#I love your use of viscera in this!
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the car broke down by the denny's where you used to work and therefore could never return to. i am trying to pick out the satisfying parts of my life, one-by-one, like i am 12 and in a frog dissection. everything in my life all viscera and formaldehyde. if i can sort the good things from the bad things, i will have a nice clean pile.
i call you and make it sound like i am happy and hangin' in there! when really i am kicking a rock and i am outside without a jacket and i am so in love with you it makes the little bones in my ear shake. someone called my tinnitus an angel choir. i like that it means i carry the echo of every concert.
this isn't the right setting for love. this is a roadside, and a denny's, and i am nauseous and ashamed i never escaped the town where i grew up. the clouds here are this strange yellow, like spilled sour milk. "someone once told me that the orange coating on the teeth of a beaver is due to the particularly high rate of iron in their enamel," i tell you. "the beaver is the largest rodent native to north america."
your voice is crackly on the other end. i'm going into a garage soon, i might lose you.
what i should be doing is calling the tow truck and explaining that my brother's car (that i'm borrowing) (that i broke now, i guess) needs to be lifted by another, bigger, stronger car (which is love too, i guess).
i shouldn't say so much. i should wait, and let you ask about my mom, and ask if i ever got over that cold, or how it's going at work. i should let you lead the conversation, for once, so the love doesn't leak out of me into the gravel. i open my mouth anyway. "if you had to choose between being a beaver with very few trees or being a tree around a bunch of beavers, which would it be?"
i don't know. your voice always has this warm cast to it when you talk to me, but maybe i am just imagining that - i am a poet, though, so i imagine things sort of chronically. through the static, you sound like you're laughing. are you the beaver?
i know, like, logically, not to fall in love with a girl-that-is-your-best-friend. like, who would i even call if we broke up? you're my best friend, you're the person i'd want to speak to. so what if these last few months we keep sleeping over at each other's houses, calling each other for hours, sending each other poems. so what if you keep wrapping your fingers into mine. no best friends. that is the first rule. what you are supposed to do in that situation is leave the situation.
but my car broke down, so. where exactly am i going to go? the car is a very-old chevvy and also where i almost-but-not-quite kissed you after you'd raised one shoulder and looked up at me and said i don't know, i think i'm straight, but for the right person - i'd try anything. the music had been good and it had been raining and your thick eyelashes had made me feel god crawling up my throat like a spider. and i didn't kiss you, because i am a coward.
anyway on the chevy the whole exhaust pipe fell out, and is now scraping on the ground like one silver finger stroking the back of the highway. recently we were watching netflix in my bed and you pushed my hair back from my face like you were making the slowest, most desperate prayer, and then your boyfriend called. i remember us both jumping. i couldn't look at you in the eyes for like a week after. i kept feeling the heat of your fingerprint; computer science, you'd unlocked something dark in me.
google says the closest tow (joe's pick up) is 50 minutes away and also closed permanently. so that's not great. you live in another state and i should be calling my insurance company. i should be calling anybody else. this is not helping. i need an uber. i need to get moving. instead i say: "i need three words for a poem."
yesterday i said love you, goodnight after our 2 hour call like always and then you just, like. paused. all i could hear was your breathing. and then you'd said what a pretty three-word poem. i love you too, sweet thing. the words made my tinnitus act up again, and i must have some kind of synesthesia, because the sound travelled into my mind until it became the shape wedding rings.
orange, you say. the static is now chewing through most of your words and i only catch - borrowing the chevy -
the call dies. i have 12% battery. i never get the 3rd word, but i know you're still going to get a poem from me. actually this rest stop is kind of pretty, and so is the exhaust pipe, and so is joe's pick up, and so are the clouds. the light here is the color of a glue trap. before you worked at the denny's, we used to get milkshakes every wednesday and called it a friend date. you said you'd wanted to work there because it reminded you of me.
the sign's gone dim. the letters now spell out deny. and isn't that something.
#spilled ink#ty nat#ps if anyone wants to send me money for a car. you'll never guess what happened :')
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This was supposed to be a short rambling and ended up turning into a mini fic lol. I know the tense shifts, I know it's sloppy lol
Anyway, Simon has a sweetheart who gets kidnapped and gets to meet "Ghost" for the first time.
The first time you meet Ghost, it's supposed to be carefully planned and controlled. After all, Simon was so worried about opening that part of himself up to you. To you, he was Simon. Soft, introverted, sweet, desperately trying to break a cycle of generational trauma. You had never met Ghost.
But, of course, nothing in Simon's life can go according to plan, and when you have people that mean something to you, they become weaknesses. So, when you get kidnapped by a Russian military company with the intel that you were important to Task Force-141? Ghost has already burnt down the world once, you're sure as hell that he would do it again for his love. So, when you meet Ghost, it isn't carefully rehersed and planned like Simon wanted. No.
Instead, you're terrified, bound, and gagged on a cold concrete floor wearing little more than your skivvies as tears stream down your face. Then, out of the blue, gunfire and shouting rings through the halls. Stealth be damned, as soon as their cover is blown, you know that Ghost will fight like a rabbit animal. He barges into your cell, tackling a man against the wall with a knife to his throat and a gun at his head.
Those eyes that had looked at you so softly and tenderly were completely unrecognizable when they were this wide and intense, wild with bloodlust. "Where is the girl?" He spits out in fluent Russian before his eyes catch sight of you.
'BANG'
A single bullet through the soldiers' skull, splattering Ghost with even more viscera and gray matter. Ghost doesn't even seem phased as he holsters his pistol and pulls away, letting the body drop with a sickening thud. He walks brazenly up to you, but pauses as he notices the way you frantically back yourself into the corner, trying desperately to stay away from this monster who had surely come to drag you from one hell to the next.
Then, he crouches down and outstretches a gentle hand to you, letting you come to him. He called your name so sweetly, and that was a voice you recognized. You tried to muffle out his name through the rag shoved into your mouth and tied around your head. That earned a low chuckle, a dangerous one that you hadn't heard before. "Not quite, love. Ghost. Now, let's get you home, eh?"
Ghost. The name echoed in your mind, bouncing around as you tried to remember where you had heard it before. Your eyes flicked over to the corpse splayed in the doorway of your cell, making you nearly vomit in your mouth before looking away. Ghost shifted closer, using the knife still in his hand to cut through the rough ropes binding you. "Bloody hell... idiots didn't even use chains, could have escaped right easy, you could of." Ghost muttered, mostly to himself. The words were terrifying to hear.
He reached to untie your gag next, a chuckle rumbling lowly in his chest as you flinch away. He gives you half a second to compose yourself before he unceremoniously rips the gag off of you and tosses it to the side. Red marks are etched into your cheeks where the gag had dug in, and the sight makes Ghost seeth. "Oh, love..." His words are soft, but his tone is enraged, as if those marks alone could start his new crusade.
"LT!" Blue eyes and a neatly groomed Warhawk pop into the door, stepping casually over the corpse as the new face made his way over to you. "This her, LT?" A thick Scottish accent was present, along with a bit of thinly veiled appreciation. "Off limits Johnny, this is her. This is my girl."
Whenever Simon called you his, it was soft and reverent, as if astonished that he could call someone so precious his. But when Ghost said it? It was commanding, possessive, and left no room for argument. You were his. And that thought was almost scary.
Ghost wasted no more time, scooping you up into his arms and making their way quickly through the facility you had only caught glances of while Ghost and Johnny talked in some military jargon you didn't understand.
That's when you noticed it.
Even though Ghost was holding you so tight and close, even though his touches seemed so rough and careless, even though he was splattered with all sorts of blood and viscera, you had none of it on you. Ghost had been so careful with his touches, with how he held you, determined not to stain and taint your delicate skin with the fuel to his fire, the essence of his soul. And that was quite possibly when you realized that 'Simon' and 'Ghost' were merely two sides of the same coin. And they were both yours as much as you were theirs. his.
#call of duty#ghost cod#cod x reader#cod mw2#cod mwii#cod#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost x reader#fanfiction#fanfic#x reader#x you#imagine#ramblings#drabble#i just think hes neat#lil split personality#lil unhealthy coping mechanism#lil skull boy#he's careful#because you're fragile#to him at least#Anyone played the “Call Of Thirst” Demo?#it's super short#but omg#support
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Halsin Headcanons For When He's In Love With You/Tav (Ungendered)
I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED TOO SOON
Generously Requested by @cryingoverpixelsetc I can't tell you how much it means to me when people actually WANT to hear about my bg3 brainrot because this game has been my escape lately and also, just a nice little break from the freelance work I have to cram to get done.
(PS if you like these, I am also a writer of my own original stories and I have some WIP's you may like.)
Quick CW|| Some graphic depictions of violence, particularly puncture wounds and viscera, intentions of heavy violence also referenced.
In Battle
He trusts you, perhaps more than anyone else, to handle yourself. He doesn't hover, but he always has an eye on you as you tear into the fray.
He always seems so gentle to you that you sometimes worry about your own brutality in a fight. Especially when it leaves you covered in blood.
Because of this, you tend to keep your distance after a fight, too frightened to look into his pretty hazel eyes and see any measure of hesitance or disgust with you. Not that you've gotten used to it, you cant bear the thought of him not calling you 'my heart.'
This is only a fear for you until you got pinned down with a particularly nasty bhaalan cultist. Astarion had already been taken down in the surprise attack, then you were toppled by one of the many in the ambush.
The scream you let out as they sadistically drove their daggers through the palms of your hands was shocking even to you. You felt like a moth pinned to a board--it was too painful to try to break yourself free, even as the assailant wielded his next blade like he was about to field dress an elk.
You'd never felt fear like that.
But it didn't last long. A great cave bear launched through the air and into your attacker, wasting no time before ripping into the soft flesh of his throat and tore it out.
The smell of fear on you was strong, he knew you couldn't fight like that, so he simply stood guard over you, tearing to shreds anyone who got close from what small parts of it you can remember through the utter fear.
It was the after math of that fight when you knew you could never let him go.
He cups your face in his large, warm hands.
"Look at me, dear heart. Look upon me and remember that you're alive. There is no more threat. There is no one to hurt you. I would never let someone take you away from me before nature deigns it so."
The blades, you wept, the blades would hurt to remove.
"They will, but only for a moment, my love. Just a moment of pain before I heal you myself and carry you back to camp."
It's Astarion who removes the blades from your palms and frees you; he has the steadiest hands. But Halsin wastes no time in cradling you close to him, holding both of your hands in his own as he quietly whispers the healing word. You watch as your flesh and tendons weave themselves together. Then he envelops you and comforts you as you cry. Just cry.
How lucky it is that he is so at peace with every expression of you. He takes you as you are at all moments; whether you're bloodthirsty, joyful, or terrified. He basks in it all.
At Camp
Always touching you. Always. To him this isn't a public display of affection. It's not awkward. He loves you, why should he not touch you at every moment he can?
Sometimes it's a small thing, a broad hand on the small of your back as you discuss travel plans with Wyll. A little touch to remind you that he is there, like a tether to safety.
Other times your bodies are a tangle of comfort. Like he's looked for every way he can weave his body with yours. His fingers in your hair, your arm over his shoulder, your leg betwixt his, his wide chest lifting and falling with his sleepy breaths. This is often how you wake in the mornings with him.
Perhaps your favorite, though, is the nights by the fire. He doesn't even ask most days, just places himself behind you and offers himself as your seating arrangements for the night. His arms up behind him as he reclines against a rock or a felled tree, you sitting on his lap or between his lazily bent legs. His husky laughter tickles against your ear, the little hairs on the back of your neck. His rough voice rumbled against you as he regales the camp with yet another story of his youth.
He's a bit of a night owl. You fall asleep long before him most days.
He's also a bit disheartened by how difficult it is to find clothes that fit him in your travels together. Karlach as generously offered to share her clothes with him of course, but...something about her taste doesn't really seem to quite suit him.
(A disappointment to you, considering how nice those legs looked in infernal leather.)
He's the one who does much of the hunting for the party, along with Astarion. Halsin's a shockingly gifted fisher, though most of the fish he brings back to camp have bites in the flesh.
It was unnerving to gale at first, but he learned to live with it when he once brought back a salmon the size of a deep gnome.
When You're Alone
Rarely fully clothed. Not shocking, of course and certainly not something you would ever complain about. He usually just takes his tunic off, he says it feels restrained by it. He feels like he can breathe a bit better when his chest is bare.
No pun intended, of course.
Funny thing though, you always feel its much harder to breathe when he's shirtless.
There are no chaste kisses with this large elf. He seems to not have the restraint.
"I love the taste of you, my heart. It's the finest ambrosia. How blessed I am to have free reign to sate my appetites with you."
He likes to braid your hair and you're not sure why you're surprised at how good he is at it. Braids are a common hairstyle for elves, after all, and the man is a few centuries old. It soon becomes your favorite part of any day.
"I love how long your hair is getting, love. These times with you, my focus lost in your tresses...they have become some of my most treasured memories."
He compliments you often and freely.
One day you tell him about how you worry that you're too brutal to be with him, that you're concerned you'll scare him off one day for good.
"My heart, I spend more than half of my life in the form of a cavebear. I know I have told you how I received this scar. I may treasure the thriving, living of nature but that is only one side of the coin. Nature can be as brutal as it can be miraculous. In you, I see the beauty of brutality. I do not fear it, I admire it."
In Intimate Moments
Potential NSFW below, proceed with caution.
TW|| Mentions of consensual rough housing before...well, you know.
He is...proportionately sized...if you like.
(You do. You like very much.)
You sometimes have to remind him to get his pleasure with you. He is so pleased to be with you in this way that he forgets to indulge himself, even when it would be a moment of shared pleasure.
He loves every iteration of making love with you. He loves to take you fresh after a battle, covered in blood, to remember what it is to live and be alive.
He loves to take advantage of the vulnerability of a bath in the rivers and lakes of Faerun. Seems to particularly enjoy the sounds that come out of you as he thrusts up and into you, the sounds of your bodies muted by the water so he can hear every whimper and hitch of your breath.
He loves to hunt you. More than once you've stolen away into the forests and he gives you a head start. It's some of the most thrilling experiences you've had being intimate with someone.
This is no simple game of hide and seek, it is a true pursuit.
He always finds you quickly and he is fast, but you are faster. It's always a struggle for him to catch you. When he finally does succeed in his quest, you are so lost in the thrill and challenge of the pursuit that it becomes a struggle.
This part he always wins though. Sometimes because your desire for his body takes over your desire for besting him.
Sometimes you are still fighting when he gathers both of your wrists in a single one of his hands and carefully locks your legs beneath his.
He is careful though. He would never do anything without your express consent, without your enjoyment. He may be lost in the moment but he is old enough and wise enough to keep his head.
"Do you still want this, my love? Does your body still burn with need? Or has the pursuit run away with you?"
When you tell him you want this; you want him. That brief tarry into gentleness vanishes. He smiles sharply and turns you over, taking you as an animal in the wild might. Rough and unrelenting.
His hands dig into your thighs, your hips. His fingers tangle and pull your hair.
But when all is said and done, the kisses are soft and sweet. Peppered over your shoulders, down the path of your spine.
He collects you in his arms and soothes you.
"Have you pain anywhere? Is there anything I can get for you my love? You have been so generous with your body this night, it is only right that I take care of you for the remainder of it."
He likes to discuss your intimacy at length. He wants to know what you liked, what you didn't like, what he should change. At first you didn't like to critique, but he pressed you about it once he started to notice changes in your demeanor or reactions in the act. It's gotten much easier for you to discuss these things with him over time.
He simply loves discussing the potential of a family with you. Sometimes enough to be ready for a second round. But that second round is much gentler and more loving than the first. Like he's dreaming of a future with you.
#writing community#writers on tumblr#writing#bg3 headcanons#halsin headcanons#halsin x tav headcanons#Halsin x reader#my writing#romantasy#writeblr#authors#historical fantasy#halsin x tav#halsin smut#baldurs gate halsin#bg3 x tav#bg3 halsin
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Unsolicited Affections (Part 1)
[Screenshots and Tav, Ban, by the lovely @brabblesblog]
Halsin x Plus Size F!Reader
Warnings: Body insecurity; internalized fatphobia; otherwise, floof (for now)
Synopsis: Your growing feelings for Halsin can no longer be ignored. Even so, that doesn't mean you don't try for your poor heart's sake. However, Halsin keeps bringing you closer, and you aren't sure how much longer you can take it without confessing... even though confessing is your worst fear.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to @brabblesblog for taking these screenshots and allowing me to use Ban in the header! For all readers, there will be a Part 2 to this fic and it will be the smut you all requested from the poll I took! This became a super duper indulgent fic for me, as I struggle with all of the insecurities the reader struggles with here. But I hope this little 2 part creation can act as a balm for anyone who has ever struggled with their bodily image, or wondered if they'd ever be seen as beautiful. This one's for you; for us. <3
Part 2 Here
The battle had been bloody. Grime and viscera was spread across each body, hair color lost in deep dyes of red in the wake of the victory. You and your companions trudged back to camp in silence; exhausted. You had failed to obtain what the battle had been fought for in the first place, and you were certain that your mood was soured for the rest of the evening. Upon reentering your campground, Gale was the first to greet you all, thankful to see that everyone was alive, albeit roughed up; obvious disappointment creased his features for a moment when you told him the news that you had failed to obtain the magical object you had set out for, but he hid it behind an understanding smile and ushered you to sit by the fire as he finished dinner.
You had reasoned that if the Netherese Orb in Gale's chest required the consumption of magic to remain stable, that the more powerful the object, the longer it would sate him. So you had taken a group and set out for the most powerful magical object in your direct vicinity - the Circlet of Blasting. You had recognized it the day previous on the head of a Drow with several of its companions near the Myconid colony in the Underdark. Once you found them again, you approached to inquire whether you could cough up enough gold to take it off their hands, but when they turned and pierced you with vicious red eyes that gleamed back at your group with a reflectiveness like a cat's, you knew gold would not satisfy them. And as they drew their daggers, you were proven correct, and the battle had begun.
You slumped over on the log next to the fire, too exhausted to properly stow your weight, as you removed your armor piece by piece. The second person to approach you carried a warm bowl of stew and placed it gently into your palms. The hands were tender and gentle, and much too large to belong to anyone but your favorite Archdruid. You raised your weary head to meet his beautiful bright green eyes, creased with worry, but soft with care as he lowered himself to the ground beside your legs, his muscular arm grazing the now-bare skin of your thigh as he adjusted. A flutter ran through your stomach at the contact, but you clamped down on it before you could get carried away. You knew his kindness was platonic. It had to be. Halsin was simply…kind.
The tell-tale signs of complicated and painful feelings had risen within your chest since rescuing Halsin from the goblins, and although you had tried to deny them, recently it had proven impossible. But while you finally admitted to yourself that you had fallen for his disarming smile, the scratch of his well-worn fingertips against your softer skin, and how passionately he cared about every living creature in nature, you refused to admit it to anyone else. You would be sparing yourself that embarrassment this time around. Your chest ached, remembering the many times you'd fallen for someone and approached them with this truth, only to be turned away over and over again. Inwardly, you snarled, blaming the extra plush your body carried for your lack of luck in love. Whether the objects of your affection had been kind, polite, or downright rude, there was always a moment in which their eyes would quickly rake your body up and down before delivering their blow. Perhaps they didn't even recognize that they did it, but you saw. You always saw.
So, while you knew Halsin would never be unkind to you, you had been trying to make peace with the very probable fact that he would only ever see you as a friend - never quite attractive enough to be anything more. It was something you were used to, but it never seemed to dull the throbbing pain in your heart whenever you thought on it too long. There was a part of you, somewhere deep, that knew you were not at fault; that knew you were not to blame; that perhaps if they had deigned to look beyond the surface for even a moment, that they would have seen how genuine your heart was, and how they never would have had to go without affection, love, or loyalty should they have chosen you. You weren't without this enlightenment, but the constant dissatisfaction of, or concern for, the body you carried from those around you - from well-meaning friends to pushy strangers - weighed heavy on your tired mind.
This moment around the fire was no exception, your burning desire to curl around Halsin's broad shoulders like a cat and purr was strong, but overshadowed by the fear of rejection. You had him near, but pulling him too close was to risk sending him far away, and you weren't sure you'd be able to stand it were that to occur. An icy shudder ran through you at the mere thought of Halsin retracting his warmth from your side. "- giving you a chill?" His dulcet voice pulled you back to reality like a line reeling you in, but you caught only his last few words.
"What?" You said, blinking as his image in your eyes grew sharper again. "Apologies, my mind was far away."
"No worries." He chuckled. "I merely asked if the night air was giving you a chill. You were shaking, my heart."
My heart.
You melted a little. The nickname was fairly new. The first time he had called you that had been two mornings prior, after a late start and a quick bath in the bioluminescent pools near your campsite in the Underdark. You had come trudging back to camp in clothes that were quickly dampening due to being pressed against your still wet skin, wringing your hair out ferociously as you tried to hurry to catch up with everyone else's progress. You had just started to wrench your boots up over your clinging pants when Halsin had approached you, laying a warm hand against your wet-stained shirt. You had startled, your head snapping up to his in a surprised daze.
"Slow down." He had said, running a soothing hand down your bent spine and back up, sending full bodied shocks through you like tidal waves. "You needn't worry, my heart. We will wait for you."
As the memory warmed your cheeks, you cleared your throat and averted your eyes, praying he couldn't see the thoughts lingering just inside the colors of your irises. "No, I'm alright. Just- just a bit weak from not eating all day. Thank you, for bringing me this." You finally acknowledged the bowl in your hands and raised it a little.
"Of course. Please, eat. I hear from the others that you had a rough skirmish. I implore you to let me check you over once you've finished your stew."
Ignoring the way your heart jumped dangerously near to your throat, you nodded silently, opting instead to pick up the wooden spoon in the bowl and begin to eat. It was one of Halsin's spoons; one he whittled. It was smooth and beautiful and easy to hold. Almost all of the cutlery in camp had been fashioned by Halsin, and several of the stools you kept as well. It was his hobby and his form of relief, to create things with his hands. Subconsciously, you glanced down to where the hands in question rested on his knees; large and rough, his hands had seen it all and done it all through his 300 plus years of life, and you couldn't help but quietly admire how much they had learned and lost in the process. And after all of that, he chose to create beauty with those hands that knew so much. It made your heart clench with a new wave of affection. You swallowed hard, as if the feelings would force their way back down in the same way as the contents of your bowl.
Again, you were drawn back from your reverie by the Druid's movements, one of his hands moving from his lap to yours. His palm came down to rest flat on your thigh, only a thin layer of fabric left to separate the blazing heat from your skin. You barely suppressed a gasp of surprise at the sudden contact, feeling much more intimate than it probably was, and locked eyes with Halsin, whose brow was worried into wrinkles. "You seem more distant than usual, are you sure you're alright?" He said, his thumb taking a slow drag across your leg, sending your poor heart racing in your chest.
"Yes," you managed to respond, rather breathlessly. "I- I'm alright." Even you weren't convinced by your attempt at deflection, and Halsin's frown only deepened.
"When you've finished your stew, come find me by my tent. I will have some healing herbs waiting for you." He said sternly and you nodded silently. His eyes softened at your wide-eyed expression and he reached up to gingerly tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Promise me you will come." He murmured quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, and your heart stuttered wildly in your chest.
"I promise." You replied, and a soft smile graced his lips. He nodded in return and stood up, brushing himself off before walking back towards his tent.
"Gods," you muttered under your breath, pressing your palm to your chest in an effort to keep your pounding heart inside.
"You've been given the perfect opportunity, darling." A voice chimed lyrically behind you, and you turned your head to find Astarion eyeing you appreciatively. "Don't waste it." He grinned widely, putting his fangs on display as he did so.
"Shut up, Astarion." You mumbled, your face heating as you pressed your hands over your eyes. You only hoped you wouldn't make a fool of yourself.
fin
#baldur's gate 3#bg3#halsin silverbough#halsin bg3#bg3 halsin#halsin#baldur's gate 3 halsin#baldur's gate halsin#halsin x reader#halsin x tav#halsin x f!reader#halsin x f!tav#halsin x plus size reader#halsin x plus size f!reader#unsolicited affections
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pick a card : what making out with you feels like for them ᡣ𐭩…
could be someone you're already seeing or your future person, whatever it is...whoever you are asking about...this is what it feels like for them (:
*please take a moment to take a deep breath and choose the image you are most drawn towards*
for pile 1 ✩˚
well, hello there. while trying to channel and synthesize this spread i thought about how this pile has something very instinctive going on within the makeout sessions, there's viscera, and cillian murphy came to mind somehow?? he does have a very mars look imo so maybe that's why, but it reminded me of a gif that i believe is from peaky blinders (never seen the show but i exist on tumblr so...) that i will add (it's a lil nsfw i guess?). anyhow. when it comes to your makeouts with this person, it feels like a nice balance of release and control for them because on one hand they do feel very disarmed while making out with you but at the same time they're acting deliberately - which is why instinct is coming through...it's like having a flow of reflexive movement. i'm not seeing you two going crazy and having vigorous kisses, there is a slowness to it, there's a building of inertia. making out with you makes them feel like their life is in their hands, their free will is palpably felt, and it brings out a sort of self-discipline in them
for pile 2 ✩˚
this person looooooves making out with you, they feel like they're having a movie moment when you guys are kissing, and the connection itself is what is at the forefront when they're kissing you. this seems like someone who hasn't had great experiences with romance and making out with you imbues them with so much hope. it's like if this person had a horribly messy breakup a couple years prior, they were with someone for quite a while and it ended up turning into a nightmare that left an ugly mark and they became jaded by it. making out with you feels like a rebirth - they don't feel afraid, they feel uninhibited, their cup is wonderfully full. they are not in the slightest bit doubtful of how they feel for you and they are certain that they want this; when they kiss you it will feel like a sweet plead - please love me back. there is no ego when it comes to kissing you because they are happily willing to give their all. making out with you does help them to move on from any residual gunk they've been dealing with
for pile 3 ✩˚
what is wanting to come through strongly is that this person is the one somehow taking the lead in the makeout session because when they're making out with you they feel firm, they feel empowered, they're like 'i got this'. lol...funnily enough though, whatever it is about making out with you...they don't expect it to go the way it does and it throws them off their game. something about making out with you is new for them, there's a notable oscillation happening within them, an internal battle of hot n cold energy. the makeout session itself won't be all over the place, once you start making out you guys just keep going at a constant and indefinite pace. this person is probably used to getting what they want/doing what they want/being reckless, this person is hardened - they keep their feelings in check and like being in control. & even though they feel in control while making out with you and do like feeling as such, there's something about making out with you that wakes them up and brings out a softer side. making out with you feels like a stream of consciousness for them
for pile 4 ✩˚
this is my fun makeout sesh pile 😛
what you guys say to each other before/during making out is being highlighted so maybe there's some steamy words being exchanged, some sweet talkin' perhaps. y'alls makeout session(s) involves experimenting, it's messy, it's sloppy, there's coloring outside the lines, it's an indulgence and you guys change things up during it. it does seem like this is more casual and that this person might be hesitant to take things further. this may be someone who is really attached to their independence and/or is perpetually single so even though they're having fun with it, they are holding back and not giving their all. making out with you is going to make them try to consider and factor feelings into the equation, they may just take the leap for once
love this song for pile 4
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It is nights like these that make Coriolanus ponder the 'what ifs?' the most; it is nights like these that bring Lucy Gray back to his mind, even after all this time. Even if she's unwelcome.
If he was a better man, a little less power-hungry and a little more altruistic, he would have missed all of this. He never would have found you - a deer so susceptible to the wolf's skilful machinations. So impressionable, so devoted... And what gamesmanship it truly is to make the prey believe there's some grace in being eaten alive.
He's leaning against the doorframe leading to the nursery - awake, although you have told him to go back to sleep when your newborn daughter woke her parents up. Coriolanus is watching the scene unfold from afar, never letting even the smallest of details escape his attention. He wishes to gloat, to bathe in his own triumph.
Your face, which once smiled so brightly only for him, now smiles for another. What's strange, is that it doesn't make Coriolanus as angry or bitter as it usually would. That territorial beast residing deep in his viscera is wary but not bothered. Not yet, at least.
The baby's cries die down as you cradle her in your arms. In gentle, almost fearful, movements, you rock the newborn. Coriolanus sees your lips move but the whisper is too low for him to discern any words. Whatever it is you say to the youngest Snow, it makes her giggle and babble. The sound reminds him of your own laughter, which he so easily elicits with the smallest gestures of affection. Maybe too easily - although just as exciting, it was never a challenge.
You gently lay the baby back down in her cot. For a moment, you study her face with an expression so loving it's almost pathetic. Coriolanus feels his skin crawl. Something animalistic within him beckons the man to do truly terrible things only to ensure that it's him and him only that you look at with such adoration.
But the urge dies down when you turn away from the newborn and meet his gaze across the room. He's back in the centre of your attention, where he belongs. Suddenly, something changes in your eyes.
That glint of devotion is clouded by something much more mischievous, something he used to absolutely hate until he learned about its nature. Since he met you, you've been looking at him with a hint of insightfulness as though you could see right through his facade and read about his sins on the pages of the open book that was his soul. He felt seen and not in a good way. Then, after learning a few things about you, Coriolanus realized that this perceptiveness is the best thing he could hope for - you were smart enough to connect the dots, to notice patterns not many deemed obvious and yet, too blindsided by love, you thought of his wrongdoings as right. Not in the ethical sense, perhaps, but in logic. There was a method to his madness and a very effective one at that. After all, how utterly foolish would it be to play nice while in The Capitol? In a world of "eat or be eaten", Coriolanus was going to throw a feast. You knew it early on and appreciated the wit and grit it takes to do so.
Standing now in front of him, you slightly lift one of your eyebrows, silently asking him what's on his mind.
"You're beautiful," he confesses.
Your lips curve into a smile. "Tell me something I don't know."
His blue eyes bore into yours. The intensity of his gaze makes you want to look away but prohibits you from doing so at the same time. "I'd burn the whole world for you," he whispers, his tone gravely serious.
Coriolanus feels himself shudder when the back of your hand gently brushes his cheek. Still looking at you, he tilts his head to kiss your fingers.
"I said 'something I don't know', love," you retort in an equally low voice. "Now come, the morning is still far away."
You take his hand in yours, pulling him back towards your bedroom. And, for some strange reason, he lets you guide him.
If he was a better man, he would lead a different life. A more peaceful one, perhaps. But he's not a better man - in fact, he's far from being considered "good" or even "decent". Which is why his life is pleasant, instead of peaceful. And if awful things have brought him so much joy, why, pray tell, should he ever be anything but despicable?
_____
Me? Writing dark characters with dark themes? In other news, the water is wet.
#tbosas#thg series#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x you#coriolanus snow imagine#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus x you#coriolanus snow fanfiction#coriolanus snow#coriolanus#coriolanus snow fanfic#coryo#coryo snow#coryo x reader
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to leave the blood stay in the veins
monster!könig x f!rcursed!reader (no use of 'y/n') 6.6k words NSFW!
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️CW: extremely NSFW, descriptions of gore, implied consumption of human flesh by a non-human monster, mention of necrotic curse, monsterfucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, knotting (no omegaverse), outdoor sex, ambiguous ending, pre-established relationship, 0% proofread, könig and reader are both fucking unhinged.
Day 01 of the Haunted Hoedown Challenge by @/inklore
taboo au (monsterfucking) + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into." + oh no i'm dating the town serial killer
There is a beast in the woods, and it leaves so little meat on the bone that not even carrion birds find value in the corpses it leaves behind.
It’s a strange town in the foothills of the Austrian Alps, full of little sicknesses hiding in the corners, and you learned them well when you moved here. No one goes past the treeline at night. Hardly anyone is outside of home if they can help it. Tourists are the beast’s fodder.
Your boyfriend thinks it’s funny.
König, under his ever-present hood–a not altogether uncommon sight in your town, people come here when they have something to hide, something they are uncomfortable with or find hideous in themselves, and he has given an unimaginable amount for you out of love–laughs, sharp in the tooth.
“Anyone dumb enough to head into the trees is dumb enough to die,” he teases, but there is an arrogance and a contempt swimming deep in his bloodshot blue eyes.
“That’s coldblooded, but not wrong,” you tell him, from behind your own mask. Plain thing, blank in expression, modeled from the one from Eyes Without A Face. It covers the ravages of a curse, numb necrosis slowly spreading up your face through the years. “I still want you to get me a gun.”
“What’s a gun going to do against a thing like that?” he asks, tilting his head, the hood bagging off the curled horns that start at his temples and sweep back over his ears. “Something like that, you need silver. I’ll get you a knife. Big one. Nice and fucking sharp, Schatzi.”
The knife isn’t a comfort when the beast begins to hunt in town. It stalks from house to house, preying on people in their beds, their living rooms, their bathtubs–there is no rhyme or reason, not a whit of discernable pattern.
Only teeth-gouged bones and viscera ground into wall, tile, and carpet alike. Your neighbor falls victim, and you watch the police from your window, flinching when a veteran officer stumbles out into the fall-frosted grass to vomit, sobbing and pulling his hair.
“It got Emil,” you say, still watching through your sheer curtains.
König nearly cackles from your bed, lounging as he visits. “Good. Emil was a piece of shit. Depperte Fut.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, over your shoulder, before returning back to the circus in the yard next door. “‘Stupid cunt’ is a pretty strong insult. He was an asshole, but I don’t think he deserved to die like that,” you mumble.
“You don’t know all that much about your neighbors, Schatzi.”
You begin to rock side-to-side on your hips, the enormous silver blade König gifted you turning over and over in your hands, the point digging lightly into your palm.
It’s insane, the way you begin to tell yourself that you’ve seen König’s face nearly everyday for the last two years—you can see it right now. He lies on your bed, pointed teeth gleaming under his split philtrum in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp and the red-blue flash of the cruisers. You know there is a man under the hood, however odd and satyr-seeming.
And yet. And yet.
The blade digs a little too deep, drawing a curse-blackened bead of blood. König’s eyes burn into the back of your neck, and you can only guess his horizontal pupils dilate into black holes.
Just quit your job. I’ll take care of you.
It’s a simple enough promise, and one you know König will keep, but not one you’re willing to make. You have few shreds of independence, hard-bought through years of fighting back against misfortunes and setbacks, and, no matter the depths with which you love him, you’re not willing to trade your shit wage on faith for love of a man. It doesn’t matter how helplessly besotted he is.
It’s this molar-cracking grit that delivers you right to the beast. Because you were forced to pick up an extra half shift at the hotel to fold towels behind the front desk, because you needed the money, because you wanted to pay back your beautiful, bloodthirsty boyfriend for the ridiculous blade he begat you.
The god forsaken thing lumbers down a deserted street, blocks from your little rental, and something fucking horrendous seizes you. It’s enormous, walking on cloven hooves and back-bent legs. Its arms are too fucking long, clawed, jagged. And worst is the skull, bleached white and glowing like a beacon in the dark, an enormous rack of brutally sharp horns dripping trinkets of bone and gold that glints in the street lamp it approaches.
A horrible fact hits you. It’s not lumbering, it’s wandering. Putting a massive, craggy hand on fences and peering into houses, taking its time, evaluating. You swear you can almost hear it humming.
You don’t know when your hand found the handle of the silver blade strapped to your belt under your coat, but the leather on the grip bites your palm with the force of your grip, a nauseous, cold sweat terror tearing apart your ability to think.
It’s a primal fear, one that makes you want to protect your soft, vulnerable neck, even if the blood that warms it runs venomous.
It’s a bad choice, but there are no good ones. When the beast lifts its head and scents the air, skull snapping your direction and shaking its grisly trophies, you run. You snap the huge blade off your hip and drop into a dead sprint, cutting between yards, trying to escape the horrendous bellow that reverberates through the bony chambers of the monster’s skull.
Choosing to run instead of freezing maybe bought you a few extra minutes before death decided it was time to seize your pulse in reclamation, and it hurts. The physical exertion it takes to bomb through the last stretches of suburbia before the forest closes in feels like you are breaking every bit of your body by forced choice, listening to that awful fucking thing chase after you.
Your blade makes a slicing sound cutting through the air at your side, the monster’s hooves pound the dirt as it digs in and chases after you, but, good god, it doesn’t sound like it’s even trying.
You don’t dare look back, pushing your body past agony, your lungs shredding in your chest. You’ve never moved this fast, you’ve never run this hard for this long. Your body is TV static—hissing, popping, distant—and, insanely, the urge to cry drills into your eye sockets.
You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die, stupidly and dumbly and pointlessly, because you wanted to pay your boyfriend a stupid sum of fucking money, for a stupid fucking knife that he bought you on a stupid fucking joke.
Two meters from the second worst decision of your life, the monster snaps out, rough hand between your shoulder blades, crashing you into the goddamned dirt. Your eyebrow splits on a tree root, your eyes roll in the back of your head, your hand stays manically tight on the blade, slicing your other arm.
“Schaaaatzi,” the miserable fucking thing hisses, pressing that same hand between your shoulder blades, pinning you into the freezing dirt.
Oh, god, no, it has König’s voice. It’s—it’s not him, but it has his voice, thin and washed out as low-hung fog, but you would know that voice. In hell, in high water, in the dirt with a massive, bark-rough hand grinding your skin raw through your coat—you - know - his - voice.
Furiously, you slash the blade over your head, behind your back, screaming and digging your feet in the dirt. For a brief second, as you hack at the wood of the monster’s hand and wrist, you’re even able to push yourself off the ground by mere inches. The beast growls and shoves you back down twice as hard, knocking the wind out of you, spasming your hand open. The knife drops, and you begin to blindly try digging and dragging yourself away.
“Stop…hurting…me,” the beast lows, still in your boyfriend’s voice, and you imagine a bathtub full of gnawed bones, a living room with scattered body parts, your kitchen smeared with blood like cave wall art, and you start to scream as loud as your lungs will allow, your mask filling with dirt in your horrendous and futile bid to escape. Bloody murder bellows, filled with rage, wanting to kill and consume and conflagrate.
If König is dead, you will take your pound of flesh. You will either die fighting, or win, and you will hack apart this freak-fuck’s corpse to burn in your woodstove to warm your home. You’ll mount its fucking skull on your front door, so anything else in these woods will know you won’t hesitate to make trophies of them either.
Bone, warm to the touch, presses against the back of your head. When it breathes, the air is as hot as exhaust, almost scalding your back. “Schatzi,” it bids you slowly once again.
“I’LL KILL YOU!” it rips your throat raw to shriek it, reaching back and almost dislocating your arms to rip at anything you can. Your hands fall on the dressings attached to its horns, you tear off a vertebra, and a gold wedding band, and a bracelet of rave kandi in plastic beads. “IF YOU HURT HIM, I’LL YOU FUCKING KILL YOU!”
The head presses harder, driving your face into the dirt. There is something desperate in the pressure. It spits all at once, grating and wide in a voice you know better than your own, “You pissed off a fucking witch, because you ran out of riddles to tell her, when she was ransoming you to your arshloch grandmother. She never paid. That’s why you were cursed—no one gave a fuck. But I gave her my face for you, to stop it halfway, better than fucking nothing.”
Your rage freezes immediately, your chest heaving under the weight it presses down on you.
No one knows that. Only König. He’s the only person who would know about his lonely and quiet climb up to the Scottish highlands. Besides you, and the witch, König is the only one who would know why his human face was distorted, malformed, made animalistic.
“Lee?” you pant, unleashing part of his first name, the only one he ever tolerates. And, fuck, instantly the pressure pulls away, the skull rubbing against your back to soothe it.
“It’s me, Schatzi,” the slow voice promises, nuzzling you. There’s rustling above you that you don’t dare turn to see. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
A tinkling piece of jewelry lowers in front of your eyes, and you can see that it dangles from an enormous, ligneous finger. You’re being shown a sterling silver charm bracelet. You’re being shown your bracelet, the one you thought you had lost months ago.
Your hand shoots out, wrapping around the finger, the peeling bark shearing off under your grip. You find instantly that you can pull yourself up on your hip, sitting, caged and protected under the beast’s massive body—under König’s massive body.
He shifts back onto his digitagrade haunches, holding himself over you, still offering your bracelet. He shudders at your touch on his hand, and you imagine that he may’ve never been handled with kindness in this shape. Which makes a certain amount of sense. Because he fucking kills and eats people.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, staring dead into the hollow sockets of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head. “Why—you have me so fucked up—what have you been thinking—?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you have to—”
“Yes, I have to, fucker.” It’s impossible to wrap your head around the magnitude of what a simple secret and a silver bracelet has done to your understanding of the world. A complete unraveling—upheaval, utterly.
You take the bracelet from his finger, on which it fits like a ring, and push it into your wrist, sitting up on your knees and grabbing him by the underside of his jaw. Though it puts you in his blind spot, staring dead center at the sinus dimples between his eyes, it feels like you have a mote of power over him.
(If he were asked, he would say the power you hold over him could corrupt, absolutely. He would badly like you to ask someday.)
“Why are you—what are you? Have you always been like this? Or was this new, with the fucking witch? Are—Jesus Christ—why are—the monster isn’t supposed to come into town, why are you in TOWN?” you run off at the mouth, words stalling and crashing and fusing together as your thoughts overwhelm just how quickly you can speak.
And up from that impossibly deep throat–simultaneously from the center of your brain, and from all around you all at once–crawls König’s pitchy hyena-laugh, edged, always, with cruelty. He butts the jagged end of his nasal cavities into your stomach, catching on the threads of your sweater.
“Leshy, Schatzi, say it for me.”
Your hands pull his jaw closer, digging the bone into your stomach, wondering if he can feel the pressure of your deep breathing. Oh, fuck, you could crack. This is your König. You start to wonder how many of his perverse buttons you can hit, the part of you that felt shame for your attraction to what the world discarded as ‘ugly’ long ago removed from your emotional bank.
“Leshy,” you say, really leaning into the word, saying it deep in your chest. One of your hands travels the long length to the hinge of his jaw, gripping tight, directing his head to turn so you can meet one of his empty eyes. “Answer my fucking questions.”
The laugh doesn’t come this time. In its place is a near-violent whole-body shudder that wracks through you.
“Old! Alwaaays been this way,” and even in the strange disconnect of his voice from his physical form, you can tell his arousal is eating away at him in big bites–clipping his speech, broiling his brain with body heat, “can’t remember ever being young, haa-haa. And why do you think I’m hunting in town?”
Another trap, a stupid pop quiz, wanting to test your knowledge of him, or a gotcha! to check your observations and what you had missed.
Your hands get tighter, and you pull his jaw open, marveling at the sharp grooves ground into his teeth, like nightmarish, ivory rook pieces, tall and straight in the dry sockets. His chest begins to heave, his breath fogging into steaming clouds over your hands, and, remarkably, it smells like nothing at all apart from pin needles and snow.
You’d thought you’d smell decaying flesh or rotten blood. The only blood you can smell comes from your own busted brow and sliced arm, crusting black on your skin and in the fabric of your sweater as it coagulates.
“If I was working on a hunter’s instincts, I would say that Schladming has become too good at keeping people out of the forests. Even during daylight hours. It cuts down on prey,” you say, ice cold and clean as a slit throat. Your eyes flick back up to the socket, surrounded by the feeling that those glass-blue eyes of his humanoid form are drilling into you. He’s waiting for you to hit the hook. “But I’m working on your logic.”
“Oh, yeeaah,” he drawls, his hips shifting, and you feel as if he would bite his lips in anticipation now, if he could.
“Oh, yeeaah,” you echo him, “the logic of a fucking crazy asshole.” He feels like a huge grin, hands on his muscular, bunched, and flexing thighs. That detail is not lost on you. “You’re hunting in town because you’re pissed off. You reached a limit, and you got tired of sitting on your fucking reaction.”
You swear to god he moans a little. Just softly. It could be a breath, but you know him too well to dismiss it out of hand.
“That’s good, Schatzi. I like that. I like that you figured that out,” he says, definitely panting in rhythm now, his fogging breath giving away the rhythm secondary. “People are looking at you too much. I don’t fucking like it when they look at you too much.”
That’s a sudden thought that had not occurred to you, and you lash yourself silently because it hadn’t. König has always been possessive of you. Jealous. Protective. And he held grudges in ways that could spark blood feuds and successive generations of death.
Like a curse.
It’s a testament to how fucking cracked and perfectly matched the two of you are that you start laughing, stroking his orbital bones in big, pleased pats, kissing the bridge of his nose.
“Schatzi, please,” he groans, pressing into you insistently. “Promise you won’t tell. Promise me.”
“Why the fuck would I tell?” you laugh, losing track of your faculties, your very sense. What does it matter? What does it all even mean? You’ve found a man that loves you so deeply and truly and twistedly that he slaughters those who desire or deign you. You’ve found, and fallen in love with a man that would sell his face to save as much of yours as he could. “Who the fuck would I tell?”
The slope of his shoulders relaxes, and he moves closer to you, once again shielding you with the massive bulk of his body, warming you in the cold air. Tucked under his chin, you can study the soft suede-like material of his body, how the bark covering his arms gives way to a ruff of dense, double-layered fur around his shoulders and his long, muscular neck.
The rest of the muscle on him is horrendously hard, flexed like steel cabling under a layer of fat. There is something about this body that reminds you of the shape of the human one so well–long legs, a nipped waist, and flat hips built to strut and rock, all of it buttressing a broad set of shoulders.
You press your face into the ruff, pushing your fingers into it. Dear god, your hand goes deeper and deeper, and it just never seems to stop. His scent is–it’s almost familiar. He’s in there, somewhere–his musk, the metallic tang of blood seemingly sunken into his skin–but there’s so much more to it. Green, and earthy, almost like soil and moss.
A sound comes from his body, like a house settling. A deep, broad creak. The trophies on his horns rattle together, clinking like dull wind chimes. “More,” he says simply, leaving you to figure it out. Simple enough.
Your hand drops from the ruff, tracing over his convex chest, down to his stomach. Another shudder, and he pulls those big arms around your entire body, a fuller, more protective hug than you’ve ever felt.
“Schatzi–would you let me…” he breathes, a heaving sigh.
Another laugh cracks out of you, hysterical, constricted by your mask. Why not? Why shouldn’t you? You’ve always been a woman that loves monsters. You, yourself, are one. You can’t find a reason to halt your hands, nor your body, nor his desire.
In an odd show of tip-to-tail, you push the mask off your face, and kick off your boots, going for your zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, come on. Show me,” you urge him, pawing at his massive waist as you struggle out of your jeans.
He groans and this obscene trill escapes his body–a low, rattling moan that travels miles through every cell of your body, his legs spreading wider. You laugh in delight and mania, watching rapt as his cock slides out of a sheath you hadn’t even caught sight of, his monstrous body a foreign land you hadn’t traveled yet, but, fuck, do you want to learn the lands well enough to call them home.
It’s heavy in your hands, a little slick, and, childishly, you almost giggle (holy shit, that is a sound that has never left your mouth in your living memory, and yet, here you are). It’s hot, hotter than you expected, and a vulnerable shade of pale, like a plant slip. Oh, and it’s elegant, almost spiraling. He huffs as you stroke the length of it, pushing your fingertips into his sheath at the base.
“I don’t think this is gonna fit,” you warn him, and it somehow feels as if you’re challenging yourself with the statement.
He takes it as a challenge for himself, though, and an aspiration to hold for you, “You are going to take all of it. I’m going to make sure.”
His massive hand comes to the back of your waist, finding your fulcrum without needing to search, pulling you off your knees to hold to beneath him. “You naked yet, or still fucking around?” he asks, breathing heavily, and you shove your jeans off the rest of the way.
“You’re being a little bitch,” you snipe, a dumb swipe at reclaiming dignity after you realize you’re so wet that it slicks your thighs, having darkened the crotch of your freshly abandoned jeans pathetically.
He throws another coarse laugh, haa-haa, shifting his massive body long, pulling you into place.
It’s on you, then, to figure out the logistics. Somehow, it just works, even through layers of physical translation. Under your hands, he reads König, loud and clear.
There’s a brief, flighty moment of terror as you rub the head of his cock between the lips of your cunt, rolling your hips to stimulate your clit against it. It is just fucking enormous, almost half again the size of his human cock. But then you grit your teeth, tipping your weight back so your shoulders rest against the dirt, bleak and unyielding ruthlessness seizing your mind.
You do not back down, you have never done it once in your life, and tonight is no different.
His head lifts, bottom jaw dropping, and he bays as you push yourself down on his length. The sound crashes into you, rocking your entire body, and the stretch burns, but you buckle down. What are the people in the houses just at the edge of suburbia thinking? Has the fucking abberation that has been slowly killing its way through their number taken to a different form of punishment? Has someone unlucky fallen to its new tastes?
It cuts your mouth into a horrid grin. If they only knew that you were no victim at all, if only they had an inkling of the fact that you are a victor. That you are the hand holding this nightmare’s collar, and he attacks for the sake of you.
Inch by inch, a slow journey, he fills you, pressing completely against your walls, body shaking with the effort it takes not to thrust fully into you. Oh, what destruction that would result in, what a wreckage that would make of your body, what lengths he would go to not ruin you in such a fashion.
“Fuck–fuck–Liebes,” he mutters, just for you, the moment he is as deep in you as he can go, most of his length still outside of what your body can handle, pleading, “I can’t–I. I have to move. Please, meine Liebes.”
“Go. Go-go-go,” you answer back, almost frantic, too full and occupied, needing motion or you might split apart into atoms. The way he answers is instant, undeniable, desperate, rocking into you as if testing waters, going faster as if he finds them warm and welcoming.
You lose yourselves to it, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, gripping onto the elbow of the arm suspending you, blood rushing to your head in an ache from the way you hang off him, forcing you lightheaded. Sap-like blood from where you’d hacked at him in rage drips down your arm, your waist, clinging to your skin in a way that feels permanent.
He tenses all around you, panting, clouds of steam fogging the air over your head from his pants. Words escape him, leaving nothing but animalistic grunts, the grinding of his dry, exposed teeth as your desperate pussy sucks him deeper and tighter.
You’d taught him as a human to find your g-spot, to destroy your brain with a steady climb, and he doesn’t even need to search now, every movement pressing every inch of his cock into it, and unrelenting onslaught that makes you shake and nearly drool, being fucked like a sacrifice.
König raps his other fist above your head and pulls out without warning, shaking his head and breathing roughly.
You imagine brutally grabbing him by the scruff and biting his ear–what kind of punishment would that even be, no worse than a bug bite to him, more likely than anything else–for the loss of his cock. Mostly just an impulsive fantasy, too barbaric and stupid to actually act upon, but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, and it feels like hell to be split open against him with nothing inside you.
Breathless–and naked, sweating, and trembling in the woods–you start to sit up on your elbows, cunt throbbing. "What is it? Are you okay?" you ask, your love for him–your fear for him–overwhelming even your damnation-worthy starvation.
König, massive and so dark he's almost indistinguishable from the night apart from his skull, shakes his head again and puts up a clawed hand. Fine, the gesture says, and you’re realizing he’s beyond words now, but trying his best to communicate. Then he curls it into a loose fist and pantomimes masturbating and finishing.
"Christ!" But you’re laughing, tugging at a tuft of fur on his chest, spun out in your giddiness. It’s still him, you’ve already known, but to see it. To find him through this–this utterly new reality. "They teach you that signal in the forces?"
In his hollow sockets, twisting his body to watch you closely, he looks pleased with himself, ducking forward, bracing on his free hand to one side of your head as he nuzzles into your neck and breathes deeply.
He huffs, rough fingers running over your back, claws trailing the parts of your spine he can reach as he holds you, before he taps the side of your thigh with his other hand. At your eye level, he turns his finger in a slow loop. Roll over, maybe? It's worth a shot.
"Okay. Alright," you sigh, relieved. When you try to roll in his palm, he shakes his head and sets you down, pressing down against your body, pushing his arm under your ribs. With his other hand, he gestures a flat line on the ground. You ask, "On my stomach?"
Two knocks against the ground next to your head. Yes.
You stretch out flat over the frost-crisp grass, too hot to even register the chill against your bare skin, and König lowers with you, sliding the arm under you down to your diaphragm. With his knuckles, he taps your outer-thighs until they're drawn back together, and your breathing hitches when you understand what he intends.
With his legs on the outside of yours, he uses his free hand to run his cock up the length of your seam to tease your pussy, but he takes his sweet time with it. Impatient, you slide onto your knees with near-perfect timing, driving your entrance against his head, snarling with indignation when he bows away. "Fucker!"
He rumbles something almost humanoid, between a laugh and a gruff, trilling ‘rrrr’ you recognize as cousin to a sharp, challenging hum he makes when faced with an idiot comment in his human shape.
"Stop teasing me. I can't stand it," you try instead, turning to give him big eyes over your shoulder because you know that it works well on him.
He bends down and barely-barely nips the top of your ear, a startling move that leaves you perfectly inflamed all over again again. Greedy brat, it says to you, so pleased in the fact he is so desperately wanted.
The feeling of him inside you is extraordinary. He lubricates in this state, but you hardly need it with the nearly absurd way you’re wet, slick down your thighs. You wonder if your cunt is glimmering under the dim moon and streetlamps, because he'd said that to you once. Heilige sheiße, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen, could just stare at how wet you get for me forever, he'd laughed during one delirious, marathon session of staying sunken between your legs.
He begins to rock his hips, growling quietly and pleased at the wet sounds of your of cunt squelching around him–another sound he enjoys, a marker of pride, how wet can I make my girl get–settling onto his forearm and pressing a little weight against your back.
He rests his head across your shoulders, burying his snout in your hair, breathing in hard-bought bursts of restraint.
"Yes, honey," you almost seethe, loosening your body, giving up a little of your own iron will to become just a little lost in the feeling of him. You relax your walls in a bid to take more of him, breathing tight, voice pitching up into a plea, "Yes, baby, that's perfect. That's so perfect, keep going. Just like that."
He rocks a little faster, thrusts a little deeper, breathes a little harder. The hand around your waist shifts up to your breast, but isn't dexterous enough to do more than give it an encompassing squeeze.
With your thighs pressed together, you feel as if your body can't stretch properly to take as much of him as you want (and you want all of him, every burning hot inch, fucking him so well that he cannot disappear into one of his miseries where he will not let you follow, because they all live in his head).
He ratchets back his speed, tries a new motion with his hips. He rolls instead of thrusting, a more fluid movement, brushing your insides in new ways that leave your swollen clit screaming for attention and your eyes watering. You breathe in ragged pants, fingers digging into the turf over your head, trying not to rip it with the force of your grip by the fistful.
You might cum. You might cum. You want to cum, and you might, and he's so much deeper now, panting hot as fire against your shoulders. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench and dance, his horns cutting the air in swipes of agitation above you, and he is so much this way. König: bigger, sometimes bloodier, but always so, so amplified.
"Honey, honey, honey," you whine in a chant under your breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to encourage him. You squeeze your thighs together for the extra stimulation, but you know you’re going to orgasm from him alone, no extra assistance needed. You’re just greedy, you just want it all, but you want him the worst.
When he pulls out this time, you snarl loud and gnash your teeth, digging your dirt-packed nails into his unyielding skin. You were full to the brim and on the wire-edge of climax, and he is so suddenly fucking gone it's almost as abrupt as violence.
"KÖNIG!" you shout, his callsign cutting from between your teeth like the desire to slit a throat, shattering the quiet around you both, reeling to find him with your burning eyes.
He collapses onto his side, cock jumping and leaking, and he whines deep in his throat, pulling at you with the flat of his hand. Your thigh, then his hip, your chest, then his–more hand signals, a story-told like a man with a sucking chest wound needing saving. He snakes his arm under you again, whining growing deeper, and you understand.
You roll, throwing your thigh over his hip, tucking tight against his chest. You give yourself one second of feeling cool air against your overheated pussy before you take him in hand and direct him home, and his deep, slick slide into you knocks the air out of your lungs like a punch to the solar plexus.
You’re only seconds away, and he can't be much farther, driving his head under yours to give you something to rest on that isn't the ground.
You don't utilize his offering, craning your neck as if you'll somehow get a glimpse of your connection from this angle–flat against him from belly to breast, resting your cheek and forehead against his heaving chest. His whine turns into a series of small, strangled howls and gasps as your voice crawls from whimpering to keening.
You’ve known you were going to cum, but you’re still somehow surprised with yourself at how quickly it's raced up, and how overwhelming it feels like it's going to be. You feel like you’re going insane.
His other arm wraps your ribs, too, squeezing you to him like you’re the only thing in the world worth keeping close, and damn him for it. You don't know why, but damn him.
"Cum, baby, cum," you instruct, gasping when you aren't clenching your teeth. You curl close to him, as close as your body will allow, spreading your legs as wide as you can. You drive back down into his thrusts, giving as much of yourself as you can, taking as much of him as you’re able.
You want it all–everything–every little bit of blood and bone that's built him into a home he offers only to you. "Cum in me. I'm ready, I want you to cum," you demand, finding it truer than true, finding yourself right on the razor-edge.
The command is all it takes. Three hard thrusts, and he's buried in you to the base, punching the wind out of your lungs, and filling you to the point of what feels like impossibility with his spend. It forces you to finish as well, lighting you up like a lightning storm, swallowing him deeper as you cum and cum like you'll never be able to stop, soaking the both of you.
You gasp a raw-throated howl, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and you praise him as his cock kicks and kicks, emptying everything he's got to give into you.
A pressure builds inside you, beginning nearly unpleasant, until something just gives and his knot anchoring him to you feels right.
It feels special and dazzlingly intimate, and you’re boggled, again, with the knowledge you’re the only person in the world that he's ever shown himself to this way. It’s just a thing you know in your marrow, an immutable truth, like the sun setting in the west, or the cruelty of witches without their wants.
You wind down, sweating and panting and filthy in each other's arms, and you rock against him, holding him inside, clenching around him what little you can. You feel so wonderfully safe, so immaculately powerful, so stupidly, crazily, fantastically in love.
When your combined breathing evens, and the knot between you retreats, you groan when König shifts back into his human form, but only for the resituating you both have to endure.
The body against yours is familiar again, and you’re dreadfully sleepy, though you want to clean yourself and eat. You crave something raw, something bloody. You hunger the way an animal hungers after a hard fuck. His spend drips out of you now that his cock's returned to normal, and it forms a trail of cooling wet down the crease where your thigh meets your ass.
You feel lovely.
König laughs, rough and spent, tucking hair out of your face and kissing your closed eyelids. "Holy fucking shit, Schatzi," he marvels, looking at you like you are the only god that has ever mattered.
Your smile cuts sharp, and your fingers find his pulse point, tracing it thoughtfully. “You hungry? I bet you're fucking starved,” is all you say in return, eyes trailing the way his hand finds the charm bracelet newly returned to your wrist, touching it like a token.
It’s late and dark when you both manage to stumble your way back to your rental. He stays close, needy and soft, his hand on your hip, tugging you into his body when he can, careful of not knocking into the big, silver knife you’d placed back in the scabbard on your belt.
The hood is back on his head, rolled up to his nose, and his split mouth kisses against your neck and behind your ear, his eyes closed like he endures a waking dream. You, in your own filthied mask again, allow it, craning your neck to give him more room, anchoring him with an arm around his waist in return.
It is late now, and the neighborhood is silent. Again, you wonder what the quiet lives inside must be thinking–whether they think the crimes have increased into a new field of brutality, if they are fearing and wondering what body parts they will find at the treeline come dawn.
You know they will not leave the safety of their homes to investigate. They would be stupid to do something like that.
“That shower is going to feel so goddamned good,” you mutter, unlocking your door, and he nods against your skin.
“Oh, yeeaah,” he says, and the familiarity of the phrase makes you hum a laugh, shutting your eyes as you push through the threshold. "Get that blood off your skin before it stains. Your poor face, your poor arm. Poor Schatzi."
He splits off from you with a facsimile of a kiss–your masks pressing together at the mouth–and he pinches your ass before he takes off to the kitchen, his stomach growling, not even bothering to take off his boots.
You, however, kick off your shoes, and pull together clean clothes, heading toward the bathroom in the hall, the one with the big shower, in case he decides to join you.
Sleepy and content, you listen to his boots move heavily over the kitchen tile, the sound of the fridge door hissing snickt as he pulls it open, and shoves things around in his search for food. You nearly sway up to the closed door–why is it closed, you barely manage to wonder–your eyelids lead-weighted.
It takes only one thing to make them snap open wide, your back going ramrod straight. A dark smear, curling around the knob, around the edge of the door where it seams to the jamb.
Cold grips your lungs, sending your heart galloping painfully in the cage of your ribs, wondering if it really is copper you smell, or if it is a trick of your mind. The hall is too dark to tell if the swipe on the white door is red or black–if it is blood, if it is König’s or yours.
There is a presence at your back, and enormous hands on the door on either side of your head, so fast you cannot tell if you were even able to blink before you saw his wide, scarred, and knuckle-broken limbs spreading wide across the wood.
Your hand finds the grip of the knife, looking at the brutal gouges you had hacked into his forearm earlier in the night, and you are thinking faster and harder than you ever have in your life, realizing in a terrible microsecond that you will have to make a decision–that you will have to choose what reality you are willing to live with, or that you are simply mistaken.
Either way, you are moments from learning.
“Something wrong, Schatzi?” your boyfriend’s familiar voice asks, low and raspy, hot against the nape of your neck.
The laugh in his tone is cruel, and you can’t tell whether it belongs to König, or something pretending to be him.
tag-list: @alittleposhtoad @bitchoftoji @dotcie @kastlequill @miyabilicious @moths569 @parttimeprophet @pssytrux <3
#hauntedhoedown#konig#könig#call of duty#cod mw2#mw2#konig mw2#konig call of duty#konig x reader#konig smut#my work
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one more fem!reader, 2.9k
“You are truly selfless, Astarion. Ilmater in the flesh.”
He rocks her slightly. Kisses her small head.
“Don’t listen to your mother, darling. If you’re alone in your perfection you’ll be fighting off every eligible hand in Faerûn when you’re bigger. Wouldn’t want that burden solely on you now, would we?”
-
Your home is quaint. Astarion continues to insist it isn’t busy enough.
astarion x fem!reader
word count: 2.9k
a/n: this is VERY FLUFFY and VERY SMUTTY. VERY, VERY SMUTTY. ALSO VERY FLUFFY. breedy stuff, graphic descriptions, milkers, basically filth. read parts one, two, and three respectively but can probably be read alone. afab reader.
Your home is quaint. Astarion continues to insist it isn’t busy enough.
Not enough chaos, he argues; sipping from a glass as a king may a chalice, ruminating, swilling; tipping his head from side to side in measured consideration, often with youngling in one arm as you talk late into the early hours. Incense clouds you in a rich haze of ashy whirls.
How perfect would it be if we could both hold one? Or even two in tandem?
“Just think. If we continue now, they’ll all have left sooner. More time for us.” He reasons with an airy gesture, a satisfied smile.
You hum
“If we’re arguing along those lines then there’s certainly a case to be made for no more now, don’t you think?” You whisper, running a finger down the infant’s cheek as he holds her.
Astarion sighs. Looks down at the small gurgling thing in the crook of his arm with a quiet grin, too lovestruck to have any real belief in your rebuttal.
You sit in a huddle on the lounger, blankets swallowing the three of you. He keeps her close while you work inroads into a book you’ve been meaning to read since before she was born. The open shutters across the room give a perfect view of the speckled night sky.
He’s genuinely proud. Smiles like an idiot. Often forgets the frightfully draining toll that your pregnancy and her subsequent birth took on you when he waxes lyrical to his patriars about his plans to expand the brood as soon as possible. The women tend to look straight your way with a relatable pity.
On occasion he even has the tendency to talk like he had a real part in any aspect of her nine month gestation beyond conception, which you’ll remind him fast with a sharp elbow that he certainly did not.
He’s an idiot. A beautiful one, but an idiot nonetheless.
“But look at her! She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. We can’t simply deny the world more of this. It’d be criminal. ’
He turns and presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
‘I’m past that now, obviously; so I do feel my bare minimum, most humble contribution to society can be in the spreading of our perfect genetics throughout the whole of Toril.”
His hand lifts as if in visualisation. You paw it back down, eyes returned to the pages.
“You are truly selfless, Astarion. Ilmater in the flesh.”
He rocks her slightly. Kisses her small head.
“Don’t listen to your mother, darling. If you’re alone in your perfection you’ll be fighting off every eligible hand in Faerûn when you’re bigger. Wouldn’t want that burden solely on you now, would we?”
You scoff with a smile.
“That’s if any of them are able to get remotely close with you lurking about, love.”
He grimaces in good humour and tilts his head once more. Clicks his tongue.
“We’ll cross that barrier when we come to it, I’m sure.’
Gently he shuffles even closer to you, leaning to smatter your candle-warm face in a surprise flutter of giddy kisses. Eyes soft, unhindered.
This may just be the most gooey you’ve ever seen him.
‘You are right, though. I am missing the gory beauty in a good pile of viscera. I don’t necessarily see that fading in the coming decades.”
“I am always right.”
Astarion brushes a wayward hair down by your ear and gives one last kiss.
“That you are, my dear. Always.”
-
His sentiment rattles in your head for a while. Sitting in the shop with babe in arm, balancing the books while he trances back home, you find yourself driven to wreck by the unholiest visions of him.
Burning heat. Underclothes missing.
Fingers ghost the burgeoning swell under your immaculate dress skirt.
Molten hot, sticky linen; keening desperately into the palm of his hand as you lean over the counter.
Fraught.
A veritable army of his children born from you.
There’s a charm in the way he pleads his case to you. You’re not one to deny him when he finds his joys - gods know he’s endured enough of that during his life - and you know all too well you bartered on the idea of three that first night.
You think long back to the night you met out in the wilderness.
How scared he must’ve been in retrospect; how haughty he came across. The rake. The rogue. How you’d slept with a knife strapped to your garter because you simply couldn’t get a grasp on his energy, what he wanted from the tadpole.
Astarion. Now every part the housecat.
You weigh the pros and cons in your mind.
Admittedly, the cons list is large.
You dislike delving into your own complications regarding the birth of the dhampling now sleeping soundly in your arms because for the most part, they feel trivial. Moot. So many beings across the realms rear young every single day.
However, you remember refusing to let yourself forget the sheer scalding pain many do.
The days of fraught groaning in that dark sweaty chamber. The awful, awful hunger. Blood.
The paranoia over any possible gaps in the heavy shutters. Asking Astarion to step in front of the window time and time over to check for the smallest of notches or splits, the hysterical fear of the sun coming into contact with the infant. Both breaking into tears from sheer exhaustion and heightened tension more times than you can recall.
The blood from your womb. Rancid. He later assured that if anything it was a genuinely indulgent smell; but to you it smelled of rot. Decay. White sheets covered in brown spidery spatters.
Then the relief. Unbridled. Wailing and wailing and wailing.
A part of you enjoys it. He knows you do. The quiet dominance carrying his child implies; the lifelong commitment it ensures.
And her.
The love of your life. Small and warm and breathing yet coloured with the pallid tones of her father. Reddened eyes, pointed ears. When she latches you now feel the sharp pins of burgeoning fangs.
He gave her to you. He gave you a life of normalcy; where the prospect of a future is real, as opposed to a far-flung hope shared over a bottle of cheap ale. Devastatingly beautiful, life-ruiningly stupid; and all yours. You had to teach him how to use a kettle, for Lathander’s sake. You still want him to fuck you, even after that.
But you love him. Ridiculous as it is, that love is more than enough. More than you ever hoped your lot in life to be.
If he wants you to give him babies, he can have babies. You want babies, but only if they are, indeed, his.
You sigh with a content resolve. Though life is long, these moments feel shorter and shorter.
Your home together will never see hazy stasis again.
-
The moment dusk begins to blossom you head home in new rain.
You whip through the door after balancing the close of your parasol with the carrier, satchel forgotten in the entryway and shoes quickly slipped under the bench. The wind outside whips furiously against the shutters and the unending downpour of rain threatens to encroach on your worn terracotta tile.
You carry the youngling carefully up the stairs as Astarion calls after you and place her in the cot, planting a firm kiss on her head and watching for a few moments until she settles.
He’s still sat whining in the den when you descend and turn the corner.
Glasses balanced on his nose, cross legged and covered in patchwork throws. Book balanced on one leg.
“What have you done to her? Why can’t I see her-’
You flit to him and close the book while he continues to protest loudly, placing it onto the carpet and sitting snugly in his lap. Legs astride his thighs, calves wrapping around his waist. Glasses placed on the sill.
‘What have you done?! Answer me woman!” He shrieks as you laugh, bringing his hands to your own waist and holding you tight. Shaking you up and down on his thighs like a bottle of Soldier’s Champagne. Eyes wide as yours in fresh glee.
“I love you. I love you.” You murmur through giggles, pressing your forehead to his. He laughs loudly.
“I love you too! But where is my daughter?!” He is taken aback in the most pleasant of ways - mouth wide in a clueless grin, brows furrowed. Puzzled.
You still in a wide smile.
“You saw me take her upstairs! She’s fine! Idiot!”
“Okay! Brilliant! Why-’
He gestures up and down at your bubbling form.
‘Why this!?”
You lean into him once more - not missing the way his eyes blow out when looking at your joyous lips - and bring him straight by the lapels before pulling him in for the deepest kiss you can give. Hungry, jubilant; life-worn and yet happy. So incredibly happy.
“What in the hells is going on?!” He laughs into your mouth between the little kisses you press to his lips in quick succession, cupping his face in your hands then wrapping your arms over his shoulders.
“Another one. Let’s do it.”
It takes him a few moments of blankly staring with the same wide smile plastering his face.
“What?”
“Another little child thing. With you. With me. Ours. Yes?”
It almost looks as if Astarion is going to crumble under the weight of your words.
The same stupid smile, unchanged. Eyes on the precipice of an incredibly serious emotion entirely dependent on your next words.
“Really?”
“No.”
“What?”
You shake your head and laugh.
“Of course really. Really really.”
Every single part of him switches alight. He bounces you in his lap once more and you see it in him. The joy. The plan coming to fruition. His stupidly reverent love for you and the dhampling asleep upstairs, the many ways in which he wants to see just how full the heart can grow with each one.
“Really really really?”
His voice drops to a low whisper. The honey tone. Dulcet and laced with ribbons of clandestine hope.
You roll your eyes fondly.
“Really really, really, really.”
-
Shirts delicately washed ruffle by intricate ruffle hanging beside the wood stove in the glass-room. Hands fresh of suds. Towel dried, oat balm. The faintest whiff of Noblestalk.
You smile knowingly.
“She’s asleep?”
You whisper a whine; crawling forward on the counter with your elbows, panting, intuitively angling at where you anticipate him once he sees you.
“Not for long, I-’
Astarion’s voice spasms on seeing the subtle shake of your hips. The reverberation of your ass.
‘I think.”
A growl.
“Quick. Now.”
He bunches your skirt at your waist by the hem and loosens the soft ties of his night trousers. Presses his newly freed cock flush against the pillow of your ass and reaches around your front to run icy fingers down the centre of your already keen wetness. A fire tool, a glacier, the hiss-relief of his incendiary touch as his hips curl up into your core.
“Bend over. Keep that skirt up.”
Your underclothes are tugged unceremoniously to the floor as he kneels, lifted leg-by-leg from you and shimmied aside. Lifts his perfect head under the front of your houseskirt and his nose unexpectedly pressures your clit, his forehead resting into the flesh of your pubic bone as he licks a wanton stripe along your sex. Affixes his lips around your sodden hole and indulges himself in tongue fucking you for a brief minute, savouring ever drop of your lust-hazed salt. Your back arches and you wish for not a single thing than to suffocate him between your burning thighs as he gives you the most immense pleasure with that infamous mouth.
Not now. He would probably cry.
Wasted opportunity.
Wasted opportunity to fuck you full of his cum.
Every chance you’re fertile is one he wants his cock filling you to the very hilt, rocking shallowly against the very barrier of your cervix just so he can be sure every last drop carries, to impregnate you once more.
His hand - pooling with your free-given spittle - strokes his aching prick with learned urgency as he takes his fill from your soak into his waiting mouth.
“Fuck me. Please, fuck me.” You stutter as you buck your hips, fucking yourself on his tongue.
He has the nerve to laugh, soundwaves resonating deep within the attraction of your heated core.
Shifts to take your clit between his lips and suckles, rolling over the bunch of engorged nerves with a thoroughly debauched tongue.
“Go on. Beg for it.” He speaks barely above a whisper, gravelly in intonation.
You can’t see his face but you just know his eyes are heavy-lidded in the anticipatory pleasure of hearing it.
Hearing that you want him to fuck you like a bitch in heat.
That you need him to pump his swollen head to white-hot relief between your spongy soaked walls; to smatter your cunt with his cum, to make you round by his doing once more.
“All the prespill you’re wasting in your hand could have had it, you know.’
You whisper quietly, knowing you don’t want the youngling asleep in her room to wake. You’re seething with pure lust.
‘Could’ve had the fertile seed. The one to give us life again.”
He growls, leaving his latch on your clit with one last long lick before standing and moving flush to your ass once more. He smacks the plump flesh as quietly as he can muster.
“Say that again and I’ll have to fuck you with my fingers first next time. Make sure we don’t miss anything.” He hisses.
You stifle a wanton laugh.
“Don’t threaten me with a- ah!”
He bobs at the entrance to your cunt, soaking his own weeping slit.
Astarion doesn’t waste time with ceremony as he takes your eager cunt in one fell swoop; cock bruising your insides in an agonisingly beautiful burn. His moans are shaky with sheer pleasure. Every one of your nerves are set alight as he stills for a moment at the hilt.
You’re almost sure if you moved even an inch now while he adjusts he’d ejaculate there and then.
“Say it.” He whispers, leaning over you as you arch over the counter. His hand moves to your belly and presses the skin over his cock hard.
The searing feeling of every single inch of him. The ghost of a whimper. Your eyes roll into your skull.
At any other time you’d joke.
But you - at the very hottest moment of your heat cycle - picture nothing aside from the leaking red slit of his cock currently rubbing in the slightest of ruts at the tip of your cervix, leaking prespill into your hungry womb like glacial water at the height of midsun.
Your walls tighten around him as he presses even harder into the spot just below your tummy.
“Take me.”
He snaps.
Pulling back to secure either side of your waist in both hands, he starts rutting furiously into you over and over, shallow wet glubs, hellbent lust evident in the cream ring crowning your waiting hole. The crease by his brow as his face crumples in desperation time and time again.
His fixation on your point of connection is unbreakable, watching the bounce of his cock as he fucks it into you; each twinge potentially giving the leakage that gives you it. The thing he desires most.
Another baby.
You’re cresting on the edge as it is. Between your duties to your young daughter, your own intellectual pursuits, and Astarion’s tailor shop; it’s been far too long since you’ve copulated as frantically, as desperately as you are now. Every pump inside you is another closer to glory and your fingers work your clit with the joyous fervour of a newly anointed priest.
He continues to fuck you against the counter.
The press of your heavy tits against the solid wood, the pebbling of milk-sodden nipples through your thin nursing blouse giving the dark oak a parallel run of glossy streaks with each of his thrusts.
Fucking hells.
Another one. Another dhampir. Mother of two, his again and again. Three become four. You will it to be as you watch the milky swirls on the counter.
You’ll be bursting with him once more. The sheer ruin.
The white hot glare of your orgasm comes thick and fast, and it takes everything in you not to shriek in sheer pleasure.
He sags.
Stutters.
Groans silently, aching cock kicking violently against your walls as he releases through the clench of your own spasms. Ropes upon ropes of cum plugged deep at the entrance to your cervix with the engorged head of his prick.
You roll your hips to aid him through his release, rocking a little back and forth to ensure the pointed tip spears every bit of his seed where necessary.
It takes a few moments for the white-blind to subside, for the beleaguered groans to give way to sloppy, soft kisses down your shoulder blades.
He stays until you hear the sound of stirring upstairs, lifting a hand to ensure you’re hearing correctly.
“I’ll go. Lie down, hips up?”
You laugh.
“Got it. Glad to see the doting in full effect so soon.”
One last kiss on the stretch of your neck. Thoughtful. Quiet. He holds you like he never wants to let go.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
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Viscera objectica was an eye opener. I used to be very judgmental of things, especially objectum, but reading it was like experiencing it through the eyes of someone who has felt like that, and it really made me change my mind about everything. Even if I think something is “weird”, I remember it isn’t hurting anyone so I just don’t think about it. I feel kinda silly to admit this, as I am lgbt and autistic, but I just feel like a weight has been lifted off my mind. Thank you yugo <3
You warm my heart, anon... It's so nice to feel heard. It is "weird" - I'm not afraid to admit that, haha. But weird isn't always bad. Thank You, anon. For your time and kind words!
I've heard objectum is often associated with autistic individuals. I find that interesting- I definitely check those boxes.
I'm getting less shy about it, I think. Publishing a comic about it and whisking it out into the void is one thing, but discussing it online right in front of people is another thing -a little scary-. I often worry people will judge without hearing my position, and not take me seriously- leaving. I wonder if I should post my little personal excerpt I have at the end of Viscera Objectica. I'm sort of rambling, but that's where my mind is at.
At the end of the day, it's really about me being in love with art itself. Maybe that's the easiest way to put it.
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Webttore relationship Hcs ?? i am normal i am normal (lying) - 🐓
I too am normal (lying) when it comes to Webttore anon^^
Webttore is the one who confessed to you first... rather gruesomely.
He just held out a still-beating heart towards you before exclaiming that his heart belongs to you. You held the organ in your hands, blood dripping down your fingers as you stared at him in surprise.
He reassured you that it wasn't his heart. You pitied the poor soul that he had to gut out just to grab the organ before giving it to you. But since it's Webttore, you were used to his crazy experiments. Surprisingly, you liked him as well and reciprocated his feelings.
You were immediately promoted as his personal assistant instead of being the harbingers' secretary, he would prefer to have you by his side.
He made you do a blood pact with him to make sure you don't even try to leave him.
He also may have a vial of your blood hanging somewhere in his outfit as if it was a vision. Don't worry though, he gave you his blood as well and you're currently wearing that blood-filled vial as an earring like him.
He would even proudly show you off to the others that you're his partner, he would always have a hand either on your waist or holding your own.
This man has no shame whatsoever. He isn't embarrassed to kiss you in front of others. He would even nip at your neck before sticking his tongue out to anyone who would be watching.
Whenever he is tired, he would be found sleeping on the couch, a book he was reading earlier was covering his face instead of his mask. But now with you by his side, he will just up and drag you to the couch, cuddle you and sleep with his head buried in your neck.
He would push you out of the laboratory whenever he and his segments would be experimenting on a human test subject. He already knows your tolerance for the sight and scent of blood but he wouldn't want you to see him have fun with the subject's viscera. He may be a mad scientist but he has a reputation to uphold as a gentleman towards his lover.
You know how he would always be stressed out whenever his experiments either failed or lacked the materials so congratulations! You get to be his stress-reliever!
There's one action that Dottore will do to you relieve his stress. Squish you.
But where? He has two things he likes to grab and squish.
Your cheeks and ass.
Whenever he would be stressed due to annoyance, he would be squishing your cheeks and rant to you how useless the people working for him are. He would later laugh at you when you told him your cheeks were aching from how he kept squishing and pulling at it.
Then there are those times where he would be quiet and stare off into space as he thinks on how to solve the problems in his experiments, how fortunate that you were there beside him and arranging some documents. His hand would subconsciously grab your ass and squish and grope. Hearing the noises you would make because of his actions actually helps him focus and think straight. He would do it a lot.
Dottore is a biter. He likes biting and nipping at your flesh whenever the two of you were alone. He liked how you would whimper under his hold, all the bite marks he left on your neck trailing down your shoulders would leave him grinning. Your pain is his pleasure but he wouldn't do anything very painful that would leave you to die in his arms, he wouldn't want that.
Under all his crazy and silly antics, Dottore is insecure.
There would be times where he would be staring at the corner and wondering if you would ever leave him for someone else if he wasn't a psycho.
Reassurance is the key to help Dottore.
Always make sure to remind him that you love him for who he is. Shower him in your affections until he's drowning in your love, figuratively. He'll be like a cat, nuzzling into you and just holding onto you tightly as if he were afraid you would disappear if he let you go.
His love languages are physical touch and words of affirmation.
He also gets jealous easily. If he sees someone, man or woman, even placing a hand on you, he would be pulling you away from that person before giving them one of those grins that he does whenever he's about to experiment on someone and telling them to 'kindly fuck off'.
"Honestly, darling.. have you even noticed the way they were looking at you? I'll make sure to remember their face and make them my next test subject!"
He immediately stopped ranting when you gave him a kiss on his cheek. His face turning a shade of red as he looked away for a moment before looking back at you with a scowl.
"Are you being serious? That wasn't even considered a kiss!"
He would immediately pull you inside his laboratory before pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours.
#genshin impact#genshin impact x reader#dottore#dottore x reader#zandik x reader#il dottore#female reader#gender neutral reader#il dottore x reader
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Anatomy of a Hug
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn! reader
Summary: Sometimes, all you need is a hug
Warnings: none
Words: >500
Notes: now that finals are over, I finally had some time to squeeze this short little fic out. Cranked this out in like 30 mins because I just needed to write something and I’ve been dying to.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*
In the cages of our ribs, the fluttering of our hearts beats wildly against its prison in the hopes that one day it will be free. But it is a bird with a clipped wing, bound to our bodies but every so often, we give it freedom in the form of love in which it can soar and fly and fall. For a body without a heart would mean that vulnerability would cease to exist and all that we know of what makes us human. Strangely enough, no matter how much we believe we give our hearts to someone, it still remains within us, tucked away under the surface of our skin and bones and viscera. However, the form of love we all seek is to not give our heart away, but to find someone who will accompany it. For someone to see that bird in your chest and give it a neighbor.
Because when we hug and our hearts are pressed so tightly together, they sing and realize that they are not so alone in their cage. And Jason, who was so deeply in love with you believed that he wasn’t alone anymore, and his heart finally had found someone it could sing to. For no matter what the world had given him that day, whether it be pain, loneliness, betrayal, or love, happiness, comfort—his heart had yours next to it, pressed together like flowers between the pages of a book.
“Hey, hey, shh . . .” he said softly rubbing your back as he held you in his lap. You had been crying for the last fifteen minutes or so, but the weight you carried had started since the sun struck the sky. But that was what life was sometimes, and in seeing Jason coming home, what else were you to be other than be vulnerable? So of course, you cried, because sometimes—no, all the time—it was better to share the burden. You weren’t alone, not with your heart pressed against his.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I promise,” he whispered, rocking you slightly. He stroked your hair and kissed your forehead as you cried against into the crook of his neck, hiding yourself away from the world. But Jason wouldn’t have that, not right now. You could never hide from him because he never wanted you to face it alone. So, when your breathing slowed, and the tension slipped away from your body, he pulled back to look you in the eyes. He loved your eyes. Always will. He saw his future in them.
“There you are,” he murmured, brushing your hair away from your face. “There you are.”
Jason would always see you, in whatever form you were. Whether you were at your best or your worse. Because that was what being vulnerable was—a body with a heart. With your heart against his. It was just the anatomy of a hug.
#jason todd#jason todd x reader#red hood x reader#red hood#jason todd x gn!reader#red hood x gn!reader#jason todd imagine#red hood imagine#jason todd fanfiction#batman#dc batman#dc comics#batboys#batfamily#jason todd fluff#jason todd angst
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Hello! Just wanted to say I love all your content but I wanted to ask if you had any advice/tips for running curse of strahd? I'm working on getting ready to run it with some friends/my partner and while I've run a fair amount of homebrew stuff this is my real first attempt at a legit module so I was curious if you could share anything since I believe you also are running/had run that module as well?
Thanks for asking! This is a very fun question!
I have indeed run Curse of Strahd. It was my first foray into long-term DMing and my team and I finished that campaign a little under a year ago. It was awesome, and I'm always excited to talk about it. Curse of Strahd had be a great game if everyone is on the same page!
First of all, I'm gonna say
Having Experience with Homebrew will be a huge boon
When I ran CoS, I followed the actual module about... 60% of the time. It was good... as a baseline/blueprint. But the reality is that I changed up a lot of the details. Either because I didn't like the vibes of the story, or because the plot points were antithetical to my team's goals. I changed up an entire floor of Ravenloft. I threw away a whole storyline for a major NPC because I felt it was too boring.
I think most people who run Curse of Strahd do this, actually. I've heard countless tales of how others Homebrewed their own meat onto the skeleton, and still came out of the campaign with an awesome, Strahd flavored experience. So don't worry about that part.
Here's my advice:
1. Everyone should vibe with what Strahd IS as a game.
Strahd can be a lot of things - you can Homebrew your own motivations into him, or make him a her, or change the history of his castle if need be. But if there's one thing Curse of Strahd is... it is DARK.
The Venn Diagram of Parties Who Understand That Suffering Can Be Fun To Roleplay and Parties Who Had A Good Time Doing CoS is probably a circle. You cannot do this adventure with a group of people who just want to hit monsters a whole bunch. It's an inherently 'oh my god this SUCKS' adventure. That's the main theme. Your players need to be able to enjoy that sort of game, otherwise they will just be miserable.
One of my players, upon arriving in Barovia, immediately said 'I hate it here' and then continued to say it for the rest of the campaign. That is kind of the catchphrase of CoS. Your players need to be comfortable with that sort of bleak horror and overall misery. It makes the end and the potential to finally end Strahd worth it.
That being said, Strahd can also just be... a lot. It has death and torture and psychological horror in there. KIDS DIE. Please discuss this stuff with your table, and remove elements if they guarantee a bad experience for everyone!
(Yes, you can trim down some of the viscera if you need to, that's fine. But keep in mind it will still be tragic. It SHOULD still be tragic. I set some boundaries for myself, but I also killed a whole town in an avalanche. It happened to be the only town my players had grown to like. It was a dick move. It was exactly what you would expect to happen.)
2. Read ahead - A LOT AHEAD.
For a self-contained world, Barovia isn't actually that big. It's a very small map, compared to some that span continents. That means you have the ability to flesh it out, as it were.
To add to that... some areas are... severely underdeveloped plot-wise. Sometimes there are places your players will go where it FEELS like it should link up to another point in the game but it just... doesn't. There is room to expand there. Use your Homebrew skills to connect the dots that the module doesn't!
I greatly recommend taking the time to either read through the whole adventure OR listen through some video-essays. There IS some cool stuff that comes in in the later game that you can grab and put down breadcrumbs for from day one. Or add to your own story twists.
My recommended resource for this is the Curse of Strahd DM's Guide video series.
...and to that end...
3. Start living in Ravenloft Castle WAY before your players get there.
Listen..........listen. look.
Look at this, and suffer as all GMs have suffered.
Castle Ravenloft is unarguably the biggest, stupidest, most architecturally ludicrous hurdle when it comes to GMing CoS. And I am here to tell you - IT IS DOABLE.
You can understand the castle, you can grow comfortable with it. But you need to start early. Hell, I think I began to set up Ravenloft maps before my players even knew it existed. Then I stopped, because I was scared.. but then I went back, and I.... roleplayed SOLO on my off-days! I set up little scenes between Strahd and others and imagined him setting traps, and doing other things. It helped me understand which staircase led to where, and what floors were accessible from which angles.
A part of me actually thinks that there should be a mini GMs-only class where a more experienced Strahd GM takes some time with other GMs to guide them through a map of the castle. A CoS Learning Oneshot, if you will.
There's also a LOT of talented mapmakers that create beautiful, digital CoS maps! Here's one:
Even if you are playing analogue, at a physical table, I greatly encourage you to check it out for reference. The official CoS maps are bleak and a little bit more... rustic? Than they are gothic.
Anyway, in order to avoid talking your ear off, I will end it here.
My last bit of advice is... to have fun!
Yes I know I just said that Strahd is an inherently bad-vibes game. But it's actually GOOD to let your players goof off now and then. Don't be afraid to let them do shenanigans. It builds character, and allows them to regain the energy they need to role-play properly heavy elements later.
My group did a whole bunch of funny stuff. They felt so bad about losing Ireena that when they saw Ismark, instead of explaining themselves to him they cast Darkness and tried to scramble away. There was a running joke that the cleric was too good to know about sex, so they used the euphemism 'play cards' around her, much to everyone's amusement. They got kicked by a walking house once and never forgot nor forgave. And finally, they defeated some Flame Skulls by putting them into a bag of holding.
Anyway, the point is... have fun! I wish you and your party the best of luck. :)
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BE STILL MY INDELIBLE LOVE ┊ CHOSO
tags: GN reader, shark mer choso, mating behaviour, accidental acceptance of courting, fluff, interspecies relationships, blood + mild gore (fish death), biting (plenty of it), fluff, forbidden love vibes
wc: 1K+
↱ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server — written using @petrichorium’s prompts: “This is… food? For me? I can’t eat this” and “A cloud of blood billowing from a thrashing creature” ↲
Curiosity is just shrouded gluttony. The need to see more, know more, devour as much of the world as you can. Your village elders impressed fear on the young to keep them from treading far afield. They punished those that set foot beyond the borders. Do not leave the boundaries. Do not enter the woods.
You always had been an insatiable child. Restless and unhappily kept in your four walls. The hunger never settled. It drew you to stories of eldritch creatures cast away by God, tales woven with drunken mariner whispers, pages in books quickly torn at the spines and burned. A travelling scholar once told you that the Earth was covered in salt. The sea. The monsters you sought resided there, finding home in the briny depths.
There is a vein outside the village where the salmon run upstream to complete their life cycle. Every river led to the ocean, that much you knew. The first time you crept out of the village had been on impulse. You walked for miles, closely following the sounds of free flowing water until you stumbled upon the inlet. You recall how your feet sank into the mud, grit of silt and icy embrace, and how the oppressive current worked against you as you trudged downstream.
That is where you found Choso.
Where the treeline flanked the narrowing river on either side and rose to create a tapestry of foliage that obscured the sun, in a palatial veil of gold, you saw him; large and angular, a shadow moving on the riverbed. Half fish half man. A long dark tail and a pale belly that blended into skin. Torqued fins, caudal and pelvic, another beginning at the base of his spine, standing proud and tall. Black hair plumed around a gentle face, markings cut across the bridge of his nose. Serrated teeth hidden behind soft lips that tore into your ankle and unearthed a merry scarlet waterfall when you came too close.
Monsters are defined by their aberrance. Monsters are unnatural, wicked and ugly. On your second visit you quickly learned that Choso was none of those things, watching in awe as he drug himself onto the banks and cradled your injured heel. A long tongue too rough and dextrous to be human lapped over the scabbed wound in apology, his saliva numbing the residual pain.
Monstrous? No. To you, he is about as threatening as a limpet. You returned to his neck of the river every day since— rather, every day possible. He is the one to receive your first and last words. With each sun cycle and mark left on your skin your neighbour’s expressions grow more sour. Monstrous are the grating whispers, louder still, the eyes pinned to your every move; endured, only if it meant seeing Choso once more.
A cloud of blood billowed from a thrashing shadow in the dark crevasse. You wait in the mud, cushioned by dry grass pressed flat under your thighs. The surface ripples violently and eventually settles into foam, fizzing out in broad rings. The stillness breaks where a head rises from the water. Red rivulets paint Choso’s chin, running down the column of his throat and staining his gills as he drags himself ashore.
You hold a trepid breath. One swing of his large, muscled arm and there’s a severed fish carcass hauled into the dirt. It comes apart like wet paper, viscera spilling out in a streaming tide. “Eat,” he states firmly.
Choso doesn’t speak often. When he does it is usually just to demand something of you. Give when he needs to tend the thin wounds his teeth leave. Come when you’re too far from him. Watch when he wants you to pay attention as he dives deeper to perform strange, intricate dances for you.
Eat is a recent addition to his verbal repertoire. For some reason he is intent on feeding you. “This is… food? For me?” you smile ruefully, apprehensive as you poke at the dead eyed fish head at your feet. “I can’t eat this, Choso.”
He huffs. The currents break around a too-big tail as he crawls to your lap. You fall back on the soft earth, knees parting to accommodate his breadth. The fins on either side of his pelvis press into your navel. You reach out to cup his face in your palms without much forethought, drying blood now chipping under your fingers.
Something warm and pleasant coils in your chest when his whole body shudders. His gills flutter around a long exhale. You laugh quietly, relenting when he nuzzles his head against your midsection, blood smearing your clothes. Sometimes it felt as though he was trying to dig into your bones.
Head whipping to the side, he takes the flesh of your forearm between his jaws with just enough pressure to pierce skin. The flat of his rough tongue rolls over the wound, blood congealing. Satisfied, he noses at the sensitive skin of your wrist before returning your hand to his jaw. You barely flinch. Choso has done this so many times now you’ve lost count. He steadfastly refuses to tell you why but there’s never any malice in it.
A thought crosses your mind. Your arm falls limp to the side where his own lies. You feel him seize when your fingers enclose around his forearm. Choso stares unblinking while you bring his wrist to your mouth. Pliant, allowing you to shape him as you please.
His skin is thick and tough and so unlike your own. A rumbling purr begins to resonate in his chest as you sink your dull human teeth into him, biting down harder than you’ve ever tried, eyes clenched shut with the effort. Your jaw locks, a soft pop rattling around your skull when the scales break.
You reel away as his blood fills your mouth, sticking to your gums. The taste of copper pervades your senses. Hare brained, your elders called you. Foolish glutton. But in that moment, when Choso braces himself over your body, pinned back to the verge, he dubs you something new.
Crowding close to nip at your cheek, he murmurs, “Mine”.
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In my experience, Zenos shippers fall into two broad camps of how they write him; dog-coded or cat-coded.
Dog!Zenos: "I am your beast, your hound. You who have bested me at my greatest, always shall I stay at your side, my friend. But a word from you and I shall bare my fangs. I will break the world should it dare threaten to separate us, and return bathed in blood and viscera, return to your touch, strong and comforting, and finally rest at your side. For this is how I love you.
Cat!Zenos: "You are my pet, my friend. You are fierce like no other prey in this meaningless world. So long as my claws find no purchase in your hide, I will instead treasure our companionship. I will watch you with gaze unwavering, and you will know my loyalty in this way. I will watch as you eat, as you defecate, as you breed, as you sleep, guarding you from harm. In your waking hours I will bring to your doorstep apocalypses and shattered empires. These gifts, too, are how I love you.
#ffxiv#my writing#zenos#zenos yae galvus#zenos viator galvus#personally I'm partial to cat-coded Zenos#but I've seen delightful renditions either way
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hey guys, and welcome to watchmojo dot com. today we're counting down the top 5 sexiest objects. because as the great bo burnham once said, a really good book is better than pussy.
starting us off at number 5, we have decay and detritus. there are fewer things more erotic than becoming one with something. after i die, i hope to be one with the earth, to be churned by the fungus and fed to the flora and fauna. i hope my open carcass becomes a glorious feast, that my ashes find their root far and wide. i hope my bones are picked clean, my skull turned to diamond in the womb of the earth.
next up at number 4 is weaponry. erotic swordfights. cleaning and sharpening your blades. glistening daggers hidden in a bodice. perfect aim with a bow and arrows. ornately carved hilts and pommels of gemstone.
for number 3 we have the deep ocean. victorian diving suits, erotica in anonymity. coral reefs, countless organisms in structured colonies giving homes to countless fish. underwater volcanoes, churning up food and heat. whale falls, the corpse of a god feeding hundreds. the particulates of underwater snow, shimmering in the gaze of a submarine. a shipwreck, the gutted hull becoming home to creatures who'd never seen its purpose on the surface.
number 2 is the moon. the collective wife of every lesbian. she split off from the earth long ago, and has remained close ever since. she plays an important part in our lives, from our oceans' tides to shielding us from solar radiation and asteroids. the cultures of the world have been fascinated with her for millennia,. writing stories about her travel and her phases. we've been loving her for as long as time can show.
and our number one sexiest object is a tie between computers and gore. we'll highlight each of them.\
computers. the screens we spend perhaps hours of our day in front of. from the carefully crafted code to the thousands of pixels to the purr when she takes on a heavy file, a computer has it all. not to mention the expanded possibilities of a sapient computer. a machine that has learned to love.
and gore. cannibalism, loving someone so much you need to consume them. vivisections, needing to see the inner workings of their body, hold their heart in your hand and watch it beat for you. or something lighter. vampirism, the intimacy of drinking their blood. wound care, stopping the blood with a hand on their chest, feeling their pulse to make sure they're stable, wrapping the bandages around them in sweet silence.
and the two of them together? wires exposed, viscera woven alongside. blood and electricity becoming one in the same. a heart pulsing at the core of a machine, laid bare for your eyes only.
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Probably really weird and macabre but I would like to request headcanons for Douma, Hantengu and Gyokko with a human s/o who wants to try human meat for once and is really adamant about it (but not in a fetishizing way, just like 'I wonder what it tastes like'). Like what would their reactions be if their partner saw them eat someone and suddenly ask them if they can have a bite?
(If the request is too gross you really don't need to do it that's totally fine. I know cannibalism makes many really uncomfortable.)
Douma
One interesting fact about his human is that unlike others, they didn't seem all that worried by blood and gore
He was used to the screaming, pointing and running by most that ever tried to get close to him, but at worse you looked away, and it seemed more in a respectful way than a fearful way
But that is where he figured it stopped
Certain people weren't sympathetic, but you were
Others were monsters themselves, but Douma only found that to be partially true about you
"I find it's just the natural order of things" you would say "Like a lioness hunts a gazelle."
Douma didn't need ethics to keep him from feeling bad about it, but he was glad it wouldn't be an issue
But once when you walked in and naw him chewing on a leg, you stared way longer than usual
"Hello! Is everything okay?" His smile had bits of flesh and viscera stuck between the teeth
"Oh! Yeah, sorry, I got lost in my thoughts."
When he pushed to learn more, he was surprised to hear you were wondering what it tasted like, and had always wanted to try
Immediately his claws dug into the thigh and ripped out some of the muscles, tearing into the piece over and over till it was almost a sludge
Then, he shoved it in his mouth and kissed you
Of course his first concern was that your teeth couldn't break through flesh like his could so you might choke, so he broke it down as much as he could with his hands and teeth before pushing some into your mouth and parting
He swallows the majority and lets you try what little you did get
Wouldn't care if you spat it out or not, either way nothing would change
If you do like it he would tell you to hunt your own humans
Gyokko
Gyokko didn't really eat around you ever
Mostly because you spent your time in his studio and he actually tried to keep blood and gore away from his beautiful works unless intentional
But when he did he tried to be quiet about it
Surprisingly you didn't mind the gore, but you really hated mouth sounds and when he ate it was far too much to handle
It isn't beyond the upper rank to offer you to try some, but you always laughed it off or said you didn't want to ruin your clothes/appetite incase you didn't enjoy it
But this time, when he caught you staring he decided to offer for the nth time
And much to his excitement, you accepted!
Of course he wouldn't give you anything other than the best, so he ripped the heart clean out of the freshly obtained body and pressed it against your lips
Of course it was really hard to bite into, but he let you take your time before pulling it away and biting out almost half the heart with his left mouth
"Oh I love the way the red stains your pretty lips darling~"
Would laugh and prod at you for being too weak if you couldn't eat it, but would stop asking if you want any afterwards
Hantengu
Hantengu keeps to himself when eating, but he would usually do it while you eat your own meals because he enjoys the comfort of 'normalcy'
It's actually pretty impressive to him that you can keep food down and talk to him while he is eating a human
The other personalities tend to prod you about it and ask if you are a freak or something, but otherwise leave it be
They aren't out often anyways
One dinner, you were frustrated about forgetting to go to the market during the day and how you'd only have plain rice for dinner
You wondered aloud if human meat would make a good protein which immediately Hantengu was by your side
"Be careful!! Eating blood like that could make you ill,,,or worse!"
Very worried about the potential of sickness in someone's blood getting to you
But when you insist, Hantengu forced you to cook it so at the very least any bacteria is killed
You make a little stir fry with just that and mushrooms on a bed of butter rice
Surprisingly not bad, but Hantengu wouldn't let you have more beyond that one occasion
He doesn't want you to get sick, nor does he want you to lose your humanity
Authors Note - Please do not apologize because I REALLY REALLY enjoyed this request! I was a horror writer for a really long time and honestly kinda feel the romance with this <3 Also tysm for requesting Hantengu and Gyokko I love them sm... Come back soon, Anon!
#demon slayer#demon slayer x reader#demon slayer headcanons#headcanons#kny#kny headcanons#kny x reader#x reader#reader insert#kimetsu no yaiba#douma#douma x reader#gyokko#gyokko x reader#hantengu#hantengu x reader
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