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#beastly reminder
bruneburg · 6 months
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Beastly Reminder
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freytful · 1 year
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I really really enjoy the way twin peaks has like 3 different tracks that they choose from for every single scene even when the song doesnt actually fit the tone. genuinely i think its very cute
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faerievampling · 3 months
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The Life of Astarion's Dark Consort
Summary: These are my random head canons about Ascended Astarion and his vampiric bride, Tav/Durge. What would it be like to actually spend eternity with him?
Warning: 18+, mention of sex.
After the ascension, Astarion is so overwhelmed with all his new abilities that he is a bit distant. (Think Lazslo Cravensworth in that one episode of WWDITS where he barely speaks for two weeks all because he’s trying to make a decision about how he is going to reorganize the library) This lasts for nearly a decade, but once Astarion adjusts to his new body, he is able to come back to himself.
Once you are Astarion’s spawn (bride), he no longer needs to mask when lovemaking. He knows you will never leave him. Your lovemaking goes through many 'phases', from being loving and tender to beastly and rough. But either way, he is raw with you, and only you.
Every night, without fail, your vampire curls up in your arms, holding you tightly as he drifts off into a dreamless sleep or reverie. He can’t fall asleep without being in your arms, or vice versa. 
You, his most prized treasure, are far too vulnerable during your rest, and he insists on being as close to you as possible, with a dagger close by, of course. Over the years, he never relents. If you two are ever apart, which happens so rarely, maybe once a millenia, he spends the night sleepless and aching for you.
One of the first things he does once the tadpole is gone is hunt down Haarlep, if you made a deal with him. He wouldn’t allow his treasure to be violated and used any longer.
Astarion’s possessive love for you only grows as the years creep on. 
Sometime during your third century of marriage, Astarion stabs the eyes out of (and allegedly kills) dozens of men and women who he deigned to have violated you (and thus, disrespected him) by looking at you lustfully. It takes two decades of you begging him to stop before he finally relents.
Ask me anything, and it will be yours. On his own time, of course, which you have so much of. You become a very patient vampire.
Astarion certainly values your life and his, but not others. You have to remind him, lest he lose his humanity completely. And you, as well, have to make sure you have a tight hold on your own humanity. You are a vampire, after all.
Watching your friends pass one by one is difficult, and Astarion supports you through it all, despite him not particularly caring about them himself. He cares about his consort, and he does everything to make you comfortable while you grieve. This is where your humanity starts to slip, when your friends are gone from your life for many years.
If you are able to reverie, you aren’t able to actually look through your memories because of your undeath. The years stretch on so long, you nearly forget how the story began at all. But you always have Astarion, and he does his best to help you both remember.
Astarion never takes another consort or another independent lover. The two of you enjoy threesomes and orgies occasionally, but Astarion prefers it to be just you and him. Astarion did particularly like to watch you get fucked by other men and women. But this changes sometime during your first century of marriage. Astarion demands to have his consort and only his consort in the bedroom. He ultimately doesn’t trust anyone else to be intimate with him. He doesn't want anyone else to touch him. You don’t protest the decision.
Astarion creates regular vampire spawn, more for utility than anything else.  He always asks your permission.
After a thousand years, you and your Lord are inseparable. You are not to leave his sight. 
He is very powerful, and has become a threat and a target. The two of you rarely speak aloud anymore as your mind connection is so strong that your minds are melded together. Your relationship is beyond spoken word. As Bride and Master, you are unsure where you begin and he ends. 
Eternity is a very long time. Astarion agrees, but he never wants to die, and he certainly will never let you go.
In your old vampiric age, the two of you strike fear into every mortal you come across. You can't help it. You are both so hauntingly beautiful and pale, and your intense mind connection makes most mortals believe you to be...absent. Oh, how the sheep forget themselves.
Yet your need for blood is so small now. They needn't fear you, not really. You now only drink from Astarion, which gives you what you need. He loves it, being your life essence. 
He doesn't let you drink too much, of course. During your fifth century of marriage, Astarion wants you to feed on him and only on him, as his contempt for others grows and his possessive love for you begins to cause him his own bout of madness.
This causes you to go mad, and Astarion is entirely distraught until you are healed. He spends an extravagant amount of money and a long time healing you.
With the last of your friends dead, you forget to view the mortals as anything but the puppets of your Master. The ways of the world as you knew it slip by you. There is a war, Astarion tells you, but you have no fear. You know he will protect you.
You often go into a vampiric hibernation as you sit on your throne during court. Astarion is still able to put on the mask, but you cannot. Astarion wishes you would try harder, but he also understands.
Even after so many years, Astarion’s body craves you. You are certain you are addicted to each other. You wonder if it is a result of your vampiric marriage. 
He pleasures you every night, and you pleasure him; you cannot remember what sex was like before your undeath, but you know that nothing feels as good as when Astarion makes you come. 
Halsin is the last of your old friends that you can remember, as he lives to be nearly a thousand. You do your best to remember his face, but it slowly starts to slip away from you. 
You feel sad about these things, at times. Astarion cradles you, both your body and your mind, and tries to assure you of your gift. Eternity.
Part 2!!
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mayullla · 8 months
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Title: An invitation to a chase
Character(s): Childe / Tartaglia (Genshin Impact)
Summary: Isekai au; It wasn't by choice that you dropped into this game. It was slow, but you slowly manage to make a living for yourself in Liyue. This was not a game anymore. Yet at the same time, you could not shake the feeling that this world had its faith already decided so you decided to become someone from the background not knowing you have gained the interest of a certain harbinger.
Warnings/tags: F!reader, yandere themes, mentions of other characters (liyue)
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When you woke up you didn't know where you were...
Confused by the tall mountains and the beastly monsters that carried axes, wooden bats and shields, the small circle monsters that looked afraid when they saw you and ran away, you thought that they were familiar but at the same time in a daze unable to properly understand anything.
It was almost like a dream that you waited to wake up but... you never did.
It was with the help of travelers and adventurers passing by that you finally understood where you were. Their clothes hinted at where you were, and the names of places were another one. It was slow, but soon everything clicked together. You were sucked into a game called Genshin Impact, and you don't know how to get back.
Distraught you were after you realize that other than your clothes, you had nothing, nothing that reminded you of home or a way back. It was with the help of kind-hearted adventurers that you were able to get back up.
You knew that you were in Liyue and with the adventurers who found you here heading to Liyue Harbor. It was soon that you parted ways with them after they were sure that you knew your way around and had a place to stay.
You passed by Xinyan and Yunjin in their repetitive stages till you found Yanfei, who helped you get on your feet and make a living for yourself here.
It has been a few months since then, and oftentimes, you wondered if you should have even become friends with the characters that you once knew from behind a screen. If you were allowed to be their friend when you didn't belong here. No matter how kind Xinagling and Gouba were, they would always be a reminder to you that this was a game that you played once.
The NPCs that you helped as a traveler, even playable characters... it was somewhat nerving to see them... detailed, their struggles beside their quests that they gave to the traveler. You used to see only part of their problem before being forced away from them, unable to talk to them anymore besides a few repeating texts.
You wanted to help them, but part of you also thought that you shouldn't. That later on the traveler would come and help them which you thought would be far more appropriate than... you.
It wasn't like you didn't want to help, but in the end, you realized that they didn't ask for it and that you weren't the traveler anymore, and that you were another person altogether at this point. You didn't have the power to make everything okay again.
Instead, you just choose to be in the background, maybe a friend to Yanfei and a few others or just acquaintances for others if you ever bump into them yet faceless in the whole storyline you suspected to start soon.
So when you were out in the mountains gathering herbs, you didn't think you would see a certain person with ginger hair and blue eyes who came all the way from Snezhnaya.
He was the one who noticed you first as you froze like a deer in headlights unable to move when you meet his eyes. It wasn't like he was gonna kill you, you knew that even if he could he would not. But that never changed the fact that to you he was still dangerous.
Meeting him here all of a sudden without any notice made you unable to casually wave at the man who did so instead look away as you took off leaving him alone to wonder if he had done something wrong to a stranger. Did his wave offend you?
You thought you would never see that man again.
Again, you mentally thought it wasn't like you disliked him or anything, as much as you would fawn over or like this character in the past... it has been months since you last played the game, and the characters became all the more real to you even if you didn't want them to be... yet at the same time still just characters.
Yanfei would occasionally visit your home when you realize that she had her own problems other than what the game shows. That her words weren't on repeat, but actual genuine interest.
It made you think about the future choices that have yet to happen when Zhongli would choose to "die" in the ceremony... how much panic and worry would strike the citizens but also you. It also made you think about a certain toy seller who would cause even greater trouble and turbulence. The same man who waved at you.
It wasn't like you could stop him. You didn't have a vision, nor were you strong enough to fight him.
Choosing to stay quiet till everything passed was what you chose to do when everything would finally happen. You already knew that everything would end well one way or another with the help of the traveler.
You didn't expect to see him again in the mountains. This time, he was sitting on the grass as if he had finished training just a few moments ago. With how messy the whole place around him was? No doubt.
Hidden behind the trees, you stared at the man who you thought didn't notice you, carefully taking a step back you plan to leave.
"You know, it was quite rude of you to just go when someone greets you."
You flinched as you glanced back at him, a cheerful smile on his face.
You were caught.
"I am sorry... I was in a hurry back then." You tried to make an excuse, not making a move to go towards the man nor stepping away to make a run for it. It would be too suspicious. Tho... he probably already was suspicious of you.
"Hmmm, I am not so sure about that."
You watched as he sat up still watching you, "While I don't exactly think that you are a spy seeing how concentrated you were in collecting those herbs, you looked like you almost like a rabbit frozen in place as if I have come to bite you." The smile never once went down, but it also never reached his eyes.
"Tell me, have we met before? Your eyes recognized me when you saw me, but I don't remember ever seeing you."
You bite your lip as you look away. Were you really that obvious? You wondered, but you shook your head. "I don't recall ever meeting you in my life. It was because I experienced an… unfortunate event with the fatui that I now choose to just avoid them." You told him... somewhat honestly…
Well, half truth and half lie really… You did experience events from the game that almost made you dislike the fatui when you watch them cause so much trouble. But you also meet a few here, and while most ignore you, some could be rather...
So, really, you aren't wrong. You just hoped that Childe actually buys into the story enough to leave you from now on.
"Hmmm… Is that so. Well, maybe you can tell me who it was, and I will go check?" ...Childe was definitely trying to do something here. "That won't be needed." You said almost harshly. You were nervous.
"Now, now. If they made a mistake and hurt the passerby for no reason, then they are definitely at fault for it and would need punishment." Childe raised his hand, the other on his waist. "That isn't needed." You told him raising your hand as if to stop him, "It was long ago now, and I do not remember the person's face, nor do I care to get some sort of revenge."
Rather than a random fatui, you prefer if someone could knock some sense into the man in front of you. Not that you would say that.
You already packed your bags and were planning to head out as soon as you heard that Monstade was saved by the traveler and head there for a vacation away from the chaos here. You saved some mora just for this reason, too.
"Ahh, alright. Then how about this. How about I hang out with you whenever you go to the mountains? Think of it as an apology from the fatui." Childe said, taking a step closer still with a friendly smile. You lightly bite your tongue, wondering why he was so insistent. There was absolutely nothing special about you to warrant such interest like this. "That would not be needed."
"Well, but had I not come here a moment or two later, you would have already been hurt by the hilichurl camp here," Childe told you, his smile widening almost like a Cheshire cat. Quickly, you looked to his side, and your eyes widened in surprise. Of course, the mess was from a hilichurl camp.
"Don't worry too much about it they are all down. While you gathered herbs, I can clear out the place for you, and if there is a particularly hard place to get to something, I can also help you out." Childe made the deal sweet in his own opinion, yet when he raised his hand for a handshake you looked into his eyes and noticed that he still was suspicious of you, and you knew that if you declined here he would try other means to watch over you. 
You frowned at him again, "I already told you that I do not wish assistance from the fatui."
"Hmmm, okay there. I will just be right beside you, not as a protector or anything like that, but more on an accidental meeting." You have been left speechless at how shameless this man was. All the while, he continued to smile as if he didn't say anything wrong.
And as much as you hated it, he kept his promise or whatever you would call it. Whenever you would go to the mountains, he was always there acting as if he was just going to head up too and that the two of you should hang out. Or that time you met him on the way, and he decided to follow you up again when you clearly saw that he was actually going down it. When you change the time you usually go up the mountains thinking you could outmaneuver him... he was there waiting for you.
It was unnerving really how often he followed you, as you would now see him in the market and the streets of Liyue Harbor. "Ah! I didn't expect to meet you here, comrade." Childe would openly greet you while you want nothing more than to look away. You didn't doubt that he had eyes everywhere... he probably placed a spy or two on you if he was actually suspicious of you.
Yet somehow you thought that this was different, that the eyes on you weren't cause you were a spy but something else. Not when you realize that Childe's eyes were always on you, no matter what you do, he was always there...
What did he notice...
It was always amusing watching you search for that moment to scurry away like a mouse whenever the two of you meet. It was something that Childe always took pleasure teasing you with.
You have always been like this except to a way to various degrees even with others but more so with him. There was always a distance between you and the world that he craved to figure out. When he first came to Liyue a few months ago, Childe had seen you a few times walking around the streets. You weren't special well, not at first, while vision holders tend to have their own distinct style. You choose something that blended with the crowd and their fashion.
He didn't really care much, just a moment thought and then to the next topic he had to deal with. But he couldn't help himself but look at you again after he noticed you on the side of the street with some vision holders. You guys were talking for a bit, but Childe noticed that stare you had almost knowing, yet no words of it came out of your mouth.
A few times later, he saw you by chance. You sometimes had this distant look in your eyes as you watched the ships come and leave the docks. Sometimes, it was a cautious look or maybe sometimes impatient, but you were always watchful... waiting. You were always looking for so clues, what he wasn't sure but had as time passed gotten curious.
The first time you saw him, he thought that you would maybe wave back as he raised his hand, yet much to his surprise there was recognition in yoru eyes, and then the next thing you did was run away.
You knew him, even tho he had no remembrance of ever meeting you before he noticed you. There was a certain thrill that beat in his heart when he realized that you knew more than you let on.
And to him, it was an invitation to a chase.
He followed you almost ever you went ever since then, mildly disappointed when his duties call for him as he had to for a short put a cause to the chase. But the more he spent time with you, watching you, he knew that you were definitely hiding something. The knowing look you sometimes give to others when you thought that they were looking, as you withheld information that was just about to reach the tip of your tongue. The look that you gave him, when he talked about certain topics, his trill towards fighting, your eyes told him that you knew something that he never told anyone else other than his close associates.
And to him, it was nothing but trilling. You have become something likened to a prey that he had become found over. Someday, there is this itch of wanting nothing more than to rip you apart to know everything about you, but he cherishes you just enough not to.
It would be sad to destroy you like that, but to be fair, even if he had patience... he could only wait for so long.
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Note: It is his special day so loll
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yokohamapound · 7 months
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POV: You're Fyodor's perfect little housewife and I've been playing with @honeydazai's Husband Fyodor bot way too much. This is Vee's fault. And @amostimprobabledream too, now that I think about it.
Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky
Contents: afab!reader, femme clothing, gendered terms "wife", "girl", NSFW, controlling relationship, dom-sub themes, sex toys
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Fyodor Dostoevsky
The bubbling hiss of sauce simmering in the pan covers the sound of Fyodor's return. Steam from the stovetop billows in warm, savoury clouds against your face whilst you prepare supper. You've twisted your hair up off your neck to keep it out of the way, but little strands escape to curl damply against your forehead and around your ears.
He closes the front door behind him with care, sliding the bolt home. He leaves his coat hanging on the wrought-iron stand by the door, his ushanka on the hallway table. Silent footsteps proceed along the hall, following the delicious smells drifting from the kitchen.
Fyodor likes to sneak in sometimes, mostly for his own amusement. He wants to see what his little myshka gets up to while he isn't home, and more importantly, it keeps you on your toes. You'll never know exactly when he might simply walk into a room or appear behind you, so it behoves you to be the ideal little housewife at all times. It is a role you've taken to whole-heartedly. 
Today, Fyodor is treated to the sight of you standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner in anticipation of his imminent return. His sharp violet gaze is heavy lidded as he takes in the vulnerable arch of the back of your neck, a single tendril of hair lying against your nape where it has escaped your chignon.
An apron edged in frills has been tied over your dress du jour—white today, with a tight bodice and a skirt that flares out over your hips, stopping in a froth of silk midway down your thighs.
And then...then there are the stockings that sheathe your legs in gossamer-thin silk, lace tops clinging lovingly to your thighs. Your legs are turned out beautifully thanks to the high heels that keep you ever so slightly off balance, like a newborn fawn—graceful and lovely and oh, so vulnerable.
That isn't the only thing keeping you off balance, of course. Fyodor is a chessmaster. He always has more than one avenue of attack.
Fyodor reaches into his pocket.
His long fingers curl around a small, rectangular device. It's deceptively simple, just a little black box, with two buttons and a dial. His thumb brushes the dial, nudging it up a few notches.
The effect is immediate.
A gasp echoes through the expansive kitchen. You stiffen in place, clamping your soft thighs together. Your hands fumble, grip the counter, and your head droops like a wilting flower. Fyodor's smile widens, his eyes darkening as he twists the dial higher, knowing exactly what it will mean for you. 
You see, under that pretty little dress of yours, there's a pair of panties in the same lace, bridal-white, that matches your stockings. He knows, because he picked them out for you this morning, then slipped a special little reminder inside them, with the express order that it not be removed.
A paired device nestles up against your swollen, aching clit, buzzing and vibrating without cease. Poor thing, you've had to endure it all day, through all of your chores and wifely duties, the intensity subject to Fyodor's whim, the patterns erratic so it can never be ignored.
This new wave pulses through you, heat coiling along your spine as you rock your hips, trying desperately for release. Unaware your tormenter is standing a few feet away behind you, enjoying your predicament. The beastly little vibrator shudders against you, humming on and off, kept in place by the sodden lace and the weight of Fyodor's authority.
"Careful." Fyodor's richly-accented, amused voice lilts through the kitchen. "Don't let the dinner burn, darling."
Your head snaps up. You go to turn around, but he merely pushes the intensity up some more until you can hardly stand. All you can do is tremble, leaning your weight on your arms where they rest on the polished countertop.
"W-Welcome home, Fedya," you manage, your voice shaking. It wouldn't do to forget your manners, no matter the torment he's inflicting on you. You wouldn't want to make him decide you need...correcting. "I..."
"Such a good, obedient wife," your husband, your master, muses. "Dinner almost on the table as soon as I get home. It smells delicious, my love."
"Th-thank—"
Before you can do anything else, you find yourself penned in against the countertop. Fyodor's hands planted either side of you, his breath warming the back of your neck.
"There is something else I have an appetite for, before dinner," he says, his voice low, smoky, in your ear. "I think you can satisfy both, darling."
The word 'darling' is punctuated by a kiss, cool lips pressing to the top of your spine, revealed where the neckline of your dress dips a little at the back.
"I trust you don't object, myshka?"
Not only do you know better than to deny him, your body is all but begging for release. All day you've been kept on the edge, a fraction of an inch from toppling over into sweet, carnal bliss, only to be denied at the last instant as the toy shuts off or changes pattern. You know better than to take matters into your own hands. Even if he's busy with work, Fyodor will know.
He may not truly have a god complex, but he has you convinced of his omnipotence.
You bob your head, an obedient, jerky nod. Fyodor lets out a low, satisfied hum. 
"Good girl," he says. 
He reaches out a hand and flicks the stove off. He doesn't want you to move from where you are, so perfectly positioned for him, but he doesn't want to spoil all your hard work by letting the dinner burn. How thoughtful he is.
Fingertips brush against the backs of your thighs, the touch bordering on icy through the fragile lace. Fyodor traces the backs of his fingers down the sleek line of your thigh, causing the limb to shake. 
Or it might be the incessant pressure against your clit, the syncopated buzzing that makes heat pulse low through your belly. A soft, needy sound leaves you, one that makes him chuckle. Fyodor’s hand slips between your thighs, tracing along the lace of your underwear. You jolt, which only forces you against the vibrator again. 
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Look at you, his poor darling, with nowhere to move that won’t cause you more pleasure. 
Slender fingers stroke your slit through the soaked fabric, fingertips tapping against the toy, pushing it against you just that little bit more. Gripping the edge of the counter, it’s all you can do to keep your footing. Heat simmers underneath your skin with nowhere to go. Restless, you ache, you crave. 
“Tell me, my darling,” Fyodor intones, his voice right by your ear, his breath tickling your cheek. “How has your day been? Did you like my little love token?”
He brushes aside that straying tendril of hair to kiss your throat, lips pressing against where your pulse races just beneath the thin, vulnerable skin. He can feel your voice reverberate through your throat as you utter one, obedient syllable.
“Yes.”
“Good girl,” he all but purrs. “I hope it made you feel appreciated.” An amused hum. “But now your husband would like some appreciation in return. What do you say?”
It doesn’t matter what you say, because his solid form presses into you from behind. While not the most physically imposing man, he holds a power and gravitas that is more than enough to pin you in place when combined with his superior height. You’re far too much Fyodor’s darling little wife to try and wriggle away. 
Fyodor’s excited breath tickles the back of your neck. Long fingers slip into your underwear, stroking your soaked core. A delicate touch, at odds with the insistent, mechanical pressure against your clit. He tugs the lace aside.
The blunt head of his cock slides against you, brushing against your slit, teasing the vibrator still trapped against that throbbing bundle of nerves. 
“Please…” A needy whine. Perfectly pathetic, and exactly what he wants. 
“Well, when you ask so sweetly…”
Fyodor’s cock slips inside you in a single slick, smooth thrust. He plunges in slow, letting himself indulge in how your walls part along his length, twitching and rippling from the constant stimulation you’ve had to endure. He laughs, an edge of a moan in the sound. 
“Absolutely divine,” he says, low, husky. “Dorogaya.”
Thus you find yourself, teetering in your heels, skirt flipped up at the back, bent over the kitchen counter with your devilish husband’s cock stretching your core. 
Fyodor sees no need to hold himself back or give you time to adjust. You’re more than ready for him, slick glistening on the insides of your thighs. You need this. You deserve this, for being so well behaved. 
His thrusts are deep, rhythmic. Slow at first, to force you to feel every inch as it glides in and out of you, to prolong that moment of desperation before you get what you really want. You can’t see his face, but you know exactly what his expression will be. His eyes eyes hooded, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. Completely sure of his own power and delighted with his possession. 
Every push of his hips presses your clit against the vibrator, until it throbs and burns with the constant stimulation. You can feel it now, that hollowness in the pit of your stomach, the tightness in the small of your back. So close you can taste it. 
Fyodor’s hand wraps around your throat. Not a tight grip, just holding it, caressing your vulnerable neck with his fingertips. His lips brush your ear, cool against your feverish skin.
“Perhaps I should leave you little gifts more often, if this is how I am to be received when I come home.”
The only answer Fyodor receives is a wordless whine. His free hand settles on your waist, pushing you down, folding your torso down against the cool marble, as he claims what he wants. Taking you in the kitchen that you work so hard in. Why shouldn’t it be the scene of your reward, as well?
Faster now, cock barrelling back into you with each thrust as he abandons showmanship for the sheer, hedonistic pleasure of taking what’s his, of using you for his own gratification when yours is already guaranteed. The sound of his low, laboured breaths mix with your gasps and squeals, with the muffled thump of your hips against the countertop, with the steady buzz against your clit. 
His thumb touches the dial, pushing it to an extent that leaves you bucking. Your voice is hoarse, your body shuddering with overstimulation and desperation as Fyodor fucks you to his heart’s content. 
All day. All day with that goddamned thing teasing and torturing you, and now this? It’s too much for anyone to take, and Fyodor knows that all too well. He could have predicted down to the second you would let loose a ragged moan. He hisses with pleasure as your cunt contracts around him, your hips bucking, accidentally fucking yourself on him as you ride out the waves of release. 
The force of it steals the breath from you, leaving you weak and boneless, upper body draped across the counter, barely able to feel your legs. Fyodor’s final thrust plunges deep, sinking his cock as far it’ll go, his seed pouring into you. 
He lets out a soft, condescending laugh at the mess he’s made of you. Your hair falling from its style, your skin dewy with sweat, dress rumpled, his cum slowly dripping out of you. He pulls your chin up, turning your head so he can give you a kiss. 
“I’ll take dinner in my study, darling.”
He leaves you to compose yourself before you resume dinner preparations. You lay there a moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps die away. Slowly, you pick yourself up, still shaking as you tug your dress and underwear back into place. Taking the time and the reflection in the teapot to tidy your hair, dab away the sweat, refresh your lipstick.
You almost drop your lipstick as something jolts you. The fucking vibrator, right where he left it. A soft hum now, just enough to stimulate your clit, to make you aware of it. With unsteady steps, you go to fetch the plates, wondering what will await you in the study.
He’s not done with you yet.
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torgwn · 1 year
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rapunzel's prehensile hair reminded me of entrapta from she-ra and uh. well i drew a bunch of the other princesses in that style lol
la bete's a bit out of place but i wanted to draw her a bit more "beastly" than in her official art
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beastlyinstrument · 2 years
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I've got unfinished everything.
Unfinished paintings.
Unfinished video edits.
Unfinished stories.
Unfinished WIPs.
Unfinished daydreams.
Unfinished tasks.
Unfinished thoughts.
Unfinished life.
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pasteilian · 3 months
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CW/TW BLOOD/DEAD ANIMAL/HARSH COLORS/
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Art Dump lots of Raph
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The Dragon with Raph is the Manifestation of his Beastly Ninpo Raph can take the form of, and control, great beasts to defeat his enemies. His last resort is combining
his beast powers to summon his great dragon, the most powerful of them all. But to an lesser extent he can morph into lesser beasts— The dragon has mentored many hamato men and women and Raph is it’s next student the Dragon has said that Raph reminds them of their favorite student karai (They miss karai very much)
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ozzgin · 14 days
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Would the Yandere monster and reader have kids? 🥺
Tw: mentions of pregnancy and birth
Sure, it might even be an expected duty for him to provide heirs to the royal family. The real question is how pleasant the birthing experience will be. Are they going to be full humans? Monsters? Halflings? If so, which are the inherited monstrous parts? I don’t know about you, but being stabbed in the uterus by the keratinous horns of a beastly fetus doesn’t sound too cozy. We’re going back to the not so nice parts about monster fucking but with realistic biology.
Then again, I did say the mother-in-law is just a halfling. One has to wonder how she managed to deliver your husband.
Edit: my partner has reminded me that horse hooves are soft while in the womb, so the same logic could apply to monstrous hard parts.
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gavvaiins · 9 months
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lonely
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summary: having to carry the future of multiple universes on his shoulders miguel simply is tired, tired and lonely.
pairing: miguel o'hara x gn!reader warnings: angst, pinch of fluff, less actions, more vibes; story's gender neutral but i feel it might be too female-coded? idk ; - ; word count: 3.7k
a/n: yeah ... this is longer than it needs to be. Might got confused by grammar later ... idk while writing i fell into a narrating-style crisis? It definetly doesn't help when the book you're reading is written is a different tense.
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Sometimes all Miguel wished for was some time alone. In a building full of arachno-humanoids, constantly surrounded by either living people, holograms or other species there was sometimes not enough room to breathe. So, nothing reprehensible about wanting some time for himself.
However, Miguel wasn’t longing to be alone.
He didn’t need to.
He already was.
Despite being surrounded by dozens of spider-beings he was alone. He had no friends. Jess was a colleague, Peter Parker was a dear colleague, the best – and what was even Peter B. Parker? Honestly, Miguel didn’t know, but despite all these different Spider-People there was no one waiting for him. Not even in Nueva York, a city with far more citizens than anyone could count.
No one was waiting for him to come home – or to simply arrive, anywhere.
Lyla was nothing but an AI generated hologram, he created.
There was no one waiting for him.
And that was good. No one waiting for him meant safety; for him and for him. Without anyone there waiting for him to return home he could neither hurt nor lose someone. Miguel noticed that it wasn’t loneliness he was longing for, after all he was pretty much alone in his world, carrying the burden all by himself. Having time to breathe, to think that was what he was longing for. A moment without Lyla and the other arachno-humanoids, without having to think about anomalies and the downfall of universes.
All he wanted was peace.
“Miguel?” His body grew tense as your voice emerged from the dark, careful and soft, almost fearful as if you were entering a cave, unsure of what you’d meet in there. There was a chance that you hadn't spotted him yet, sitting on his lowered platform all by himself. Within moments he heard your voice he began holding his breath. If he didn’t make a sound, you wouldn’t catch him, which was a dumb and childish thought considering the lighting of the running monitors, which illuminated his big frame quite perfectly.
What were you even doing here? There was no need for you talking to him.
“Miguel?” You asked. He could sense the hesitation in your voice, it reminded him of the heroes in fairy tales, both brave and stupid enough to enter the dark woods full of beastly and hungry creatures. When Miguel thought about it, his room was a bit like a forest – or more a cave, dark and mysterious. To his surprise the light tremor in your voice didn’t stop you from further exploring the room. If this was truly a fairytale, you’d either be very brave or stupid, or both. Whatever it was Miguel would’ve eaten you alive.
But this wasn’t a fairytale, and he wasn’t the big, bad wolf, ready and hungry enough to devour you. But why didn’t you stop?
Why were you still going?
He was the Spider-Man who hoped not to be found by anyone, especially not you.
With every passing second Miguel’s body grew more, and more tense, his lungs felt strained, knowing very well that with every step you took, you were closer to seeing him. He knew that it would’ve been smarter to swing away, to simply vanish in the dark. But he couldn’t move. Something in him didn’t want to flee, despite his longing for peace and serenity. He was like a spider trapped in its own web, paralyzed by his own poison.
Maybe he longed for you to find him.
“Miguel.” Your voice was nothing but a whisper, not entirely fearful but caring as well. Yet, Miguel kept using the tactics of a child. Stoic and stiff did he keep his posture, eyes on the ground, head buried in his arms; if he couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see him either. Rather he avoided your eyes, your whole presence like the plague.
How did he, Spider-Man 2099, guardian of the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse and destroyer of a whole universe, look like? A mountain of a man hunched on his sunken platform, hiding his face like a fearful child, who didn’t know where to put its overwhelming feelings. He used to be an authority, always standing high on his platform, towering over and looking down on you. But now it was you who looked down on him, a pile of misery in blue and red barely illuminated by flickering screens.
“Oh, Miguel.” He could sense your presence beside him, he could sense everything of you – your pity and empathy was almost sickening. Your body was awfully close but kept a minimal distance of respect, and to his own surprise Miguel felt his tense muscles relax.
Finally, he found himself able to breathe again.
For a moment you said nothing, no Miguel, no how are you. No words left his lips either. You two sat in silence and Miguel enjoyed it, a little – sitting with you in the dark, just the two of you and he hated to admit it, but he began missing his name rolling off your tongue. His name sounded so soft and caring, like he meant something, like he was someone others cared for.
Someone you cared for.
And something inside of him longed hearing you say his name, again, and again.
To his own surprise he needed it, and he surprised himself by how desperately he needed to hear his name coming from you.
“Miguel?” Ah, there it was. Finally. It was embarrassing admit how Miguel’s heart enjoyed it deeply, hearing his name rolling of your tongue. It felt like warm milk mixed with honey running down his throat, filling his body with warmth and a feeling of serenity, of home. Despite his inner positive response to your presence he didn’t move, nor did he speak. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Feeling your knee nudge his thigh, his body grew tense again. The touch was subtle, yet it alarmed all his senses, as if your touch could hurt him. Couldn’t you just continue gently serenading his name, like a sweet lullaby he could relax and fall asleep to? Miguel didn’t need to talk with you about his feelings. He didn’t want to.
“Doesn’t – “
“Leave me alone,” he grumbled, words swallowed by the void underneath his arms.
“– look like nothing,” you said. No answer, and for a moment you grew quiet. He had no idea what you were doing but he could hear you shifting in your seat beside him. Were you finally leaving?
No.
He wanted you to leave, didn’t he? Yes … that’s what he wanted.
But you weren’t leaving, he knew it when he felt your gentle touch on his shoulder. His muscles jumped slightly under your touch as if your fingers were ice cold or burning hot. They weren’t. Your touch was light, careful, like a butterfly dancing on his skin. First came your fingers, gracing his scapula as if you were testing the waters, then rested your palm on his shoulder and despite the highly advanced suit he was wearing, it felt like his skin was burning – a malfunction, an electric shock.
His heart jumped.
It was too much.
“I said, leave me alone!” Forceful, almost feral, he slapped your hand away. Risen to his full dominating size Miguel was panting heavily, fangs bared, talons shown and eyes gleaming of anger … and hurt, and loneliness, confusion. He looked like a beast, tall and furious, ready to strike or devour you.
“Miguel.” He tried not to flinch. He hated the sound of your voice; it didn’t feel soothing anymore. Instead, it was laced with fear, but mostly hurt. But what was he expecting? Miguel had scared you; he had hurt you.
Good.
Lyla would scold him for being an ass. He didn’t want to hurt you, but he needed to, and if that’s what’s needed to leave him be, he’d endure it … and he would do it again, if he needed to. Despite his body telling him differently, he neither needed you nor your pity.
His initial thought was that his plan was working. The big, bad Spider-Man was indeed an asshole, who made you cry for no reason. Never would you talk or even look at him again, which he told himself was fine. But you weren’t crying. Sure, you were holding your arm protectively close to your body as if his talons had teared through your suit, making you bleed. But no sign of tears rimming your eyes, plus, you weren’t leaving.
You were still here.
“What the fuck?”
Why wasn’t it working? “I told you to leave me.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still there?” With satisfaction he watched you thinking of a good response, gears turning in your head, to no avail. Your mouth opened slightly before pressing it shut, eyes lowering to your hands folded in your lap. That was it; without anything to retort you surely would leave him.
Again, the two of you sat in complete silence. One he didn’t enjoy, but need, and surely neither did you. However, he was sure that you’d given up, any second, and leave him alone. “Is that really what you want?”
He looked at you, blinking.
“Is it really what you want?” You repeated, staring into his dark eyes and there is something in yours that scared him. Miguel couldn’t tell what it was, there was no poison in your eyes, no malice, yet he was afraid. “Do you really wish to be alone?”
You scared him, and that’s nothing anyone would ever associate with you. He hated to admit it, but he was, not of your physical strength or arachno-powers. Surely, he could easily knock you out. Rather he was afraid that you’d find something you weren’t supposed to see.
Miguel hesitated. “Yes.”
“I have to.” It just slipped out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to speak his mind, even if it was just a bit. You weren’t supposed to know. But now you knew something that was meant to stay hidden, that was meant only for himself. A burden he had meant to carry himself. There was no reason to hide, yet there was no reason to face you either, so Miguel did what he could best, being alone. With a heavy sigh he crept back into the shell he so shamefully had lost. This time Miguel didn’t burry himself beneath his arms, instead he stared in the darkness of his office, waiting for you to leave. By that time, he should’ve known that you wouldn’t leave him.
Not like that.
“Oh, Miguel.” Again, his name was nothing but a soft whisper, comforting. There lied some sadness behind his name, yet it was all he had wished for moments ago, before he lashed out at you. “You are not alone. We’re all Spider-Man.”
Some incomprehensible grumble left his lips, how should he explain? It wasn’t your fight, neither was it Peter Parker’s, only his. “It was me.”
“I’ve done this,” he said before you could even think of calling him again.
“I –“ Miguel’s breath hitched and for a second his heart stopped beating, stumbling over its own rhythm as he felt your fingers dancing on his skin again.
How dare you?
He wanted to bare his teeth at you, again, he wanted to scare you, to push you away from him, but he couldn’t. His mind told him to, like he used to do whit so many people before. You knew too much about him. But his heart, his body, craved for the softness of your voice, longed for the warmth of your heart. Carefully your fingers grazed his skin, almost waiting for some sign of permission until they could finally rest on his cheeks. Despite wearing your spider-suit your hand felt surprisingly soft on his skin.
With a sigh he leaned into the comfort of your touch, until he remembered who he was and what he did. His head shot up like your hand was hurting him but before he could utter any more words of misery you placed both of your hands on his cheeks, gently forcing him to look at you.
“You’ve done what? Jumping through the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse.” Your voice was calm and gentle, as was your smile. He could barely look at you. “That is quite a complicated name, maybe you should think about calling it spider-verse instead.”
Miguel meant to smile at your joke, even if only subtle, a ghost of a smile only you’d be able to detect and in any other situation he would. But he couldn’t. Not now, when he’d say something so gruesome that would paint him in a different light. However, the truth didn’t want to roll over his tongue, revealing who he really was, not when you so gently smiled at him, caressing his skin with your fingers. Heaving a sigh, he let go, and melted into your touch like warm butter. Was it good to let his guard down? Probably not. Neither was it professional to lean into your touch, almost gracing your clothed wrist with his lips. It wasn’t good but it felt good, the softness of your touch, the warmth seeking through your spider-gloves. If you’d allow it, he will fall asleep right here in your arms.
It was impossible for him to resist.
If only Lyla could see him now … big, bad wolf turned into a puppy.
However, he was left dumbfounded when he found himself stripped of your touch, even more so, when he found himself disliking the sudden coldness. Wanting to know what went wrong Miguel starred at you but nothing seemed to have changed. You still looked at him with the same fondness and empathy in your eyes, the only difference was that you’re patting your lap. His eyes followed your directions, and he grew hesitant.
“May I?” It should’ve been Miguel asking and not you. Though, resting on your thighs was a nice, almost heavenly thought but he shouldn’t enjoy your comfort too much. “Miguel, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s okay.” He declined.
“C’mon Miguel, it’s comfortable I promise,” you smiled, but he didn’t move. Surely it must be more comfortable than hanging in your hands, but Miguel couldn’t let himself fall on your lap. Already he was enjoying the tenderness of your fingers too much, what would happen if he rested on your thighs? Would he melt into them like he did with your hands? The though was nice but he resisted, not for long though. Tugging, basically dragging him by his arms, you somehow managed to pull his heavy body down on your lap. Carefully he shifted his weight, so only his head and upper body were lying on you. He didn’t want to crush you. However, the feeling that spread through his body as he rested on your thighs was both nice, comfortable and weird. Overall, it was a weird sensation and he’d found himself in a situation he’d never dreamed about before.
“May I?” Miguel had no idea what you were up to, yet he agreed with a hum. His eyes fell close and he hummed again, when he felt your fingers carefully dancing over his body, moving from his shoulder to his hair. It wasn’t the same when you held him in your hands, fingers holding him and caressing his cheeks. It felt different but good, relaxing your hands running through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. And sometimes he could feel the ghost of your fingertips brushing over his face.
He didn’t know how long you stayed in this position, sitting in silence, him resting on your lap and you caressing him like a pet. Miguel couldn’t remember the last time somebody did this for him or when his muscles felt so relaxed. Again, if you’d allow it, he’ll fall asleep right here by your side. But then he remembered what you asked him a long time ago.
“I killed them.” Miguel’s voice was surprisingly calm, even to him. Neither knowing what he meant nor how to answer this, you remained silent. But he could feel your eyes on him. He wasn’t sure if he liked it … not after confessing murder. Yet, he explained, “I killed them all, billions of people, my – his daughter Gabriella, all because I was selfish. – Gabby died because I was foolish to believe that my actions wouldn’t have any consequences.”
His confession shocked you; he could hear it in the change of your breathing and the stillness of your hands, and something in him died. Shocked by his confession you surely would leave. Push him off you like something disgusting. Maybe you would never talk to him again, unless it was necessary, and the thought scared him. His mind had told him to push you away. It was best to handle it all by himself, it was what he always did. But the stupidity people called the heart had won and now the thought of you leaving scared him.
“Tell me what happened.” Your voice was calm, not scared, not soft, just calm. It wasn’t the reaction Miguel had imagined, especially not when your fingers continued to play with his hair. You weren’t even disgusted by him. What kind of person were you to not leave him? “Tell me what happened.”
And he did. Miguel told you everything. How he took the role of a dead man, living his life and raising his daughter. He made it clear that he thought of his actions as selfish and stupid, because he erased a whole universe and with that Gabriella’s future. Never would he forget the fear in her eyes, how she clung to him, looking for safety, calling for her dad – for him, not knowing her real dad has died – until she disappeared as well.
Telling his nightmare was awful, remembering the horrors of his action never got any less painful. But sharing it with you felt surprisingly relieving. It wasn’t like he was healed from his pain but telling you about it made it a little more bearable. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”
How should he answer? Thank you? Moments ago, Miguel would’ve grumbled at the pitiful – no, empathic, he’d learned that much by now – tone in your voice but now he liked it, just as he enjoyed you calling him by his name. Miguel didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t think you killed them, Miguel,” you said after an eternity, never stopping playing with his brown strands. Careful he shifted his weight to look at you. Even with one eye lazily opened, he decided that he liked looking at you, watching how you react to him. “Then, who did?”
Wringing with the words on your tongue you hesitated. “I don’t know.”
In normal circumstances Miguel would be grim, and scoff at your naïve words, claiming to be the villain of his story. The selfish murderer of Gabriella O’Hara. However, now he felt rather tame and tired. It’s enough for him. So, he only hummed, closing his eye to revel in the fondness of your touch.
“But you can’t know either.” He looked at you again. He had to correct you, he knew, it was obvious, really. But before an answer could roll over his tongue you were quick to intervene. “I know what you’re going to say, Miguel. You’ve seen it and to you it makes sense, but listen – I … how does anything make any sense? Multiple universes, anomalies, canon events … we shouldn’t even be here, Miguel. I shouldn’t, none of us. But here we are.”
There’s a hint of sadness in your tone, faint yet he heard and didn’t like it. Miguel knew you’d meant to comfort him but, in the end, you’d realized, that nothing of this should’ve happened. You should’ve never met the friends you made in the spider society, never should’ve met him and never found him dark, and lonely in his room. Almost instinctively his hand reached out to you, gently cupping your face. Now it was his turn to comfort you, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. Unsure if he should draw small circles with his thumb, like he wanted to, or caress like you used to do, he just held you. “Don’t. – The multiverse is mine to preserve.”
“Oh, Miguel.” A soft, but sad smile graced your lips as you laid your hand over his, unwilling to let him go. “It’s not yours, either.”
“But it was my fault, not yours. Don’t worry about something I’ve done.”
You sighed. “Miguel, you shouldn’t carry this burden alone, we’re all Spider-Man. It’s not your duty alone to save the multiverse, you can’t do this alone. I – I think what I’m saying is, you’re not alone, Miguel. You might think that you’ve to do all by yourself but that’s not the truth, we help you, all of us. We will carry that burden with you, I will.”
Truly it was sweet how caring you were, none of you could – and should – carry the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse on your shoulders. It was his job to preserve one less universe from being destroyed. It was his shoulders who had to carry the burden of it all, not yours. None of you should ever have to worry about the stability of your universe. But there was something burning in your eyes as you spoke, something Miguel enjoyed watching. So instead of objecting and lecturing you about the truth he heaved a hefty sigh and closed his eyes, making himself comfortable in your lap. It takes some time until you picked up where you left playing with his hair, gently scratching his skin here and there.
It's quiet as you ran your fingers through his hair, he doesn’t even move. You weren’t even sure if he was still breathing. But you swore you heard a hum, a content sound vibrating through his big body. However, when you try to check on him there’s nothing, no sound, no movement, not even a smile. Miguel simply looked like he’s asleep, stoic and grim – just like when he’s awake. It’s a silly though, him always looking serious no matter if he’s asleep or wake, it made you smile. However, in rare moments, when you’re not looking at him, his lips curl into a grin.
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gt-scribbles · 6 months
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I love smaller companions, who are very used to their larger or size-shifting companions, being abruptly reminded sometimes of just how large and powerful their friends/partners are.
If you hang around a giant enough [especially one that usually is about your size because they're a size-shifter], eventually you get comfortable with them. Casual. Sometimes you forget, in the midst of their kindness and gentle-ness towards you, that they can level whole buildings. Crush boulders with a single hand. Let loose a beastly roar that shakes your bones and makes even the earth tremble beneath you.
You forget that a lot when you're so used to them laughing with you, taking walks, enjoying nature, letting you ride their shoulder or in their pocket.
And then sometimes, when they go to pick you up under your arms, you're sharply reminded of just _how_ big they are compared to you. Those moments of clarity keep you humble. Keep you... excited, almost.
After all, life with a giant requires a healthy level of self-awareness and respect. But it makes that deep trust and the special treatment you get from them all the more special.
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bruneburg · 2 years
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beastly reminder
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hot in sarajevo ii
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[ part one ]
könig x f!reader operator (no use of “y/n”) / 7.3k words / NSFW
cw: body modifications in the form of könig's split tongue, references to monsterfucking, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, actually pretty sweet all things considered. a.n.: this literally kicked my ass during the two months it took to write it, and i sincerely hope you enjoy! sweet to the first half's sour, with a little surprise at the end if you read between the lines. ETERNAL thanks to @dotcie for beta-ing this for me, it wouldn't have been half as lovely without you, and to @parttimeprophet for helping me with my german so i wasn't making silly mistakes <3
The safehouse is a two-story, narrow shed shoved between two other, significantly older, significantly more robust stone buildings. A shithole that looks like it was made of tinder and afterthoughts, but it’s as glorious as an oasis after ten miles of hiking east over craggy, stony hills under a searing sun-fall. 
The fading light cooks your back, and there is an uneasy, but needy tension between you and König in the aftermath of a successful and gruesome assassination. Neither were strangers to such orders handed down by KorTac, but you were both experts in carrying them out with bloodthirsty perfection. 
When you’d left the campsite staging area in the center of the forest–where König taken you into his lap and fucked you senseless–he hucked you up on his back and hauled you through the forest without asking.
He was not a difficult man to read, at times; he’d felt bad for making your cunt sore. 
The thirteen hours of broiling under the harsh Adriatic sun in full-body ghillie suits didn’t ensure an easy or pleasant slog into the city proper. After the maniacal fuck that König required to jailbreak his emotional regulation, you were lucky you were walking at all. 
It seems to your eye that, sometimes, he views the world as an iPhone in the hands of an angry fourteen-year-old, and all his ailments are caused by wanting to watch porn outside of their parents’ childlocks. He could do that, and easily, if only he could aim his destruction at the proper target. Holding that thought, you have to remind yourself that König didn’t have any kind of a phone until he was eighteen. 
His parents had been of an older generation and had little interest in advancing technology, and no interest in throwing their scant money toward any of it. They’d continued to stagnate in the past–rotting in a poverty-burdened, filthy hoard house, amongst kennels of well-bred Doberman dogs that were better loved than he–while König had moved into the city and the modern era. But he still enjoys jailbreaking his iPhones, if only because he can. 
Maybe because he hates restrictions and authority. Maybe because they are the only concepts he understands, even as he struggles against them–though he always ultimately succumbs. 
Well. He hates restrictions and authority that doesn’t make him cum. 
You’re both dressed down to hiking civvies, and he’s got a black cotton gaiter pulled up his face. You’re sweating in sheets that cascade down your breasts, stomach, and back. Your thighs soak the legs of your pants, and every stride renews the raw, dull ache of chafing skin. There is not a stitch of clothes on your body that does not cling disgustingly to your overheated skin, making you feel beastly. 
By looking at König, and his sweat-blackened shirt and narrowed eyes, you can tell he feels the same. A shower cannot come soon enough. 
The exfil vehicle that had been waiting after the hike has done well enough of a job, but the closer you got to the safehouse, the narrower the roads became. Ultimately, it has to be abandoned several streets down. Left in a back alley, you pull yourselves out and pop the back hatch, where he pulls the strap of a surplus rucksack over his shoulder. He also  takes yours without asking, and adds it to the weight.
“What the fuck are you doing,” you say, not even allowing the end-pitch of a question.
“You can carry the case,” he replies. What an utter gentleman, allowing you to slug your own equipment, like you hadn’t spent years and years humping full packs across the hottest hellholes on the planet under active fire. You’re too tired, and too close to heatsick to argue it too much. The streets around here are mostly dark, quiet and full of Bosnians that mind their business. 
Baščaršija is a beautiful place. The old town is full of ancient mosques and minarets on stone-paved streets, some narrow, some wide. There’s one slim street in particular that you pass down, by far older than the necessity of wide paths for motor traffic, where the shops lining it are all broad, tall windows, the lights from within warm and softening the darkness fading into the city. 
You pass antique stores, bistros, couples and gaggles of friends crowding around each other, listening to music from their phones, smoking cigarettes, laughing. It’s nothing like home, a completely different animal, but it pulls you in. No one in this city knows that you and the man you walk beside are the cause of four monstrous deaths in the hills. 
You are two strangers, finding solace in hands reaching for hands, a moment of exhaled relief when contact is made by the tentative and exploratory brush of fingers. For a brief moment, you let yourself buy into the thought that you are just a backpacker, finding your way to lodgings with your boyfriend, carrying an odd case that could be anything. 
König’s grip becomes more insistent, a thick layer of dependence in its tight hold, and he looks dead ahead, head lowered, shoulders bunched. You give him three quick squeezes–I love you–and he answers it back with four–I love you, too. You now turn your attention to getting a read on him.
Normally, he is amped after a successful mission, but he was already needy. His jaw is set hard, and his eyes are flat and flinty. He’s looking, but not seeing. You know that he’s turned against himself.
The pair of you had fallen together in a frenzy. To call your fall for one another an orbital strike would be an understatement. Yours was a crash site made home, and the months of settling under the strange, but welcome and cherished atmosphere of a relationship had begun to peel away the dermis, revealing the sensitive nerves and muscle below.
There lives a hatred in König’s soul that often turns inward. Would that he could rip himself to shreds like a sheet of paper folded and twisted under nervous hands. And he does. You still haven’t found a way to break through those walls–hell, you don’t think he even knows how he erected them, because he would also see them crumbled and turned into utter wreckage. 
If you were going to pull logic out of the chaos that’s occupied his body since he was thirteen, you would have to admit to yourself that there isn’t anything you can do. That he’s the one that has to somehow find away to break apart and rebuild the way he thinks, nearly on a molecular level. 
With no other help to offer, feeling weak and useless in the face of his battle, you hold his hand, and you walk beside him.
“I’m sorry,” he says after two blocks of walking. Spits it out sudden-like, not meeting your eyes. His posture is fucked, slumping him forward. 
“Stop that shit.” No heat, you never use heat with him; the man’s been burned enough. “Wouldn’t I tell you if I didn’t like the way you handled me?”
There is a telling pause, you can feel the lie he’s building on his tongue become too big to swallow or spit. He grinds it down between his molars, and his hand grows tighter around yours in desperation. 
“I think you would lie to make me feel better.” 
It’s an earnest and brave bit of truth–the man developed a frightening skill with white lies through his life to survive all of the shit hands he was dealt, and his skin crawls under the admission. But your love is dissection, vivisection: it has given you months of slow, thorough study, and an understanding of what patterns his thoughts led him down to land on that conclusion. 
It is what he would do to make you feel better.
“Lee,” you say, using the part of his real name that he finds acceptable, and only from you, “you know I give more of a fuck about your security than your comfort when it comes to shit like this.”
The blunt admission makes him stifle a wince, but he holds tight when you slip out of his hand to wrap your arm around his waist, his arm around your shoulders.
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The moment you’re through the threshold of the safehouse, the Steyr’s case hits the floor, along with your packs, and out come the sidearms. You and König slide right into formation, clearing the building room by room, call and response in flight like crows. 
He takes the lead, and you follow–as much as he might not like the designation dumped in his lap, he is good at it, running hot with his jaw ticking, eyes engaged and unblinking. It was a barb during the fuck, calling him an insertion specialist, but there is not another soul at KorTac that you would trust with your safety on the ground the way you put your life in his hands.
After the building is confirmed clear, it comes time for your speciality. Both of you are experts in urban warfare, but where his skill lies in blunt force, yours burns brightest in paranoia. 
Paratrooper by training, guerilla tactics by experience, tearing apart the house in search of bugs or aberrations. Anything wrong, anything out of place. It takes longer than the clearing, König helps, and at the end, the safehouse is as spotless as it can be from a tactical standpoint. 
Standing in the attic bedroom, you stretch your back. “I’m radioing in. You hit the shower.”
He shakes his head and makes an argumentative noise. “Nah. Give me your pieces, I’m breaking down and cleaning everything,” he says, holding his hand out expectantly. 
He presents his .50 GS–a literal hand cannon, and a fraternal twin to your own–without asking, and holds it out to you by the barrel. You do not like the way your hand feels wrapping around the checkering on the grip. You do not like that it’s aimed at his stomach. 
You take it anyway, holding it loose in one hand with your finger on the trigger guard, and pass him your P99 and matching .50 from the holsters under your arms. There is sore white all around his eyes, and he is not blinking. 
“Where are you setting up?” he asks, voice tense like a wire-plucked.
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Your initial report runs smoothly, getting in contact with Majka on a secure, encrypted line on the tablet usually kept in König’s possession. For this operation, your call signs are Schakals. Jackals. Wild things, unafraid of humanity. Wandering far too close, with teeth too ready to reveal under peeled chops.
König stays close, breaking down your guns a mere cushion away on the couch where you’ve planted your ass, hips aching and thighs tight now that the aftershocks of sex have long, long faded. His head remains bowed, and his gaiter remains in place. Every few minutes, he rolls his shoulders back. Forcing the blades of bone together, trying to release tension that will not let go.
When your report closes out, and you move to sit forward reaching for your cigarettes and lighter, König jerks as he turns to you. “Where’re you going?” His question is brittle, and keyed-up, eyes darting over your body as you settle back a bit.
“Nowhere, calm down,” you tell him, lighting two cigarettes. “Can I pull down your mask so I can give you this?”
He responds in a subtle nod, and you reach for his trappings to tuck the cigarette into the corner of his scarred mouth. König tries to follow your hand when you pull away, a nigh-unconscious tell that gives away his endless desire to be near you, always. It’s a level of wantedness you still grapple to understand–and it’s gut-turning fear mixed with crushing want that makes you pull your hand away instead of cupping his jaw.
You were never told what to do with the parts of yourself that somehow remained soft through the abuse of years. You’re stuck having to teach yourself, and it is not an easy process, though König has helped break an innumerable amount of those barriers. 
He looks kicked when you sink back into the armrest of the couch, until you shove your feet under his thigh, flicking your eyes toward the neatly disassembled handguns on the trunk-cum-coffee table before him, a silent nudge of keep going. 
Some peace washes over him as he cleans the broken-down guns, heeding your urging. 
His eyes don’t ever soften, not that you’ve ever really seen–except for rare moments, when he looks at you, and you wonder what visual information his brain is processing from his retinas. It puts you in a wondering state: curious if he thinks of you in the poetry of weapons engineering, or nuclear physics, or the black shine of blood spilled at night–but his gaze isn’t dagger-edged in concentration. 
Neither would you call it contentment. You know König is only content when he’s burned through all of his bad energy, and all the screaming in his head has died down to guttering, airless moans.
“Do you want to go out and get food later?” you pose to him, thinking back on the smell of kebabs roasting over burning coals overwhelming your memory and empty gut, and he nods again. Neither of you speak Bosnian or Serbian, but his Croatian is conversational, and passable enough. 
“Saw a couple booths doing Turkish coffee on the way. You’ve ever had that?” he asks half-mumbled, his attention unevenly divided. 
“You can do it on a stove, but it’s not the same as…,” he says, drifting, and your mouth twitches toward a smile when you realize he’s moved past the other half of his sentence. A good half inch of ash clings to the end of his cigarette, and it falls on his thigh, utterly unnoticed as he slides the guns back together slow as syrup. 
It’s a bit fun to watch as he pours his attention into the flow of his hands. On the field you’ve seen him breakdown and rebuild these same guns in seconds when demanded. There’s some measure of novelty in watching him take his time.
Your guns are handed back to you, cleaned first and checked over for defects. You slide them back into your holsters, just like coming home as you silently observe him moving onto the Steyr. 
The god-killing gun falls apart in his hands–pulled piece by piece in diagrammatic sequence from the molded foam from a case twice as expensive as your monthly rent–as if waiting for his attention, spread across the coffee table in a way that seems almost indecent to your eye. 
Maybe it’s a situation of projection–identifying with the horrendous and heavy weapon that, just today, took four lives in one of the most brutal ways imaginable. Thinking of yourself in precision machined pieces, willing and eager to disassemble under König’s hands, because you know he will dedicate himself fully to your continued existence and function. 
The Steyr’s all spread out before him like you often are, a pile of components unmade at his hands: unscrewed barrel, its bipod assembly, its scope and sights and grips, its magazine and receiver.You feel yourself pulse, clit throbbing in time with your increasing heartbeat. 
Maybe you should be more open and honest during your next psych eval, if you’re getting this wet over thinking of yourself as similar in nature to a rifle.
This process takes longer, but when König is finished, handing you the cigarette butt to put out, he puts the pieces back into the appropriate slots in the case. He stretches back, smelling like the slick, oily residue of DW-40 and the metallic odor of the faintly acidic oils on his skin reacting with the weapon’s metal. It clings to and pinches your soft palate like the sting of a sweat bee, something you can feel just under your eyes. 
His spine cracks, releasing a hard, meaty sound as the joints give, and he grunts in relief, turning his head toward you. He looks like he’s about to say something, but stops right before the words can gather behind his teeth.
Shit, you must be obvious. Can’t help the pull on your lips as you look up at him, shifting your legs, your thighs pressing together, amplifying the thump of your blood. “Hey.” Stupid thing to say really, but your come-on lines have never been all that stellar. But he’s always excited you, made you feel giddy and frivolously young and unburdened. Like you’re finally able to have all the things were denied as you grew into adulthood, shoved aside in favor of trauma that demanded the attention more.
“Hey,” he says, laughing a bit. He pulls what he can of his scarred lips between his teeth, wetting them, his brow furrowing. “I’m going to wash my hands. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Briefly, there is a twitch in your stomach, watching him go, and the anticipation and giddiness twist for a moment toward sickness. Sometimes, you worry he will leave and not come back. That he’ll have decided that he’s had enough, even with his threshold as high as it is, and he will simply be gone.
But, true to his word, he’s not gone long at all, just gone to the kitchen on the other side of the room, and you are bad off all over again. Watching him bow his head and hunch slightly to fit his hands under the stream of steaming water, soap foaming clear up his wrists, is making your mouth flood and your throat clicking dry. Big bastard, he’s doing it on purpose, hitting all of your buttons.
And the way he maintains eye contact with you all the way back, his hips loose and rocking, his pants already beginning to tent. His deep breathing gives him away, nevermind the fact that he hasn’t pulled his gaiter back up.
He sits back down, turned toward you, and pushes his hands under the hem of your shirt, his palms warm and soft from the wash and scrub. His thumbs knead into your skin, and his lids droop as his fingers tuck into the waistband of your pants. The pressure in his fingertips is possessive, greedy, starved like a street dog. He savors your skin, tracing patterns where he knows your tattoos live beneath your skin, pressing the heels of his hands into your hips.
Your tongue feel like lead. Everytime he touches you like this, it reads loud and clear that he’s holding onto something–someone he considers his. He’s surveying the scope of his lands, his dominion, and, dear god, does he love this country he calls home. 
“Bitte, Schatzi,” he mumbles, leaning forward so minimally anyone else in the world would need a micrometer to measure the distance moved, “let me have your cunt. I’m starved, and you look like you’re having fits.” A wicked smirk flickers over the corner of his mouth as his eyes darken, and his hands grip tighter where they’ve slid to your waist. “I’m probably the world’s biggest asshole, but I can’t stand to just watch you suffer because of me.”
You pull your tongue along the bottom edge of your teeth, thinking of how he was in the woods earlier–sharp-edged and demanding, unrelenting, holding you in place over his cock as he rammed into you over and over, until you literally saw stars and couldn’t breathe. Aggression, all claws, borderline unfit for human companionship, all under a soft gold sunset. And, here, you still would not say the man before you is a different man at all. He’s just König. He’s just Leopold Königsbacher, from Schladming, Austria, who juggles kitchen knives to make you laugh.
“You just wanna sink down there til you grow gills or something?” you ask, a bedroom, sliding your leg into his lap, soaking up the look of relief on his face. His hands slide farther down, cradling the swell of your hips, as you undo your belt and zipper, pushing your pants and boxers down. 
He helps pull them down as far as either of you can, looking fucking ridiculous as your clothes can’t go farther than your boots. Doesn’t pay to take them off, no matter how long you’re going to be here, you might have to run, and it’s easier to keep everything within pulling distance. 
Flicking his eyes over your body, a small, caught-out smirk touches his lips. “Hah. Yeah, jawohl. Would live between your fucking legs, if I could.” His hips roll against nothing, rubbing his hard cock against the strain of his pants. You know there’s an anxiety in him that screams to fuck and to fuck now, and it’s raising its head. 
König has the sort of anxiousness where if the things he desires do not happen immediately, they will not happen at all. His mind works in such a way that even small things become so desperately escalated into needs, he can hardly function without answering those demands.
On the best of days, you’re not much for words, and he has no natural talent for them–he can talk at screeching speeds, expelling high levels ideas that are baffling or frightening with ease, but his delivery is lacking, and leaves his listeners shifting uncomfortably or looking for exits. You, on the other hand, are simply not good at them. Too cold, too strange. Too blunt, or removed. But König understands you as you understand him, and he coaxes sweet nothings out of you more than anyone else has ever managed.
Despite the sweetness that spills from your lips being an understood language between you,  none of your words are the soft, looping things most would like to hear muttered into their skin. In the bedroom-dark safety of bodies-meeting-bodies, you and König still snap out the sounds of predators, and anyone scenting as prey would fail to find the beauty in your phrases as he does. 
And, beyond that, you’re not sure you could even find words. Not with him towering over you between your legs, though he bows lower. Not with the light from the kitchen behind his head hitting the wheat-colored curls escaping from his hair tie, illuminating him like a saint. Lord, he looks like dreams you used to have. 
You reach for his neck, and you tug him down, permission passed without even parting your lips, and the relief that relaxes his eyes is colossal. Like he’s walking his way home in the dark on a path he would know blind and numb, he finds his way to your cunt with the ease of muscle memory. 
But König is still König, and his anxiety will always outweigh his softness tenfold. He lets out this nervous, pitchy hyena laugh of excitement. Not waiting for permission and not giving a second of preamble, he licks you from asshole to clit in a broad, wet swipe with his long, split tongue.  
Electricity shoots straight up your spine. Almost immediately, he buries back in, massaging the halves of his tongue around your clit like he’s painting in brush strokes. 
He ropes an arm around your leg and over your pelvis, weighing you down, and fits his free hand into the crease where your thigh meets your hip. Using that as extra leverage, he pulls himself further in, and pushes your legs further back–hobbled as they are by your clothing around your ankles. Your skin burns like an oil derrick in flames every spot you’re touched, and his mouth is volcanic; you only just this moment realizes how badly you needed to thaw.
You were a barracks bunny before König and your mutual, supermassive possessive streaks; always easy to put out, wet on your own command, perpetually bored and looking for fun stolen minutes at a time. You can easily say sex is a sorely jaded topic in your roster. 
But, holy fuck, every time he hits his knees to devour you feels new, and alien, and strange. 
Not only his tongue—practiced, clever thing it is now that he’s been able to take his natural talent for it to use with you, drawing figure eights and pinching and pulling at you, teasing your hole and your clit at once—but his utter, sustained greed pitched against his plain desire to serve. How he gets more focused and desperate, sucking on your lips, groaning into you, sounds become wetter by the second. 
“Pretty, fuck, your pussy’s so pretty,” he mutters, panting, pausing to kiss your seam. Between your cunt and thigh, your perineum, making you squirm and whine. His dogmatic fervor has always been borderline chilling–you’ve never been handled with this level of desire, or needed so fiercely you function akin to air that is needed to live. 
No one has ever loved you this way–no one before him. If you could wrap the threads of fate around your forearms like the reins of horses, to exert your horrid and steely control over them, he will never have a successor. 
It will always be only him.
You reach down and grab him by the hair at his temples, which you’ve never ceased to be charmed to find is gray before his years. “Fuck me—with your tongue, right now,” you command him, and he complies, only reaching up to hook his thumb in your shirt and bra to ruck them up over your breasts. 
The instant stretch makes you dizzy, squeezing your thighs tight around his head. Don’t his cheekbones just cut right into your muscle, and doesn’t he just moan and heave a whole body shudder under you?  Greedy fucking man, pushing his tongue deeper, scissoring the halves of it wide in all directions, curling against your walls as he finds an angle for his neck that fits him to thrust in and out of you. Feasting, feasting, feasting.
It’s a fullness you’ve only recently gotten used to with him–too much dexterity, too fluid and swirling, and it reminds you shamefully of all the times you’ve masturbated to the point of wrist-aches with tentacles, and aliens, and monsters on your mind. Fevered, otherworldly, inhuman beasts dying of desire, with the sparkling-sharp sentience to know exactly how to slake their thirst and sate their hunger. 
His hands grip tighter, nails digging into your flesh, and you know it’s going to leave bruises, but you don't care. It only gets better when he cracks his eyes, a picture of anguish and ecstasy, moaning deep and rumbling in his chest. 
It seems he brings himself under some form of control. His mouth turns pliant, and the way he tastes you turns indulgent, slow. The only man you’ve ever met who could self-soothe by eating pussy. And, shit. Doesn’t that work out perfectly for you.
Your hands soften, brushing over his tied-back hair, playing with loose ringlets. Staring down at him, watching the creases fade from his forehead and from around his scars, he looks satisfied, and at peace. It’s a look you’ve seen only rarely, not even in his sleep. 
He sighs and groans, kneading your thighs, when he makes you come on his tongue, sliding it in and out of you as lazy as late, humid afternoons; rumbling deep in his throat when you arch off the cushions, groaning and clenching your thighs to keep them from squeezing around his head again.
“Aw, fuck, Kö—,” you half-whine, making him hum a nasal laugh, pulling out of you agonizingly slow. The lower half of his face is a mess with your slick, shining under the light, and his pupils are dilated to the size of fucking 10-cent pieces. 
There’s a proud, giddy cut to his expression, his scarred-crooked mouth pulling into a lopsided grin, chest heaving. 
“Did you like that, Schatzi? Did it make you feel good?” he pushes, his hands coming to your knees, fingers pressing firmly into your flesh. 
“Yeah,” your voice drags as you speak, laughter raspy. Your racing heartbeat is only just starting to slow, and the whole of your body pulses in time. There is delight in being rocked by ground-shaking tectonics of pleasure. There is divinity in the way he looks down at you–starving, an acolyte wanting to worship. “Have a condom on you?”
A quick nod is your answer, and he starts to pull up your body, dropping your legs. It’s ridiculous and hurried, and the laugh that bursts out of you is huge, taking on a life uniquely its own when he starts climbing in between your legs and your pulled-down pants, “What are you fucking doing?”
“Path of least resistance, even though it looks like the path of most resistance!” he barks in return, laughing too loudly and frenetically, filling the room. He hikes your pants up over his ass and onto back, yanking you further down the couch, and deeper into his lap. As simple as if you were just a jump harness he had to wrestle into. “I’m thinking on that fifth dimension shit right now! You have to catch up, Schatzi,” he says, giving you a maniac, you get it? grin. 
“You’re a fucking idiot,” you accuse him, but you’re beaming and cackling all the same, unfastening a chain from around your neck with zero thought, working a fully blind impulse. 
“No, you’re fucking an idiot,” he shoots right back, “really, Liebe, you have to at least try to keep up.”
Oh, and what the fuck. This is König–the one that you dream about, the one you go looking for when the world wants to crush you in its titanic fucking grip. Thinks himself so dog-ugly, dog-tired. Distempered, foul, and unworthy of anything but beating. 
He’d probably sneer, roll his eyes, and insult you if you compared him to the sun, but the thought remains firmly anchored in your head as your hands slide the thin, cheap chain around his neck twice, fixing the clasp at his nape. König’s too distracted to notice much more than lifting his chin to afford you access, as he pulls out his cock and rolls the rubber down it.
When he lines himself up with your cunt, looking too eager, the two fingers you keep tucked between a strand of the chain and his neck tug, tightening the links around his skin. At once, you’ve got his full attention, his chest heaving as he holds himself above you.
“What’s that?” he asks, licking his lips, beginning to tremble, leaning into the pull of pressure. “What’re you doing?”
“I was thinking about playing with your air a little bit. That okay?” you purr, giving the chain another small tug. “Nothing big. I won’t cut your breathing off completely. But I thought you might like it.”
“Oh, fuck.” He starts up laughing again, but it’s dripping with a rotten core of sudden need. “Bitte–think you have to, now. Can’t just tease me with that shit and not deliver.”
It was in your head to pull him down over you, but your breath catches in your throat looking at him. With half your body bound to him by tangled clothing and your own greedy legs anchoring tight to his sides, each of you flush with laughter and arousal, your heart is a bleeding stone on your tongue. Instead of staining your teeth as the blood rolls out of your mouth, it spills in reverse, and you can hardly drink your fill of it before you begin to choke. 
“I love you—” It snaps out of your mouth and dies, the harsh need to hide away your face makes you pull him down, moaning as he slides deeper, and, fuck, it hurts. You’re still so tender, and bruised, and god knows what else from this taking just barely managing to handle the way he’d fucked you that afternoon that anything but slow, sweet, and shallow was going to be an agony endured. 
His hips buck and jag, entire throat filling with the moan of your real name. He tries so hard not to fuck into you fully, planting his hands on either side of your arms as if he’ll bar himself from giving into his own body. 
“Don’t do that, don’t do that, don’t do that,” he begs and rambles, shuddering, breathing in shallow, clipped laps as if freezing. His hips and legs shift, nearly nervous–a horse spooked and dying to run. “Oh, fuck, don’t do that,” he pleads, hanging his head, trying hard to catch his breath.
The chain is so easy to use, and he listens to the summon of pressure, sucking in a breath to hold it tight. His body sways, buffeted by arousal as if he is a ship on deep-rolling seas, and his head ends up sunken within whispering distance of your lips. So close you can smell the sweat cooling through his curls. So close you can taste the copper-tinged scent of his skin without ever licking him.
“You’re so good, Schatz,” you say, tapping on a name you rarely call him, borrowing his language. “Such a good boy. Such a loving boy.” The pain dulls to a throbbing ache that can be enjoyed, his hips slowing as he rocks into you. Already, he runs ragged, but his rhythm is bursting with devotion and slow-melting sweetness. 
There is a monster that lives in your chest, cradling, always, the molar-cracking force with which you love König. The beast beneath that calls your ribcage a prison and a home does not know a single way to handle things in half-measures. There are no lengths you would hesitate to go for the man above and inside you, head bent and buried into your shoulder in supplication.
Your pillow-talk starts to spill out, eyes sliding closed, as you revel in the breath making your skin humid, “I couldn’t stand seeing you with anyone else, Schatz. If you ever left me–ever started fucking another person–think I’d kill ‘em. I’d lose my shit, not being the last person you ever took to bed.”
“I wouldn’t–oh, sheiße–Schatzi, I would never,” König vows in a moan, the sound filling the dip above your collarbone like collected sweat or blood pooled from a spilling neck wound. 
He loses sense of his rhythm, rutting like an animal in heat. It becomes difficult to ride it out with him, timing his peaks with the pull on the chain, forcing him higher and higher. You’re too sore to cum like this again today, but his mouth had seen to it that you were finished. Now it is a matter of making him match as he rides you, pressing more and more of his weight down.
“Cum. God dammit, König, you need to cum,” you command him, breathless, pulling the chain taut now. It’s been entirely too long now that he’s been keyed up, desperate for your cunt, gripping you to his body like he needs the touch to simply survive. The way he breathes, when you allow him, is the heavy heaving of brittle-dry sobs. His skin burns against yours, sliding with the sheer amount of sweat pouring from his body. 
It’s almost enough to make your eyes roll back, listening to him whimper, “I’m trying, I’m trying, bitte, Liebes, I promise,” his voice unraveling into an escalating, hysterical, almost panicked moaning. 
“I know–I know you are, honey. Christ–fuck–you’re killing me. Love how you fuck me. Love how hard you get when you kill people. How you act all fucked up, and vile, and need to cut loose,” you gasp, more of the vulgarity breaking out of you as your ragged pants barely manage to pull air into your lungs. “Know this isn’t that. I know you’re–being gentle on purpose. Fucking me like you need me, ‘cause you do. You couldn’t move on from me–there is no one else, is there?”
There is one last ruthless constriction of chains against his throat, holding him tight. This time you really do cut his air, metal biting into your fingers. The last stretch of his desperation draws longer–long enough you wonder if it was a mistake–as every roll of his hips slides him deeper. 
A sound chokes in his throat, and he holds himself rigid, his shoulders quaking with suppressed trembling as his wrapped cock kicks inside you. He’s not even breathing, obeying the constriction around his neck, and he rocks the longer it draws out. For a stupid moment, you wonder if he’s somehow blacked the fuck out in his frozen state, until the links holding the chain’s clasp give, the necklace snapping.
He pulls in a huge gust of air and collapses on top of you, forcing your chin to slot over his shoulder as his weight crashes down, pushing the wind out of you.
“Shit–damn, baby, was it that good?” you ask, relieved and shaking in time to match his. You didn’t cum, but you didn’t need nor want to. You find yourself perfectly satisfied, the heady, filthy contact of skin sticking together its own prize.
“Shh,” he admonishes you, taking a huge breath, sloppily kissing your neck. 
“We didn’t even shower.”
“Shh,” he now insists, lazily lifting a hand to cup it over your mouth, and he rumbles with contentment as you place your teeth on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger.
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After an indecently thorough shower, you both dress in the small cubby of a bathroom afforded to you. It’s a slow process, König seemingly spending more time kissing you and touching you than actually dressing. The sadness and desperation had gone out of him with the sex–it could even be called lovemaking, but. Well. You’re both on the far side of skittishness when it comes to naming something so gently.
But, in turn, you are softer. Kinder. Thawed. When his hands slide into yours, you massage his palms and the heel of his thumb. You squeeze his fingers, and brush the soft veins of his wrist with your fingertips. 
Your love is dissection, vivisection, but there is a reason that flesh is cut and dermis, fascia, and muscle are pulled apart. 
It is to learn the body beneath your hands, and you are so acutely learned in König. When you kiss his palms, he breathes in tightly. When you put a hand over his chest, as if to hold his oversized heart, you swear he would let you cradle it to calm the slamming it produces.
“I love you,” you say to him, sliding your eyes up to his, liquid-smooth, flowing. This time it is said with intent. It is not a burst of confession in the midst of blistering heat, where it feels guilty and fraudulent. This is a surety. This is your heart speaking with a projected voice.
He takes your hand off his chest, his face softened with a weak expression and glittering eyes, and he presses his lips to your knuckles. After the kiss, he holds you there, simply nuzzling your skin. “Ich liebe dich, auch, mein Liebe,” he murmurs, lids sitting heavy over that blue you know so well.
Baščaršija had awoken as you two had hidden in one another’s bodies. The sky is dark as pitch, and the light pollution from the bazaar blots out the stars, but the air smells spiced and warm, with a faint tinge of sweat-touched skin leftover on the locals who had spent their days under the sun.
While waiting in line for the coffee König had mentioned as he’d broken down and cleaned your guns, he examines the snapped length of your necklace. “It’d be an easy fix. Might have to wait until we’re home, but–no, yeah–two minutes, tops,” he says, pinching the stretched-out link that had caused the failure below the free edge of his thumb nail.
You lift a shoulder in a shrug, looking down at his hands. “It’s cheap, I’m not worried about it. I have to have a dozen and a half just like that in my junk jewelry box,” you snort. It’s an easy let-go. It’s garbage silver over copper, and it’s not worth the money that made the tag that once hung from it. 
“Always with the shitty jewelry,” he sighs, bemused, but it’s not a real jab. He still winds the chain around two of his fingers to make a little bundle, and stuffs it in his pocket. He’s not going to let it remain broken, simply because it’s yours. He’s quiet for a moment, though he hums warmly when you turn around and press your back into his chest, your boots between his boots while you wait in the queue. But he starts, “You know…”
You press back into him, humming, “Hm?” in answer.
“I could buy you jewelry, if you want. Real jewelry,” he begins to venture, tone a completely different animal than you’re used to meeting eyes with. It’s almost hesitant, and isn’t that just so massively strange when it comes to this man. “Or…a diamond.”
The word lands like an anomalous warhead–something gargantuan and frightening, that does not detonate on impact. It’s still a terrifying occurrence, but not an instant death as should be feared. Your back straightens against him, and you fall into a controlled breathing pattern in the same way you’d fall into a plummet when running off the back of a cargo plane. Good god, you hope your chute opens.
“Do you like diamonds?” he queries further, soft and anxious. He begins to shift and fidget. He’d hoped for a faster answer to this question-beneath-a-question.
Reaching behind you, you draw your hand down the length of his arms, until he pulls out of his hoodie pocket. Relaxation floods his body the moment you lace fingers with him, squeezing him tight, three times, I love you, and his four beat answer comes quickly. 
“Diamonds are pretty,” you start, slow and careful in navigation of the thoughts ricocheting around your racing heart. Exhilaration? Dread? Hope? You can’t possibly tell, but you know exactly what he’s asking. “I’d want a lab grown one, though. Think we have enough blood on our hands without jumping for something mined,” you further, in small beats. “What about a, uhm. What do you think of a sapphire? Maybe…something heirloom.”
Callused fingers brush your knuckles, and a scarred mouth hidden by a black cotton gaiter lowers to your ear, nuzzling your hair. “I’d love how you look wearing a sapphire,” he murmurs in utter reverence. It makes you scoff a little under your breath–he holds you in higher esteem than he’d ever held any god–but you reach up and offer benediction in the form of your free fingers sliding into his freshly washed curls.
“Maybe that’s something we’ll talk about more coming up, huh?” you ask and assure. It is not a no, you are not putting out his flame completely, but this is something that should not be spoken of while clocking hours with kills. You’d rather not have anything between you and König defined in a setting where blood could shower at any moment. You’d like neither blood diamonds, nor blood proposals. “But, yeah, Schatz. I’d wear your jewelry.”
He presses a kiss to the spot in front of your ear, and quickly pinches your ass, laughing hyena-pitched once again. “Good. You wouldn’t get to take it off, you know. I’m going to put it on you, and a mortician is going to have to remove it.”
You rub the spot he’d pinched, giving him an eye roll over your shoulder. “Ah, I see, so you’re also telling me that you get to die, first,” you deadpan, though you can’t stop the smirk that curls your mouth.
“Of course. Why would I want to hang around any fucking place you’re not?” he throws your way, and in the pit of your heart, you know he means it.
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oceanicexolorer · 2 months
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The Black Rabbit
Monster Au 141
Part I
✧○ꊞ○ꊞ○•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙○♡๑•୨୧ 🩶 ୨୧•๑♡○•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙○ꊞ○ꊞ○✧
It's been a few months since your arrival. Currently, your set in the gym room with your headphones in while you work out. You've been at it for a few hours, the burn in your body a common comfort while you trained.
The boys are out on the training grounds, and the rest are off doing who knows. This meant you were left alone and didn't have to worry about wandering eyes and pesky boys who oh so desperately wanted to be men.
After a song passes within your headphones, a quietness sits on your ears and you then hear a loud snarl with cheers and shouts being thrown around out on the training grounds not far off from the gym.
You took off your headphones to get a better listen of what's going on, only to not understand much more than before.
Curiosity gets you as easy as a cat does a mouse, and you find yourself out the gym doors and towards the now obvious crowd.
It's hard to miss the Giant Wolf beast, but you notice Ghost first. It seems that Ghost and Soap are sparing in their own beastly manner. By the looks of it, seems that Ghost is winning. Although that much is obvious, but Soap seems to be keeping up with the brit.
Soaps wolf form is giant, that you'll admit easily. Soap raises his hind legs ever so slightly, obviously to lunge at Ghost to topple the man and gain an advantage, or even a win. But he makes it too obvious and Ghost notices, swiftly using his smoke tendrils to trip the mutt when he makes the move, causing the big dog to flop awkwardly to his side with a whine.
Ghost moves to the side as Soap gets back up, ready for more. The crowd around hollers and laughs, obviously having more fun here than what they were previously up to as it seems the crowd has only gotten larger since your arrival.
You enjoy watching the little scuffle, finding it fun and entertaining too. That is until Captain Price steps in and the crowd goes deathly quiet as they part down like the red Sea for Price to walk through. Those in the back start leaving quietly as to escape a scolding, the rest slowly following suite.
Soap shifts back, the sounds of bones cracking, shifting, and molding into place. Soap looks like a kicked puppy, both literally and physically. This makes you wonder how long they were at this little sparing match of theirs.
Price stands with his arms crossed, pure image of a disappointed parent. He huffs a gruff sigh and a puff of smoke. " 'n my office, now." Is all he needs to say before the two pass by, Ghost looks a little worn out from using his abilities, and soap looks disappointed. Probably since he was yet again unable to best Ghost in a match.
You can't help but snicker as they pass. Seeing those two scolded is a blessing you'll never dismiss. Soap is a common occurrence, Ghost on the other hand.. This is practically a once in a lifetime experience.
Price looks to you as you snickered, immediately shutting you up in hopes of not being scolded too. He huffs a look of tiredness, but you can tell he's hiding a grin.
Price then heads off not far behind the two boys who you can hear begin to bicker on who's fault is what.
You can't help but feel at home here, like a part of the family they have built. It brings a warmth in you, and you happily allow it to invade your veins. A small smile on your face as you turn to leave the grounds, back towards where you had came.
You head back to the gym, remembering you left some equipment out and stuff behind. After packing it all up, you head to your barracks to wash off and avoid anymore trouble that these boys bring with them. Reminding you of how pigeons carry diseases with them, no matter the amount of baths given.
After a thorough clean, washing your hair and all the sweat that stuck to your skin from before. You step out the shower and indulge in a little secret of yours that you'd rather die with, using lotion and skin products. Here in the military, you feel that you'd be judged heavily for this little pleasure of yours, so you keep it as much a secret as possible. Though no matter how scentless the lotion says it is, you can always smell that flowery flow from your skin. Part of you loves it and keeps using it, another part worries that the other beasts within the base will catch wind of it and question. You'd gotten close before with the mutt, his sense of smell an obvious advantage. But you've dodged Soap's conversation of it, even the looks he attempts to give when he openly sniffs the air around you.
That quirk of his you sum up to his beastly instincts, not him being a perv of some kind.. Though you wouldn't doubt it if evidence showed up.
Stepping out the bathroom into your room, you take your hair out the wrapped towel that sat above your head and began to ruffle dry it, tilting your head to each side so that you'd access more hair to dry. Eventually giving up with the matter and leaving your hair slightly damp. At least it wasn't dripping water over your bed and floors.
It was already late, and you didn't have much to do, so you opened your nightstand table and reached for one of your few stashed books. Another pleasure of yours was to read novels, specifically romance thrillers, but you enjoyed most any genre.
Time passed easily after the first few pages, and soon enough it was already time for bed and you had made it a good few chapters in.
Placing the page holder in place and setting down the book within your nightstand, you then turned off the lamp standing on it and turned to curl into the blankets, letting your mind wander and drift in sleep.
As the next day rolls around, you can't help but laugh and tease Soap in the mess hall for looking exhausted and rather beat up. Ghost not far behind you two scoffs as Soap attempts to boast on how he "almost had him", which you all know was slightly true, but Ghost would never let Soap beat him. Soap is a little too obvious when he attacks, and Ghost is too cunning to not notice. Polar opposites those two, surprising with how close they seem for it.
You grab some food for breakfast and follow Soap and Ghost across the mess hall to the little corner table. You've noticed that this little corner is always open and practically reserved for your team. Well, more like the "Monsters" of the base.
Beastly Discrimination has always been a thing, ever since hybrids first appeared there has been racial discrimination. Although now it's slightly better, more rights, more opportunities and more rules. Part of that is why most of them end up in Military Professions. Thanks to the Government and their constant need for arms and assets, beastly creatures are perfect for violent usage.
Since the beastly are seen as artillery, deadly, and a lot less costly. They are given a set of freedom within battle grounds, meaning that those like Ghost who feed off of the souls can properly eat as much as they want, against enemy teams of course.
Some species aren't so lucky, like sheep or herbivore hybrids. They get treated rather differently, whether a good difference or not isn't much of your concern. It all depends on the species and the type. Those like Soap and you are labeled 'Shifters'. You shift from one form to another. Soap shifts from a Scottish man to a giant steamy hot wolf, and thats meant literally, his fur and body is hot to the melting touch while shifting. As for you, your a Hare hybrid. Now some versions of that type are considered weak and useless, you on the luckier hand got the rare genetics of what the government likes to label as 'A Problem'. Your form of Hare is violent, unpredictable, and violent. Your beastly form can stand and stalk on its hind legs, or walk on all fours in a crouch. At full height, standing or walking on your hind legs, you can reach up to 10 feet. You lose a half conscience when within your form, where your awake and in control, but certain urges are near impossible to ignore. Such as a thirst for limb tearing and flesh ripping violence. You've managed and trained your body and mind very well, or at least to the point of not ripping apart teammates while in a rampage.
Your senses when within your form are at an all time high, meaning you can hear for miles and can create a little map of your surrounding area with the help of sound alone. Your speed and agility is practically raised ten fold, meaning you can spring through enemy grounds at high speeds, and with your soft paws, you do it all in near silence. Only the sounds of garbled screams and the falls of your enemies teams left to show you were even there.
That is why your type is considered 'A Problem', since if you so easily chose to switch and turn against those around you, you'd most likely succeed and leave a bloody path behind.
This is also why Price has kept this part of you a secret between you two. He knows how hard it would be for the team to trust you if they knew of your type. All they know is that you're a shifter, not much else. Soap has tried and failed many times to know more, Ghost even snuck into your files once to see, but Price had removed further detail. It didn't help their suspicions to see how Price only sends you on solo missions. Even Ghost was always sent with at least a small team with him..
But after a few weeks of getting no where, it seems they gave up on your little identity factors and have grown to trust you. Your grateful, but a part of you feels bad for it all. Though, can't be helped the type of Monster you were born into just so happens to frighten and shiver the beasts themselves.
----------------♡⑅*˖•. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .•˖*⑅♡----------------
𝑆𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑙 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑.. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑦, 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒. 𝑆𝑜 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑒 🙏😭
𝐼'𝑚 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠!
𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔!! 👋
𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝: 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 "𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏". 𝑰 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒔𝒐 𝑰 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕. 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝟐𝟎𝟎+ 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆 😭
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gilded-garnet · 9 months
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Beastly Behaviour
Sebastian Sallow x F!MC
WC: ~1.5K / Themes: (Fluff 💚 Light Violence 👊)
Summary: If there's one thing MC can't stand, it's a bully. During a Beasts Class, she takes defending Sebastian's honour into her own hands - literally.
(Yep, someone is getting punched and Sebastian is smitten.)
---
"Why did you decide to take Beasts Class again? I never got the sense you were that interested," MC asked on the way to their first class of the year.
Sebastian shrugged non-committally. "I got a good enough grade and I'm keeping my options open.  The extra studying's not an issue."
"Riiiight. And it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that I happen to be taking it, would it?" She asked, shooting him a sly smirk.
She expected him to deny it; she was only teasing, after all, but he returned her gaze seriously, wearing a fond expression.
"It may have had a small influence on my decision," he admitted, and she scoffed to hide her blush.
They arrived at the class and MC gave Poppy a quick hug in greeting before Professor Howin rounded them up.
"Everyone, follow me! I have a special lesson planned to welcome you all back." She led the trail of students out beyond the paddocks and through the tree line of the forest, finally coming to a stop at a grassy clearing. MC smiled when she saw what awaited them there.
"Here we are!" Their professor declared, holding her arms out in rather dramatic fashion.
There was a heavy pause before someone spoke. It was that haughty Slytherin boy who had harassed that Kneazle and Poppy back in fifth year. MC had never bothered to learn his name. "Um, professor, not to be rude, but there doesn't actually appear to be anything here," he sneered, and a Ravenclaw girl by his side snickered loudly. What in Merlin's name were those two doing in this class, anyway? Seeking to torture harmless creatures for sport, no doubt.
"Perhaps not to you, Mr. Parkinson, but I'll wager there's at least one person here who can identify the magnificent creatures before us," Professor Howin replied, looking at the rest of the class expectantly.
"Thestrals," MC answered, instantly.
Professor Howin smiled at her, nodding her approval, though there was was a tinge of sympathy in her eyes to accompany it.
"Indeed! As many of you will be aware, Thestrals can only be seen by those who have witnessed death. Of course, that has earnt them a rather negative reputation..." Professor Howin went on to speak of how Thestrals had unfairly cemented their place in wizard folklore as harbringers of misfortune. Sebastian listened with his arms folded, a small frown on his face.
"You really don't like Thestrals, do you?" MC stated more than asked, leaning her head towards his ear.
"I don't dislike them. They just...remind me of what I've lost, that's all. The very concept of them is macabre," he replied.
"But they're such gentle creatures," she insisted, though she soon realised that her timing was rather questionable when Professor Howin began tossing raw steaks into the clearing. The Thestrals descended upon them with gusto, and the 'unsighted' in their class let out gasps of fear and amazement as the the meat seemingly began to levitate and then vanish before their eyes.
Sebastian's lip twitched, and he looked at her with dry amusement. "Ah, yes. Look at them ever so gently ripping apart those steaks."
She rolled her eyes and swatted him on the shoulder, causing him to chuckle.
"What is even the point of this? Most of us can't even see the damn things anyway," Parkinson muttered irritably under his breath. He looked around the clearing before his eyes alighted on another, much more visible form of entertainment.
He sauntered over to MC and Sebastian, a gleam in his eyes that she very much did not like the look of.
"Sallow, you can see them, right?" Parkinson asked in an exagerated whisper, practically pushing her aside in the process.
Sebastian frowned. He had no patience for his housemate at the best of times. "Just what exactly are you getting at, Parksinson?"
"Is it true that your parents got themselves killed playing around with a muggle contraption?" Parkinson probed, lowering his voice even further. She saw Sebastian tense and felt a wave of apprehension overcome her.
"Did your uncle go in an equally tragic way? Perhaps he tripped and fell on his garden shears outside that quaint cottage of yours?" Parkinson continued with a cruel smile, his words sickly. MC was equal parts shocked and outraged by his brazenness.
Sebastian hadn't reacted yet, but she could sense the warning signs: the darkening in his expression and the twitch of his fingers towards his wand. She, however, acted first. Without a word, she marched over to Parkinson, wand forgotten, and punched him square in the face.
She heard (and felt) a rather satisfying crack before he stumbled backwards onto the floor, clutching his nose. The Thestrals bellowed, spooked, and fled from the clearing in a rush of hoofbeats and leathery wings.
"Wh - what the hell?!" He spluttered with outrage, but the heat of his accusation was largely undone by his nasally voice, now thick with blood.
"Muggle enough for you?" She spat, glaring down at him. She was acutely aware of Sebastian's eyes on her back and looked over her shoulder to see him staring at her with eyes wide and mouth agape.
Professor Howin pushed her way through the circle of students that had formed around them. "And what, exactly, is going on here?" She demanded, glaring daggers at them both.
Parkinson jabbed an accusatory finger up at MC, his other hand still clutching his streaming nose. "This lunatic attacked me!"
"Only because he was saying some truly vile things," she retorted, her temper rising again. She obviously hadnt hit him hard enough.
"Enough!" Professor Howin shouted, her voice firm. "Both of you will serve detention with me for a week. I will not tolerate such beastly behaviour in my class."
"What? Why me?!" Parkinson spluttered.
Professor Howin looked down at him with a withering look. "Because I have no doubt, Mr Parkinson, that you did in fact say some rather vile things to earn that broken nose."
Sebastian snorted with laughter, and a few other students couldn't stifle their giggles. Behind his hand, Parksinson's face turned even redder. The Ravenclaw girl dutifuly arrived at his side, attempting to hook her hand under his elbow, but he shook her off impatiently. He staggered to his feet and glared at MC and Sebastian before he marched away, muttering a stream of curses.
With the subject of their lesson now notably absent, Professor Howin promptly called an end to the class and they began to trapse back to the castle. Sebastian and MC walked together, shoulders brushing.
"It was very good of you to defend my honour like that," Sebastian remarked. "That punch was much better than anything I could have come up with."
"Yes, well, I've never been able to stand that prat. Been itching to do that since last year," she replied, flexing her now aching hand. She'd apparently managed to injure herself in the process.
She sucked in a surprised breath when Sebastian gently cradled her injured hand in his own, running his thumb soothingly over her stinging knuckles. She looked up, her eyes meeting his.
"I'll be sure to find a way to express my gratitude,"  he commented, eyes twinkling with mischief in a way that made her heart flip. An abundance of scenarios came immediately to mind as to just how he could thank her, but she buried those thoughts deep.
"You really are amazing, you know that?" He continued, looking at her with such sincerity that her mind struggled to form words. He was so close, and his lips looked incredibly soft.
But then Sebastian's eyes became unfocussed as he clocked something over her shoulder and he smirked, releasing her hand and taking a step back.  "Watch out, I think your number one fan is on their way."
"Wha - ?" She didn't get to finish before something small and solid collided full speed with her waist, forcing the air from her lungs.
"Oh, MC, that was simply marvelous! I wish I had your courage; I would have done that a thousand times over by now," Poppy enthused, hugging her tightly.
"It was my pleasure, Poppy," MC replied, still catching her breath, for more reasons than one.
---
Sebastian wasted no time filling his best friend in on the day's events whilst in their dorm room.
"...and then, Ominis, she punched him, square in the face!" Sebastian enthused, unable to contain his euphoria.
"She what?!" Ominis spluttered, pausing as he rummaged through his bag.
"I know!" Sebastian answered, laughing. He threw himself back onto his bed with a blissful sigh. "Honestly, I couldn't believe it, but I think it might just be the best thing I have ever seen. She's incredible."
Ominis scoffed, but smiled all the same. "You're both utterly mad. You deserve each other, honestly."
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bvttoneyes · 2 months
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❝ Annabeth Chase 2.0? ❞
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Chapter 1; Annabeth Chase 2.0? SUMMARY; When Percy and Annabeth are taken by the Empusa—a figure slays the beastly woman and saves them. Why does the new figure look so similar to Annabeth?
The mighty son of Poseidon—hanging upside down beside his friend, Annabeth, tired up.
“...Remind me again. Why are we tied up.” Percy asks Annabeth with a blank stare, studying the rocks in front of him like it's interesting.
“Because, my good friend.” Annabeth answers through slightly gritted teeth—as if holding herself back from slapping Percy. “You decided to bring me along for a quest. We got trapped by the Empusa.”
Percy stayed silent before trying to ask another question. Annabeth cut him off. “Percy. If you ask what an Empusa is, I will punch you.”
“Wha—I didn't even say anything!” Percy sad in defence. The blonde glanced back at the ravenette.
“You've got that look in your eye. It's the same look every time you ask me something.”
Percy couldn't argue with Annabeth's reasoning, but it still hurt. “...Do you think she's coming back?” The daughter of Athena looked back at the Son of Poseidon.
“I'm not sure. I think she's gone out to find more of us. Just in case there's any others.”
The pair sat (hung) in silence. The blood rushing to their heads, long locs of blonde and black gravitating towards the floor.
“How did we even get trapped by an Empusa? I thought we dealt with them back at the Labyrinth?” Annabeth questioned.
Percy sighed and shrugged. “I wasn't thinking properly. My head was in a different place.” Percy couldn't help but think back to this dream from the night before.
Walls painted grey with dim, red tinted lights lit up the room. About five people stand around, all doing their own things—but their faces and hair are blurred out.
Only one figure has their hair visible—long white curls cascading down to the figure's hips. The figure has their back turned, their face hidden.
Voices call. “Boss! A little birdy told us some Half-bloods are going on a quest..” The voice was scratchy and low.
The white haired silhouette turned their head towards the voice, but the face of the white haired figure covered with a cloudy blur. “Hm?”
The other voice sees this as a way to keep talking; “Poseidon and Athena. Those are their parents, apparently they've been friends since 12, and—”
They cut themselves off as the original figure pulls their hand up and makes a 'shh' motion. “Alright. Thank you, Nicki.”
The dream panned out, the whole scenery faded and became black—until a lower, deeper voice rang.
“Revenge and Vengeance. Bitter but Sweet—Child of the Sea, She shall meet. To connect with the water, she'll need help. In trying times, she will yelp.”
When Percy jolted awake, he could still hear the words echoing through his skull. Is this a new prophecy? Who's 'She'?
“Seaweed Brain. Earth to Seaweed Brain!” Annabeth called to Percy, clicking her tongue to get his attention.
“Huh?” He snapped out of his daze. “Ah, sorry...” He mumbled, before noticing a sound.
Small snaps and caws from outside range throughout the cave—the yelp of the Empusa caught their attention.
“What was that?” Annabeth asked—glancing back at Percy, a bead of sweat ran down her forehead. Percy stayed silent for a second before answering.
“I'm not sure... But I feel like we should find out.”
“Mhm, I argee with you—but one thing.” The blonde hummed before motioning to their hanging position. “How do we get out?”
Percy hadn't thought that through yet, he shifted around, attempting to break free from the ropes. “Great question! I don't know.” Annabeth rolled her eyes.
A crack echoed from the cave's doorway, making both the demigods perk up in fear—was the Empusa returning?
No. It was a short, humanoid figure dressed in ripped black tights and a oversized white shirt—with Metallica written on the front.
The person ran over to the demigods and cut the rope—making Percy and Annabeth hit the ground with a thud and a groan.
Percy's eyes flickered opened and was met with the image of a young blonde girl. “Annabeth?” He asked.
A hand tapped his shoulder, he glanced over to spot the real Annabeth poking his shoulder blade. “Percy, that's not me.”
The two stared at each other before scanning the new blonde girl with confused eyes. The girl looked about 15, with short curly hair and choppy bangs framing her olive complexion.
The olive coloured girl bent down to their eye level as they were still lying down from the drop. “Are you two Half-bloods?” Her voice was slightly higher pitched than Annabeth's—with a almost southern drawl.
Percy blinked up at the girl. “Um. Who wants to know?” He raised a brow, basically saying “who tf r u” without actually saying it.
“Me. I do.” The southern drawled girl replied—before picking the two up by the collars, she was quite strong for someone of 5'6.
Percy snapped out of his confused daze and ripped himself away from the short female. “Hey hey wait!” He protested, Annabeth did the same and stood slightly behind Percy.
“Who even are you? And why do you look like me?” Annabeth interjected. The strawberry blonde girl blinked before realising she never introduced herself.
“Oh!” She exclaimed before clearing her throat. “So, I'm apart of this group called the Dalmatians! Anyway, Ca—I mean Boss wants to see you. Sh—They think you know something.”
The CHB pair stared at the girl with pure confusion. “...?” Their bewildered stares and silence made the girl awkwardly chuckle.
“It's fine, you'll get used to it.” The girl started to walk out of the Empusa's cave, before glancing back at them—“Are you coming?”
Percy furrowed his brows at Miss “Annabeth 2.0”—though she didn't seem as smart as Annabeth. “Um..”
Annabeth, however, was curious. “We're following, don't worry.” She answered, grabbing Percy's wrist and pulling him along.
“Beth, are we sure we should follow a random girl that suspiciously looks like you..?”
“Percy, when people see two blonde kids everyone automatically thinks they're siblings. It's fine—besides, I wanna know what this "Dalmatian" group is.” Annabeth replied, still dragging Percy along.
The crunch of the leaves underneath their feet, the wind whistling through the trees, the smell of damp wood after rainfall. Every sense that they had was filled with sounds and smells as the silence took over.
The girl—who they still didn't knows name—was practically skipping along the footpath, her boots making small "clack" noises as her feet hit the ground.
Her sandy curls bounced on her shoulders, her eyelids open and staring at the path infront of her, watching where she walks as her eyes barely look back to see if Percy and Annabeth are following—she just assumes.
But she can hear them follow along, she can hear their sneakers run into small pebbles as they walk, old leaves crunching under their feet. She knows they're following her.
Then, the pathway comes to a stop. The rocky floor ends as the concrete now replaced with green, lush grass. The girl whips her head around to face them.
“We're here!” She exclaimed with a smile.
Annabeth's eyes scan over the display—it's a brick wall. “What do you mean here?” She asks, narrowing down at the girl.
“Oh right.”
The girl holds out her hand; a star (★) shape is carved in the centre like a scar or tattoo. She places her hand on the wall, before her flashed a blur of colour, yellow.
The mortar molds into a yellow before returning back to it's regular grey. Nothing happens. “Is this some kind of joke—” Percy tried to say before the bricks started to move.
The bricks unshuffle themselves, taking themselves apart and opening a doorway, a dark hall with a red dimmed light.
The blonde leans forward and looks back at Percy with a shit eating grin. “What were you saying? Did you say something?” She teased before walking in.
Annabeth glanced at Percy before following after the girl, Percy rolled his eyes and followed after them. He didn't want to be left behind.
As they walked closer to the light, soft rock music could be heard—the soothing strings of a guitar being plucked filled his sense of hearing.
“What song is this?”
He asked the girl in front. She doesn't turn around but she responds, you can hear her smile through her voice. “The President Has A Sex Tape - K.Flay. It's my sister's favourite.” Percy nods, confused by the title but shrugged it off quickly.
They enter the scene, it honestly looks like an abandoned bar that's been used as a apocalyptic bunker.
Random old milk crates placed around a small coffee table while an abandoned game of Uno sits, collecting dust. A bar stand, with medication and ambrosia stored in jars behind it instead of alcohol. The lights are dimmed to a light cherry red, the whole place looks like a mix between a club, a stoner's basement and a bunker you see on those zombie games.
Few people, around 5-6, stand around the place—talking with each other or staring at maps and other papers lying around on the big (used to be) pool table.
Two people, a boy and a girl, argue over the maps, something about horrible placements—I don't know, I wasn't listening.
But something catches Percy's eye, two dark, yellowish, cat like eyes—staring at him and Annabeth as they walk in with the girl in front.
The eyes creepily watch them shuffle past—before blinking and from what Percy could tell, raising an eyebrow?
The blonde girl in front lead them to a table. The large pool table with papers spread out across the green carpet. “Just sit tight and I'll get the Boss!—Oh!”
The girl attempted to turn around and grab this 'boss' Character, before running into and being buried into another figure's chest.
She pulls herself out from the figure's body and looks up, smiling at the sight. “Cass!” She exclaimed with a bright grin.
The girl 'Cass' looks back at the other female, nodding in acknowledgement—and from the other's reactions, that's a sign of respect.
'Cass' walks forward, her eyes landing on the two Half-bloods as they sit on the old barstools the other girl gave them. “...Hey.” Percy breaks the silence.
Annabeth elbows him in the ribs—making Percy yelp in response. “Hey!” he glared at his friend. Annabeth makes a 'shhh' expression with her finger and eyes as she looks back at the woman in front of them.
“Um.. Hi, Miss...? We didn't mean to intrude—your friend? Employee? Co-worker? Found us and took us here.. We mean you no harm!” Annabeth tried to explain before the figure walked forward.
She was a pretty girl, around 5'9—5'10. With long, dead straight white hair falling at her waist, with a black streak close to her eye.
A pale olive complexion and cat like eyes—watching their every move. She was the one he spotted before. She crossed her arms before speaking; a low toned (slightly Australian?) accent came along.
“You must be Jackson and Chase.”
The pair look at her for a second, not speaking—taking in her appearance. Long white hair tied back in a ponytail, a decently toned figure with calculating eyes watch for their reactions.
'Cass' wears a pretty casual outfit. Sporting a black halter top with basic jean shorts, and black boots with funky patterned socks.
Annabeth is the first to snap out of her daze—elbowing Percy to speak, making him yelp again before clearing his throat. “Oh. Um, yes?”
“Mhm. We've heard a lot about you.”
Before Percy can answer, Annabeth cuts him off. “Wait, I know you.” She says to the girl opposite of her. “You're that demigod that went missing from camp.”
'Cass' raised an eyebrow, before chuckling and turning to the other people that watched the scene. “Told you they'd be interested.”
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