trivial and meaningless, something that shouldn't have been terrifying, not to you - not after everything you've been through.

Yet you have to scream - it is but a physical reaction. And then... nothing. Nothing comes out. Absolutely no sound. Not a murmer, not even a gasp. You feel his hands wrap around you from behind - at first you think that he has covered your mouth, that he has forced his fingers deep inside your throat just like he has done so many times in the past. But no, he's simply hugging you - resting his head against your shoulder.

"Ssh, baby, it's fine. I'll take care of it." Adam whispers before his fist comes crashing down onto the poor little insect, splashing the black - green insides all over the table. You almost felt bad for your initial panic - by now you should know that to him the only answer is violence, always. You have single - handedly brought this fate onto the innocent unsuspecting animal, and all because of your stupid fear.

And even with the guilt, you still want to scream - but this time out of pity. Regret. Out of bitter realization.

"Aww, darling, don't cry." Your captor coos gently, caressing your hair. For a second you can see his long fingers flash before your eyes before they rub your sticky tears into your skin. It's weirdly invasive - you feel naked despite the layers upon layers of clothes you have on. "You know what happens when you cry-" He suddenly grips your chin, squeezing it roughly, but that's hardly a surprise. He loves to see his own fingerprints on your skin. "Don't you?"

You nod. You wish you wouldn't have to. You wish you were still the same naive girl you were a few months ago - a few moments ago, when you could still pretend you didn't understand what was happening. What he was trying to do to you, to your body, little by little; one step at a time.

"Of course you know. My clever girl." His grip softens, but never wavers, and he kisses your hair with feverish content. "You know crying leads to whimpers, and whimpers lead to-" The man smirks in that nasty perverse way you've grown to despise, reaching to fix the bulge in his trousers. "Well, aside from getting my cock fuckin' hard, they sometimes make your throat tighten. It tightens so much you think you're going to choke." His eyes return to you, black like the winter sky. "Isn't that right, baby?"

You're forced to nod again, a fresh new wave of warm tears soaking your collar as you try to ignore the very feeling he's describing to you.

"And then you need to make it unclench, so you speak - well, attempt to." Adam runs a single cold digit across the length of your neck, stopping only to poke at the dent in the middle of your collarbone. "And we both know that's a big no - no, right, baby?" He kisses your neck, a contrast to the cruel, humiliating condescension in his deep, guttural voice. It makes your stomach turn, but you can't do anything. You can't sob. You can't even shout for help - not anymore. "No, no, no." He continues, explaining it as if you're just a silly child. "Worthless little sluts who break their owners' hearts don't get to use big adult words. They remain silent, to be seen and not heard."

He keeps touching you - that's the worst part. He keeps kissing you, embracing you, holding you close just like a lover would. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. It makes you want to cling onto the only creature close to you, even if it's just a monster wearing a human mask - a monster set to hurt you with everything it possesses. A monster, set to build you up every time it breaks you down.

"This little mouth of yours has only one use now - to keep my dick nice and warm." Adam mumbles, keeping you in place once it all gets too much. You struggle against him until you tire yourself out. You're dizzy. You're starving. You haven't slept in days - so realistically you don't stand a chance. But fighting means life. Fighting means you might have lost your voice, but you haven't lost your will. Your humanity. "So go ahead, doll. Entertain me. Scream for me."

And for once you want to obey him - you want to scream from deep within your lungs, so you open your mouth, and then you close it, pretending that your voice could break the fragile glass and reach someone somewhere who cares.

The silence is deafening.

[suzukiblu]

Day twenty-five of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Tim makes sure to not take any longer than a week to plan an actual first date for Kon because he doesn’t want Kon to think he’s lost interest in him and also wants him out of that damn lab yesterday, so spending a lot of time with him while aggressively buying him material things and whatever else he wants to slowly ease things into apartment-buying territory–or cul-de-sac-buying; Tim still hasn’t ruled out the cul-de-sac–seems like the pragmatic approach. 

His operating concept of "slow" is Bart-level at best right now, admittedly. 

Probably that’s actually Bart's fault, Tim decides. Probably definitely, actually. Hanging out with a speedster is rubbing off on him. 

Hopefully it’s also rubbing off on Kon. 

. . . Tim should’ve phrased that differently. Very, very differently. 

Kon shows up five minutes early for their date–no cats up any trees this time, Tim guesses–and Tim nearly self-immolates at the sight of him. He’s wearing dark slacks and a matching vest with shiny black shoes over a sky blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar at best half-buttoned, and also layered black leather and silver chain bracelets and a couple of rings. He even changed out the omnipresent gold hoop in his ear for a dangling silver earring. 

Tim technically recognizes all of the clothes and accessories that Kon is wearing right now, because he bought them all for him himself. He even saw Kon try them all on, if not specifically together. There are absolutely no surprises in his outfit whatsoever. Tim suggested that earring to him, even.

The delicate lines of soft brown eyeliner that are bringing out his eyes and the dark blue nail polish with the barely-there shimmer to it are both definitely a surprise, though. 

Tim doesn’t look good enough for this date, he realizes in resigned dread. Tim has never in his life looked good enough for this date. Full gala-mode Tim Drake would not look good enough for this date, in fact. He wore nice slacks and decent shoes and a turtleneck with a peacoat, and he looks like an absolute schlub next to Kon. 

“Hey there, babe,” Kon says, flashing him a smirk with just the slightest flicker of nervous insecurity in it. Tim cannot actually respond to him with incoherent babbling, but it is very difficult not to. 

“Hi,” he manages, using absolutely every drop of his Undercover 101 training to sound like a normal person. “You look prett–nice! You look nice.” 

Tim might need to take Undercover 102, he’s realizing. 

“You too,” Kon says as his expression just barely softens and the flicker of insecurity, thankfully, fades out of his eyes. Which is clearly a filthy lie but not one Tim is going to call him on right now. Then he bites his lip and grins around it, just a little. “‘Nice’, or . . . ?” 

Smolderingly gorgeous, Tim does not say, because that would sound incredibly stupid and try-hard. 

“Pretty,” he says instead, which is . . . well, a slight improvement. Maybe. Not really. “Uh–pretty nice, I mean! Uh. Hi. Again. I–got you something?”

“You did?” Kon asks, leaning in a little with a flash of surprised curiosity crossing his face. Tim has no idea why he would be surprised, at this point. Like, literally none whatsoever. 

Clearly he needs to buy him more stuff. 

“Yeah,” he says, then holds up the fancy little gift bag in his hand. “Flowers seemed inconvenient since I wasn’t picking you up, so . . .” 

Kon turns red. 

“‘Flowers’?” he echoes awkwardly, then looks incredibly embarrassed to have said anything. 

Note to self, Tim thinks: as soon as he’s picking Kon up from his own place instead of meeting him on random street corners, there’ll have to be flowers. Always flowers. So many flowers. He’ll look up some native Hawaiian ones, maybe. 

“I didn’t wanna make you carry a wilting bouquet to dinner,” he says apologetically, holding out the bag to him. “So, uh, hopefully this’ll suffice for now."

[johannestevans]

what's really fun about embracing batman's antics as a parallel or representative to BDSM culture is like. the doylist explanation is that the secret identities are such a large part of the plots

but from the watsonian perspective, why does no one pull off each other's mask?

why don't the villains pull off batman's mask? not just during a physical fight, but during the others - when scarecrow knocks him out with poison, when the riddler knocks his head in to put an exploding collar on him, when the joker drugs him so he can do his weird shit to him?

why do none of them pull batman's mask off during regular fights, unless the pulling off his mask is SPECIFICALLY a plot point of the comic? why doesn't batman pull off bane's mask, or catwoman's?

why in gotham do people generally let other people keep their masks on?

unless it's a specific plot point of the story, as i said, in general everyone - both villains and heroes - respects the other side's anonymity to a certain extent. the villain is only unmasked once they are caught and apprehended, the hero almost never

and it's because like. the masks are part of it, right. their identities are part of it. both villains and heroes engage in these personas to represent parts of their identities that are otherwise stunted or repressed

where the likes of wonderwoman and superman appear in their superheroic antics unmasked - implying that THESE are their "true" identities, implying that there is little artifice to them - batman is an alterego of another man

and yet, as many kinksters will tell you, a mask does not necessarily create the repression your real face does. wearing a mask or a disguise or costume can, in fact, strip away layers of artifice - as it does in the soul of batman

batman is cold where bruce wayne often doesn't permit himself to be. batman laughs at joker's or other freaks' jokes sometimes, and makes dry - dark - quips of his own.

batman goes out in the rain and beats people up, and craves to be beaten up in return.

and yet he doesn't tear anyone's mask off - and for the most part, they don't go for his. joker even comments on it in some things, talks about how it would ruin the game if he unmasked him, and that in itself is a sort of metacommentary on what i'm discussing here

as i've said before, all superheroes are kind of gay, and kind of kinky, because what they do - being in the closet and having a secret identity; having a special costume and/or mask and/or powers that you don't usually have when closeted, etc - but here like

there is an implicit boundary here between superheroes and supervillains where they don't cross this line, and it's to do with maintaining the sanctity of the "space" in which they're "playing" (not playing) together. they maintain their respective identities to maintain the vibe

the villain is unmasked when they are apprehended because that marks the end of play, in which their identity is stripped from them as punishment for being apprehended; the hero is unmasked when the villain wishes to graduate the level of pain and/or remove them from the space

this tbh is also why i love so much when like. the joker makeup is literally burned into his face and is just Like That now - it's the idea that this was once or WOULD HAVE once been an alterego, but it is now permanent whether he likes it or not

because the fundamental point of the joker is that he can't stop, won't stop, because he is so devoted and so deep in his villainy - and that while batman and bruce wayne are a few identities deep, he might as well always be wearing the cowl, even though ppl can't see it

[wannaeatramyeon]

Did you know, wearing a Kimono, you are expected to wear a “hadajuban” and “koshimaki” directly on your naked skin. Traditionally, you don't wear panties, but nowadays most women do. (I google search this as I recheck if it real as I just have a flashback useless knowledge lol)

So I would like a reaction of Gun sees y/n wearing kimono in a traditional way. Or any character sees y/n wearing kimono and y/n teasing then about the traditional way of how to wear kimono.

lol Sam you make me research the most obscure stuff. I have no idea how accurate the below is or even how tight a kimono is supposed to be but I did actually Google stuff! Here's a little Gun hc tease (Ryuhei would probably be pretty excited too...)

Gun Park x Reader: Kimono

Gun has seen countless women in kimonos, or traditional Japanese clothing

It's not really anything special and he never pays a lot of attention

Seeing you dressed up though, it gives him a thrill that is usually reserved for fights

He appreciates the effort and most certainly appreciates the view as well

His hand wanders, touching the high quality fabric and the craftsmanship, a little touched that you did this for him

You mention the hadajuba and koshimaki touching your bare skin. You've done your research and you're keeping it traditional

"Oh?" That grabs his attention. Gun's hand glides over your kimono, towards your bare collar bone and he slips his hand under - checking that it's actually true

He immediately squeezes and pinches and you make sure you school your reaction and resist any moaning

You give Gun the final surprise

"That's not all," you lean forward and murmur in his ear, your hand works it's way towards his waistband, already noticing the uncomfortably tightening of his pants

"I heard underneath the kimono, you don't traditionally wear other undergarments either,"

Gun's eyebrows shoot up at that. It's not often you catch up on the backfoot

He immediately goes to start undressing you, pressing heated kisses along your collar

"Fuck... fuck" he groans, his hands working quickly, "why the fuck are there so many layers."

[mamawasatesttube]

OOF. There are so many good prompts on that list, I could barely decide! But I feel like I gotta go with “They’ll find me, they always do.” Preferably as spoken by Kon?

Kon doesn't know where he is.

Well—okay, he has a vague idea. It's... a box, somewhere underground, designed for holding Kryptonians. Designed for breaking Kryptonians, if he's entirely honest; courtesy of Luthor, of course. The walls are twofold, with all the air pumped out of the gap between the layers so that he can't hear anything from outside, and the strange, uncanny silence alone would be bad enough without the darkness, away from any sun.

The only light is, of course, the fucking kryptonite.

It's getting old, he thinks woozily. How many times is Luthor gonna pull this kinda shit? Does he really think he can break Kon's spirit just with a little (okay, a lottle) physical misery? Does he really think Kon will ever give up any of Kal's secrets just 'cuz of some pain, misery, and humiliation?

Admittedly, having to hand himself over for a bunch of civilian hostages just to get slapped with a kryptonite fucking collar is pretty heavy on the humiliation front, but still. Kon's a goddamn joke. He can take being a laughingstock.

He heaves a sigh, closing his eyes. At least the floor is cold and soothing against his flushed cheeks; the hot flashes are better than the cold sweats, so he's grateful, for the moment. He just has to outlast this, that's all.

At some point, the loudspeaker in the ceiling crackles and jolts him out of his doze. "You look pathetic," Luthor informs him. Kon musters up the energy to raise a middle finger to wherever the infrared cameras in here might be. "Classy as ever, Supernova. You could end this anytime, you know. And frankly, you owe me your existence; you'd think you'd be more grateful than this."

Kon rolls onto his back just to raise a second middle finger to the ceiling, too.

Luthor sighs. "So stubborn. Why do you insist on drawing out your suffering? There is only one way this ends, and we both know that."

"Yeah," Kon mumbles. He's too tired and achy to keep his arms up any longer, so he lets them fall back down to his sides. "There is. They'll find me. They always do."

Judging by the hiss of breath, Luthor doesn't care for that answer. Kon smiles despite the burning under his skin, and closes his eyes again.

Some time passes. Kon drifts vaguely in and out of consciousness, thoughts swimming; when the pain and the nausea grow too overwhelming, he retreats into the part of his mind that never left the tube at Cadmus and lets himself float away from reality.

He dreams about the swimming hole a little ways from the farmhouse. It's in a small copse of trees that stand out on the flat horizon; he took Tim there earlier this summer. They splashed around, swam, and made out sitting on the water's edge; right as they were about to leave, Tim stole Kon's shirt and jumped in wearing it, just to make Kon wear a wet T-shirt the whole walk home, and laughed at his own prank on and off all afternoon.

Kon likes when Tim laughs. The memory makes him smile; he can almost feel the warmth of the sunlight on his back as he reminisces. God, what he'd do for some sunlight right now...

Bang. Bang. Bang.

BOOM.

Light floods into the room, artificial, fluorescent light that does nothing for him. Kon squints vaguely at the silhouettes cast against it, but doesn't bother to lift his head; he'd rather dream of the swimming hole and the cool water lapping at his clammy skin.

"Is that a fucking collar?" Cassie's voice, frigid with rage. Warm hands brush against his throat as she kneels, and the sound of metal snapping reaches him from far, far away. "I'm going to kill Luthor. I'm actually gonna kill—"

"Not if I get there first," Bart says, his voice strangely taut. "Hey, Kon. Wake up!"

Someone else is at his side, too. Red, and black, and white eyes in a dark mask... oh. That's Tim, Kon realizes woozily, as a gloved hand cups his cheek.

"Kon," Tim says. His voice is low and urgent. He's not laughing. The kryptonite is gone, Kon realizes suddenly; there's a metal box next to Tim's knee. Classic Tim, he thinks. Always prepared. "Kon, can you hear me?"

Kon blinks at him. He probably should answer, but... he still feels like he's floating, and none of it can quite reach him. It's fine. It's probably fine.

Tim's lips press together in a thin, tight line. Kon doesn't like that; he shouldn't look so tense and unhappy. He likes when Tim laughs.

"Shit, that bastard really did a number on him," Cassie hisses. "Here, move. I got him."

Tim reluctantly pulls away. Kon whines a little as his hand drops from his cheek; he doesn't want Tim to go. But then Cassie is there, gathering him up into her arms, and Kon sighs, relaxing; she's warm, and he's suddenly acutely aware that he's freezing, and he knows in her arms, he's safe.

"Let's go," Cassie says, standing with Kon in her arms.

"He's shivering. Hold on." Kon watches through weary, half-lidded eyes as Tim fiddles with the clasps of his cape, pulls it off, and... oh. Drapes it over him like a blanket, then bundles him up like a baby, in Cassie's arms.

"If you guys have Kon, I can go murder Luthor real fast," Bart offers.

It's probably a sign that his friends are really, really pissed that no one immediately says no murder, Bart. Kon can't figure out what's going on, but he knows he's safe now. He closes his eyes and sinks into Cassie's arms and figures he'll just have to ask them to fill him in later.

[mishkakagehishka]

Why YOU should vote Mika in the @enstars-sexyperson-polls poll!!!

What makes a man "sexy"? What is that mysterious, ever-elusive quality that can turn adorable into attractive? This is, naturally, a question with no objective answer. But if one were to try real hard, a possible conclusion can be reached.

To start with, what makes a man "sexy"? The obvious answer is "sex appeal". A man who dresses well, elegantly,

where appeal is kept in this apparent tidiness, this put-together image he presents. A suit and tie, with a blazer draped elegantly over his shoulders, loafers and slacks, elegant shirt tucked in, added attraction levels in the form of suspenders, and a dog (to imply he is good with animals, a trait most attractive). For an extra point, a focus on the sole of his shoe, perfect to be stepped on. In the middle image, this elegance is added to in the form of a dated yet chic suit, layered and accessorised with pearls and a hat, the lapels giving off an aura of a man with a fortune to his name, his outstretched hand inviting and open. The same motif of an inviting outstretched hand is in the left-most image, the Valentine's event card. Of course, just in being a Valentine's card, his being sexy is a given. Gloves, suits, blazers and dress-shirts, the only skin we can see is a coquettish view of his wrists. Truly, the suit makes the man in this case. But that's not all there is to Mika's sexiness.

Perhaps sex appeal is a man who shows off skin in the most delicate of ways,

not unlike a fanciful bird who shows off its colorful feathers to impress a mate, Mika's FS2 shows his brightness, his identity. What is more appealing than a man sure of his style? Though colourful and bright, he accessorised with safety pins, DIY chains, little bears and rings, platform shoes with wings and a devil's tail. Can we say punk? Truly the little devil; different from the coquettish flash of the wrist in the previous images, in this he presents a bolder view: his knee and leg peeking from torn jeans, his jacket falls seductively to reveal the gentle skin of his shoulders, and, finally (and most importantly), his middle.

The way in which his tummy is shaded implies far more than one might assume at first glance. There is no roughness of hard abs, no unpleasant and uninviting cold. Indeed, it would seem that Mika's stomach is not flat, that a smidge of squishy fat is stored in it. Truly, I ask of you: what could possibly be sexier, than a man's soft tummy? And it's not just about his FS2.

Indeed, as we can see in the image above, Mika's casual spring-summer outfit has a certain detail to it one might describe as "slutty", which is to say, an extension of "sexy". That's right. Under that sleek black jacket, he is wearing nothing short of a sleeveless shirt with a high neckline. Now you, dear reader, tell me if you find that unsexy! His bare arms have even found their way into a 3* card,

And despite it not showing as much skin (though, as stated above, there is no need for a man to show skin to be sexy), the Antique Legend is also one exuding sex appeal. Simply look at that posing, the sultry, yet laidback appearance it gives him, the coy position of the wrist holding a fan, one of few cards to bring his full body into the picture.

And how could I ever hope to describe Mika's sex appeal without mentioning the Black-Haired Living Doll card?

What can be sex appeal? It can be a man with his hands covered in blood, a man dressed like an affluent and powerful figure, yet presented in a most debased manner. Decadence at its finest. With the blood decorating his collar and caking his fingers, Mika presents the image of sexiness through danger. It is almost mythological in nature, as many of the most dangerous beings have been presented as attractive to the point of being irresistible - from Slavic mythological beings "so beautiful that it was only natural they were evil" to Biblical demons "so beautiful to tempt you", to Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray "so beautiful, oh, the horrors he must have done to achieve it". It is sex appeal through fear, through inhumanity.

And if, to you, sex appeal is less human, but more benevolent? Perhaps, sex appeal lies in animal features mixing with human. Mika has that, too.

Of course, when talking about Mika's appeal, one must also mention his defining feature, the very thing that sets him apart from the rest of the cast. As Keito Hasumi said when evaluating ex-Valkyrie, Mika's eyes are his defining feature.

His mismatched eyes pull people in, his visual charm lies in these eyes. But it's not just the heterochromia, although it is undeniably a core part of his design, it is their shape. Mika's face is designed to be sharp, and this includes his eyes. This is, of course, to contrast Shu's softer features. This is symbolic. These symbols, too, are sexy.

Not quite a Madonna-Whore complex, but Valkyrie is based on this opposition. Where Shu is soft, Mika is sharp. Where Shu represents the virginal goddess Astraea, Mika represents the base, the carnal, the filthy.

The sex appeal.

Furthermore, in the very story "Astraea's Atelier", this is corroborated, as Leo mentions that Mika's very art leans into the erotic. He knows what he is doing.

Beyond Mika's eyes, we must mention his other defining feature. Not as unique as his eyes, but important all the same - his singular fang that pops out at random.

Although as seen above, all four of his canines are emphasised, it is most often that only one is actually shown in cards and in the 3D models. This is, of course, charming, an almost teasing peak into his physiognomy, a hint to the fact that he could, should he wish, tear your flesh apart with his teeth. This, too, is sex appeal.

A natural progression from looking at his teeth is to look at his tongue. Though the common "blep" is certainly cuter than sexy, and Mika has plenty such cards, there is much to say about the way in which he sticks out his tongue in these, as if provoking, teasing. This is not just a playful or mocking gesture, and he knows as much.

Finally, what else can "sexy" be? Must it be tied to appearance only? Or does it go deeper than that? Is "sexy" not also the way a man carries himself? Is it not also his skills, his hobbies, his very personality? Is "sexy" not the sum of a man, but merely one trait, tied only to the visual senses? Is Mika not sexy in the way that he dances, spins and twirls, skilfully and gracefully? Is he not sexy in the way that he shows his intelligence in the weirdest ways, was he not sexy for reading the Mabinogion in Middle English? Is he not sexy for getting over his own shyness when it comes to speaking on television and radio shows because of Shu's own shyness? Is he not sexy for the fact that he collects creepy and scary posters to help him sleep better? Is he not sexy for the fact that he dumpsterdives, finds plushies, fixes and names them? Is he not sexy for being a weird little freak who likes eroguro and is suspiciously fine with murder and violence? Is Mika Kagehira not sexy?

Mika's sex appeal also lies in one very important aspect of his character, one very dear to me, and that's why I saved it for last. Mika speaks in a non-standard dialect, and his production is thickly accented. I have already ranted about the way this aspect subverts many tropes related to characters with audible "hick" accents, but this is not about design and tropes, this about sex appeal. Can you really listen to Mika speak, the way he sometimes slurs his words and speaks through a pout, the way his words blend and the way his production is impacted by his dialect, and say that this is not sexy? There is nothing sexier than a non-standard production. A vote for Mika is a vote against prescriptivism and linguistic chauvinism. Vote Mika. For your local linguist MikaP (me).

To sum up, while Mika very well could be described as "cute", this does not negate the fact that he can also be described as "sexy". Whether looking at it from a strictly visual point or looking at Mika as a whole character, he undeniably has a certain sex appeal to him. Present in all aspects of his character, from his sharp facial features, to his personal and Valkyrie-adjacent style, to the way he speaks, behaves and interacts with the world. "Sexy" is not a word with only one definition, nor is it a word limited in its usage, "sexy" is a word that merely aims to describe a person with sex appeal, who appeals to people, who draws people in, and it is my scholarly and educated opinion that Mika, in fact, carries these traits in his characterisation, no matter the fact that his sex appeal is interwoven and mingles with his cuteness. Mika is a character based on contrast and opposition, between his apparent harmlessness and freakish tendencies, between his soft-spoken and shy nature and his love for horror and gore. It is not, then, unusual to notice the contrast between his cute moments, his appearance made to appeal to the side of our brains that squeals at the sight of a kitten who can't do much on its own, and his moments brimming with eros, the sex appeal that lay dormant underneath his surface. Indeed, in a way, his sex appeal being a thing to be discovered only further emphasises his sexiness.

Further reading:

[michinnyun]

Fashion Choices

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader, Marc Spector x f!Reader

Summary: You've been giving Steven a hard time about his wardrobe lately. It's not that you don't like when he wears a collared shirt on top of another collared shirt, you just want him to try new things. Then him and Marc decide to tease you about it. Big mistake. Huge. // Chapter 1 is only with Steven. Chapter 2 will be for Marcy-Marc

Tags: Sharing Clothes × Lingerie × Teasing × Established Relationship × Pure Smut × Sub Steven Grant (Marvel) × If You Squint × Dom/sub Undertones × Masturbation × p in v × Enthusiastic Consent × Breeding Kink × No use of y/n × Woman on Top × for the majority of it lol × Multiple Orgasms × Unprotected Sex × Rough Sex

Words: 2.8k

Ao3 link

Steven has a lot of collared shirts. Like, a lot of them.

“You dress like a lesbian,” you tell him one day, laughing when you see that he's layered one of his button ups on top of another collared shirt.

He scoffs. “I can’t believe you just said that to me during Pride month.”

He manages to dodge the book thrown at his head, but he isn't able to dodge your questions after that.

“Why did I find another collared shirt in your bag?” you ask, showing him the reusable bag he'd brought to the shop earlier that day.

He pouts. “That’s for Marc.”

You can’t help but smile at him. He’s adorable. “Nice try. Marc almost exclusively wears crew necks.”

He doesn't meet your eyes. “Jake, then.”

“Jake dresses like a newsie in 1920’s New York.”

Steven groans. “Would you deny me my comforts, woman?” He pulls you into his lap, peppering kisses to your face that make you scream and laugh, trying to escape.

“I just want you all to try branching out!”

His eyes roll back into his head, Marc staring back at you now, intense as always. “Why would we want to do that?” he asks, pressing searing hot kisses into your neck.

The sudden shift in persona and mood makes you dizzy. You don't know if you'll ever get used to them doing that.

You gasp softly, grabbing onto the crinkly-soft fabric of Steven-Marc's starchy shirt.

“Marc,” you murmur, letting him trail a hand down your side. You haven't seen him in a while, and he’s clearly happy to see you, based on the way he's insistently pressing himself into you.

“Baby,” he mumbles back, licking a line up your neck to your earlobe, a white hot spike of arousal shooting down to your clit. You arch against him, letting him lift you and press you into the table, his hand riding up your shirt and teasing a nipple. You can feel how wet he’s making you, the way only your boys can. He laces your fingers together and kisses the back of your hand, ducks down to kiss your neck again-

Then, he stills. “Anyway, lots of work to do today, love. Better hop to it!”

Steven pulls away from you and grabs his stuff, leaving you stunned and frustratingly horny as he heads towards the door.

“W-wh-” you stutter.

“Don’t question my fashion choices!” he shouts, letting the door shut behind him. You narrow your eyes, huffing.

Oh, he’s in for it now. __

Your boys aren't coming over until later. It’s been two days since the Steven-Marc situation, and you won’t even let them sext you. The moment anything remotely sexual starts up, you shut it down. They’re getting restless. Steven especially. He’s always been particularly needy.

The boutique owner had been terribly nice when you'd explained your situation (minus the “my boyfriends’s’s are a superhero/Avatar/legendary warrior with multiple personality disorder” detail). You’d picked out the prettiest piece together, a delicate lace thing with more modest coverings for your private areas. Something that would drive Steven perfectly crazy.

“If I’ve done my job right, this won't survive the night,” she promised.

You’re slightly fidgety. You've never worn something this complicated before. Nothing for the express purpose of getting fucked.

It doesn't matter, really. Your boys can't resist you. That’s what's going to make this so much fun.

One of Steven’s many button ups is covering your lingerie, which had taken twenty minutes of cursing for you to put on. It’s a soft, purple shirt, your personal favorite. He’d been wearing it the first time you met.

You’re reading a book, or trying. You’ve been skimming the same page over and over in nervous anticipation ever since you got the text he’s almost at your flat.

He knocks on the door, and you answer in nothing but his shirt, your hair done in the way you know he loves. He always makes a comment when you wear it like this, so you made sure it was perfect before he came over.

He kind of just stares at you for a minute, taking you in. Then, something happens, something you've only seen a few times before. They start fighting over the body.

“I don’t- she clearly. This is- Marc. Steven. You-Why d-I- Jake, if you don't- Why can’t I, guys-”

He’s saying this all softly, eyes closed in concentration. You don't want to touch him. You don't want him to have a panic attack, and then have your attempt at revenge/seduction turn into something traumatic.

Finally, he settles, and Steven looks at you with wide, wet eyes.

“Is this- for me?” He swallows hard, looking at the way the fabric drapes over your body, just a little too big for you. You nod sweetly, leading him to bed.

He lies back at your insistence, staring up at you in awe as you straddle him, smiling teasingly.

His hand starts to slide up your thigh, but you swat at it.

“No touching,” your murmur, starting to unbutton yourself for him. He nods, swallowing again.

As the beginnings of your surprise are revealed, you realize he might not be the only one who has a problem with this no touching rule.

They’re fighting over the body again.

“If you’d just- Steven, look at her, I can’t- Stop.” Steven says firmly. You quirk an eyebrow.

“Everything alright in there?”

He nods, looking slightly miffed. “Just- you look really, really good, love. Really good. Don’t feel like sharing right now.”

You blush, then wiggle a little. Steven hisses, clenching his hands into fists. Fuck, he's already hard.

He whines when you finish unbuttoning the shirt, letting the fabric pool at your elbows, letting him drink his fill of your new outfit.

He’s slack jawed, mindlessly moving his hips against you. “Fuck,” he whimpers, letting the word trail off into a growl that ends deep in his throat.

His hands are getting fidgety, so you take the opportunity while he’s distracted to grab onto his wrists and pin them next to his head.

“You’re right Steven,” you purr. “I do actually like your shirts. Maybe I’ll wear them more often.”

He throws his head back, groaning. “I knew that's what this was bloody about, you little minx.”

You laugh, grinding down again bodily and making him gasp.

“That’s what you get for being a fucking tease. You can touch when I’m done with your punishment.”

If Steven’s eyes weren't so dark, you're sure you'd be able to see how his pupils are blown wide with lust. He looks ravenous, depraved. You haven't even kissed him.

“Yes,” he murmurs, even as he struggles against your grip.

You let him go, and hum happily when his hands stay in place.

You unbutton his pants, licking your lips as you pull out his cock, hard and leaking for you. You smear a pearl of precome weeping from the tip, relishing the sounds he makes.

You lean down, letting the crotch of your lingerie grind over his hard length. “You’re so mean to me sometimes, Steven. Just wanted to be a little mean back. Give you a taste of your own medicine.”

He whimpers. “Not trying to be mean. Just-just-”

“Just?” you ask, slowing down until he gasps and his hands twitch.

“Just wanted to prove a point,” he finishes lamely, arching his back so he can press up into you. You tsk at him, but allow it.

“Wanna take this off, pretty boy?” you ask, running your hands over the lace covering your plush breasts.

He nods frantically, craning his neck up so he can see a little better, get a little closer. You push him down with one hand, increasing the friction on your clit while you press a chaste kiss to his mouth.

“Later. Good boys get to undress me,” you hum, grinding down and chasing the rush of him pressing against your most sensitive spot. His eyes flutter shut, finally surrendering to you.

“Steven,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, traveling down his neck and sucking marks into his skin.

He grunts a response, too far gone to really answer you. You leave your tongue over the salt-heat of him, listening to his rattling breaths and stuttering heartbeat.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur against his neck. “My good boy.”

His hips jerk violently against you, and you stop moving completely. He freezes.

“I’m sorry,” he says frantically, but it's too late.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p. You spread your legs, hovering over him and moving your panties to the side so you can rub your clit.

Steven’s mouth hangs open, devastated yet unbelievably turned on.

“Now you get to watch me come,” you say, gathering some of the wetness leaking from his tip to soften the friction. “And you can't do anything about it.”

He whines, shutting his eyes closed and growling in frustration. You spread yourself wider, letting your legs rest on the tops of his thighs.

Steven loves making you come. With his mouth, his fingers, his cock. Masturbating in front of him is still hot, but it frustrates him more than anything that he’s not the one making you feel good. Little does he know, the sight of him all hot and bothered is usually what gets you there faster. Like right now.

You feel it starting to bubble up, a deliciously warm orgasm that you’ve been depriving yourself of for days since the shirt incident. It takes a little while, but you finally peak, your fingers bringing you to completion at the sight of Steven Grant, helpless and completely distraught underneath you.

You lean forward until you're burying your face in his neck again, your thigh muscles still contracting pleasantly.

Steven hesitates, his hands moving from where they're meant to be to gently hold your waist. You purr, nuzzling into him so he knows he has permission. You're much more agreeable now that you know he’s suffered sufficiently enough.

He kicks his pants off the rest of the way, still gentle, careful not to disturb you in your good mood. You move a little, unbuttoning his shirts until the smooth expanse of his chest is warm under your palm.

“We’re matching,” you murmur happily. He chuckles nervously, one hand moving to cup the lace covering your bottom.

“This for me?”

You nod. “Don’t question my fashion choices,” you say, nipping at his ear lobe.

“Of course not. Never,” he says, running a hand over your garter belt appreciatively.

He reaches behind to move your panties aside, dipping shaking fingers into the wetness you’ve made for him. “Fuck,” he whispers, practically throbbing against you.

“You can go ahead,” you tell him, yawning. “Want you to. Want you inside, Steven.”

“Fuck,” he says a little louder, grabbing his cock where it's trapped between your bodies and sliding it between your legs to bring it home.

He lets out a breath he's been holding in, and you bloom under his fingers, legs widening to accommodate his girth. You’ve had enough teasing, and it looks like Steven has too.

He fucks you at a brutal pace, whining and gasping into your hair while you press sloppy kisses into his jaw.

“So good,” you whisper, encouraging him. “So good. My Steven.”

“I- hah, love you. Fuck.” The easy glide of him inside you isn't enough to make you come again quite yet, but you give a valiant effort. You suck at the tender spot under his ear, the one you know drives him crazy, and his hips stutter.

“Pretty girl, wearing my clothes and putting on nice things. Don’t deserve you, do I? So good to me,” he murmurs into your ear, one arm holding you close while he uses his other hand to push down on your lower back, using you as his little cocksleeve.

“Steven,” you gasp, grinding down harder onto him until you feel blissfully over sensitive, the fabric of his shirts rubbing against your skin while he fucks you hard, the way he’s been waiting to for days.

He groans out your name before he bites down on your neck. You mewl, bearing down on him before you sit back so you can ride Steven properly. He hangs onto your thighs for dear life as you move in earnest, pulling off him fully before slamming back down onto the length of him.

He brings his hands up to cup at the intricate lace designs covering your breasts, snapping the strap of your bra before he thrusts into you so hard that you can feel him in your guts.

“Fuck, can’t get enough of this little pussy,” he says, watching himself disappear into your tight heat. He moves a hand down, pressing a thumb to your abused clit and making you black out a little.

“S-Steven,” you stutter, no longer able to conjure competent speech, not when he touches you like that.

“Yeah, you like it when I touch you? Should’ve let me earlier. Even if you were mad at me,” he rambles, rubbing tight circles that make pleasure travel up your spine.

“Wasn't mad,” you whine. “Just wanted r-revenge. And I-I-” You can’t think about anything other than Steven’s hands on you, bringing you to the precipice of another sorely needed orgasm.

“I know, love,” he coos. “You got what you wanted. Now let me get mine.”

Your head tips back a little before Steven pulls one of the cups of your bra down, sitting up and sucking a pert nipple into his mouth. Your chest is still criss-crossed by straps and covered in lace, and Steven is clearly frustrated by the extra covering which he had found so sexy earlier.

“Steven,” you say breathlessly. “Gonna come again, I-”

“It’s okay,” he mouths against your skin. “You can come. Come all over my cock, love. Wanna feel it.”

He flicks his tongue against your tight bud, and you’re overwhelmed by sensation. Just a little-

You reach your hand down to give your clit a little more attention, and finally your second orgasm of the night claims you.

You milk Steven, making him choke and moan against you as your head tilts back and you cry out into the empty apartment.

Then Steven does something that you didn’t expect. He rips your panties off of you.

“Steven,” you gasp, despite remembering what the boutique owner had said about your outfit not lasting the night. “Those were expensive.”

He flips you over, pulling out and rubbing his cock between your folds. “I'll buy you a new pair,” he says, melding his mouth to yours before he pushes in again.

If you thought he was giving it his all before, you were mistaken. Steven’s fucking you at a punishing, brutal pace, pulling at the straps of your lingerie until one by one they all snap off of you and you’re left bare in nothing but shredded lace and his button-up.

You whine, the result of two orgasms making Steven’s conquest an easy slide. Your eyes roll back into your head a little. He’s relentless, insatiable, biting the meat of your bottom lip and licking into your mouth, fucking you so well that you know you’re going to be thinking about it for weeks.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he stutters. “I’m never going to get enough of you. Fuck. Fuck. I-I’m gonna-”

“Come in me,” you beg. “Steven, Steven, come inside.”

He looks into your eyes. “You want me to come inside? Fill you up? B-breed you?”

You wrap your legs around his back and pull him closer into you, making the angle deeper. He groans, wet sloppy sounds accompanying his increasingly quickening thrusts.

“Come in me, Steven,” you kiss his cheek. “Come in me. Breed me. Please, please.”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-”

He pulses inside you, coming hard like you've been daydreaming he would for the past few days. You kiss the side of his head while he buries his face into your shoulder. “Perfect,” you whisper. “Perfect boy.”

He whimpers, still not relenting in filling you. You’re a little surprised. This is the longest an orgasm has ever lasted for Steven. You must’ve taken a lot out of him.

When he’s finally finished, he lets out a big sigh. You rub his back, nuzzling into him and wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to stretch out the moment as much as you can.

“Will you leave me alone about my wardrobe now?” he says into your neck, slightly muffled. You laugh.

“Sure. Only if you promise to wear a t-shirt once in a while.”

He groans. “Deal.”

[directdogman]

why does God Himself stick around in DIALTOWN of all places? im sure he could find some cult somewhere in the world thatd treat all his needs instead of letting him be the filthy hobo he is

there's 2 layers to this question, i think. let's tackle god himself first. You're 100% right in that Dialtown itself isn't the most hospitable place to live and if God really wanted to, he could totally find a cult somewhere else that'd take care of him like a... well, God. But, what's the stop him trying to form a cult like that IN Dialtown? Dialtown, the location, isn't the problem here. God doesn't try to convince anyone of his divinity IN Dialtown itself. Dialtown's residents are so underwhelmed by God not because they're godless heathens but because God is such an underwhelming person. He doesn't lie about his identity, but when people outright rebuke his divinity, the guy dozily replies "cool beans" and walks off, content.

The guy definitely doesn't wanna be worshiped or taken care of, that's for sure. That being said, I 100% think you're correct in questioning why exactly God would hang around Dialtown because it sure as hell isn't a super nice place. He COULD surely just leave town if he wanted, as he isn't stuck wearing an explosive ankle collar that'll go off if he strays outside city limits. Why would God want to wander around Dialtown all day, only stopping to speak to passerbys, day in, day out? Hmmm.

Now, the second layer of the question. Broadly, you could ask this question about any character in DT. It's fair to ask why anyone'd wanna live in Dialtown. I think in a sense, Dialtown's like a river delta, or the pool right below a drain pipe. It's where the sewage flow ends. The trash collects here. Dialtown has a unique ecosystem, and it's home to a lot of unique people, some of whom do truly bizarre things. Realistically, many characters, both in the main and extended cast, would struggle to live day-to-day in more 'normal' places. Imagine Gingi trying to live as a hunter gatherer in downtown Chicago, or Bigfoot hanging out in Florida!

Even Mayor Mingus, Dialtown's most pretentious and sanctimonious resident, someone who feels she is cognitively above almost everyone she has ever met, is truly the same as the rest. She's too self destructive, vindictive and power hungry to sustainably survive anywhere else. She cannot form human relationships and nobody would ever work with her if she went someone desirable.

All of the characters in Dialtown are sliiightly defective and/or majorly troubled in some way. Even the architect of Dialtown, the great Callum Crown, had to physically construct the metallic legs he used to walk with. All of the datable heads are damaged/atypical in some way, with Randy's head being bandaged, Oliver missing an optical sensor, Karen having a printer head, Bigfoot having sticky tape on his head, and Norm's concealed face. Mingus has a cat head, Gingi has a flesh head. NONE of the main cast are 'normal'. But, like Crown's postcard says, Dialtown IS a haven for people who don't fit in elsewhere. It's a place where those who can't survive alone and can't survive anywhere else come and survive together, fundamentally. It's rickety and lousy, but it's home.

[purplemochi20055]

@the-ravenclaw-werewolf

*spoilers for Assassination Classroom*

I think once Heine sees the potential Nagisa has overlooked in himself, he would try to guide, teach and encourage him, similar to how Koro-sensei would! I think Heine would genuinely enjoy teaching Nagisa with how open minded he is as a student. I also think that once Nagisa realizes he genuinely wants to become a teacher that he’d look up to Heine in a similar manner to how he viewed Koro-sensei, and see him as a motivating figure to achieve his goals and model his ideals after. Heine would also probably believe in Nagisa and be confidant that Nagisa will surpass his teachers, including himself. Also I thought it’s be cute for Heine to teach Nagisa literature and English since that is a subject Nagisa canonically enjoys and is his best subject, and Heine himself loves reading and researching, and is a master at grammar (and all things academic) so I believe they’d get along well and have a cute teacher-student dynamic.

Bruh drawing Heine was so difficult because when I looked at his picture, this guy has SO. MANY. COLLARS. On his damn shirts and suits, and this guy wears sooo many layers, like how did the author consistently draw him like that! (maybe that’s why Heine is drawn in chibi mode so often in the series lol). Yeah I’m kinda in an Assassination Classroom brainrot for a bit, so the next fan art will probably be involving Nagisa as well. But I swear I’ll get around to drawing the others (once I’m confident I can draw them decently). At least I’m getting used to drawing Nagisa! The more I draw him the more I familiarize myself with his hair and face, so I’m getting used to him, and I think he’s looking better!

[suchawrathfullamb]

HI LAMB 👋 here's an interesting prompt for them: H and W get into a fight before they arrive at a really fancy party they were invited to. W (or H if you want!) gets drunk and has to be taken home early by the other. when they get home they are all over eachother

We love making H drag Will to some fancy party he don't wanna be at, don't we? Haha I swear I've read this in a fic before, or something similar.

Hmmm, let's see...I think I want them to be murder husbands already, maybe like 3+ years into it so we don't have to deal with the practicalities of living undercover, cause in 3 years these bitches already figured things out, I'm sure lol.

Maybe it's summer time, it's a really hot night, which makes Will annoyed at having to wear formal clothes with so many layers.

"Could you manage alone?"

"I could, yes. But I'd prefer not to," Hannibal says as he undoes Will's shirt.

"Can't we skip it, then?" he mutters, letting Hannibal help him out of his clothes with a hint of reluctance.

"Maintaining these connections is imperative." Hannibal reaffirmed, his gaze fixed on the intertwining fabrics.

Silent concurrence lingered within Will's contemplation. Their clandestine existence hinged upon a complex network of debts and alliances, so he just let out a resigned sigh.

They ended up in the shower, Will standing lazily as Hannibal took charge.

"Look at this mane," Hannibal teased, lathering up Will's hair.

"Guess I could trim it."

"Don't. I like it like this," Hannibal insisted with a fondness for the untamed locks.

Hannibal chose a refined yet understated ensemble for Will, who was not at all in the mood to pick clothes, a tailored navy suit that exuded sophistication. The crisp lines of the suit jacket accentuated his frame, complemented by a classic white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. A slim black tie added a touch of sleek elegance. Paired with polished black shoes, the overall look was a seamless blend of simplicity and luxury. Contrastingly, Hannibal's attire was a striking portrayal of exotic elegance. Adorned in a deep burgundy velvet blazer, intricately embroidered with golden floral motifs that shimmered under the party lights, he exuded an aura of opulence. Beneath the jacket, a silk shirt in a rich shade of amethyst peeked through, the buttons embellished with ornate designs. Hannibal's trousers, a sleek black with a subtle sheen, draped perfectly over his frame, elongating his stature, and a pair of patent leather shoes with subtle detailing—added a refined touch to the ensemble, completing the portrayal of effortless luxury with an exotic flair.

In the soft glow of their home, Will stole glances at Hannibal, a bashful smile playing on his lips. "You look really good."

"You look impeccable, as always," Hannibal replied, reaching out to adjust the subtle fold of Will's lapel with a tender touch, then he leaned in, his breath barely grazing Will's ear as he whispered, "But I can't wait to get you out of those," his voice a velvet caress that sent a shiver down Will's spine. But this made him even more resentful that they needed to go out. He knew Hannibal was trying to distract him, and buttoning up his shirt with a touch more force than necessary, there was a simmering frustration.

"I don't see why we have to play this game," Will muttered, his tone clipped with restrained irritation.

Hannibal, adjusting his cufflinks with a composed grace, regarded Will with a calm yet probing gaze. "Connections are crucial, Will. You know that."

"I know, but I'm tired of relying on others," he countered, his voice carrying a tinge of exasperation. "Why can't we just vanish, disappear completely?"

Hannibal's composure remained unwavering, his tone measured. "Disappearing doesn't solve our problems; it merely postpones them."

"But why we have to dance to the tune of favors and alliances?" Will's frustration was palpable, his movements more erratic as he continued to dress.

"It ensures our safety," Hannibal replied, his voice steady but infused with subtle resolve.

Will's agitation simmered beneath the surface as he fastened the last button, his gaze locking with Hannibal's. "I'm tired," he admitted, the weariness in his words belying the depth of his emotions.

Hannibal met Will's gaze with a mixture of understanding and determination. "We do what is necessary," he replied, his voice a steady echo of conviction.

A weighty silence enveloped them, tension lingering in the air like an unresolved chord in an otherwise harmonious melody. The disagreement hung between them, unspoken sentiments swelling within the quiet spaces of their mutual understanding, as they silently finished preparing for the evening ahead.

As the car sliced through the night, there was a heavy silence. Hannibal attempted to bridge the emotional chasm, reaching out with a gentle touch to Will's hand, seeking a connection that he seemed reluctant to reciprocate. When they finally arrived, the opulent house loomed ahead, a luxurious mansion adorned with tropical elegance. Inside, a lively fusion of sophistication and laid-back charm greeted them. Formal attires flowed amidst the indoor tropical oasis while rhythmic music formed a captivating backdrop. As the night unfolded, Will found himself gradually succumbing to the alcoholic remedy, and his demeanor transformed with each sip of the drink, his usual reserve giving way to a sharp-edged inebriation.

But Will's allure seemed to be magnified, his subtle charm and striking features catching the eye of other attendees. Some discreetly admired, while others approached, drawn by his magnetic presence. Hannibal watched him, his eyes a beacon of unwavering concern. As the persistent glances from other guests intensified, Will's irritation grew apparent, his responses becoming more brusque with each interaction.

As the evening's ambiance swirled around them, he found himself the focus of a stranger's persistent attention. A man, emboldened by Will, edged closer, striking up a conversation that hinted at more than casual interest.

"Quite the evening, isn't it?" The stranger's tone held an undertone of intent as he directed his attention toward Will.

Will offered a forced smile. "Certainly is," he replied in a sarcastic tone, indicating his disinterest in further engagement.

The man, however, remained undeterred, continuing his attempts to engage Will in conversation. Hannibal remained watchful, a silent presence on the periphery.

As Will found himself cornered in the persistent stranger's conversation, Hannibal noticed the discomfort flickering across his eyes. Sensing the unease, he gracefully glided closer, a subtle yet deliberate move, slipping his hand discreetly into the small of Will's back.

Will's gaze flickered with relief at Hannibal's timely intervention. "Hi," he whispered, subtly leaning into Hannibal's touch.

Hannibal acknowledged the stranger with a warm smile. "Good evening."

The stranger, undeterred by Hannibal's appearance, persisted, his words edged with a hint of intent. "So, are you two open to company?"

Hannibal's smile remained polite but firm. "I'm afraid not," he responded, his tone gentle yet resolute. "I don't share well."

The stranger attempted to push further, his persistence bordering on the edge of presumptuousness. "But I—"

"I assure you," Hannibal interjected smoothly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "This one," he emphasized, gently squeezing Will's back, "is exclusively mine."

As the evening progressed, Hannibal observed with a tinge of jealousy as others encroached upon Will's space. He remained composed, though the subtle flicker of possessiveness glinted in his eyes. His hand lingered protectively on Will's back, a silent claim.

Yet, despite the attention, Will's focus remained on Hannibal. His eyes sought out Hannibal's, a silent plea for reassurance and connection amidst the throng.

He gently drew Will closer, his hand resting against the small of his back, an anchor in the swirling sea of conversations.

"You seem to be quite popular tonight," Hannibal remarked with a teasing glint in his eyes, his tone laced with playful jealousy.

Will chuckled softly. "Can't help it if they're drawn to me," he retorted, his gaze meeting Hannibal's with a mischievous twinkle.

Hannibal's fingers traced gentle circles against the fabric of Will's suit jacket. Their bodies instinctively sought each other's proximity, the subtle dance of their conversation growing more intimate amidst the escalating noise. Hannibal's thumb traced a gentle pattern along the curve of Will's waist.

"Can we go?" Will's tipsy whisper carried a note of eagerness mixed with tiredness, his movements betraying the effects of the evening's revelry. Hannibal chuckled, amused by the rosy flush on Will's cheeks. "Yes, seems like you're very much ready to be taken home, aren't you?" he teased, gently guiding them toward the exit. When they got home, Will's buzz lingered, and his attempts at undressing Hannibal were met with playful laughter. Hannibal, sensing his efforts, guided him with patient amusement, gently coaxing him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Oh, come on... I'm not that far gone," he protested, his voice laden with a hint of mischief. "Come here," Hannibal called, ignoring the persistent touches, his tone gentle, guiding Will upright as he deftly replaced his attire with more comfortable clothing. Persistent in his playful advances, Will sought Hannibal, attempting to draw him closer. Hannibal, maintaining his patience, placed a tender kiss upon Will's forehead. "Give that a moment," he murmured, his voice carrying both warmth and restraint. - This is way too long, so I won't go further on the sex scene lol. But lol, I wanted to use that line he said at Dolce haha, "give that a moment" to a drowsy Will.

[http-tokki]

Bed head

~ levi ackerman x fem!reader ~ tags/cw: canonverse, smut, levi coming in his pants, sub levi, fluff ~ wc: 1k

Levi doesn't nap very often, if ever. There's always so much work to do and so little time, but after noticing three consecutive yawns, you offer to take over.

“You’re about to pass out.” You point out from across the room, noting the bags that have deepened under his eyes.

“I’m fine” he grumbles, flicking through a stack of papers before finding the right one.

You hum and stand from your chair, now getting a full view of how much work had been set before Levi. Too many pages and too little time.

“Do you wanna nap?”

Levi scoffs and looks up from his desk. “Nap? Am I five?” His tone is sharp.

You disregard his mood, chalking it up to the fact he hadn’t sleep properly in weeks. Silently you move to stand beside him, waiting for his acknowledgment and when it doesn’t come, you slip your fingers into his hair. Brushing the strands back from his forehead, you feel him melt into your touch.

“Angel, please I need to work.” Levi sighs but leans further into your hands as you start to massage his scalp.

You weren’t playing fair and he knew it.

“I can work and you can sleep for a bit.” You offer.

Levi yawns again and groans before finally admitting defeat.

“Wake me up in half an hour.” He instructs, voice already muffled by the blanket he’s buried under.

“Yes, sir.”

—

Levi wakes a few hours later. The shadows across the floor indicate the passage of time, but he doesnt know how much exactly. With bleary eyes and aching bones, he sits. Blankets pool at his waist before he swings his legs to the edge of the bed. The sudden noise from the cot has you lifting your head, heart-squeezing as you witness sleepy Levi Ackerman.

Fingers curled in the fleece, eyes trained on the floor as he blinks awake, still trying to bring his mind to reality. His dark hair is mused and messy, something you rarely see, and even now, the sight is short-lived. Levi reaches up and combs the locks with his fingers, pushing them back from his forehead.

"Good morning, Captain," tone teasing, chin resting in the palm of your hand as you gaze at Levi.

Levi hums, hand falling back to his lap as he gives up on trying to tame his hair. With tight muscles, he stands and stretches. Pops and cracks follow each movement giving relief to Levi as he sighs at motion. He watches as you watch him. Eyes following every shift and gesture he makes, lingering a bit longer on the sliver of skin revealed as he stretched upwards. Levi enjoys the way you ogle him. It makes him feel like he isn’t as horrible as he thought; it makes his heart flutter and stomach flip.

"You're so pretty," you coo from his desk.

Levi snorts and bends to touch his toes.

"I'm not getting involved in this again," you state, attention turning back to the paper in front of you. "I think you're so pretty, and there's nothing you can do”

You've had this faux argument too often with your lover, and it always ended with you pinned beneath him, his strong hand cradling your jaw as he rocked into you, whispering how you were so much prettier.

"I'm not saying anything" Levi's voice is thick. "I just made a noise. It wasn't me disagreeing. It was just a noise."

Rolling your eyes and frowning at the papers, you hear Levi shuffle over to you. His warm body presses into yours as he tries to shove you from his chair. Hands slide under your thighs as he lifts you just enough to slide under and into the seat. Maneuvering you until you were now seated in his lap, Levi presses kisses to your jaw. Slowly making his way down your neck until he reaches your shirt collar. Tired and mind clouded with thoughts of you, he pulls at your shirt to expose more skin.

"Why are you wearing so many layers?" Levi grumbles, hands now tasked with pulling the shirt over your head. "You weren't wearing this many before."

You giggle, pulling back to allow the movement of the offending material before moving back in to kiss him. Levi's lips are soft and taste peppermint, thanks to the tea and lip balm you had picked up for yourself from the apothecary. (he says he doesn't use it but more often than not, you taste it on him) His tongue runs along your bottom lip, sweeping up and flicking into your mouth with the ease of years together. You sigh into the kiss, weaving your fingers into his hair to tug at the strands. It's Levi's turn to sigh into your mouth as he sinks into the chair, feeling you start to grind your hips over his. He lets you begin to move, revelling in the feeling of you taking control and using him for your enjoyment, but as your speed picks up, as does his breath. Pulling back from your mouth, Levi lets his head fall back against the chair, soft pants falling from his perfect lips.

"You're gonna make me cum in my pants?" he asks, eyebrow lifting, but it drops quickly as you rut against his clothed cock. Your answer comes as you tug on his hair, pulling his head back, so you have unrestricted access to his neck. He pants and sighs, hips now rolling up into yours, chasing a high he didn't know he needed. But now, with you here so close to him, smelling so fucking good, he needed to cum. It's not as if he was pent up, you had fucked each other stupid last night and again this morning, but there was something about the thought of you taking care of him, making sure he was well-rested and cared for, has his cock aching.

"You wanna cum, pretty boy?" your voice is breathless in his ear, tongue swirling along the skin, pulling him further into the pit of need.

Levi nods, fingers digging painfully into your hips.

"I want you to say it" You pull his face back to yours. "Tell me how badly you wanna cum, baby" He huffs into your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he bites down.

"I wanna cum so bad. Wanna have you clean me up, fuck” Levi is panting, eyes screwing shut as his stomach squeezes. "Please, angel."

"Yeah?" you tease, fingers slipping under the collar of his shirt. You roll your hips against his quicker, feeling the heat of his cock through the pants, and imagine him sinking into you.

"Please," Levi pleads, pressing his mouth to yours.

His tongue slips over yours as you gasp into his mouth, feeling his hips thrust up from the seat, pushing against the seam of your pants before Levi's breath hitches, and he stops his movements. His head falls back as his jaw goes slack, hips stilling and spilling his load in his trousers.

Biting down on your lip to stifle your smile, you reach out and card your fingers through his hair. Following his hairline down to his temple, then map a path down his jaw to cradle his face in your hands. You let him sigh into you, slumping back in the chair.

"Feel better?"

Levi nods, eyes still closed, and takes a few more breaths. God, he is so fucking beautiful.

[drstonetrivia]

Chapter 204 Trivia

What we thought may be a politics arc may in fact become a brotherly feud…

Galileo's quote is taken from his book "The Assayer", considered to be one of the pioneering works of the scientific method. At the time, most science was done by philosophical arguments rather than observation and trying to understand the mathematics behind them.

Math is the universal language because the symbols may change, but the meanings/axioms cannot. Because of this, the cover of the Golden Record placed on Voyager 1 (the probe leaving our solar system) has instructions written in math in the hopes some future beings can understand.

Ryusui wasn't wearing two swords last chapter, I wonder where they came from and why he's wearing them now…

(Maybe this is why Sai was running from him haha!)

Mathematical errors have ruined a lot of space missions: the Mariner 1 was destroyed because of a missing hyphen, and the Mars Climate Orbiter was destroyed on landing because of a failure to convert units.

Avoiding these errors was very difficult when it was all done by hand.

This seems to be at least partially true, however the practice has lessened over the decades. Indian-educated parents and grandparents may remember, but students these days probably only need to learn up to 19x19!

The HR industry in India is incredibly large, and are a very useful resource to have for any business looking to scale up. It's not surprising that the Nanami Corporation set up a university there!

Sai appears to be the 554th most popular name in India and can be used for both genders, but it's generally a male name.

The equations in the background here I haven't identified yet, but the gamma (γ) thrust here may be alluding to the thrust equation used with rocket engines in space. The gamma is the specific heat ratio of the gas.

The day is October 1st, so the team likely left Spain sometime between September 15th-20th if it did in fact take them 10 days to travel the distance (with some delays because of the Suez situation).

The food here may be a somewhat generic curry as the sound effect seems to indicate, or it could also be lamb gosht based on the color, region, and spices used.

Technically we don't know that Ruri specifically called for the defensive positions, but we do know everyone in Japan is probably in them.

I think this is the same sky image as the one Tsukasa saw in chapter 188, but with a different star pattern.

The Fellenius method and what Senku is actually doing here is dividing the slopes into segments and calculating how stable each one is using the properties of the dirt and rock. Putting the segments together should give you how likely a rock slide is. Strata are layers of rock.

The many-armed pose Sai is found in is a reference to Durga, a major Hindu deity. She is associated with protection, strength, motherhood, destruction and wars.

This comment I believe is Chelsea's from the "I'm not a fan" part, with the "baaad" learnt from Chrome's habit.

The meaning of her comment is confusing, but it might be because the last pretty-boy character introduced was a villain (Stanley), however shes also a fan of Hyoga…?

Sai's outfit is very simple and rather lacking compared to Ryusui's, however they share elements such as the collar type and addition of a belt.

The belt buckle is very interesting, it doesn't follow Ryusui's nor Nanami Corp.'s branding and looks like a C+.

My guesses for the meaning: -C+, the programming language, based off the fact he was petrified on his laptop presumably. -C, the Roman numeral, indicating 100+ because of the million-times brainpower comment (million in Japanese is 百万, 百=100). -C, from E=mc^2, for light speed.

Sai's odd yell ("peegyaaaah!") may be a computer joke, as the sound effect "ピ" (pi) tends to be used for computer beeps, like pressing a button.

A similar sound has been used in the past for Xeno's encryption device.

Sai's character could go a lot of directions since he's unlikely to be one of the traditional nerds they described, nor one like Joel since Joel exists. What Ryusui did to scare off his older brother though, I'm very curious about…

[erose-this-name]

Every Time a Bell Rings

Cult of the Lamb Ficlet

(I’ve never played Cult of the Lamb. Mostly just got inspired by @ aveloka-draws and @ bamsara then briefly lost control of my life and wrote several fanfictions, as you do) 

⋅∴∵∴∵∴∵⁂∵∴∵∴∵∴⋅

It had been a long night serving at the drinkhouse for the yellow-furred cat follower (of varying name). He is behind on getting everything cleaned and shut down for the day.

Then the Lamb happens to walk by, yawns, and picks up a mop. Their favorite, eldritch mop.

The yellow cat says, “Leader, it’s fine, really, I can handle this on my own.”

“And yet, you have my help.” The Lamb smiles.

If the yellow cat has learned anything about his leader, it’s that they’re not the kind to delegate. If they see something that needs doing, they just do it. No matter how dirty. This is starkly contrast to every other crown bearer he’s ever heard of.

The bell around the Lamb’s neck rings with each push of their mop.

“Leader, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why are you always wearing that bell?” The yellow cat asks.

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not annoying, is it? I suppose I could change into another fleece…” Lamb says.

Yellow cat says, “No, no! Not at all. Actually, it's nice to hear you’re near, makes me feel safe. It’s just, I mean, a lot of us have been wondering why you wear it? Isn’t it annoying for you?”

“Oh, baahaahaa! Yeah, I guess it’s not a very ‘fashionable’ accessory, is it?” The Lamb laughs.

Somehow the thought people would question the bell has never crossed the sheep's mind. They goes back to mopping, their brow furrowing slightly.

“Um, so when I was very young, I used to crawl all over the place. You know how babies do that. And, my parents were afraid I’d wander too far and, uh… attract the Bishops to our hidden refuge. So they put the bell on me. So they’d always know where I was. Even when I got old enough to not need it, when I understood… it just kind of felt wrong if a bell doesn’t ring with every step, you know? I was so used to it.” They say.

The cult leader has been absentmindedly moping and mopping the same patch of floor well past the point of spotless.

The Lamb holds the base of the bell and rings it in their hand. Its tinkling sound rings clearly. “I find it calming.”

Yellow Cat sees that several other faint children’s names had been crudely engraved into the base of that old, dinged up bell, then scratched out. Each name’s marks are increasingly worn down and filled with tarnish. The last name has had every letter except L-A-M-B scratched off, in their place are marks fresh enough to still expose raw shiny brass beneath the layers of patina.

SHEPHERD RAMSES BOPEEP COSSETTE LAMBERT

The feline follower’s expression had been steadily falling through the whole story. “Oh, right. Of course… I’m sorry I asked, Leader.”

The Lamb puts on a half smile and coquettishly tilts their head to the side. “Don’t worry about it. Also, the collar keeps my head from falling off.”

"Huh?"

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One day, many days later, Leshy and that same yellow furred cat he hangs around barge into the Lamb’s office.

The yellow cat stutters, face turning more red than yellow. “Hey, Leader, so… um…”

Leshy cuts off yellow cat, “I have utilized this lowly cat’s perfect genes to mother a demigod heir to rival your tyranny, foul Lamb.”

Leshy holds up an egg. It is the cult’s first birth.

The Lamb stares, at a loss for words, “What?… an *egg*? I thought you’re both male? Didn’t you just… HOW?”

“Do not underestimate the power of my clitellum, small-minded mammal!” Says the green earthworm.

The yellow cat mumbles, traumatized, “I didn’t even realize we were having sex that way, worms are so weird…”

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The egg is about to hatch. Yellow Cat, Leshy, Lamb, Shamura, Kallamar, Narinder, and Heket have gathered around to watch.

Kallamar delivers the baby and, despite being a potent source of slime himself, he recoils at the albumin and viscera.

Yellow Cat and Lamb are the only one’s to greet the new life with smiles, everyone else grimaces at the hideous abomination of nature. Except for Leshy and Shamura, who have no idea what’s happening.

Leshy asks, “Well? Is it mighty? DOES IT HAVE MY TEETH?” 

Kallamar wrinkles his lack of a nose, “It’s… uh, I mean, I guess it is healthy, but…”

Narinder says, “It’s an ‘it’, alright. Aym and Baal were much cuter kits.”

“SACRILEGIOUS BEAST, GIVE ME THE RED CROWN, SO I MAY SEE MY CHILD THROUGH IT!” The horned worm leaps at the Lamb, trying to wrestle the Red Crown away from them.

“NEVER! IT’S MINE! MY PRECIOUS!” The woolly God of Death roars as they push the ex-god off them. Narinder rolls his eyes.

Yellow cat says, nervously, “They’re… I mean, I love them, and they’re a perfect ball of joy… but…”

“WON’T SOMEONE TELL ME HOW OUR CHILD LOOKS?!” Leshy cries.

“… ugly…” Heket croaks.

Leshy falls to his knees, “NOOOOOOO!”

Yellow cat turns to the Lamb and gently hands the baby to them.

“Leader, we talked it over, and we thought it’d be best if you name it.” Yellow cat says.

The Lamb smiles, “I’d be honored to-”

“Wait, no, what were you thinking, cat? GET AWAY FROM MY DEMIGOD, GOD-MURDERER! Shamura, you shall name it!” Leshy commands.

The ex-chaos bishop rips the infant away from the Lamb and thrusts it into Shamura’s arms, who is about as surprised as everyone else.

The concussed spider looks down at their new niece/nephew, cradling it in two of their arms while gently wrapping it in a silk swaddle with another two. Tiny malformed fingers wrap around a thin chitinous thumb.

Shamura mumbles, “Hmm… Yes. I see you, lowliest worm, just begun. Becoming our moon, yet you reached for the sun. One becomes zero becomes two. You are named ‘Metztli’, aren’t you? She has your eyes, Leshy. And my thumb.”

The yellow cat smiles, “‘Metztli’, what a beautiful name. Leshy, your eye looked like that? They’re so pretty!”

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Several days later, after returning from an impromptu crusade, Lamb knocks on Leshy and the yellow cat’s door. They are greeted by the cat.

The Lamb says, “Hello! I have a gift for Meztli… uh, Metzi? Mets-klee-”

“Metztli?” The cat corrects.

Lamb nods, “Yes, that. I can speak in tongues, how do you do that?”

The Lamb gives the yellow cat a small box. The feline follower opens it to find a single fine golden bell on a soft ribbon necklace. It is expertly engraved with the name Metztli.

Lamb says, their own bell jingling, “I’ve been worrying about her… I just wanted to keep her safe.”

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