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theharddeck · 11 months

Text

i was supposed to sweat you out (rooster x f!reader)

pairing: bradley rooster bradshaw x fem!reader (no y/n)

synopsis: reader is totally not jealous that her FWB is being hit on at the hard deck.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI: spitting, unprotected sex, non negotiated breeding kink—friendly reminder this is a work of FICTION oh my god use protection and communicate explicitly with your partner beforehand please please please-- explicit PiV sex, a bit of dumbification, m!receiving oral sex

A/N: help i blacked out and wrote almost 4k of rooster smut who even am i listen, i also know it's not original, but i wanted to write frantic territorial sex and this is where it got us. also...don't think too hard about the parallels between this and can't unfeel that okay i'm too repressed to process tysm also yes title is from glitch by TAS

You weren’t jealous.

Jealous was for people with feelings, and if you had feelings about fucking your team lead, then you were stupid, in addition to giving Uncle Sam everything he needed to court martial you.

So, no, you weren’t jealous.

But the tightness in your stomach as a girl sat next to Rooster on the piano was awfully uncomfortable.

She wasn’t even out of line, that was the worst part. She looked nice, she looked like a decent human, and she was pretty, if you were into the girl next door kinda look.

Which Rooster historically was.

She was sitting at a perfectly respectful distance, her sundress was a perfectly respectful length, her face was open and curious and pure and it made you want to stomp over to the piano in the middle of the Hard Deck, and rub yourself all over Bradley’s hawaiian shirt until he remembered that as pretty as she was, he liked himself around you better.

You made yourself look away, tipping your wrist so the soda water and ice remaining in your glass rattled around.

He wasn’t yours.

You knew he wasn’t, just like you knew jealousy was irrational, but it was hard because sometimes…sometimes he acted like it though.

Like when you nearly passed out from cramps and he’d brought over a spare set of sheets while he washed yours, and then wedged himself around you in your tiny bed, so you could know you weren’t alone in the pain. Or when he left a lemon lavender cupcake in your locker, even though no one was supposed to know it was your birthday, because you hated the way people made a big fuss out of nothing. Or the way he looked up at you, awestruck and beautiful, every time you came on his fingers, sobbing his name.

You set your glass down on the bar, louder than you intended, but suddenly everything seemed loud. You didn’t have to stay here, in fact, you needed to get out. Out of the Hard Deck, away from the bright lights and happy people being happy, and no one moping over their fuckbuddies who definitely didn’t have feelings for them–

When the back door opened, you breathed in deep, cool air rushing off the sea and over you and bringing a momentary reprieve. The door swung shut behind, and as it closed, the din of the bar muted, and you let that breath out slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself. You just needed a minute, a moment to calm the hell down, and forget about the distracting man at the piano whom you had no business being distracted by.

You heard the door creak open behind you and you tipped your head back to glare at the universe at large, because without turning around, you knew exactly who had come outside after you.

“Hey,” Bradley’s voice was just gentle enough to make your heart clench, because it wasn’t his fault that he was so impossibly kind, it had you falling in love with him, “you okay? You ran out of there pretty quick.”

“I’m fine,” you said, sounding just as prickly as you felt, pushing down any sense of flattery that he’d been aware of your presence, and your leaving.

“You sound fine,” Bradley said cheerily, coming to stand beside you. You wanted to laugh with him because you both knew you were being dramatic, but you also wanted to shove him like you were 5 on a playground, too full of big feelings to know how to handle them.

“I said I’m fine, Bradley,” you bit out. “Go back inside, okay, I’m fine.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when you looked over at him, you knew it was a mistake. He was watching you carefully, his brown eyes focused and concerned, a divet in the middle of his forehead where his brows were squished together, making him simultaneously the cutest and hottest, and also the most annoying, for being so handsome while he was clearly worried.

“Honey, we gotta talk about it–” he started, but the endearment broke something inside of you, the way he said it like he meant it, like this was real.

“I’m not your honey, Bradley,” you snapped, turning to face him fully. “We’re friends, right, that was the whole deal, so let’s not pretend like–”

Something flashed in Bradley’s eyes and a moment later his large hands cupped your face as he crashed into you, kissing your gasped breath out of you.

It wasn’t your fault your knees nearly buckled.

It wasn’t your fault that the hands you meant to push him away with instead curled into the material of that stupid technicolor shirt, pulling him closer to you.

It wasn’t your fault that he tasted like heaven, like rum and coke and intoxicating, and months of habit had you chasing his taste with your tongue.

You didn’t realize you were walking backwards until your back hit the outside wall of the Hard Deck, and still Bradley covered you. His neck was bent at a horrible angle to meet your lips, but he didn’t seem to mind, melding his body into yours, pressing into you with a familiar urgency.

His tongue traced over your lips and you opened for him, a whimper escaping you when Bradley hummed with appreciation. His hands slipped from your face to behind your head, his knuckles protecting your head from the scrape of the brick wall, and he rocked into you before pulling back.

You felt his breath against your lips and you opened your eyes slowly, needing a moment before you could focus on him.

Christ, he was just so pretty.

Hair unruly from your fingers, cheeks flushed from kissing you, chest rising unsteadily and his tongue darting out to wet his lips, like a tease.

“Now,” he said, his voice gruffer than it’d been a minute ago, “are you done riding my dick for something I don’t even know I did wrong?”

It was an expression.

You knew that, of course it was an expression, but Bradley was pressing you into a wall with his demigod body, and he’d said it in that voice, the one you knew how it felt against your skin, so all you could manage was, “Can I?”

For a moment, Bradley looked confused, bless him.

Then he huffed out a disbelieving breath, like you were too good to be true, lifting a hand from behind your head to rake it through his hair, before looking back at you.

“You mean that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice somehow even lower. “Out here in the open, you’d let me fuck you?”

You shivered at his words, nodding stupidly, and were rewarded by another kiss. This one was just as unexpected as the first, but Bradley’s lips gentle against yours as he coaxed an answering softness out of you.

It was too sweet.

Too tempting, too delicious, to let yourself have tenderness that you knew wasn’t real, and you needed to get a hold of yourself, fast.

Bradley was still being so damn gentle, so it was easy to push his hands away from you, sink to your knees on the sand-covered asphalt outside of the bar. Bradley fell forward, catching himself on the arm braced on the wall, his forehead resting in the crook of his elbow.

“Honey, you don’t have to–” he started, but his hips bucked forward when your fingers started undoing his belt.

“I want to,” you told him, meaning it too much to care how breathless your voice sounded.

Your hand slipped into his pants, palming his length over his briefs and you both groaned softly. He wasn’t fully hard, not yet, but that was better anyways, let you work him up. He was warm, heavy even at half mast, and it took everything in you not to purr when you pulled him out. You looked up at him, tilting your head.

“Help me out?” you asked coyly, sticking your tongue out, and Bradley’s hips jutted forward again when he realized what you were asking.

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice a heady mix of arousal and wonder. The hand that wasn’t keeping him from hitting the wall traced down your cheek, ending at your jaw and tipping your chin up.

You were already salivating and when Bradley spit, you moaned, your thighs clenched together as you drooled your combined saliva onto his cock. Bradley grunted, then whispered something to himself as you smoothed your hand over him, the glide made easier by your spit. Already, you could feel him stiffening, and you readjusted to take him in your mouth.

It was never a gentle fit.

Bradley was the kind of thick that he always stretched out your jaw, but, God, did you relish it. As your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, Bradley moaned, the most beautiful sound. You loved how vocal he was, loved how he sounded, how he felt. You tightened your lips, tongue swirling over the tip of him, teasing until you tasted a hint of salt in your mouth, and then it was your turn to moan.

You tipped your head back, encouraging him to slide him deeper into your mouth, your fist twisting around the portion of his cock that didn’t fit in your mouth.

“Shit, honey, that mouth…” Bradley gritted, his voice muffled in his arm. The hand that had tipped up your chin went around to your cheek, and his hips shifted again when he could feel you hollowing your cheeks out.

The motion pushed him deeper towards your throat and you gagged, but kept him in your mouth, soothed by the shaky cadence of Bradley’s breath over you.

“So damn good for me, aren’t you, honey?” he breathed. “So warm and tight; feels so good…”

Your thighs clenched again, and you felt yourself growing wet as his praise washed over you. You held your breath, determined to take more of him, and Bradley grunted as you pulled on his cock with your hand, feeding him into your mouth.

“Need more, honey?” he asked, somehow still cocky, though you could hear the tremor of desire in his voice. “God, you love being stretched on my dick, don’t you?”

You moaned instead of nodding, wishing it wasn’t true but also wishing he’d push deeper. Your hands flexed on his thighs, still covered in his jeans, but so thick and warm, even through the denim. Fuck, the size of him was overwhelming–his heavy cock in your mouth, those muscled thighs under your fingers…you held your breath and you let go of the base of him.

Bradley let out a choked gasp as you took him deeper, your nose brushing his pubic hair as he slid down your throat. You were gonna lose your voice and be so damn sore, but it was worth it for the groan that ripped out of Bradley.

“Fuck fuck fuck–” he gritted, all cockiness gone as he let go of your cheek, bracing himself against the wall. You knew it was taking everything to not rut into you, and you half appreciated it because you weren’t sure you could take it, but you almost wanted him without restraint, just using you, lost in you.

You hummed around him, and Bradley made a sound you’d never heard before, like a whine and gasp, and then he was pushing himself off the wall, pulling out of you, and wrapping his hands under your arms, pulling you to your feet.

“Fuck, honey, you wreck me,” he rasped, kissing you almost angrily. You whimpered as you opened for him, and you felt his tongue sweeping through you, searching for his taste in your mouth.

You felt so empty, too much air and too little of his cock, and you reached for him between you. You felt him jolt when your hand closed around him, stroking over him, and then Bradley was reaching between both of you, shoving his hand into your underwear.

“How wet am I going to find you, honey? Bet you’re just drenched aren’t you, just that hungry for my cock–fuck.”

Bradley broke off when his fingers swept into your panties, and you gasped at the glorious contact.

His fingers were so good, thick and long and calloused just right, and he was absolutely correct: you were all but dripping for him. Bradley pulled his fingers through your folds, pulling your arousal up to your clit and petting gentle circles around it. Your head fell back against the wall at his ministrations, perfect to the point of painful, almost forgetting you held his cock in your hand.

You tightened your grip around him, and Bradley grunted before he matched your pace with his fingers. You felt your knees shaking, and Bradley wound another hand around your ass, before lifting to brace you against the wall. With your feet off the ground, your balance was entirely dependent upon him, and it brought new pressure to the pattern his fingers were tracing over you.

His touch was maddening.

Light and knowing, direct and perfect, enough to drive you wild with pleasure but not to get you there, and he knew it.

“Bradley,” you whispered against his mouth, begged, and the bastard chuckled, but he pulled his hand out of your panties, just long enough to push them to the side, before pulling his lips away from you.

“Shit, honey, I don’t have a–”

“In me, Rooster,” you snapped, surprised and yet absolutely not surprised by the fact that your eyes felt full. You were desperate for him, it was embarrassing, but you needed him so damn bad, for reasons you didn’t dare say, and if he waited for something else, you didn’t think you could bear it. “Please, fucking please, I need you–”

“Shh honey, you’re okay,” Bradley soothed, one of his hands brushing your hair away from your face, a gentle thumb wiping at your eyes. His gentleness made you more desperate, your hips canting towards him. “Are you sure?”

“So sure, please,” you whimpered, your face feeling hot, your thighs shaking. God you were coming undone, like you were just a giant nerve ending that was just need, desperate, hunger, desire.

“Course, honey,” Bradley soothed, his lips brushing against your cheeks, kissing your tears away, his tongue caressing your skin. “I’ve got you, baby, you’re okay.”

You didn’t think you were, but then his thick cock was at your entrance and you could’ve sobbed in relief. He was hot, you could feel him leaking and you needed him to be so deep inside you. You tried to work your hips down on him, but Bradley’s grip on you was stern, and you couldn’t coax him any faster.

As it was, it still felt like too much.

The stretch of him, the closeness, the way he knew just how to soothe you and fuck you and none of it was real and even when he slowly worked you down onto his cock, you were still shaking.

“Please, please,” you whined, trying to move, and crying out in frustration when Bradley didn’t succumb. “Shit, Bradley, please, fuck me like you mean it.”

He growled, fucking growled, the sexiest sound out of a litany of choices, and Bradley’s hips jerked back before he drove into you. Your head hit the brick wall, he was so perfect and he hit you just right, so good, and almost perfect enough to drown out the thoughts in your head.

“Like I mean it, huh,” Bradley grunted, pulling out, the drag feeling like suction with how wet you were, how tightly you were clenching around him. “Like I mean it when I say you’re killing me, is that what you mean? Like I’m going insane every second this pretty pussy isn’t tight around me, like I can’t think straight if I don’t have the taste of you on my tongue, or know the taste of me isn’t on yours?”

He punctuated each question with a thrust, fucking the answers out of your head, and all you could think was yes and more and please.

“Oh you like that, don’t you, baby?” Bradley said, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he lifted you higher up the wall. Your back scraped against the bricks but you didn’t care, you couldn’t focus on anything other than the perfect drag of his cock inside you, so close to you. “I think you like that, I think you like knowing how much you own me, how in my head you are, how even when it’s me filling you. You’re fucking everywhere, all around me, all the time.”

His thrusts pushed you higher, bits of sand and brick grating at your skin and it grounded you, centered you so you didn’t come undone at the words coming out of him.

You were still thinking too much.

He was so deep, so good, but you still…you reached for him blindly, one of your hands finding one of his, bringing it to your throat.

“Fuck, honey,” Bradley groaned, his fingers tightening slightly and you traced your hand down the back of his hands, moaning when you felt the veins on the back of his hand. He didn’t squeeze tight, just enough to remind you he was there, and that he could, and just the thought had a coil tightening in your core, tingles spreading through your toes and fingers.

“Bradley,” you whimpered, tears squeezing out of your eyes. “Baby, that feels so good, feels like yours, please–”

Bradley moaned into your skin, his lips latching onto your pulse point and sucking, and you keened, your back arching off the wall. The stretch of his cock was pulling your panties across your clit, and the driving press of him inside of you was so good, you could barely hear what he was whispering.

“Is that what you want, honey?” he whispered into your skin. “Want to be mine? That’s what it feels like, honey, it feels like my pussy is so wet for me, dripping for this cock. It feels like my clit is so swollen, so desperate for attention; it feels like my girl’s gonna come on my hard fucking cock…”

Yes, yes that was what you wanted.

You were already his, he didn’t know it, but hearing him say it had your mind going hazy, and your thighs trembling.

“That’s fucking right, baby,” Bradley groaned, “I can feel you clenching down on me, can feel my pussy getting even tighter for me. This doesn’t feel like friends, baby, it feels like my girl’s about to come on my cock.

You were lost, swimming in a sea of heat and sensation and Bradley’s words and you were pretty sure you were wailing, praying no one in the Hard Deck could hear you, but even if they could, you weren’t stopping. His cock was so deep in you, hitting you just right, and you knew what you needed to cum.

“In me, Bradley,” you managed, your voice a weak whine. “Need to feel you come, please, fill me up with it.”

“Oh, fuck, honey,” Bradley choked, his hand tightening on your throat and his hips working faster. His pace was bruising, overwhelming, perfect and hard and you felt everything in you winding tighter.

“Of course you want my cum, fucking of course, if it’s my pussy, then that’s where it belongs isn’t it? That’s how you should be, stuffed so fucking full of me, dripping out of you, marked like mine, fucking mine–”

He was groaning, gasping, his hips speeding up and driving into you, and all you could do was take it, like it was what you were made for. You were boneless, euphoric, and when you felt Bradley’s hips stutter and his head drop to between your breasts, your orgasm broke over you. Bradley sagged into you, hips working weakly as he thrust his cum into you, and you felt it everywhere, marking you, like he said. You couldn’t breathe without him, only knew you were still vertical because he was holding you, and you felt so warm, so held, so full.

His.

You didn’t realize your eyes had closed until you were aware of Bradley asking you to open them. Your feet were on the ground, even though your legs were like a newborn deer, and your back was braced against the wall. Bradley was bent in front of you, brushing away your tears with the back of his hand.

“Talk to me, honey,” he said softly, and you heard his voice like an echo, “need to know you’re okay.”

You nodded slowly, which mustn’t have been convincing, because Bradley was still fussing over you, like he hadn’t fucked you halfway into a new religion.

You knew when he saw your back because of the sound of dismay that burst out of him, and then he was pulling off that damn Hawaiin shirt, brushing gravel off your back while your head hung low between your shoulders, still trying to remember how to breathe.

Satisfied that he’d at least brushed the grit out of your skin, Bradley draped his shirt over your shoulders, protecting them, before guiding you to lean back. He licked his lips as his gaze tracked over your face, and you watched him convince himself to say something.

“Did you mean it?” he asked quietly, but this time you heard him more clearly. “Would…would you want that? To be mine?”

It was your turn to stare.

How could he doubt it? How was there any question? Not only after what you’d just begged him for, but before then, always, he had to know how good he was, and how all anyone wanted was to be in the light of his sunshine.

“Obviously,” you said, your voice coming out as an alarming croak. “But we can’t, we–”

Bradley hugged you.

It wasn’t what you expected.

After everything you’d just done, instigated by stop-talking kisses, there was something astonishingly intimate about Bradley wrapping you in his arms, enfolding you in his embrace, and you felt him relax when your arms hesitatingly wrapped around him too. He was warm, smelled like fresh sweat and you buried your face in the soft cotton of his undershirt. He held you tightly, and you thought he might’ve pressed a kiss to the top of your head, but then his hand was smoothing over your back, gentle, comforting.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, softly. “Together, okay?”

You nodded, knowing he could feel it, and he held you impossibly closer. It didn’t solve it. There were still fraternization rules, still some kind of unofficial vetting process you knew Mav and Ice would put you through, not to mention Penny…but as Bradley held you, you let it be enough.

And maybe it was enough, because, as your body hummed with the reminder of it, you were his.

tagging: @callsign-fangirl @bradshawsbitch @mxgyver @withahappyrefrain @teacupsandtopgun @lewmagoo @nancyxsorbet @sebsxphia @laracrofted @roleycoleyreccenter @sushiwriterhere @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @callsignvalley @wildbornsiren @hangmanshoney idk most people follow me for hangman and coyote so hope i did okay by roo

#bradley rooster bradshaw smut #rooster smut #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #misskielwrites

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imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 6 months

Text

Pacified

Trafalgar D. Water Law x Reader

a/n: set after the fight on Wano.

Summary: Law is afraid of love, big shocker

The tavern was crowded but there was no doubt in Law’s mind that it was you burning a hole in the back of his head. Your gaze was like fire, and he felt a prickly feeling on the base of his neck, so much so, that he rubbed at it. His cheeks burned as he finally looked over his shoulder and met your stare with a quick withdrawal. He felt ashamed and cowardly, but he couldn’t even manage a hello to you when he walked into the bar with your crew mates. He knew it, knew it to his core – getting involved with the Straw Hats was going to be a pain in his ass but what he didn’t anticipate was something far worse.

A pain in his heart.

The barkeep slid a glass of ale in front of him, Law thanked the man and proceeded to down it in one gulp. His nerves were shot, body ached from all the fighting; now that things were settled in Wano, he could finally breathe but for how long? How long before you inhaled him so? He felt like he was drowning in this odd feeling, a foreign feeling that had him looking for you on the battleground. Every other thought had been about you – were you safe? Had you pushed yourself past your limit? The worst: were you even alive? He should have known, you were a damn Straw Hat, of course you’d end up fine.

If fine meant badly wounded and at the point of death but alive.

He had personally tended to your wounds and gave Chopper specific orders for your recovery. Days later, he saw you for the first time. Refreshed and smiling as you walked through the town with Roronoa Zoro. You looked well and he could never forget the relief that swelled in his chest, but he acted cowardly and ducked into a sweets shop. He watched from the window as you walked by with the swordsman, your laugh filled the muffled air, and he felt a cramp in his heart. It was sickening, he felt sick watching you walk away but at least you were alive and breathing.

If only that could be enough for him.

All he wanted was to get on his ship with his crew and leave Wano for good, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it even days after the final battle. Of course, Bepo and the others were having a good time but all he could do was wallow because what was the point? He had his crew and you had yours – and that was that. Wasn’t it?

“Tra-guy!”

Law cringed at the sound of the Straw Hat’s captain voice and attempted to get off the stool for a quick escape, but Luffy had an arm around him in seconds. He pulled him toward a large round table, where the rest of the crew sat, including you. Law grumbled as Luffy called for a toast, pushing a drink into the doctor’s chest. He took it reluctantly and avoided you as he listened to Luffy give a short, dumb little speech until everyone cheered and clinked glasses. It then, as everyone laughed around the table that Law found himself looking in your direction. He anticipated your gaze, but you were laughing at something Jinbei was saying and all he could do was stare. His heart pattered and all he wanted to do was pluck it out of his own body, throw it away in the sea. That way he wouldn’t have to feel it bursting in his body attempting to burn right through his chest.

“Law.”

He blinked a few times and realized you were standing in front of him – how long had he zoned out? He cleared his throat before commenting on your recovery. “You look well.”

“Because of you,” you smiled, hands behind your back. “When I woke up, Chopper explained what you had done for me. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he replied quietly, afraid to move a muscle but it seemed you were set on making him go into cardiac arrest because you drew slightly closer to him. He could feel his cheeks go warm as you asked if he planned on staying longer in Wano.

“We’re set to leave in a few days. I am sorry to leave this place,” you confessed, and he asked why. Grinning, you reached down for his hand, not caring that there was room full of people, specifically, your crew surrounding you two. Law held his breath; your hand was warm and gentle as it was that night…

“It’s such a beautiful place but this is the place I got to know you better, Trafalgar. I’m glad we got to spend some time together, I just wish…. we had more time, don’t you?”

Oh, God, this was it – he was going to die. He couldn’t contain himself any longer and he quickly, without meeting a single person’s look, gripped your hand and led you quickly out of the tavern. He maneuvered you through the tables and chairs, drunk people out into the cool night. Once outside, he pulled you off to the side, away from the festival lights and sounds. His hand around yours, he stumbled over his words. It was upsetting, unnatural for him to feel so clumsy and unprepared. - that wasn’t him, what a fool love made him.

Love.

“We’re from two different crews…”

“Thank you for stating the obvious.”

You teased and it relaxed him for some reason; that’s what you did to him. Soothed away all the anxiousness he had built up, gave him a sense of calmness – which was laughable considering the crew you were apart of. How he wishes he could steal you away to be his. “I won’t ask you to come with me,” he said quietly, thumb pressing into your skin. “I know you wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t want you to choose…”

“Because I would always choose my crew.”

Law smiled softly and looked down at your hand in his; his grip softened, and he laughed, mostly to himself. “A damn Straw Hat, of all people….”

“Believe me, I wasn’t looking for this either,” you laughed, giving way to a deep sigh. Law finally gave in, fully gave in, and tugged you to him. With ease, you melted against his body as his arms wrapped around your back and he held you close to his chest. A brief sadness danced around the two of you, as the sound of Brook’s violin carried the night. It sounded so lovely, and Law closed his eyes, holding you close – mesmerizing this moment for later, when the nights on his ship would be quiet and lonely. He’d have this to look back on but more importantly, he’d have this to look forward to.

Law pulled back to look at you, hands gracing the sides of your face; his thumb caressed your cheek, and he studied the look in your eyes before telling you it wasn’t over. “It doesn’t end like this. We’ll go our separate ways for now, but let’s find each other again. I can wait, can you?”

Say yes, please, say yes – he wouldn’t know what to do if you said no. Can he move on and continue his journey. Can you become a small pebble in his story? A cliff note, a passing thought? A fond memory he can look back on when he’s much older and trying not to regret the choices he has made in his life? Can he be that strong?

“You’re worth the wait.”

Stunned, heart stunned, as you smiled. He searched in your face for any sides of hesitation but all he saw was love and hope – things he thought he lost so long ago. Dozens of thoughts ran through his head, but everything went quiet when you leaned in for a kiss. He was pacified with love as he leaned in to capture your lips with his. How tender life felt as your hands moved up around his neck, his hand on the small of your back , fireworks painting the sky, and the land of Wano thriving, once again.

#trafalgar law #law x reader #one piece wano #trafalgar d law x reader #wano arc

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brayneworms · 11 months

Text

shoot it up (straight to the heart).

featuring. childe/reader

word count. 5.7k

content. merc!reader, drinking, kissing, masochist!childe because i am not immune to that agenda, sparring, gender neutral reader, childe is a little shit, blood, finger sucking, biting, handjobs, hair pulling, one instance of degradation (whore), light begging and light crying.

synopsis. childe has always found you fascinating; now that his stint in liyue is up and he's scheduled to return to snezhnaya, he takes the opportunity to get something from you he's wanted for months.

notes. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, i check the notes and you will be blocked.

"Ahh, the scourge of the complacent! Fancy seeing you here on a night like tonight."

You tip your eyes up to the ceiling of the inn; his voice rings out clear as bells over the chatter and rowdiness, and maybe it's a mark of your attunement to his specific brand of irksomeness that you hear the bounce of his footsteps approach over the general cacophony of laughter and drinks slamming.

There are four empty stools at the bar. He takes the one right next to you, sliding home with a boyish grin. You scratch at your forehead with all the fatigue of a working mother-of-five, catch the bartender's eye, and silently flag down another drink.

Tartaglia whistles as you raise the cup to your lips, making you pause; mead sops against your mouth, burning against raw picked skin. "I see even the alcohol of Liyue is no match for you, scourge."

"Don't call me that," you say flatly, and knock the cup back. There isn't enough booze in this whole tavern to make this a bearable conversation, but at least you could soften the edges. If you got drunk enough, you might be able to pretend he was nothing more than a lurid ginger mosquito buzzing around your head for attention.

Attention you always seemed to grant, no matter how much you swear you'll ignore him.

"Your lovely friend at the funeral parlour told me I might find you here," Tartaglia continues talking even though you're staring at the ceiling praying for patience. "She's pretty fond of you, huh? Can't imagine why, with your prickly attitude—oh, barkeep, I'll have what they're having, please." He flashes a pearly grin at the bartender, who pours him a cup of mead.

"Did you come here just to bother me?" you grit out, staring at the dregs in your cup; it sloshes darkly amongst the dull silver, and you can see a glimmer of a reflection, your eye staring back at you.

"What an ego you sport!" Tartaglia sounds righteously offended. "I came here to drink." And as if to prove his point, he raises his cup to his lips and takes a deep gulp. You can see his pale throat flex as he swallows, the bob of bones beneath papery skin.

He coughs a little as he sets the cup back down, empty. You try not to let your surprise show on your face.

"Liyue mead has quite the burn," Tartaglia comments. "You'd think I'd be used to it after being weaned on that Snezhnyan paint-thinner, but what can I say? This place has a kick."

He leans back on his barstool, a vaguely soft, wistful look passing over his features. Then he says, "I'll certainly miss it."

The cup slips from your fingers, and you curse yourself. "You're leaving?"

Tartaglia smiles, a little sadly. "The Tsaritsa summoned me back. I'll have to take off by the end of the week."

"No shit?" Tartaglia's been posted here and bothering you for way longer than you arrived to act as a temporary guard for the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. You weren't sure why such a place needed extra beef with security, but it paid well, and Hu Tao and Zhongli were well-meaning employers and good company, so you could hardly complain. That was the beauty of freelance, after all.

"Oh? You sound disappointed." Tartaglia leans forward, cupping his chin in his hand; his eyes find yours, gleaming in the low light. "What? Don't tell me you're going to miss me?"

You glare at him. "Do people miss the mosquitoes they swat when they're buzzing around their head?"

"You always act like I'm vermin," Tartaglia pouts. "Still, you're having a drink with me—I consider that a victory."

"One of your few," you toast, raising your cup, and Tartaglia's playful expression sullens a touch, like a cloud covering up the sun. "Oh, don't get all kicked-puppy on me. Thought you could take a little pain."

"Better than you know," Tartaglia says with a stunning return to form and a coy grin. You must be just tipsy enough to entertain him, because you don't seize a handful of his bright hair and ram his face into the bar like you briefly consider doing. There wouldn't be much in it for you beyond the satisfying crack of bone and yelp of pain. As for Tartaglia, he'd probably get off on it.

You both down another cup, and now the lines that make up the tavern are starting to blur pleasantly. There's a soft, fuzzy feeling filling you up, like you're made of cotton instead of flesh and blood and magic. A faint flush has made itself known on Tartaglia's cheekbones, lurid against his hair, illuminating the scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He's surprisingly lightweight, for as hard as you known Snezhnayan liquor to be.

"Would you walk with me?" Tartaglia holds your eye like he's making a promise, though not to you. He says half the things he says like he's talking to someone else, someone you cannot see. He holds out a gloved hand, grinning. "C'mon. I want to show you something."

Your brows knit up, suspicious. "Why me?"

"I'm currently not speaking to any of my other friends," Tartaglia says haughtily. "Sneaks and liars, all of 'em. As, uh, disarming as you are, scourge, at least you're honest. So... c'mon. Humour a man's last wish."

"You're not dying," you say acidly, but you get up. Tartaglia grins, delighted, sweeping up his coat from the barstool and paying out. You follow him out of the tavern; Liyue comes alive at night, you think, the harbour glimmering with a thousand lights, the water lapping at the chalky walls. Tartaglia takes your hand as the tavern door swings shut behind you. He runs warm, and you can see freckles spiralling up his wrist, and before you can protest he's started a brisk pace away from the water.

"The hell?" you mutter, making a weak attempt at taking your arm back. "Hey. Tartaglia. Where are we going?"

"So formal," he calls over his shoulder. "You can call me Childe, you know."

"Like that's even your real name," you roll your eyes. "What difference does it make?"

"Hm. Tartaglia feels more like a title. It's the name I use when I want to intimidate, you know?" He looks over his shoulder at you, the dull blue of his eyes catching in the moonlight. "I'm not foolish enough to think I could ever intimidate you, of all people."

And when he says that, it feels like a compliment. You curse the hot prickling you can feel at the backs of your ears as he leads you through town, up near where the mountains crest. It's all rickety ladders and bridges for a while before you come to a plane nestled between two great rocks. Grass and gravel spill out beneath your feet; in the middle of the wobbly circle is a wooden training dummy with chunks carved out of it. Torches bracket the space, filling the night with shifting bronze light.

It occurs to you briefly that Childe could be luring you out here to kill you, but just as easily the notion flees. He might be Fatui, and he might be insufferable, but the two of you have no real grievances as far as you know.

Besides—you're stronger. And the both of you know it.

You sweep a flat look around the circle and raise a brow. “Homey.”

Childe giggles. “You’re always so sharp-tongued, scourge. I’ve been reflecting on my stint in Liyue in light of everything, you know? What with my leaving so soon. I remembered the first time I saw you fight.”

Your brows draw up, taken aback; this is not a sentiment he has shared with you before. He paces as he talks, starts gesticulating like he’s trying to stir up a wind, though the night is virtually breezeless. Warm and damp and encapsulating. A line of sweat encroaches under your collar.

“Some treasure-hoarders, they made a chokepoint out in the Guili Planes to intercept traders going down the road,” he tells you, as if this is news. “Zhongli asked me to deal with them myself, ‘cause they were stopping import to the city. But as soon as I got up there to scout it out, I saw you. What you’d left, anyway. This… trail. Like this—this big patch of carnage and you just in the middle of it, going blade-to-blade with this monster of a thief twice your size. Would you believe I was almost arrogant enough to think you needed my help?” His eyes shine feverishly, the moonlight catching off dead-fish-blue. “You brought him to heel like a misbehaving dog. He gave you a bloody nose and you just—just wiped at it like it was nothing. Didn’t it hurt? Always wanted to know if it hurt.”

“It hurt,” you manage, frozen with shock. He’s getting entirely too het-up too quickly, feverish in his excitement, pale cheeks flushed wine-red, and he moves closer as he waves his hands, eyes locked onto you like he’s a dog and you’re his master. It makes your blood feel too thick and too hot in your veins.

“Thought so,” he breathes. “Thought it must’ve. It kinda… it sings, though. Doesn’t it?”

Stuck, you nod, though you only half understand what he’s talking about.

Apparently satiated, Childe rubs the back of his neck bashfully. "Hah, sorry. You really get me talking, scourge."

"Don't give me the credit," you mumble. "It's one of your natural talents."

"Wanna see another one of my natural talents?" Childe grins; at your sharp look, he raises his hands placatingly, smile stretching ever wider. "I meant fighting, of course. C'mon. Truthfully, I've been thinking about it ever since that day. Fighting you."

He says that—fighting you—with the same sort of soft reverence one might reserve for making love or worshipping a deity. Like it's the centre of his world, the cell his heart was born from. You wonder how long it's been since Childe's days were anything but fighting, then reckon that that's probably a deliberate choice.

When he holds out a blunt wooden training staff out to you, his hands are perfectly steady. You heft it in your grip, getting used to the weight and balance. You're more accustomed to knives and swords, and small blades you can slip into your boot or belts, but you're not unfamiliar with polearms, exactly.

"Feel good?"

You jump; Childe's pressed closer to you in the time it took to examine your new weapon, and his words are accompanied with a brush of warm air across the back of your ear. "It's okay."

"Good! I want you at top form for this." He slopes off, twirling his own staff between gloved fingers obnoxiously. It makes a faint whistling sound against the warm night air. "Think you're ready?"

"Ready?" You can't help but sneer. "I don't need to be ready to fight a pest. I just do it."

Childe's grin is so wide that the flushed apples of his cheeks turn pointy. "Alright, killer. I've been looking forward to this for a while, and, y'know, I dunno when the next time is I'll meet someone as interesting as you... so don't disappoint me, yeah?"

The first crack of your staffs together sings.

It's an old melody, one you're attuned to, one you think you were born with. Impact shivers up your bones, disturbs the skin in a railroad of gooseflesh, sets your teeth on edge. There's the anticipation, the moment right before the new sensation turns uncomfortable or painful, like pressing down on a bruise, the moment before it starts hurting. The staffs gnash together like wooden teeth.

"You're quick," Childe says approvingly as you draw your arm back to your side, circling him in short steps. His eyes follow the lines of your body like he's trying to set you alight. You're not sure why you're doing this, actually—your relationship with Childe has been nothing but tepid the whole time he's been stinted in Liyue. From your end, anyways. He tends to sort of follow you around like a lost puppy when he has free time. No matter how many times you smack him and send him reeling, he always comes back with a bone clamped between his teeth, looking for fun.

A drink, a fuck. A fight. Maybe it's all sort of the same to him.

Your fight is a dance; Childe is undeniably skilled, and polearms aren't your first choice of weapon, so it's a fairly even fight despite your strength. Several times he moves far too quickly for you to comprehend—like you blink and he's shifted with the moonlight, gone from in front to behind you in a second. Laughing, poking, teasing until your blood is boiling despite the cold.

When you finally land a hit on him, it's sweet. Your staff cracks across his jaw with all the force of his annoyance to you over the last months, and Childe barely has time to widen his eyes before he crashes to the dirt. He lets out a pained grunt as he plants into the earth, and just as you're opening your mouth to gloat—

"Again."

It cracks into the night air like the crash of your staff against his jaw, pursed between wheezing breaths. His voice sings like cut piano strings, dissonant against what is happening. You stand over him, breathing hard, brow cinched as he sprawls in the dirt.

He's got chalky soil all over his pretty light uniform. He doesn't seem to care. Dull blue eyes blink up at you, round as pennies; you can see an angry welt raising on his jaw where your blow had made contact, flaring up scarlet against the pale skin. No doubt it will have flowered into a nasty bruise tomorrow, something the colour of overripe lavender melon.

But Childe grins.

You stumble back, frowning hard, and Childe makes a noise at the back of his throat as he sees you retreat. He scrambles messily to his feet, brushing dirt carelessly from his clothes.

"What?"

Childe cradles his jaw with a hiss. "You pack a punch. But I'm not done yet."

"You said again." You eye him warily, arms still not raised. "What did you..."

He huffs a laugh with a return of that boyish grin. "Ah, caught that, did you? I guess you could say I have a certain admiration for people who can land a hit on me. It's impressive. You're impressive."

Before you can decide whether he's swelteringly egotistical or just a pervert who gets off on pain, Childe lunges, swinging his sparring spear overhead; you shriek and parry it last-minute, your grip faltering enough that the wooden shafts collide with a harsh thwack; you don't fend the blow off completely thanks to your shoddy reaction time, but you manage to avoid getting struck in the head.

"Asshole," you grit out, stumbling left a few paces to get your bearings again; Childe circles you, twirling his spear between deft fingers with a sharp grin.

"I sensed your attention wandering," he shrugs. "You think you can hit me again?"

Your chin juts out, indignant. "Yeah. I'm stronger."

Beneath his lurid red hair, Childe's cheeks colour faintly. "Prove it, killer. Lemme feel it. Hit me—"

And he lunges, spear cracking through the air; this time, you're ready for it, seeing the telltale twitches of his body getting into formation before the pounce. You dodge his first hit, sending the tip of his spear sinking into the dirt, and whilst he's distracted with pulling it out you sweep the shaft of your own against the back of his knees. He buckles with a grunt, staggering, and you use his surprise to barrel your full body weight into his side.

He slips into the dirt, head thudding against the packed earth with a dull thud, and in your momentum you follow. By the time he's blinked the stars out of his eyes, your dagger is pressed up against his throat, nestled amongst the pale skin.

He breathes fast and sharp, a distinct contrast to his general collectedness. Your thighs cage his hips, and even from here you can feel his strength; his skin is shot through with sinew and iron. He could reach up, tussle, throw you off, put up a good fight. But he doesn't. He lays limp like a puppet with its strings cut, looking up at you with big, starry eyes—waiting for you to make the next move.

You come to a rather grim hypothesis.

The blunt tip of the dagger encroaches his skin, pushing in hard enough for blood to bead around it. Childe draws in a ragged gasp.

"Gonna kill me?" His tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip. He says that like it's an act of worship, like carving his throat out with a cinquedea is akin to leaving incense at a shrine for a far-flung god. Like his blood would be spattered amongst the stars if only you spilled it. Your breath catches; you hadn't been ready for the rush of power Childe's perversion would give you. You can feel it nestling under your skin like a heartbeat.

"I think you could, if you wanted," Childe whispers, and then he shudders at the thought, pretty eyes fluttering closed. He looks like he isn't sparing two thoughts to your hand holding a knife to his throat; skin breaks, and blood makes a thin rivulet down his pale skin. "Mm. Maybe I'd—I'd even let you. You could ask real nice."

"You're hardly in a position to be making demands," you murmur, feeling quite frozen. "Why don't you just be quiet for once?"

At once, Childe falls silent.

His bottom lip has split; probably why he was tonguing at it earlier. Now, with nothing to stop it, blood makes a languid trail down the slope of his chin. With your free hand, with the curiosity of a child petting a stray animal for the first time, you swipe at the trail with the pad of your thumb. You track it up to the seam, the cut, the split, press down hard until the surrounding skin of his lip turns white. You can feel the short, hot shocks of his quick breath against the skin of your nail.

The flash of his tongue surprises you, sliding over the bloody pad of your thumb, cleaning up his mess. A dog licking at its own wounds. Your breath catches, but you've never known when you're wading too deep. It's your one weakness as a fighter. You always think you can take more than you can.

So you press deeper. Your thumb sinks into his mouth up to the knuckle, and Childe lets out a faint groan. There's the ghostly scrape of teeth before his lips close over the skin, tongue swirling over the mess of blood and chalky dirt on the blunt tip of the digit.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you register faintly that this is not normal. Your interactions with Childe have been limited, so far, to snarky deadpans, irritable smacks, and the occasional drink. If you have occasionally caught his eyes lingering on the collar of your shirt, or following you when you enter a room soaked in hilichurl gore, you've made no comment. You'd assumed it would fizzle out, anyway. He's Fatui. They're hardly known for staying in one place a significant portion of time—they're dark-dressed ravens, flocking from place to place and bringing suspicion and misery for a while before taking to the sky again.

But Childe is not scoring the horizon. He's in the dirt with your finger in his mouth, and it looks like he's right at home there.

He releases you with a wet pop. Saliva and blood make a diluted trail down to his chin, and his eyes have peeled open again—heavy and half-lidded, blue slate stone, scoring deep into you. Your body feels hot and too full.

He cracks a lazy smile. "Never seen you speechless before, scourge. Does this mean I win?"

And something snaps.

In a fluid movement, you grab both of his wrists and pin them to the ground beside his head. Childe grunts a sound of surprise as your fingers tighten on his wrists, back instinctively arching from the sudden pressure; one of his legs slips in the earth and knocks against your ankle. He blinks up at you, eyes practically bioluminescent in the night.

"You don't look much like a winner," you snarl.

"Depends on your position."

"You're the Tsaritsa's bitch," you spit. "And if not hers, Zhongli's, or was it Signora who was the last one to get one up on you? Really, you've been failing upwards so much lately it's getting hard to keep count."

Childe's eyes narrow, the first glimmer of defiance sparking in the blue. For the first time you feel him throw his weight behind his halfhearted squirming—he raises his hips to try and buck you off, tugs at your grip on his wrists with renewed vigour. His fighting back shouldn't spark something in you—it shouldn't—but you can feel yourself growing excited.

The thing is, you sort of like killing. People don't get into your line of work if they don't. There's something about holding something down and winning through nothing but sheer strength that makes you feel strong, like you've earned a place on this earth. Watching Childe's jaw tick in frustration the longer he goes without unseating you is making all sorts of dangerous ideas brew in your head.

It's just—maybe it's the drink, or the fight, but the world is still pleasantly pretty and still. And Childe looks sort of gorgeous with his brow all scrunched up like that, the hint of icy anger in his eyes, the gritted teeth. His neck is strained in such a way that bares every jut and bone to you, and you can see his pulse fluttering away under the taut skin, the bob of his adam's apple.

You want to bite it.

Some sort of magnetism pulls you down, nosing at the skin of his neck. Childe grunts, half-frustrated and half-confused when he feels your lips brush over his throat. He smells like salt and mead and copper, labour smells, but his skin here is smooth like it's never seen a day of wear.

"What're you—" Childe huffs out, but his mouth drops open with a choked noise when you seal your teeth in a ring over his neck and bite down. Not quite enough to hurt, you don't think, just enough to satisfy the weird part of you that's sparking for the urge to maim. "Archons, scourge."

Oh dear. His voice has gone all strangled and weak. You dare to release one of his wrists to cup the back of his neck, holding him still, brushing the feathery down of hair on his nape. Automatically, his free hand flies for you, but it stops short, hovering as if unsure.

You can almost feel him weighing his choices in his mind. He has a hand free, and you're not even looking at him. Even if he can't beat you outright, he'd do alright with the element of surprise. He could definitely knock you spinning and flee before you get your bearings.

You wait. Count the fast thuds of Childe's pulse against his neck. The muscles in his free arm go limp, and he wraps it around your waist to pull you closer.

Figuring you're done pretending, you skim your lips up his neck and jaw before catching his mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. Childe moans, softly, into your mouth, hand clenching hard over the fabric of your waist before sliding under. His fingers span out over the small of your back, worn leather and warm flesh, and you shudder despite yourself.

His lips are chapped, and you can taste blood still oozing from the split in the plush lower one. "Someone's sensitive," you gloat, and he huffs. "Not had time to get laid here?"

"What can I say?" Childe's breezy tone would be more believable it it wasn't coming out so strangled. "Been a busy guy. Don't seem to have time for m-many... simple pleasures."

"You always seemed to find time to annoy me, though," you say darkly.

"Less of a luxury, more of a need," Childe breathes. "You make just the most interesting faces when you're irritated."

"Yeah? That get you all wet?"

Childe laughs weakly. "Scourge, please. I'm but a blushing virgin. You'll burn my poor ears off."

You shoot an obvious glance down to the tent straining against Childe's slacks. "I can well believe that."

He squirms in embarrassment, the tips of his ears lighting up scarlet. His eyes blink up at you, the usual lusterless blue fleeing in wake of reflecting the thousands of stars above you, and he seems to glow from the inside out, for a moment. The coppery blood on his face catches the moonlight.

A tongue flicks out to wet his lips, a dog wetting its snout. "Won't you take pity, scourge?" he pleads. "You got me well and truly at your mercy. You win. So..."

Before you can stop to consider the ramifications of your actions, your free hand has already scrambled to his belt buckle. Childe's breath catches, eyes widening as he registers your movements as the brass clinks in the silence. For a moment there's nothing but the hasty shuffling of clothing as you shuck Childe's dirt-streaked trousers down his thighs, his hips lifting to assist. There's a small furrow between his brows, his cheeks alight with a blush that makes his freckles sing against his skin.

The skin of his thighs catches, milk-white in the moonlight. Even here, scars have made their home, pink or bruise-dark, crisscrossing over the flesh in railroads. You get his trousers down past his knees before you stop bothering; he's left in dark underclothes, erection so stiff it's pulling the thin fabric taut, and the slit in his shirt that you've always found obscene betrays the quick, shallow bursts of his breath.

His throat flexes when he swallows. "Are you really going to—mmmgh!"

Childe sputters to a halt with a rather embarrassing high-pitched noise as you cup him through his boxers. You roll your palm experimentally over the tip of the tent, and his eyes flutter shut, rolling back against his skull with a pretty, desperate noise. This side of him is so foreign, but so familiar, so obvious, you wonder why you didn't think of it before.

"Ah, fuck," Childe swears, already sounding breathless. With how obvious he's always been, the lazy slide of his eyes, you'd assumed he had at least some experience—but maybe your teasing just a moment ago was a little more on the nose than you'd anticipated. He's unusually sensitive. "Scourge, I don't—"

"Stop calling me that," you mutter, pulling the fabric of his underwear till it strains against his cock, and he swallows back a gasp, spine arching against the dirt. "Did you want something?"

"You're so cruel," he whines. "Y/n, Archons, please—"

"Alright, alright, you big baby," you sigh, shedding his soaked underwear. Childe shudders, thighs tightening under you as he hits the cold air. The strain of his arousal and the chafing fabric is obvious; pre drips eagerly from the reddish tip, and he fits neatly into your palm when you swipe over the leaking hands before wrapping your fingers around him. Childe jolts into the touch, cursing under his breath, and as you start to jerk him off his lashes flutter. His blue eyes roll to the heavens and his head thumps against the earth with a long, shaky moan.

The night fills with noise, somewhere between what you find obscene and what sends heat rushing between your own legs as your fist pumps lazily up his length. Childe is more receptive than you would've put money on, gasping and swearing, hiccuping small, wounded noises in the back of his throat. His brow is scrunched, lips slack and wet with saliva, eyes screwed shut. His hips jump like they have a brain of their own.

You squeeze, prompting a panicked noise; Childe's eyes fly open and find your sly smile. "You look pretty," you tell him. Childe goes scarlet.

"W-wha?" he dredges up intelligently, frowning. "Why'd you—what?"

You find it funny that you've literally got your hand around his cock, but calling him pretty is apparently what crosses the line in flustering him. You cock your head, grinning.

"You don't think?" you coo. "I think you're lovely like this. I never realised how attractive you'd be once you shut your mouth. Maybe I should beat you in a fight more often."

"W-wouldn't complain," Childe pants, still alight with a feverish blush.

"I'm sure," you say noncommitally. "You fucking whore."

Childe moans, loud and shameless, and his free hand flails to scratch his nails down his own skin. "D-don't stop, fuck, don't stop—"

You stare at the scarlet railroads left on the pale skin of his stomach, and with your free hand yank up his shirt to his chest. Childe lets out a startled sound, looking at you with round, surprised eyes. His torso is littered with scars, raised and pale and dark against freckled skin. He is pretty. You love the marks of his exertions and pains, a history of his losses mapped out over his body. One of his nipple has a healed slash running right through it; when you reach up and tweak it, Childe shudders.

"Anyone would think you like losing," you murmur.

Childe looks at you weakly, crying out when your hand resumes at a faster pace. "Like it when—hnn—when it's real. I like it when they don't hold back. 'S why I'm just—hah!—e-enamoured with you, I guess."

"'Cause I'm ruthless?" you quip.

Childe flutters his lashes. "Nice enough to let me come, I hope," he says sweetly, and it makes your cheeks burn momentarily with embarrassment, the brazenness of his statement. "I'm not above begging."

"I liked you better when you were quiet," you mutter, and swipe your thumb hard over the slit. Childe yelps, muscles melting like butter, and when you start rubbing cruelly like you've found some sort of button his face flames, his mouth drops open, and he lets out a wailing noise, legs thrashing.

"Archons," he keens, but with your free hand you seize and handful of his hair and pull, hard.

"No Archons," you snarl. "Just me."

Tears prick at the corners of Childe's eyes as he rolls his hips to meet your unrelenting strokes, whimpering. "Y-yes, yeah, just you, just you, do that again."

You oblige, dig your fingers into the red hair so deep your nails scrape his scalp, and tug. The tears spill over Childe's lashline as he chokes on the moan that bursts from him at the movement.

"Keep it there," he begs, thighs shaking. "Pleasepleaseplease—"

"You close?" you ask innocently. "Already?"

There's no more pretence; the fine line of pleasure and pain seems to have wrought Childe down to only basic instincts, as his hips roll against your hand as you fist his length rough and quick, head tipped right back against the ground, exposing the heaving column of his throat. The toned concave of his stomach flexes with each punched-out breath, the scars coiling and elongating respectively.

"Please," Childe sobs in answer. "I'll be good, be real good, I'm close..."

You surge forward, digging your face into Childe's neck as you speed up your pace, and sink your teeth into the soft skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Hard enough for blood to bubble under your lips, hard enough for Childe to let out a strangled scream as he comes all over your hand, spilling over your fingers and his stomach in pearly arcs.

He's panting when you pull back, winces as you dislodge your teeth and unwind your fingers from his hair. He touches the bite mark with a wince and hiss, examining the blood on his fingers with light interest. It really shouldn't surprise or arouse you nearly as much when he dips them into his mouth and licks them clean.

"Degenerate," you tell him. Childe smiles crookedly, the flush on his face still stark red.

"There's this old saying about a pot and a kettle," he says, voice still weak and shaky.

The bite mark is leaking. As he reaches for you, you get the fleeting thought that it will leave another scar to add to his masses, another permanent trophy of another loss.

A loss to you.

And you smile.

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 1 year

Note

Could you do the reaction of yanderes hashiras when they see the male reader vomiting in disgust/rejection after the hashiras kissed him?

Rejecting The Hashira’s Kiss | Yandere Kimetsu no Yaiba X Male Reader

Whether it was a misread moment or just someone having the audacity to put their lips against yours; they are met with a solid rejection. Even if you refuse them they have no plans to stop their pursuit. All this is just a minor obstacle…yep…just..a little pothole in the road of your love:

Rengoku Kyojuro

He doesn’t ask

He just goes right in

Catching you off guard as he firmly kisses your unmoving lips

“BLEGH! Ew what’s your problem?! Kyojuro!?”

“I DID IT FOR GOOD FORTUNE!”

“Good Fortune my foot! Don’t go kissing people who don’t want to be kissed!”

He’s not discouraged at all

in fact, this only spurs him to try harder to gain your affection

Or hopefully shooing of any one else who’s interested

He doesn’t bother licking his lips but I certainly see him putting his lips up to different things to…compare

“THIS MELON IS COLD NOT AT ALL LIKE (Y/N)’S LIPS. WHICH ARE WARM! AND SOFT! AND IRRESISTABLE!”

“Sir, are you going to pay for the fruit or not?”

Shinobu Kocho

Is probably tending to you after a mission

And she just can’t help herself

You were just looking so cute with your broken arms

So she just went for it

“Ew um can you not.”

She stares blankly at you

Before doing it again

“What are you going to do? Stop me?”

She’s going to spend the rest of your stay showing you how little you can do in comparison to her

And how powerless you are to defy her medicinal ‘ailments’

Leaving you bedridden for however long she pleases

Seating herself on your waist too weak to buck her off

“Don’t think for a moment you can stop me, you are mine and I’ll have what I want of you when I want it.”

Uzui Tengen

Flamboyant as ever he’s not one to hide his emotions

Or what he wishes to do

So when he goes for the kiss he kisses deep

Completely disregarding the world’s take on social customs

“I’ll be flamboyantly missing you on my mission, farewell my gem.”

The kiss is deep and while you may pull away he’s keeping a firm hold on your waist

Letting his fingers graze against your butt

When you pull away to spit Tengen makes a note of it

And will dive back into capturing your lips

“Don’t let any of me my sparkling saliva out of your mouth, otherwise I’ll have to punish you~!”

Sanemi Shinazugawa

It takes a lot to hype himself up to do this

Despite being as prickly as he is

he blushes and gets week in the knees around you

So when he moves fast to kiss you he’s embarrassed when your lips curl in disgust

“Ewww…that was so gross.”

He’s so hurt

But that sadness morphs to anger

And when demons don’t cut it

He’s fighting you

“WHEN SOMEONE GIVES YOU A KISS, YOU KISS THEM BACK!”

Mitsuri Kanroji

Love is her element

So of course, she’s going to kiss you as soon as she feels like the mood’s been set

When you reject her, she is reminded of all the times such a thing has happened before

“Oh…you didn’t like that…huh?”

She’s hurt so so hurt

But her tears are so pretty

So perfect you’ll cave

That is if her guard snake doesn’t come for you first

“Y-you’re s-sorry..hm..i-i’ll definitely feel better if you give me a kiss though…please?”

Obanai Iguro

He’s hesitant to even come near you

Often preferring to watch you from afar

He usually thinks he’s lesser than you

A monster in every right that is protecting his beauty in the shadows

So he’ll wait until your sleeping or so high on medicine that you can’t recognize him

“Y-yuck..”

“...I am sorry.”

So crestfallen he probably won’t talk to you out of embarrassment despite you’re actual cluelessness

“Kabumaru love is cruel..isn’t it?”

Giyuu Tomioka

Nobody likes him anyway

And when he’s shoulders deep in his obsession for you he stops caring

He no longer lets being likable by anyone stop him from what he wants

“-ick! Eww, I can’t believe you–”

“I can hardly resist you (Y/n), even if you hate me.”

Nothing’s off the table

But he pretty much is willing to do whatever it takes

He’s witnessed so many die at the hands of demons

He doesn’t care how you feel

That will not be your fate

“It doesn’t matter what you think of me. I’m not letting you free.”

Gyomei Himejima

He can’t see your beauty which he cries about often

But thanks to his lack of sight you let him feel your face

“If only for my mind’s eye, may I?”

“Yeah Gyomei no problem.”

It’s his dirty little pleasure

Curious about your figure

He holds you steady holding your shoulders

And he accidentally let’s his lips brush against your own

He gets the message when you pull away

He knows it’s probably out of disgust, but he can delude himself into thinking it was out of embarrassment

And that let’s him smile in his lonesome

“My apologies was that your lips?”

Muichiro Tokito

He thinks being the young kid he is, you won’t mind

When he jumps up to give you a kiss

And when you recoil asking him what that was about

He’ll wistfully sigh because you didn’t react the way he wantedyou to

“Don’t friends kiss each other before they leave.”

He feigns ignorance as he mulls upon your rejection

He figures he’s got time to convince you he’s worthy of your kisses

And then he forgets

Aiming for a kiss again with some other excuse to pursue his little crush on you

“I think of you like a brother…don’t family kiss each other?”

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adyophene · 1 month

Note

lucifer x husk is something i never knew i needed and as a multishipper im screaming

literally. king of hell x some alcoholic furry guy

i love them i need to know how they wouldve met, fallen for each other and started dating. and how much thatd piss alastor off

Ooh I am so happy other people are enjoying this pair as much as I am! I've gotten a few asks about my headcanons for them, and I am happy to blab on and on. Fair warning. This is gunna be a long and rambling essay.

I'm gunna put it all under a readmore, just cause I want to insert the art I've done of them so far, since I've been half-heartedly trying to tell a visual story through the doodles.

Okay. On we go!

How they met;

We did see them technically meet in the show, where they shared their singular canon piece of dialogue, which was just Husk saying 'hey'. And then in the finale where we see a literal split second moment of Lucifer holding Husk's arm.

(also seeing the sweet looks huskerdust is giving each other here just makes me feel so delulu for writing this all, but crackships are silly by definition, so lets get back to the lucihusk) For me, what I imagined, is after the Hotel is finished its rebuilding, that is when Husk and Lucifer finally actually meet in a proper manner. I think Lucifer would be trying to make a good impression on all Charlie's friends at this point, endeared to all of them from their actions during the finale. Unfortunately, I think he is also the King of Bad First Impressions.

[Note. I think at this point Lucifer wouldn't even remember Husk's name quite yet. I think he would call him 'Keekee' ( by accident) or 'Dusk' (confidently incorrect) or just be like "Hey!.... Uh... You?" until Charlie or Vaggie finally corrected him. ]

Husk, on the other hand, I feel like maybe wouldn't gel with Lucifer right away. Wouldn't hate him, but also maybe not be enamored with him right away. Same as Lucifer, maybe he would have sweetened on him a bit through the hotel's rebuilding, but I think they'd start out at very neutral feelings. Maybe a vague sense of 'He's okay, but I don't know if we will really get along.'

Despite this, Lucifer is persistent, and he's going to be everyone's (except maybe Al, unless they start getting along by s2) buddy. He'd start hanging around the bar and participate in the redemption exercises.

Now, we know Lucifer struggles with depression, and I think he would be trying real hard to mask anything going on during this time. They defeated Adam! They rebuilt the Hotel! He believes in Charlie's dream, and he's more involved with her life and other people than he has been for years.

His only issue being Husk sees right through it, both because Husk is perceptive, but also because even the King of Hell can't help but have a lonely night or two at the bar where he ends up venting about his divorce and subsequent lingering loneliness.

[snapcube ref aside, )I really do think Husk would start to feel more positively toward Lucifer after Luci would drop the act somewhat. That they could bond over feeling both at their lowest of lows, while also being to admit that things seem to be getting better!

This would be about the point that I imagine Lucifer developing more romantic feelings! Husk would be a bit less prickly, and Luci would just absolutely eat up any and all positive interactions they'd have. I like to picture a lot of little shows of care at the this point, like Husk memorizing what Lucifer likes and even making up 'fun' drinks just to try and cheer the guy up. And Lucifer would fun a fun game in trying to get the grumpy cat to smile, and just, lighting up himself any time he was successful.

And that culminating into the two of them making each other laugh, with Alastor being an easy butt of the jokes, and a good way for Husk, himself, to finally get a chance to vent. I think Lucifer would be one of the only 'safe' options for Husk to do that with, in just so far as Al can't really threaten Lucifer, and Lucifer already sees Al as a bit of a manipulative bastard.

Falling for each other; At this point, Lucifer would start being a bit more caring toward Husk, though with that wonderful, oblivious flair of his. I don't think Lucifer himself would realize he'd have a crush up until he'd start feeling protective or jealous over Husk, and it would really throw him for a loop at first.

Because fake dating is one of my all-time favorite tropes, I have always had a idea for a fanfic (or comic) that I haven't gotten around to yet, based around Lilith coming back, and Lucifer panickily asking Husk to pretend to be his boyfriend, so he can appear well adjusted/completely over her. Of course the whole thing would backfire, as Lilith would see through it (as Lucifer wouldn't be as good of an actor as he'd think), and that Husk would end up kind of feeling hurt by the whole thing.

Husk, who'd go along with the plot with an eyeroll, would find himself seizing up through the whole fake date/encounter. Would find weird, sudden emotions bubbling up and absolutely hating it.

I don't think that man would think about the class difference between him and Lucifer up until someone would say something about it, maybe Lucifer himself trying to rationalize the (at this time still fake) relationship to Lilith. Now, Husk feels uneasy about the whole thing and ends up drinking heavily the whole night so he doesn't have to think about feelings. (Blitz and Stolas who? Ahaha. fuck.) Meanwhile, while the date would be fake, I think Lucifer would really rather like having Husk on his arm and feeling like he'd have a love-life again, while also not really getting why Husk's mood would be getting worse throughout the night. I think they'd still end up on good terms, but both of them would have their feelings in a jumble, and Husk would not like it. (he thinks he's lost the ability to love, after all)

I think somewhere at this point, as they are starting to develop feelings for one another, is when Lucifer finally starts really realizing how tied to Alastor Husk is, and he starts to make it everyone's problem. I do think Al and Lucifer would stay snarky at each other this whole time, but that it'd only get worse, as Al would poke back since he'd find Lu's over reactions funny.

I also think Al would be maybe the last person to realize anything romantic would be brewing between Lucifer and Husk, and he'd just think it'd be a purely platonic thing.

Beyond just bitching about Alastor, Lucifer would really be ramping up his attention towards Husk too. Fully in that 'puppylove/crush' stage, and trying his darndest to make Husk feel good and special. Husk would be resistant to it all, thinking it would just be Lucifer rebounding hard, and not wanting to get wrapped up in Morningstar family drama when he could happily (miserably) keep his head down and just keep drinking the days away.

But then Lucifer would find out about Husk's love of stage magic, and his history as a performer, and it'd be all over for the catman. It would become Luci's new pet project to rope Husk into some joyful self-expression, and after a song and dance number's worth of convincing, Husk would start to come around. I have to post all these images now cause- I drew them with the intention of mimicking a musical number! Husk starting off as a bit resistant before jumping in whole heartedly, and Lucifer overexcitedly dragging him along throughout the music number, hyping him up and just all around being smitten.

And this is where Husk would start really falling. Getting swept up in indulging his favorite, least destructive hobby, and having someone who absolutely loves it to bond with. Especially when it would be over. When they would just settle down and talk, and laugh, and bond over what they love about performing. The spectacle, the audience, the love of the craft. Its about the comradery!!!

@belladonazeppole wrote a wonderful series of fanfics based off these pictures, as well as the songs from 'The Greatest Showman' that really fit the ship! I would be remiss to not mention them here, because Bella and their fics are just wonderful!

How they started dating;

Now. Don't think just cause they both caught feelings for each other, that they'd immediately admit to it. No. I think both of them would drag their heels. I don't think Husk would admit to them at all, without some outside force effecting it. I think he'd stubbornly try to ignore the crush or drink it away, rather than let his heart become vulnerable to anymore damage.

Meanwhile, Lucifer would be struggling between his feelings for Husk and Lilith. (In the actual canon, I do think they might try to rekindle things, depending on what kind of person Lilith turns out to be, but I digress.) Part of him would be so swept up in a giddy kind of excitement, while the other would be set firmly in the camp of 'this is a bad idea, this won't work out, just look at what happened to your last relationship'. It wouldn't stop him from being outwardly more and more affectionate, but it would be weighing on him.

I do think Lucifer would end up being the one who would be thinking; "What am I doing. He'd never like me back." While Husk would be just sitting there (echoing what was said in the ask- sorry I went all wild and wrote this much about the ship dear god)- "I'm just some fucking furry alcoholic, what the fuck would the king of hell see in me??? Am I delusional? What the fuck is going on??" And I feel like this stage would go on for MONTHS and drive everyone else nuts. It would be clear to everyone (except Alastor, who again, would be just this meme

Though that wouldn't stop him from getting a little pissy about it) And then it would all come to a head during something benign, like a board game night. There would be flirting, there would be jealousy, there would be arguing, and then finally, loudly and with a lot of feeling, Lucifer would shout his way through asking Husk out on a date. A real Date. A capital 'D' date out on the town, dressed to the nines and a real good time. The board would be knocked over in the fray, game pieces raining down upon them while Husk would just stare blank faced, trying to process what just happened. An awkward half-minute would pass before he'd finally, trying to play it cool, shrug out a 'sure'.

How much it'd piss Alastor off;

In the aftermath, a radio static would just lowly grate everyone's ears as Alastor would be slowly coming to terms on how just annoying it would be to have his friend (/Unhealthy co-dependent pet friend possession??) romantically involved (ew) with the King of Hell (double ew)??? Then, either it would be something light hearted like 'he keeps trying to break them up but failing cause he hates interacting with romance' or a darker route where 'he keeps trying to manipulate them into breaking up by preying on all their worst insecurities in the relationship'.

And that, my friend, is all I have in mind so far for this delusional crackship au! There is more I could flesh out, of course, like Angel's role as a friend or potential third in the relationship, or what I imagine as Husk becoming like a stepdad to Charlie, but I've typed enough for the whole month. Hope any of that was coherent! I did not bother to edit or proof read it. Just pure stream of consciousness.

#not art #this is long #like really long #like don't open it unless you want 25 paragraphs about a crackship that like 12 people ship #royalflush #lucihusk

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angel-of-the-moons · 7 months

Text

Nectar

Jake Lockley x Fem!Reader!

TW/CW: NSFW, Fingering, Voyeurism (sorta), exhibitionism, dirty talk, grinding, biting, smut, Jake is a cheeky little slut we all know this

MINORS DNI: I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: This is self-indulgent as fuck, to help get me out of the funk I've been in. This is also because I actually grow these flowers and some interesting things happen when you milk them. That and I love to tell people I milk flowers for shampoo, the confusion is great.

(Any Spanish in this fic is written in italics and largely translated by Google, since I still know only a tiny bit and don't know any Spanish speakers personally)

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

Jake dropped his duffel bag next to the front door, sighing as he tugged off his jacket.

It was a quiet day, thankfully, because Steven and Marc left him to control the body today, to allow him to front by himself without their "chattering" in his ear...

"Muñeca?" He called out.

When there was no answer, he tried for you again.

"Alguien en casa?"

His brow furrowed when he was met with silence. You were home, he was sure of it. Your car was out front, the front door was unlocked...

That's when he noticed it, the sliding glass doors were open.

Hairs rose on the back of his neck and he automatically suspected the worst. He pulled his gun out of his chest harness, turning the safety off and he slowly crept to the open doors, finger off the trigger.

Just in case.

He inched his head out just enough so he could sweep the corners of the back yard, surrounded with thick shrubbery and trees, and flowers of various sorts.

Until finally, he looked at the farthest and most shaded part of the yard.

There, hunched over, you were. Your hair damp and hanging in clumped strands around your face, what appeared to be sweat soaking your face, dripping down your neck, and into the valley between your breasts.

Your whole look was alluring, really. You were wearing your biker shorts, your boots loosely tied, your tank top rolled up to reveal just enough of the tantalizing skin he adored to touch so much.

Jake tilted his head, running his tongue along his teeth as he leered at you a moment longer, a familiar hot feeling settling in the pool of his belly.

Well, it had been a few days... too long for his tastes.

He then noticed something odd, next to you was a small pail, the kind you'd see a child using at the beach. The particular patch of flowers were probably the ugliest ones in his opinion. He made sure you knew it, too. They looked like pinecones without the prickly bits, conical in shape (obviously) with small blossoms poking out here and there as green faded into a bright red-pink.

When he asked you why the fuck you wanted those ugly ass things, you giggled and said "You'll see".

Jake grunted and put the safety on his gun off, holstering it and hanging it on the coat rack by the door.

He put his gloved hands in his pockets and walked into the patio, and over to you.

"I was wondering where you were." Jake hummed when he was close enough, tilting his head.

You looked up at him, and instantly you knew.

"Jake!" You said, breaking out in a grin as you stood, knees dirty. You slipped your arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek; but of course, Jake being Jake, he turned his head and caught your mouth, shoving his tongue between your teeth to slide against yours with a soft groan; one of his hands cupping the back of your neck and the other going to grip at your waist, slipping beneath your tank top, the soft worn leather sliding up your back.

The smell coming from you was almost heavenly. Sweet, a little earthy, but almost like a cologne he wore, ages ago. It was a good smell for you.

"Jake." You breathed, separating from him, pouting up at him. "Can't wait, can you?"

"Mmm." Was all he said, his hand at the back of your neck moving to tip your chin upwards, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

"Well too bad, you horndog." You giggle, pulling away from him, to kneel back in the grass.

"What are you doing?" He sighed, pouting like a child as he crossed his arms.

"Milking the flowers, duh." You grin up at him.

"Qué? How the... how the fuck do you milk a flower?" Jake asked, his brow furrowing as he kneels next to you.

"Here, watch." You grab a hold of one of the heavy flower heads, gesturing for him to lean in as you put your tiny pail beneath the flower.

When Jake leaned in, you gave a sudden squeeze to the flower, and some kind of clear gunk shot out and splattered on Jake's face, right above his eye and dripping down his cheek.

You broke out in a fit of giggles when he fell back on his ass, furiously wiping at his face and spewing curses.

"You're jerking off flowers!" He hissed at you.

You cackle some more and gently squeeze the flower, ignoring his comment.

Jake hesitantly sniffed his hand and realized...

"Did you put this in your hair?"

"Mhmm." You hummed. "It's a natural shampoo and conditioner. It keeps your hair shiny and fluffy... helps with bug bites and it can apparently be used as a massage lotion."

"....Where the hell did you learn that?" He squinted.

"YouTube. I got bored one day. It smells good, though, doesn't it?" You smirk at him as he rights his position now, making direct eye contact as you ever so slowly work your hand up the flower, the clear nectar dripping down the soft skin of your hands, into the waiting pail below.

He felt his cock stir in his pants as you turned from him and moved back down the flower, and back up again, squeezing out every drop you could.

You grab the handle of the pail and lift it, revealing it had been tucked inside of another bucket the whole time.

"It does smell... okay." Jake conceded.

"Just okay? Jerk." You snort, as you reach for another flower to start draining it into the pail.

"Mmmmh." Jake hummed, watching your slick fingers grip the flower head.

"You can go inside, y'know?" You sigh as his fingers reach out and grip your damp hair softly, the nectar from the flowers soaking your hair, the shiny fluid clinging to his glove.

"Don't want to." He murmurs, standing on his feet, looking down at you.

You don't have to look at him to know that he's smirking.

"Seeing as how you won't go inside and leave me alone, here." You hand him the pail full of the clear liquid.

"Set this on the counter in the kitchen for me?" You bat your eyelashes for extra effect.

Jake rolls his eyes, still smiling and does as you ask.

As he set the pail down, he leaned his hip on the counter.

He had a rather painful hard-on now. Watching your dainty fingers work at the flowers, all he could see was your hands wrapped firmly around his cock slowly stroking up, your fingers playing expertly over the tip, just the way he liked it...

Jake sighed and walked back out, and seeing you bent over as you milked more flowers sent a thought through his mind.

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

When you stood up, you were suddenly grabbed from behind, strong arms wrapped around your waist as lips sought the pulse in your neck.

"Jake." You sighed, your hand going up to gently grip his dark curls.

"Hmm?" He hummed.

It would have been innocent, a little cuddle and love nip.

If he wasn't grinding his hard cock into the curve of your ass.

"Jake!" You gasped when you felt one of his hands slide down the front of your shorts.

"No panties? Naughty girl." He grinned as he bit down at the soft spot in your neck, earning a moan that you had to swallow back down before it got too loud.

"Fff..." You hiss, looking around frantically as his fingers swipe over your clit, toying with the wetness in your folds.

"So wet for me. You're having more fun than you're admitting to me, muñeca." Jake growled, biting harder on your skin as he curls a finger into your waiting cunt.

"Jake! S-someone might see us!"

"Let em see."

Jake chuckled cruelly, shoving you forward into the large oak tree your flowers were planted around.

He turned your body until you were facing him, and he claimed your mouth, biting you lips and shoving his tongue into your mouth before you can protest, he pulls his mouth away from you, tugging the glove off his hand with his teeth, and shoved his hand down your shorts again and quickly pushed his fingers back inside of you.

He pressed the heel of his hand into your swollen clit and ground on it as he thrust and curled his fingers, making sure you writhed and squirmed; relishing in each contraction of your muscles as you gripped at the meat of his arm with your hands, biting your lip hard to stifle the moans.

You tried to focus on something, anything that wasn't your boyfriend's hand buried knuckle deep in your cunt.

You squeezed your eyes shut and leaned your head back, choking back your whimper.

You tried to focus on the bark of the tree digging into your skin, the pebble in your boot you kept forgetting to take out.

But all thoughts were brushed aside as you felt your orgasm being pushed, and pushed hard.

Jake was never the kind of man to half-ass anything. Especially when it came to fucking you. Normally he liked to work you up slowly, teasing you and eating you out until your legs turned to jelly, before fucking you on the nearest available surface.

Right now he was needy, desperate. You weren't sure what got him so worked up.

You gasped, and when you opened your mouth, Jake shoved his tongue back inside it, swallowing your voice in a hungry kiss as your muscles clamped down, spasming around his fingers as he thrust them in and out, fresh slick gushing around his digits as he fucked you through your orgasm, leaving you breathless and jelly-legged.

Jake pulled away from you, grinning like a shark.

You panted heavily. "You... you fucking shit--"

Your voice went dead when you heard your neighbor call out your name.

You yank Jake's hand out of your shorts and shove him away from you, fixing yourself as best you could when she walked through the gates connecting your yards.

"Oh! Hey, Joyce!" You say awkwardly.

"I was wondering if you finished getting that nectar?" The older woman asked sweetly, completely oblivious to what she just walked into.

"I... ah. Yeah. I kind of knocked over the second batch but I have some inside I can filter for you?" You cough awkwardly.

"Oh! That would be so nice thank you, sweetheart." She tilted her head, looking at Jake. "Oh! I take it your boyfriend has been helping?"

Your eyes widened in mortification, and you looked at Jake's hand, shiny and still wet.

The bastard didn't even try to wipe it off!

Jake gave you an impish grin and looked at his hand, playing with the lingering stickiness as he looked at Joyce.

"Sí, ma'am. But I was being a little careless and cost her the second batch." He replied politely.

"Oh, well, I'll be waiting! Take your time, sweetheart, no rush!" She hummed, turning to walk back into her own yard.

Jake waved the hand that still had your fresh slick clinging to it.

You grab his hand and yank it down, hissing.

"We're going inside. Now."

#my writing #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley #moon knight #moon knight smut

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cuubism · 20 days

Text

some canon-verse trans Hob for the lovely @five-and-dimes who recently got top surgery! 🥳🥰 congratulations, I'm truly so happy for you, my friend. please accept this humble offering

“So, it actually started on a dare,” Hob says, on the day he tells Dream the story of him. Or of this part of him, anyway.

Normally, Hob gets a bit guarded the first time he tells someone he’s trans. It’s hard to predict with absolute certainty how people will react, especially ones he’s just become romantically involved with. He’s had it go poorly, to say the least, in the past.

He doesn’t feel that way with Dream. It’s not because there’s so much trust between them—they’re still new, after all. No, it’s something about Dream himself. For all his prickly and standoffish nature, being close to him feels like sinking into a warm lake, into a dark sleep where secrets and hidden wishes float up like glowing reeds to the surface. Deep, personal feelings feel safe with Dream; he cradles them in his hands and soothes them. Or that’s how it feels, when Hob is touching him.

Personification of dreams, indeed.

“A dare?” Dream echoes.

“Sort of," Hob says. "Got frustrated with people saying women should or shouldn’t do this or that or the other thing, so I decided if they felt so strongly about it I’d just be a man. Moved somewhere no one knew me, dressed differently, got stronger, practiced the sword—and that was that. No one seemed to care much, once you were at war. So long as you could swing a sword and not get yourself killed.”

“A choice, then,” Dream says. He’s listening very intently, hands folded on his knees, untouched tea on the coffee table before him.

“At first. Was only after I’d been living that way for a few decades—before and after we met—that I realized while there might be a handful of women out there living as men for the freedom of it, that they didn’t all like it. Given the choice they’d rather just be women in a more equal world. You know?”

Dream hums in understanding.

“But I didn’t want to go back,” Hob continues. “I felt like... who I'd become was the truth of me all along.”

“Identity, while not wholly immutable, is resilient against adversity and circumstance,” says Dream. “You found what your heart wanted you to be, if in a circuitous manner.”

“You seem very unbothered by it,” Hob observes, sipping his tea.

Dream frowns. “Why would I be bothered by it?”

“Dunno.” Apparently he can’t fully shake that this’ll put a wedge in us feeling. “People sometimes are. Feel deceived, or something like that. So they say.”

“If they are deceived, it is by their own assumptions,” Dream says, with disdain. “You should be as you dream yourself, Hob. No more nor less. Put aside these petty physical trappings.”

“I do actually have to live in these ‘physical trappings’ even if you don’t, you silly thing.” He can’t help laughing. “Besides, I rather like being some kind of living creature in the world, rather than what? A ghost? Best I can do is make this body as close to how it should be as possible.”

Hob’s come to like his body, for the most part, in the form that he’s made it. He didn’t always. But he needs a body of some kind to be alive, and he likes being alive. So what he couldn’t change, he made peace with.

Besides, they have hormone treatments nowadays. Brilliant stuff. Makes it so much better.

“Anyway, now you know. I wanted you to. Since we’re together.” It’s still a marvel. Together.

“Thank you,” says Dream, with evident sincerity. “It is a privilege to be gifted your secrets.”

“Not really a secret, but I get what you mean.” He takes Dream’s hand, just to touch him, and admits, “Telling it to you is like… I don’t know. Feels like when I was younger and first admitted out loud, ‘I’m a man. I want to stay like this.’”

It hasn’t been a proper secret in a very long time. But giving it to Dream is like the freedom of releasing a held breath, even so.

“I am the harbor and cradle of dreams,” Dream says in reply. He traces his fingers over Hob’s. Does Dream’s strange form just spring from the ether? Hob wonders. Or does he have to choose it? The way Hob chose his? “Dreams of being and becoming… these are most precious for they grow from tough soil. I can only protect them, I cannot create them. You must do that. And I expect that were I to find you in the Dreaming, there would be a fantastic garden there, indeed.”

Dream himself is the most fantastical thing. “Well, darling, just know your work is appreciated.”

Dream’s lips tip up in a tiny smile. When he meets Hob’s gaze again, his eyes have gone dark and starry. He folds Hob into a hug, and—

oh, it’s like being hugged by the universe itself.

Hob feels the light breeze of a warm dark night, when he’d lain by the dying fire in a war camp in the French countryside, and looked up at a million stars and first whispered to himself what if this is really who I am? Dream is that breeze and those stars. The dying embers that had lit him as he’d run his hands over his body and felt it differently than he ever had before, and been terrified because what would it mean?—but also thrilled and alive. Dream is the night wrapping around him in that moment, the night that was listening to his dreams no matter how quietly he admitted them, Dream is that and more and the voice in his heart telling him it would be okay.

A younger, more uncertain Hob would have needed this. Hob now is older, and he already knows who he is and what he wants, but he falls into Dream’s embrace all the same. A tear slips from his eye, and Dream kisses his cheek, wiping the tear away with his tongue before leaning their heads together.

“I could craft you any body you wanted in the Dreaming,” he says lowly. “However I think the one you have made with your own hands is more remarkable.”

Oh, God, he’s going to tear up again. “Dream, you are the most beautiful, wonderful thing.”

Dream hums in pleasure at the words, and lets Hob hold him close, lets him cradle his head to his chest, a dream kept close to his heart. One that he knew as soon as he saw it walk into the White Horse. Sooner even than he truly knew himself.

Then Dream looks up at him with a hopeful expression. “With these truths revealed, are we able to be intimate?”

Hob laughs so hard he has to tip his head back against the couch. “Wow. One track mind with you, isn’t it? I spill my heart and that’s what I get?”

Dream grumbles, tucking his face in against Hob’s neck to press his lips to Hob’s throat. “I find myself impatient of late.”

“Knew all along you were only with me for my body.” He’s grinning, though. Can’t stop.

“Well. Considering it is such a lovely one.” He plucks at Hob’s shirt buttons. Lecherous little nightmare.

It feels fucking good, though, to be desired.

“C’mere, then,” he says, and drags Dream into his lap.

Dream settles there with a purr, starts playing with Hob’s hair, but says, “I would not truly derail this moment, nor distract from your feelings if you do not wish it.”

“Oh, I wish it. You’ve no idea how much I want you right now. You’re like a prize.” He cradles Dream’s beloved face between his hands. “Stick around for long enough and you’ll get the most incredible Dream at the end of it.”

“Or at the beginning,” Dream says, and Hob’s heart swells so much to hear him voice that that he has to kiss him.

When he does, Dream makes a low, pleased sound, settling deeper in his lap. Yes, this moment, this life, is certainly the prize for all of those years hanging onto those dreams:

the dream of his lover

and the one of himself.

#1389 hob: while you were busy with the gender binary i studied the blade #trans hob #dreamling #my writing #i think after this hob gets to ask his burning questions about how gender works for the endless and dream is just like [meme of marge #simpson holding a potato but it says 'trans and nonbinary people (except desire)'] 'i just think they're neat.#unrelatedly i did have to choose my gender--' and hob's just like 😐.........#[dream a known king of self awareness]#this is like sending someone a casserole when they get home from the hospital except the casserole is gay fanfic XD #a different kind of sustenance...#hope it's okay!! 🥺

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twst-drabbles · 3 months

Text

Lilia 11

Summary: You two were alone by the fire. The Lilia you knew was rather playful in his flirtations. This younger Lilia was more… aggressive? To the point? Either way, he put himself on your lap with a glare.

(More time travel shenanigans. This is the only thing my brain wants right now, so may as well indulge.)

"I'm surprised you still come here," you said, poking a log deeper into the fire, "You just had a victory over some invading humans. Shouldn't you be over there celebrating with your men?"

Lilia, sitting flat on the ground, took a large swig from a glass flask. What he's drinking, you don't want to know. It's swamp like in color and thick like gasoline, but it seems to be something that gets him drunk.

He swallowed and sighed with deep satisfaction, red high in his cheeks. "You think we have enough time to celebrate? We don't live this long indulging in those loud parties those nobles love so much. Besides, this is a break, not a celebration."

Yeah, he's pretty tipsy. Well, as tipsy as a fae can get. You've seen people stumble around blind in their drunkenness, but never faeries.

"Huh," you looked to Lilia, "you take breaks? Wouldn't Her Highness singe you bald if she found out?"

"There are many things I don't tell her," and just like that, General Lilia's face and relaxed continence became more sober. Sharper. "How I go about in my private days, she doesn't need to know. Though, not as though I can stop her when she wants to barge in on them…"

Huh. Well, that's not quite as shocking as you thought it would be. No matter the time, Lilia was always keeping something close to his chest, whether it be something seemingly benign or important.

"Though," you leaned your face against your hand, catching Lilia's red eyes, "Am I really so relaxing to be around? That you would go out of your way to see me? I didn't think you saw me as a friend."

Really, in all his prickly nature, and the fact that his closest one was a woman who hated you, you thought Lilia would be more distant with you.

Then, Lilia smiled. A glint, shape canines shining in the flaring fire, as though he found something both succulent and offensive to his senses.

"A 'friend,' huh?"

Just as his flask landed on the stiff grass, Lilia closed the distance and clicked a heel right next to you against the log. You back up with a "whoa," just so your face didn't hit his nose. Lilia wasn't deterred, he simply leaned down so you couldn't focus on anything but him.

"Friends, with a human. It's laughable really, just saying that sentence alone!" His grin, for the moment it was there, was mocking. "Imagine how many would die of laughter at the thought of me wanting more than friendship from a human."

And that mockery was aimed at himself. Accepting of what's in him, and irritated at it existed at all.

"Since when have you ever cared?" You didn't turn away nor did you push him. "Why not indulge in the now? You can always forget about it later."

That gave Lilia pause. He took in a breathe and glared at you. He slid right into your lap without much sound. His arms rested upon your shoulders.

"…you should know what it is you're saying," Lilia murmured, as though he's afraid he'll blow away this fantasy if too loud, "Pranks like this are in poor taste."

You let your hand feel up the side of his body, your other combing through his long hair, releasing it from it's high tail.

"You know I don't do pranks," you're more dragged into them than anything, "Now come on. Indulge."

Lilia, impatient, closed the distance. This will be a secret, known to only you, Lilia, and the fire behind him.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst-drabbles #twst-drabbles exclusive #drabble #diasomnia #lilia #lilia vanrouge #janitor au #time travel shenanigans #reader insert

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lyranova · 9 months

Note

Hii! I love your fics!! May I please request a oneshot where yami's squad member (y/n) turns into a baby / child (whichever is better), and brings her to the captains ' meeting as he has no other choice? (y/n) calls everyone dad / mom and it makes them all super soft for her? like yami is first annoyed then softens up, nozel is straight up rude as usual but everyone glares at him for that (cause they're so protective of her already uwu) and he ends up being soft for her too. idk, this was a 2 am thought im sorry!! thank you for taking requests 😭💞

Hiya anon! No worries 2am thoughts are always fine and fun, tbh I tend to get them a lot myself 😆! Aw thank you so much I’m so glad you like my fics, and you’re welcome, I enjoy taking requests! It gives me something fun and different to do 🥰! Of course you may and I hope you all enjoy~!

Word Count: 1,325

Warnings: None

———

Yami didn’t know how this happened, she was fine when she left on a mission with Asta and Noelle, but when they all came back she was a baby! When he asked them what the hell happened Asta and Noelle explained that it was the bad guys magic; he could make people really old, or really young!

Yami had ordered them to take her back to the mage and force him to change her back but Noelle explained that they tried, but the mage said his spell would only wear off in 24 hours. So for now…they were stuck with her being a toddler!

She was still able to walk at least, talking on the other hand…well she was only able to say a handful of words, mainly ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’. Which kind of bothered Yami since he didn’t want to be called ‘daddy’ by a member of his squad, but she wasn't really eager to learn ‘Yami’ at the moment he would have to deal with it for now.

Yami fully intended to leave her at the squad as he went to a Captain’s meeting, but when Yami began to ask who wanted to be in charge of their toddler squadmate every single Black Bull scattered like leaves in a gust of wind.

Which was how he ended up in his current situation; in the Captain’s meeting room, with his toddler squadmate sitting in his lap, as the other Captain’s ‘oohed’ and ‘awwed’ over her.

“ Aw look how adorable she is! I didn’t know you had a baby Yami!” Dorothy said as she began to use her Glamour World magic to create small toys to keep her entertained. Charlotte crossed her arms as she looked at the child.

‘Yami had a child?! Why didn’t he say anything? Does that mean he’s married or has a committed partner? Or is the child a product of a one night stand? Yami doesn’t seem to be the type to do that though, so he must have someone! Why didn’t he say anything, I’m so jealous of her, why didn’t I confess to him sooner?!’ Charlotte’s mind raced as she stared at the little girl, she didn’t look like Yami, but that could easily be explained away. The girl looked at Charlotte with wide eyes before she smiled brightly and reached her arms out towards the Briar mage.

“ Mommy?” She asked cutely before her smile widened. “ Mommy!”

Charlotte and Dorothy’s hearts quickly melted and they both couldn’t help but say ‘How Cute~!’. Yami sighed and shook his head.

“ The Prickly Princess ain’t your mom, and I’m not her dad. She’s a member of my squad who got turned into a toddler on a mission earlier. The other brats took off running when I asked them to baby sit her.” Yami explained as he held the small girl still. She looked up at him with a pout but did stop moving.

“ I see, so how long will she be like this?” Fuegoleon asked as he placed a thoughtful hand under his chin, the girl looked at him for a moment before her bright smile returned.

“ Daddy!” She shouted brightly and with a giggle, Fuegoleon’s brows raised in surprise and a small smile appeared on his face.

“ I’m sorry to say that I’m not your father little one.” Fuegoloen told her gently as he patted her on the head, the little girl pouted.

“ She seems to only be able to say ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’, which makes sense since she’s only like 1 or 2.” Yami said in an unsure tone, Rill tilted his head.

“ I think she’s closer to a year and a half! Babies are generally able to walk by the time they’re one, and can talk in short sentences by the age of two, so logically she should be somewhere in between since she can walk but not really talk!” Rill said thoughtfully as he stared at the young girl.

“ How the hell do you know that kid?” Jack asked with a frown and Rill suddenly laughed sheepishly.

“ Me and my squad sometimes volunteer at the orphanages in the city and the sisters explained it to me when I tried to have a group of kids tell me about their paintings.” Rill explained and the others nodded.

The little girls eyes moved to Nozel, who was sitting in his seat with his eyes closed and arms crossed, ignoring her effectively.

“ Daddy…?” She asked hesitantly and Nozel’s eyes shot open and he glared coldly at her.

“ I’m not your father, and I wish you would refrain from calling me that.” He told the girl, his tone as cold as ice, the little girl jumped for a moment before her eyes welled up with tears.

The girl began to cry and wail at the top of her lungs, everyone glared openly at Nozel.

“ What the hell did you do that for braid boy?!” Yami asked as he and the others tried to console the toddler and Nozel’s eyes widened a bit.

“ Geez Nozel she’s just a baby, can’t you be just a little nicer with her?” Dorothy asked as she put her hands on her hips and had a angry look on her face. Nozel’s cheeks turned a shade of pink and he looked away.

“ Don’t listen to him brat,” Yami said to the toddler as he gently patted her head. “ You can call of us ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ as much as you like. And ignore him.” Yami instructed them as his hand moved away from her head and began to wipe away her tears.

“ Yeah! Nozel’s just jealous because he doesn’t have a cool baby of his own!” Rill said as he crossed his arms, and Jack looked over at the Silver Eagles Captain.

“ Even I’m not that big of a jerk to kids bird boy.” He muttered with a shake of his head, Nozel sighed loudly before turning to look at them all.

“ I’m not jealous and I’m not angry at the child!” Nozel shouted accidentally, causing everyones eyes to widen. “ It’s just…” He glanced over at Dorothy, and she suddenly realized why he was acting the way he was.

Seeing that little girl was bringing up a lot of painful memories for him, so all he knew to do was lash out in order to hide his true emotions.

“ It’s just that a Captain’s meeting is no place for a child as young as her. Here, we talk about and see so many terrible things that it could easily traumatize someone as young as her for life. Don’t you think it would be better for her to remain innocent to the horrors of the world just a little longer?” Nozel asked with a sigh.

“ Uh, she’s already seen the horrors of the world remember? She’s actually a Magic Knight?” Yami pointed out in confusion, causing Nozel’s face to turn a brighter red.

“ Nozel does have a point. A Captain’s meeting is no place for a young child,” Fuegoloen agreed before he reached out to take her from Yami. “ So I suggest that she stay with Marx for the time being, and once the meetings over Yami can take her back. Alright?” He watched as all the others nodded and he carefully carried the child through the doors and to Marx.

The meeting ended fairly quickly and now Yami was heading back to the Black Bulls Hideout. After being full of energy all day she had finally wore herself out and was sound asleep in Yami’s arms. He chuckled a bit as he looked down at her, as much as he didn’t want to babysit her at first, he had to admit it was a nice change of pace and he was actually going to miss her being this small.

At least until she woke up and began to torment everyone again, then he wouldn’t be able to wait until she transformed back into her normal self again.

———

Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you all have a good day~!

#asks #anon🌟#black clover #black clover fanfic #black clover fanfiction #black clover oneshot #black clover x reader #black clover x y/n #black clover x you #sukehiro yami #yami sukehiro #nozel silva #dorothy unsworth #charlotte roselei #rill boismortier #jack the ripper #fuegoleon vermillion

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