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thegnomelord · 2 months

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Good Dog

CW: NSFW, DARK-FIC, murder, gore, power imbalance, size difference(reader's bigger), description of torture and brainwashing, oral, anal, blood as lube, plot and exposition with porn, pet play(collars and leashes), toxic relationship, dub-con, very very self indulgent.

Моя гончая- my hound, Хороший солдат - good soldier, Расслабьтесь, братья мои - relax, my brothers, приносить - fetch, есть - eat

The thick door and walls of the private room do nothing to damped the bass of the club pounding in his ears, the annoying music made bearable by the high of a recent victory. Puffs of cigarette smoke lazily curl in the air as Makarov leans further back into the couch, the buzzing sting of a fresh tattoo helping him relax. The scent of expensive liquor only adds to the heady atmosphere, crystal clear vodka swirling in his glass before Makarov takes a sip. His dark eyes peer over the rim of his glass, like doorways to a dark abyss, his gaze dancing across the faces of his most trusted men before settling on the lieutenant's as the man tries to prove his worth with pointless words.

Above all else, Makarov values loyalty.

It doesn't matter how strong a man is if he can't follow orders. The number of soldiers he can lead is pointless when he can't keep his men alive. How well he can shoot is meaningless when he can't devote himself to a cause. A man who is disloyal is a man of single use.

Makarov doesn't even try to listen to whatever drivel the lieutenant's spouting, he doesn't see a reason to sour his mood when he already knows everything: the embezzling, the lying, the adorable double agent act. He has you to thank for that, you'd sniffed the lieutenant out the second you met him, diligently uncovering every speck of dirt the lieutenant had attempted to hide from Makarov.

And you? You are very loyal. His loyal hound.

His fingers curl around the leash, the smooth black leather sliding against his calloused palms. A barely there tug is all it takes for you to lean down over the back of the couch, bracing one large hand near his head for support as the other remains over the grip of your sidearm. You loom over him, and while Makarov may be a fearsome man, he can't deny the type of foreboding fear a goliath like you inspires — a towering figure always a step behind him, broad body big enough to easily cover him fully if you need to take a bullet for him, arms strong and palms wide to easily crack a man's skull.

Settling the glass down he takes another drag of his cigarette, "Hound," Another tug — sharper, harsher; such a small correction yet the fact you needed it at all has acrid disappointment burning on your tongue — makes you bend down more, your face now next to his. He doesn't draw attention to the reprimand, breathing out a puff of smoke near your face. "Were you listening, моя гончая?"

It's a pointless question, he knows you were listening, he trained you to. But he asks because he loves to see the way your eyes darken, jaw tight. The cigarette smoke dances in the air, making the club's low lights reflect off the sharp spikes adorning the thick collar snuggly wrapped around your throat. Your day collar suits you well, no different than the spiked collars put on hunting hounds.

"Yes sir." You answer, your attention now solely on the lieutenant.

Makarov hums, eyes flickering from the lieutenant to you. "And?" He chuckles and lets the leash go, his word keeping you in place as he casually pats your neck. "What did you hear?"

"Lies. . ." The slow slide of his fingers across the uncovered parts of your throat makes your breath stutter, static crackling beneath your skin. "I heard lies, sir." Your answer causes the lieutenant to try and sputter excuses and denials, all cut short by the harsh look you give him.

Makarov chuckles, hooking a finger over the silver loop at the front of your collar, pulling on it and tilting his head so his lips can ghost across your jaw. "Хороший солдат." Makarov murmurs. His stubble scratches your skin as his lips brush a path to your ear, so very close to a lover's kiss.

But a brush of skin is all it is. Nothing more. Your body earns for more, to turn your head and experience the bruising possessiveness of his kiss once again, to feel his teeth bite down on your lip until blood floods both of your mouths. But you don't move; A spoiled dog isn't loyal and Makarov won't lavish you with attention for nothing. no — you must earn it.

"Stay." The soft 'click' of the leash unclipping sounds the same as a sentencing gavel, the strip of leather falling away until only his word keeps you from tearing the lieutenant's throat out with your teeth. Makarov smirks against your skin, his words honey sweet to your ears as he whispers: "Sick him."

That seals the ex-lieutenant's fate.

You're on the lieutenant in an instant, crashing into him like a truck. Makarov leans back and lights up another cigarette as you stomp down on the man's leg, all the weight you carry around bearing down on his bones until they break, erasing any foolish thoughts of escape when you snap the bones of his other ankle; Makarov has truly taught you well.

The screams of a traitor are much better than the atrocious club music, letting him enjoy the smooth burn of the vodka as another stomp breaks a couple of ribs. Some of his men are still nervous around you, trying not to shuffle in their seats lest they grab your attention and become the new outlet of your violence.

"Расслабьтесь, братья мои." Makarov gives a charming smile, resting his ankle on his knee as he takes another drag. "Hound is well trained, you have nothing to fear." He chuckles, lazily watching you as he holds conversation with his lieutenants. Honestly, you're like a dog with a new toy, tossing the man around and pinning him down under your heavy body, each swing of your fists steadily turning the ex-lieutenant's face into pulp.

It's as entertaining for him as it is therapeutic for you.

And to think Price had tried to suppress all that beautiful savageness you possessed.

Makarov remembers how you'd been nothing but a snarling and cursing ball of anger when his men had captured you after a botched mission. He had been both annoyed and amused by how loyal you were to Price, weathering every beating and starving and humiliation with the same 'fuck you' response, baring your teeth like the cornered dog you were. With days turning to months and your resolve refusing to waver under their 'care' Makarov had considered just putting you down, sending a nice video of blowing your skull open to Price but oh — is he glad he decided to indulge in the game your stubbornness presented.

He set out to train you like he would any mongrel mutt, clear expectations making it easy to tell whether your actions would get you a reward or an even worse punishment, giving small rewards for the behavior he wanted; not snarling at him might earn you a better meal. Biting your lip and taking your beating without back talk could get you a couple of minutes outside the claustrophobic walls of your cell. Letting him touch and inspect your body without complaint might reward you with a book or some other little creature comfort he could, and did, easily take away the moment you stepped out of line.

Of course you were weary, perceptive enough to know when he was scheming. But every man has his limits, yours were simply reached when he handed you official C.I.A documents proclaiming you as K.I.A, the mission itself creatively rewritten to sound like you had gone and deserted to the enemy — no one was looking for you, no one was coming to save you, your captain, Price, wasn't coming to save you.

He had taken great enjoyment in running his fingers across your scalp as you clutched the documents in a white knuckled grip, your mind far too worn down to question or guard against the soft touches. His lips had brushed against your ear, soothingly raspy voice comforting you — you're a good soldier, strong, reliable, everything a commander could dream of. It wasn't your fault you trusted the wrong man, truly, what a shame to have your loyalty repaid with betrayed like that.

After that, it became laughably easy to train you. He stuck with simple commands, spoken only in Russian so he could amuse himself with the way your head would tilt before you'd perk up, recognition making your dull eyes brighten before you did what he wanted in exchange for a small scrap of his affection, learning to seek his praise and appreciate his touch even when your body still prickled with disgust. So when he handed you the knife, standing so close you could have easily slit his throat, and ordered you to kill another member of your previous taskforce, you hadn't hesitated for a second. "Good boy." He had purred, caressing your jaw as he used his thumb to wipe away the blood staining your cheek.

"Hound." His voice is as effective as any physical tug on your leash, making you stop mid punch with your fist inches away from the ex-lieutenant's caved in face. You're covered in blood, the rich crimson bringing out the violence swirling in your eyes.

Yet you look at him with utter adoration he wants to shove his cock deep down your throat just so he can see your tears smudge the blood on your cheeks. "Приносить." He taps his thigh.

You nod your head, grabbing the knife strapped to your thigh. There's no hesitation in your movements as you shove the knife into the ex-lieutenant's throat. An arc of blood spurts across your front when you yank it out just to stab another spot, the man coughing and choking as you cut through cartilage and muscle until with a good yank and a sickening 'crack!' you separate the head from the body.

Makarov had never seen the appeal of large hulking brutes until you — your body had filled back out with muscle and fat nicely after you became his, towering body demanding attention simply by existing as you stand up. The loud stomp of your feet and the blood staining your body making you look like a barbarian, casting a shadow over him before you kneel at his feet, offering the decapitated head as a knight does to his king.

Oh yes, he definitely sees the appeal now.

"Good dog." He purrs, reaching out to stroke your jaw, smearing some of the blood with his thumb. Fingers sliding down to hook on the silver ring on your collar he pulls your head closer. "Do you think you earned a reward?"

It's a test. One you're intimately familiar with. The judgmental stares of Makarov's trusted men are the last thing in your mind when the closeness of his body and the sharp crisp scent of his cologne threatens to shatter your resolve. "Only if you permit it, sir." Your throat feels dry, trying not to show how eager you are for his attention as you place the head on the floor so you don't get a drop of blood on him.

Makarov smirks, "Smart dog," His hands move to the back of your neck, unbuckling the collar. You're no longer ashamed to admit you feel naked as the thick piece of leather is pulled away; the time when you didn't have a collar wrapped around your neck feel like a distant memory and now the sensation of breathing without it pressing against your skin is disturbing. You have to bite your lip to keep the low whine from escaping your chest.

His hand wraps securely around your throat, bringing your breath back to you. Your Adam's apple bobs beneath his fingers as he traces the 'V.M' shallowly carved across your throat. "It's already starting to fade." He tuts, squeezing his fingers to restrict your breathing just the slightest bit more. "We'll need to have it tattooed. That would be nice, yes?"

You suck in a sharp breath, "Yes sir."

"Хороший солдат." He purrs. He pulls out another collar from his pocket and you feel yourself chub up in your pants just at the sight of it. It's the chained pronged one he uses exclusively when he wants you to pleasure him, particularly because it leaves such pretty bruises along your skin when he tugs on the leash.

You eagerly tilt your head back to bare your throat, a shudder rushing down your spine as soon as you feel the cold metal against your skin. You stay perfectly still as he secures around your neck, the sharp pull of the leash making the prongs dig into your skin, prickles of pain making you even harder. "Go on," Makarov hums, spreading his legs wider so your attention falls to the hard bulge in his slacks, his belt undone but the rest left to you. "есть."

You don't think you could enjoy servicing him as much as you did if he didn't let you work for it, the reward made sweeter because you earned it. Truly, he's so good to you, you'd thank him profusely but he hasn't given you permission to speak freely. So you lean in, careful not to get blood on his pants as you take the metal zipper between your teeth and pull it down. You've done this enough not to have any problems undoing the button, your hands obediently planted on your thighs and your gaze firmly on him so you can see the pleased smirk that spreads across his features when you bite the band of his boxers and pull them down until his cock springs out, already hard.

A pleased sigh escapes him when your warm lips wrap around the head of his cock, the leash wrapped firmly around his hand and the slightest tug on it has pain prickling down your spine. "Моя гончая, don't waste my time." You can't help but whine lowly at the admonishment, quickly trying to make up to him by sucking on the tip and licking the slit in just the way he likes it.

His leg shifts, hard boot coming up to grind the sole against your clothed cock. "That's better." The praise makes you moan deep from your chest and try to take more of his cock into your mouth, your boxers wet and sticky against your own cock as you give an experimental hump of your hips against his boot. You scrape your teeth along the vein on the underside of his cock and it earns you a rough grind of his boot. His hand tangles in your bloodied hair and pulls you down until his cock bumps the back of your throat.

You nearly choke from the sudden pressure, trying to fight off the reflex to pull back and gag. "Look at me." His order rings clear in your head, your eyes meeting his as he grinds your nose into his pubic hair, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your lungs start to burn. You fight through it, the fluttering of your throat making him five a small, rough, moan and fuck — you're hard as a rock.

Just as you feel like you'll pass out on his cock he lets you off, yanking your head back. You're only given a few seconds to take a sharp breath of fresh air before he pushes your head back down. You're prepared this time, hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, swallowing around his hard cock. The way you suck Makarov off is wet and sloppy, stealing ragged breaths when you can as you trace the veins of his cock with your tongue and gently nibble on the base when his cock's fully sheathed in your throat, knowing exactly how to please him. Your efforts are rewarded with the salty taste of precum on your tongue, hearing him occasionally mutter his praises in Russian, none of his words snagging on your mind like sharp orders so you let yourself drift in the pleasure of servicing him, subconsciously grinding your cock into his foot.

But you're not mentally gone enough not to notice the squeaking of chairs, your body tensing as you pull up enough so only his head remains in your mouth, your head turned just enough to throw a sharp glare at the other men in the room. Makarov having his guard down like this makes you tense, violence buzzing beneath your skin from the ingrained need to protect him.

"Hound." Makarov's growl is followed by another sharp tug of the leash, the dull ache of the metal prongs digging into your skin dissipating some of your aggression. "Did I tell you to stop?"

You shake your head as best you can, a pathetic whine escaping your chest from the way the pain makes your cock even harder. Satisfied, he eases the leash, letting you return to your work. His head lolls back, lazily looking at his men. He couldn't care less who sees you like this, but now he wants your full attention on him. "Leave." He gives the simple command.

You track the sound of shuffling feet as you take him fully into your mouth, making him hiss a curse under his breath. Nuzzling your nose into his curly pubic hair you breathe in his musk, his heel grinding firmly and consistently against your hard cock, pleasure pulsing through your veins with such intensity you're worried you'll cum without permission, low whines escaping your throat.

He pulls you off him suddenly, your lungs burning as you gasp for air. You expect him to paint your face with his cum, stake an obvious ownership over you. But he doesn't, pulling you by the leash and leaning down to mash your lips together, teeth biting down on your lip until it bleeds.

Makarov's kisses are rough and demanding, the sweet drug your body's been craving, teeth clicking together and tongues swirling in each other's mouths. The firm grind of his boot against your crotch makes you moan lowly, a sound he happily swallows down and nearly shoves his tongue down your throat. You part far too soon, your body craving much much more, but he doesn't let you stew in the disappointment of a short kiss — it's an owner's responsibility to spoil his pet — mumbling against your lips. "Prepare me."

A full shudder runs down your spine and you surge to follow his order. Makarov loves the determined look you get in your eye just as much as he loves the rough way you grip his hips and hike them up so you can pull his pants and boxers down his legs. Your bloodied fingers grip his hips and pull them down until his ass hangs off the edge of the couch, throwing his legs over your shoulders and he can feel the muscles deep in his back strain as you nearly bend him in half, his hard cock and hole bared for you.

It's a vulnerable position, trapped between your bulky frame and the couch he has no way to escape. And if anyone else were to attempt this he would feed every inch of their flesh to themselves. But Makarov relishes the knowledge that he's in control, a single word from him would make you stop regardless of how hard and wanting you were, your loyalty to him as real as the dead man's blood you dip your fingers in to lube them.

Your fingers circle his hole before you press the pad of your finger against it. Without the heat of battle the cold viscousness of the blood feels disgusting, making him shiver and his rim flutter against your digit. But the discomfort is easily forgotten when you apply pressure, the steady and persistent way you push your finger in forcing his muscles to yield. "Shit-" Makarov clenches his teeth; your fingers are so large just one feels like two of his own, the gnawing pain of your finger pushing deeper just amplifying the pleasure of being stretched open and your other hand loosely stroking his wet cock.

You don't go slower than you need to, perfectly trained to know how to move your fingers to keep him teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain, each shift and slow drag of your finger pulling deep grunt and soft breaths from between his clenched teeth. "Yes, there you go." His praise makes your heart melt and cock throb in your pants, the pull of the leash bringing your lips together in another harsh kiss. You swallow his moans greedily, pushing a second finger in and curling them in search of his prostate, your thumb incessantly rubbing the space between his balls and ass to trap the spongy flesh between your fingers.

He nearly chokes you with how hard he yanks on the leash, hips pushing back into your hand and walls clenching down on your fingers. The stinging ache of being stretched open mixes with the building pleasure, leaving his skin feeling like a live wire. His teeth dig into your lip until it bleeds again, heels digging into your back. He grinds his hips down on your fingers, muttering praises against your lips as you push a third finger in and force him to take it.

He can't wait any more, gripping your hair and roughly yanking your head back. "Fuck me already." He growls, licking the blood staining your cheek.

You scramble to do as you're told, continuing to stretch him open as you undo your belt and pants with one hand, your hard cock bobbing against your abdomen. Pulling your fingers out you scoop up more blood, the cold helping reign in your lust as you lube up.

Before you can do anything he reaches out to grip the base of your cock, his hold firm and just at the cusp of pain. "You'll be good, yes?" He growls against your lips. "Fuck me good and hard?" His hand moves, stroking you slowly, evenly coating the blood along your cock. "I don't need to show you how to use this thing again, do I?" There's a dangerous edge in his voice.

Fear shoots down your spine, mouth going dry. You'd been too eager for human touch when he first let you mount him, and when you came seconds after getting inside him he'd been less than pleased by your abilities. You couldn't feel your cock for a full week after he'd tied you down and used your cock until you couldn't cum, using a cock ring to keep you hard and using you until he was satisfied.

You quickly shake your head. "No sir," You choke out and bare your throat. "I can do it, I'll be good." You promise.

His hold loosens, tugging you by the hair so he can peck your lips, his tongue licking over the small wound he'd made. "Don't fail me now."

You steel yourself like you're going to war, pressing your cockhead to his hole. Your nails dig into his hip, your grip ironclad to keep him still as you pull him down more and simultaneously push in. There's a second of resistance before your head pops in, the pleasure of entering his velvet soft insides being met with sharp pain as his teeth chomp down on your shoulder through your shirt. It all mixes in your brain into pure bliss, your hips bucking up into him automatically until you're bottomed out. You hold him close to you and leisurely grind your hips, letting him get used to the mind numbing stretch.

Fuck— Makarov may see the appeal of brutes but impaled on your cock he feels like he's being split in two, lungs burning and he can almost swear your tip's poking his diaphragm. He chases the pain more than the pleasure, heels digging into your back to give him some leverage so he can push his hips into yours. "Yes," His head lolls back when you slowly withdraw, only to suddenly snap your hips and hilt yourself inside him again. "-fuck, yes!"

The blood keeps you from tearing him apart but there's too little of it to keep him from feeling the painful stretch, the slow movement of your hips making his thighs shake. "Harder," He demands, yanking on your leash and biting your shoulder again. "Make me feel it." His voice is rough with a demand, because men like him never beg.

"Yes sir," You manage, bracing your feet and setting a rough pace, rutting into him like an animal. He muffles his sounds into your shoulder as your cock saws into him, his walls fluttering and clenching around you so tightly it feels like he'll snap your cock off. You do your best to focus on him and his pleasure, but the tight heat of his hole is rapidly melting any control you have, your cock throbbing and leaking precum inside him.

"Sir, please-" You whine, your muscles tight and your balls feeling so full you feel like you'll burst, your voice full of need. "I'm so close."

“Not yet.” He growls, pushing his hips down to meet your thrusts, your hand stroking his cock. “Make me cum first.” He growls.

You hold back a pathetic whine and redouble your efforts, your rough thrusts bruising his ass as you fuck into him, aiming to nail his prostate every time you bottom out. He wails, whole body shaking, his cock throbbing in your hand and leaking a puddle of precum on his stomach.

Makarov cums without any warning, going rigid and biting your shoulder even harder as pearly cum shoots from his tip, his walls clamping down on your cock. "C- cum!" He snarls, voice muffled, and it's all you need. Bottoming out fully you moan as you shoot his insides full of your cum, rocking your hips and grinding your cock against his prostate to prolong both of our highs.

You hold him close as you come down to reality but the way his walls clench around your cock makes you feel like heaven. His hands grip your jaw, bringing you down into a disorganized sloppy kiss. He's boneless in your arms, his walls continuing to flutter around you. "That was good." He slurs, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. "Good dog."

The tug of the leash is expected and Makarov kisses the corner of your lips, tongue swiping across your skin to lick up more of the blood staining your lips. "Clean me up." He orders, "Lick up your mess." He growls, and there's not a single part of you that would refuse him.

Tag list: @lieutnt, @pastelclovds @thee-great-enigma @vladimirking24

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larkspurblue · 11 months

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Alright I'm on my period (pain) and in a monsterfucker mood so, here's how I imagine several of my fave monsters would react to their s/o on shark week

Dragon: I imagine these guys run hot, so you'd have easy access to what's basically a massive heat pack that's eager to please and probably going to be a little smug about it. You are the centerpiece of their hoard and dragons take great pride in keeping what is theirs in top condition. Expect to be pampered as they see fit and to have your every want and desire tended to. Need something? Don't even think of getting up, they'll get it for you. Cravings? Already stocked up on all your favorites. Want comfort? You'll be snuggled up to and curled around like a teddy bear. There will probably be a heat pack for when your dragon can't be around (probably because they're running errands for you), but expect those times to be few and far between. Overall, dragons will take this time of the month as a way to prove just how attentive and capable they are. Please reward with lots of pats and kisses.

Drider: PANIC. Driders have an incredible sense of smell and will know you're on your period the moment that you start. No matter how many times it happens, their first and instinctual reaction to smelling blood on you will always be concern that you've been injured in some way. This feeling can be hard to shake off, so don't be surprised if they get particularly anxious or hovering. Driders take their mate's health very seriously and have no patience for anything threatening that, including you, so you won't have to worry about not having what you need but you will have to worry about upsetting your drider by not looking after yourself to their standard. For example, if you skip a meal under their watchful eyes, you'll be pestered about not getting the energy and nutrients you need until you give in. And big one, take extreme measures to reassure them that you're not overexerting, or you might find yourself relegated to a bed or couch for resting, cocooned until you're deemed ready to get up and not a moment sooner.

Robot: Honestly most of the time you probably think they don't know that you're on your period until you tell them, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. The more humanoid robots/commercial androids will probably act like any other caring human lover, while the less human ones will be curious if the relationship is new and might need some explaining. But no matter the make, your robot s/o will be monitoring your biometrics 24/7 and constantly looking for ways to help. You may not notice, but they'll be setting down a glass of water any time you need to hydrate, organizing your things to make everything easier to find, adjusting the room temperature and humidity and brightness to your liking, and ordering anything you need before you're even aware that you need it. I mean, now that you think about it, when was the last time you needed to restock your painkillers, replace a heat pack, or get more pads/tampons? That's right...

Bonus: Writing "shark week" at the top of this made me think like... wait what about being on your period with a shark mer around. Can I just say there's no way they would be any kind of normal about it. Good luck handling your absolutely fucking feral mer, you're going to need it because the way you smell hits about five different primal urges and every interaction is like spinning a wheel and seeing what you hit. Have fun being either smothered in affection or fretted over or hunted or hunted for or jumped.

#not me making this blog and immediately forgetting about it until like a year later.. whoops #terato #monsterfucker #x reader #period comfort #dragon x reader #drider x reader #robot x reader #shark mer x reader #my thoughts

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rogueddie · 2 years

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Steve isn't sure what he was expecting a dragon hybrid to look like. Monstrous probably. The last word he expected to think is 'pretty'.

But he is. His long hair that looks so soft, his big doe-eyes, full lips, soft jaw... even the way he tilts his head, looking so curious. The little smirk, the amusement, the glint in his eyes.

And the dragon parts don't make him look anymore monstrous either. They probably should. Massive wings that, even folded behind him, take up so much space with how massive they are. The dark leathery skin and scales climbing around his bare torso, a line of them going down his arm, to his claws.

"Oh, hel-lo," he uses his wings to lift him from where he's sat on the floor, the movement dangerously smooth. "Who do I need to thank for you?"

"What? Oh, uh, no, that, um," Steve stammers, face flushing. He grabs the handle of his sword, feeling a little uncertain. He misses the way the dragons eyes linger on his sword. "I'm not... I'm here as a knight of the Kingdom, to... uh, facilitate, your leave?"

The dragon steps closer, slowly and carefully. "Is that your fancy way of saying that you're here to kill me?"

"I'm not a murderer," Steve draws himself up. "I'm not gonna hurt you unless you force me. Making sure you leave is technically following my orders."

"Technically," the dragon repeats. He hovers, hesitating, before leaning into Steves personal space. "What if I don't want to leave?"

"Why wouldn't you? The people here are assholes to you. There's plenty of towns who'd love a dragon."

"What about my treasure? I'd have to start a new hoard and..." He sighs, looking around at the ruined little castle he's nesting in, full of trinkets and gold and instruments. "This took so long."

"Couldn't you take it with you? Or, uh, I could have it moved?"

"No," the dragon growls, baring his teeth for a moment. He clears his throat after a moment, looks a little embarrassed. "Sorry. I just... I don't like people touching my things."

"Right, no, obviously. Sorry."

The dragons grin only grows as the quiet stretches out, Steve struggling to find something to say.

"I'm Eddie, by the way."

"Huh?"

"Eddie. Kind of. It's the closest way of saying it with the human tongue."

"Oh. Uh, hi? I'm Steve." Steve smiles a little, gives him a little wave.

He's adorable, Eddie shakes his wings a little. Bites his lip to try and stop himself blurting something embarrassing out, but can't stop himself asking, "you wanna stay a little while?"

"Oh, no, I should-"

"Tell the people that you spoke to me for five minutes and it did nothing? Nah, come on. We can chat or something. Think of some excuse on how you so nearly defeated the beast, if only the wily thing hadn't slipped away or whatever."

Steve follows him after a moment, looking over the little room Eddie leads them into. It's covered in softer things, blankets and stuffed furniture.

"Here," Eddie gestures to the big centerpiece loveseat. He perches on a little table, the space already cleared perfectly from other times he's clearly sat there.

Steve unclips his sword before falling back onto the seat. He shifts around to get comfortable, sprawling out. The sight has possessiveness burning through Eddie, Steve fitting perfectly among his treasures.

He stiffens when he looks to Eddie, who watches him with sharp eyes, leaning forward. Something about him looks suddenly dangerous.

"Uh, Eddie? Is this alright?"

"Yeah," Eddies voice is low, hushed. "Yeah, that's perfect."

"You sure? You're looking at me like you want to eat me."

Eddie immediately shakes his head. "No. No, it... I don't want to hurt you. It's..." Eddie looks him over again. "Fuck. Sorry, it's... I want to keep you."

Steve flushes bright red, tries to laugh it off. "What, you'd consider someone like me treasure?"

"You'd be the prettiest," Eddie tries for teasing. But his voice is strained, eyes still just as dangerous and sharp.

"How would that work? Like, keeping me?"

"Don't," Eddies voice cracks. "This... Bad idea. You- you should go."

Steve shifts so he's sat on the edge of the chair, hesitates. "When should I come back? It's... I don't know if any excuse I have will be good enough. They're probably gonna send me back anyway."

Eddie closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. "Steve."

"Right, sorry, I'm leaving."

He grabs his sword before walking quickly out. He doesn't look back until he's outside, immediately spotting Eddie in the window. He tries to wave, but Eddie ducks out of sight.

Logically, Steve knows he should take the warning and run. Come up with some bullshit tale that'll keep the people from bothering Eddie, or something that'll get them to send someone else.

He knows, he understands, that going back would be a bad idea. A really bad idea. Dragons infamously keep people as treasure and finding a dragon that would let someone they see as treasure walk away is unheard of. Steve knows that Eddie wouldn't be able to let him go a second time, not with how obviously he was waring with his instincts.

"Is the dragon dead?" Is the question he's asked as soon as he arrives back.

Steve is already shaking his head, answers without thinking. "Not a killer. I'm going to try to talk to him again tomorrow."

edit: not a part 2 but for those asking for more, I'm slowly making it a full fic on ao3

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #ficlet #creaturefeature

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blorbologist · 6 months

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also fjorjester, treat <3

I think this is my first time writing fjorester? Pure fluff for them <3 Echoes of the Solstice spoilers!

Caleb’s tower is swarming with activity: each cat servant shepherds villagers to rooms, or towards the dinning room as they deem appropriate. Fjord notices more: limping dogs and puff-tailed felines, too, cautiously sniffing spectral forms before a tail leads them to rest.

Usually Jester would be in the middle of it all. The star, the centerpiece, the helm of the ship. Or Fjord would take that space for her, a grave duty he usually relishes for the glimpses of her latest prank.

They don’t. Is the thing.

“Fjord,” Jester giggles, prim and pleased and perfect, just perfect in his arms, her own wound around his neck. Tight because she wants them to be, not of any fear he’d drop her.

(He could, and she’d shriek and laugh and tease him fondly for the stumble. She’s perfect because they can be imperfect. It makes sense. Really. Wildmother’s mercy, he’s a sap. For her.)

(His fiancée.)

He lost what she said in the silence as he kicked the door shut behind them. Caleb’s got some enchantment on their room to coax the chuckle of waves into it. Rasping in his ears, he can almost believe they’re home.

Fjord clears his throat. Gently places Jester on the bed - gleaming like a pirate’s hoard. More precious than all the treasure the sea has to offer, and just as liable to sweep him off his feet.

“... What was that?” he mumbles, and her sharp teeth and sharper eyes gleam sweetly with laughter.

“Fjord,” she repeats, drawing him close effortlessly, fingers swimming through his hair. He sighs as she gently untangles knots that the chaos of battle spun. “Momma’s gonna be so upset.”

He flushes - her cool skin feels good, spare hand cradling his cheek. “I - Jessie, was there - something? Was I supposed to ask her first? Or the Gentleman?” Wracking his mind for the customs of Nichodranas - sure he knows how sailors wed pretty well, but Jester’s from more than that. Maybe some sort of dowry, or -?

“No, silly!” She presses an impish kiss to his nose. “In all the best stories there’s supposed to be a ring.”

Oh. Ah. Well! This, this he planned for.

Fjord gently pulls Jester’s hand from his cheek. Takes a moment to admire them - strong, stable hands, quick and artistic and so nearly gone if she was not so clever to match. When he presses a kiss to the knuckles, he feels the cool of the jewelry against his lips, against his tusks.

And then, with a huge grin of his own, he plucks the ring of fire resistance from her finger. Pointedly raises his brows. And slides it where it now belongs.

Jester downright cackles, sending him into wheezing laughter of his own.

Definitely a proposal to write home about.

🎃For my trick or treat ask game! [No longer taking prompts, thank you so much for the fun!] 🎃

#critical role #cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #fjorester #fjord stone #jester lavorre #i hope i did them justice! just. the silly idea was in my head ever since the end of the episode ok!!#mighty nein #echoes of the solstice

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nutklcker · 2 months

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(I'm mostly thinking abt my boys here but I decided to use like OC language cuz that's what most people relate to)

My favorite thing abt lethal company OC's that are or contain an entity/monster that's now working with a crew/on the crew's side is the idea of someone watching them in the terminal

Like, like if you have a masked then on the terminal they'll show up like a dead player body, blue with the sight triangle thing, but a duller blue than the living employee's blue on the terminal, and like imagine trying to hook that baby up to the terminal cuz usually the terminal only follows the players that signed in on it, I got off track

Or like, friendly Bracken? How the hell you hook that guy up. Or like if the terminal person isn't used to their new monster buddy yet and they switch to someone being followed by a red dot and momentarily they panic and try to walkie in "TURN AROUND!!!" And then they check the helmet camera and it's just that person turning around and looking at the friendly Bracken, who then waves awkwardly or rustles uncomfortably a little, and then back through the walkie "oh that's just our Bracken <3"

(More under the cut)

Or like, if you do get a monster hooked up to the terminal and end up able to track it, I expect most scrap teams would let the monster go off on its own cuz if it's something like a Bracken or Coil or something like that they expect it to be tough enough to scrap collect on its own safely, but like imagine switching to it on the terminal and seeing not just it's red dot, but another one nearby. Like. You know??? Cuz what if, hear me out, the friendly red dot is sitting still, what if they're staring at a coil head? What if they're trying to not be spotted by a nutcracker (cuz those things kill anything <3 I think LOL)? Or, dare I be angsty, what if they're hurt? Alternatively what if like a loot bug found them and went "woah what a funny thing that's gonna be the centerpiece of my hoard" or what if a spore lizard found them and using cat theory was like "this thing is ignoring me... I trust it. My friend now, I'm staying with it" Or like your team's Masked running other Masked and they have a little funny guy party

Or, another fun idea, what if you switch to your monster buddy on the terminal and see a blue dot with them, so you assume all is well and you switch to the next teammate, and the next after a while, and back to the last one, and you get confused cuz monster Buddy isn't there, so you switch back to them and now there's another/more blue dots, and it sets in there's another team. Imagine radioing to your team "guys there's another team, and they're staring at our coil, you gotta go save him" or what if your Buddy is one of the simpler monsters like a Snare Flea, Loot Bug, or Spore Lizard and you guys have to genuinely go fight those people off so they don't hurt your baby???

Two bonus ideas just posited by Rend: what if the monster teammate isn't moving or doing anything about the other team because they ALSO have a monster teammate with them? What if, in their panic, your terminal person doesn't notice one of the moving blue dots is a little duller and the other team is essentially talking to your boy like "omg friendly Bracken!!! We have a friendly Masked, wanna join our team?" and your Bracken's just sitting there trying to figure out how to express it's taken, OR what if the other team DOESNT know they have a monster with them, I'm thinking like Maskeds who have their mask on under their helmet, Bracken's pretending to be employees, loot bugs in a trench coat /ref

Okay Rend's other idea, because he's full of himself /lov, was what if your monster teammate is a Nutcracker, and you're watching it essentially open up, look around, close, continue walking, and then the blue dots move. And slowly you notice they're getting closer, and you notice on the camera one of them has a shovel, and you have to walkie to your buddies they need to go save your semi indestructible protector who split off to hunt down a spider that caused some trouble

Ough the terminal just offers so many fun ideas for monster and crew collaborative teams my mind is buzzing /pos

#host #rambling sorry tee hee #long post #rend helped a little so I'll do his funny tag #👁️#I love thinking abt this

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gluttonygirls · 8 days

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devouring-hive Hoard.

You do your best to try and take slow, sneaking steps through the dark of the cave. Feet landing among coins and precious gems, you feel them shift around your tubby toes as you continued to creep along, heading towards the cave entrance.

When you had been caught by a dragon during your adventures, you thought that was the end of it all. Yet, rather than being destroyed for your trespassing, the enormous beast had seemed overjoyed to finally have a "pet", just like the rest of it's kind. It had happily declared that you were to be the centerpiece of its hoard, and flaunted as the best human in the world.

...Though, you were so small. How would the other members of its kind react to such a puny thing? They'd captured much grander mortals, and humans were so tiny.

And so it had made you eat. Time and again, it would swoop down into the cavern with food in its clutches. More confections than a bakery, more meat than a slaughterhouse, more of a feast than fit for an entire village. Each time, the request was the same.

"Eat or be eaten."

And so you did, tearing off chunks to stuff past your lips, gulping it all down to please your draconic master. It only took a few nights of this treatment, spending every waking moment feasting, for the effects to become obvious.

Your legs thickened up, once the athletic limbs of an adventurer growing thick and cumbersome. Calves grown thicker than your shoulders, with thighs so huge and heavy that they swelled over your knees, pillars of fat that could clog a doorway each. Your hips were just as massive, swelling out to the sides farther than you could spread your arms, with an ass that could have crushed a carriage.

All that food rested in a stomach as big as a hill, a mound of fat that washed over your legs, hanging low enough to brush your shins as it flooded the table ahead of you. Tits the size of the watermelons you ate wobbled with every motion, bust shaking enough to give you the keen sensation of your neck flab jiggling.

Even your arms were huge, biceps slapping against your side rolls whenever you moved them. Thick fingers pushed against your lips, cramming in more food each night, only making you larger. Soon you were dressed in nothing but rags, and even then they could sometimes pinch around your bloated frame.

But that was in the past. Right now, you had a chance to escape, and chance to be free. Smiling wide, happy that the suns rays were about to touch you for the first time in weeks, you-

An enormous, clawed hand emerged from the coins around you, scooping you up. Dangling in their grip like a doughball as the cavern floor zoomed away, you were bounced in the scaly palm until you were facing the ceiling. Peering down at you was a reptilian eye.

"Hmm? Is my pet running? Or are you so hungry for more that you were going to go hunt for more?"

Blinking back tears, you give a shaky nod. Of course you just wanted more, you'd never think of leaving!

The dragon's lips curl into a lizard's grin as it brings you back towards your table. Another breakfast was there, waiting for you. The first of many, many, many more meals today.

#ic

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whateverdontatme · 2 months

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Definitely a wip but since the end of last summer | There's no need to hoard it | I just didn't want to ruin it

Floral centerpiece in a ruin in a backyard | Views from the dinner table | I'm going back to my original idea | The orange rug

I so so so need to up my quality game

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the-real-housewives-of-waterdeep · 1 month

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Tav Q&As

@eclecticqueennerd thank you!!!

2. Describe their tent setup! What’s on the outside? The inside?

Ooooooh, you know our girl’s got it POPPIN’ in there.

- The tent: Her rectangular tent is sapphire blue, her favorite color, and cream. She wanted something flashier, but was gently advised by her companions to avoid something that could draw attention.

- The exterior decorations:

- A large, hand-tufted rug is the centerpiece. Naturally, the rug is red; she rolled out the red carpet for herself, much to her chagrin. On a wooden side table, there’s a music box she found while looking for supplies.

- Sitting not-so-inconspicuously in the corner is a tall water pipe with two hoses attached to it. She insists that it’s decorative, but she and Karlach have crept off into the woods with it a time or two. They’re often carrying a small pouch of something… herbaceous smelling.

- A flimsy mirror because even when she’s covered in goblin guts, girlie has to look like a snack.

- Inside of the tent:

- So many blankets. So. Many. Blankets. Astarion even says his blood runs warmer than Dulcinea’s with how cold she is all the time.

- There’s a small rack that holds her camp clothes, organized by color.

- Decorative pillows, which she hoards like a squirrel hoards nuts.

6. How would the player go about meeting them in Act 1? What is their introduction?

You find her just beyond the Nautiloid crash site with intellect devourer guts at her feet. She’s sobbing uncontrollably. When you ask her why, she’s not upset about the circumstances she’s in. She’s upset that her shoes are ruined and there’s a stain on her dress.

When the two of you realize that you both have tadpoles, she acquiesces to a mutually beneficial agreement and agrees (reluctantly) to make herself useful in some way. You may have to teach her to do laundry, but she does figure it out. Eventually.

13. What is your Tav’s main color palette? Why do they choose those colors?

I’m not great at color analysis but I thiiiink I’d place her as a warm autumn. She favors dark, rich tones — navy blue, deep greens, brick reds.

27. Give us one of your Tav’s secrets!

While she was at Blackstaff on a nepo baby scholarship, she would sneak out all the damn time. The sneaking out was a known quantity. What people didn’t know, however, is what she got up to at those parties she went to.

Once, Dulcinea got wrapped up in a game of strip three dragon ante where the loser was not only naked, but had their clothes outright taken away. Her spellcasting was trash, but she managed to cast invisibility on herself just long enough to make it back to the dorm before daybreak.

27. What is the worst thing they’ve ever done/said to someone they love?

“Don’t wear that robe. You know the one I’m talking about.” This is regarding Gale’s incredibly ragged, but highly iconic purple robe. She arranges a weekend for them in the Upper City and instructs him to dress accordingly, which unfortunately excludes his threadbare robe. The wavemother robe on the other hand…

#dulcineacore

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hoodie-prince-kid · 1 year

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Lazy map of Excaliland, putting it in my tag for future reference. Under the cut is explanations of each park's area. This map is subject to change over time. There are also things like carnival game stalls, restaurants, and gift shops placed throughout the park that are unmarked on this map.

Entrance: Overhead, the voice of an old wizard can be heard welcoming guests to Excaliland. This is the voice of the Magical Entertainment ReLay INformant, or MERLIN. MERLIN can be heard all throughout the park in the forms of announcements, advertisements, and even narration of certain attractions. MERLIN is also the park's internal announcement system, the agent responsible for delivering notifications between park employees.

Main shop/help desk/security office: While there are several small gift shops and places to eat around the park, the only one in a permanent building is directly to the left of the park's entrance. This building doubles as help desk for inquiries about things like season passes, lost and found, and disability accommodation. The building also houses the main security office; it's fitting that the General of the park's toy army (which are scattered about the park like sentries) stands proudly on a balcony above the building's entrance.

Kid area (working name: Block Castle): A safe place for kiddos under 10 to play and explore. It's a relatively small area that features a playground, and is home to three of the park's mascots- Springy the Jester (a marionette run by mechanical arms), Teddy the Bear (a friendly-looking huggable statue), and a currently unnamed ragdoll that sits happily inside a glass display case and sings nursery rhymes on the hour.

The King's Horses: Featuring a colorful variety of horses, the park's carousel is one of its two rideable attractions. If you look carefully, you can find a plaque featuring the horses' names; there are 20 horses total.

Excalibur display: The centerpiece of the park is a once-majestic display of the legendary sword in the stone, Excalibur. Resting atop a stage made of cobble within mock-up castle ruins, guests who pay extra or have season passes can have a try at pulling the sword from the stone. There is a plaque explaining the sword's history in reference to the park, as well as large map of the park. The sword can be seen directly from the entrance.

Dragon's Hoard: Join your fellow knights on an exciting quest to defeat the dragon and steal back the crown! A dark roller coaster narrated by MERLIN, Dragon's Hoard takes guests through a dark cave home to an animatronic dragon with real pyrotechnics. Unfortunately, the attraction breaks down quite often, thanks to the ride's age. The park employees have lovingly nicknamed the dragon Josephine.

Round Table: A walk-through attraction following the story of King Arthur and his three knights Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival on their quest to defeat the wicked wizard Mordread. Consisting mainly of murals and once again narrated by MERLIN, the Round Table features a broken animatronic Mordread that now functions as a statue and a display of Arthur and his knights standing in triumph as their quest comes to an end, as well as vocal appearances from the characters.

Lady of the Lake: A mystical water show starring an animatronic Queen Guinevere as the Lady of the Lake (yes, I know that's wrong). A tale of Camelot's origins narrated by Lady Guinevere herself, the show's waterworks are not as impressive as they once were, but the animatronic is still mostly in working order. There is a sign asking guests not to throw coins in the fountain, but it's apparent upon looking in that no one listens.

Maintenance/storage: Disguised as a small tower, the park storage isn't much to look at, but younger guests are often told by park employees it's a dungeon for those who get too curious and fall out of line.

#welcome to excaliland

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fluffleforce-mysdrym · 1 year

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Fallen Flight - A Prologue of Sorts

Idryxia was conceived and hatched in Outland. From when she was in her egg, however, the dragons around her had told her stories of Azeroth. They had told her of the world they had been sworn to protect, of the Earth Warder and his sacred duty.

And they had not been able to keep from her that they had failed. The world she was born into was not her own, and it had filled her with a deepest sense of loss, something her tiny whelpling mind had not been able to grapple with well.

As the dragons fretted over what to do with the listless whelp who wanted nothing more than to go to the one place she could never set foot—there was a madness waiting for her there, after all—Sabellian had come to her one day with an offering.

It fit in the palm of his hand.

“This is a piece of Azeroth,” he had said softly as he offered his trinket to the little whelp.

He had left it with Idryxia when she hadn’t responded, moved to talk with Osoria and the others about what future their flight could have if their whelps could be so homesick for a world they were drawn to so intrinsically, despite never having known it.

While the dragons and drakes spoke of uncertain futures, Idryxia’s curiosity had gotten the best of her, and she had gone to inspect her gift.

It was all odd angles. The stone was gray, smooth. When she picked it up and inspected it closely, turning it in small hands, she could see where the minerals had formed the faintest of striations, darker and lighter stripes through the dense stone.

A piece of Azeroth.

Her piece of Azeroth.

Hers to safeguard.

It became a game for the older members of her flight. Who could find Idri a new piece of home?

Fragments of their world were hard to come by, but occasionally Evorian or Fyranian would show up with a new stone to keep hers company, another piece of home. Baskilan was the one to suggest that someday she might be able to return them to their rightful world.

While he had been chastised for putting the idea in her head, Idryxia had loved it. She had taken it upon herself to be even more protective of her growing hoard of stones, to see to it that one day they would be reunited.

One day, when there was a way to avoid the whispers that brought madness.

Idryxia delighted in each new present she received, memorizing their shapes and their colors, the way the minerals might glitter if held at just the right angle. She arranged them in patterns, her first stone always the centerpiece, the heart of it all.

When she was old enough to be bolder than she should, she took to sneaking to the nearby mortal settlements. She would bring small things to trade for any stones they might have from travelers passing through.

Most of the time, she came back empty handed.

But every now and then, some adventurer would pass through, and they would need to empty their bags at the outpost. And sometimes, they foolishly parted with the greatest of treasures.

One of the druids at the nearby outpost took to holding on to any rocks left by adventurers, to dutifully presenting her with an assortment of stone to choose from whenever she came by.

Most of it was scraps from Outland, gathered while mining, but every now and then she’d find a true gem.

Stones, rough or heavy or dense, comprised most of her collection. She had a few scraps of ore, thorium and iron, a sliver of truesilver. All of it was welcome, all of it was loved.

All of it was Azeroth.

When that call came, the call of the Dragon Isles, the first thing Idryxia did was carefully pack her hoard. Almost forty rocks in all, none bigger than the palm of Sabellian’s hand. She had had them all ready for travel when it had dawned on her that there would be no travel.

After all, madness waited for them, if they crossed through that portal.

Didn’t it?

#world of warcraft #i just really love the Obsidian Brood okay?#i dunno if i'll put this on ao3 yet #might wait until i have more #i dunno

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thegnomelord · 1 month

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Imagine Intoxicated Sex With Ghost

CW:NSFW, MDNI, intoxicated sex (weed) Subbot Ghost, domtop Mreader, safe/sane/consensual, smoking, playing with hands, anal, recreational drug use.

Ghost doesn't like being inebriated. Even when out drinking with the lads at the nearest pub he'll never reach the point of intoxication where he can't drive a car or punch a man's lights out if he needs to. He saw what booze did to his pa, saw what the drugs did to Tommy, he doesn't want the Riley 'legacy' to dig it's roots into him — just the thought of it makes his stomach churn and his lungs feel like they're infested with black mold.

But sometimes when both of you are on leave, the battlefield miles away yet the lingering ache of it all filling his bones with static, he'll indulge in the weed his doc prescribed. It took him a while to be comfortable to use it, both with himself and you. But he trusts you, knows you won't do anything to him that you two hadn't agreed to prior; you're good for him like that.

Too good.

Making the blunt feels intimate in a way Ghost can't describe. The way you sit right next to him on the couch, both of you on even level, works to relax some of the usual tenseness in his spine. It's the careful glide of your knife along the cheap cigar to create a clean cut so you can empty the dried leaves into the trash that has his heart beating a little faster — then again, he's always liked the look of a knife in your hands and how precise you could be with it.

He'd die before he told you his thoughts, so he takes the empty cigar paper without a word and carefully measures how much of the weed he puts in, just a little shy of the recommended dose. He feels your nonjudgmental gaze on his fingers as he rolls the makeshift blunt, yours might be the only one that doesn't make his skin prickle with discomfort.

"You're getting better at that." You note. Ghost's blunt making skill isn't such a slop-job as it used to be when he first started doing this, but it's by no means pretty. "Practice some more and they might start looking half-assed."

"Sod off." The edge in his tone would cut deeper if he didn't bump his shoulder against yours. "At least I don't make 'em look like logs of shite."

"Mean." You tut but shoulder his weight without complaint and wrap an arm around his waist. He leans further on you until he ends up laying across your lap, his back pinning your legs down and his head resting on the couch arm, making himself comfortable like a cat in a sunning spot.

"What? Can't handle the truth?" He says, staring at the blunt in his hand. You don't rush him, sitting in comfortable silence with your hand loosely carding through his disheveled hair, fingers scratching his scalp and the soft blond strands curling at his nape for a few minutes while Simon prepares himself. You know he's ready when he pulls the face mask off his face, biting the end of the blunt between his teeth and turning his head towards you.

You reach to hold his jaw, the sensation of your fingers scraping against his stubble both electric and calming for him. With a small 'click' an equally small flame sparks at the tip of the lighter, the fire dances in his dark eyes as you hold it at the other end of the blunt until it's tip is ignited.

Simon holds the blunt with his fingers, eyes closing as he takes a deep and controlled breath. The smoke lazily crawls down his trachea to settle in his lungs, he holds his breath until there's a small tightness in his chest before breathing out just as slowly. It takes a couple more puffs before he can feel the vestiges of that lazy high begin to nibble on his nerves, eyes cracking open to look at your visage through the dancing smoke.

Weed takes the edge off life for him; the constant ache of his body is easy to forget when the pleasant buzz fills his skull, chest full of feathers and a deep floaty calmness settling in his bones. Only his spine feels weird, like his lower back is made of kinetic sand, muscles tensing and relaxing but even that works to calm him down, ground him to the sensation of your fingers carding through his hair.

When a low grunt escapes him you lean down, plucking the blunt from his lips to kiss him. This kiss isn't rushed like most of your intimacy needs to be — you have all the time in the world. Ghost opens his mouth and hums into the kiss, the taste of weed on his tongue as he lazily licks into your mouth and along your teeth, lingering whisps of smoke escaping through the crack of both of your lips.

You part so he can take another drag of the blunt, your warm lips leaving chaste kisses on his forehead, nose, eyebrows, cheeks, eyelids when he flutters them shut, and anywhere where you can reach. From the corner of his eye he sees you turn the Tv on, setting some cartoon on a low volume to further ease him into the mental space of calmness. Then your free hand reaches to loosely hold his own free hand, your thumb tracing the scars on the back of his hand.

Your hands don't wander any lower, letting him feel your warmth while he lazily finishes his blunt until it's gone. "You alright Si?" You ask.

"Like a hog in shite." He manages, tilting his head to further lean into your hand that's scratching his scalp. It's something he loves about you — the slow approach you like to take with him. Not just jumping straight to sex, though that's fun too, but sitting there with him, letting him ramble about who knows what while you two watch some shite cartoon, giving him sweet kisses when his hand tugs on your shirt.

It makes Simon's heart feel like it could leap from his chest if his ribs weren't in the way. Fuck, at times like these he could probably spill his heart out to you if the weed didn't line his tongue with lead. He still tries in his own way, taking your hand that's holding his and starting to play with your fingers. Following the lines of your palm with his thumb, curling your fingers and laying sloppy kisses along your knuckles, humming contently when you hold his jaw loosely and scrape your thumb against his stubble.

Simon doesn't know when he gets aroused. Only that one moment he's not, and by the time you two part from another lazy kiss he's tenting his sweatpants.

"Hey," Simon grunts, holding your hand by the wrist as he nibbles on your finger. "Want you."

"You already have me." You snort.

Even high as a kite Simon's not all too pleased with your humor, nipping your finger just at the edge of pain. "Smart arse." His lips follow his teeth to soothe the bite with a small kiss. "Want your cock."

Straight to the point, that one.

A small laugh escapes you, "Alright, alright." He grumbles like a bear roused from hibernation when you have him sit up. He grips your shirt to demand one more kiss from you, your lips distracting him so he doesn't notice when you pick him up. The face he makes is hilarious, like a dog that thinks he's too heavy to be picked up.

But he gets over it quickly, large arms wrapping around your neck to hold onto you as you stumble to the bedroom. A breath escapes him when you lay him down on the bed and he doesn't let go, resulting in you tumbling into bed on top of him. The curse you let out when you fall on him makes him giggle like a school boy.

He's absolutely no help when you try to take his clothes off, laying there like a sack of potatoes and only occasionally wriggling in place. Simon gives you an annoyed look and a chiding "Why'r you so slow?" when you have him lift his hips so you can slide his sweatpants and boxers down his legs. His cock bobs against his belly, a tiny drop of precum smearing against his skin.

"Because you're no help." You grunt, quickly taking your own clothes off. "Seriously Si, you're like trying to move a mountain."

But you don't mind him being like this. You love it, and you love him when he just huffs something under his breath and flops over on his front. He spreads his legs, his hard cock laying between his thighs and his hole just peeking out from between his cheeks. "Mhm," Humming Simon hugs the pillow, nuzzling his cheek into it as he gives you a lazy look, his pupils blown wide and eyes puffy. "Sounds like an excuse t'me."

Even with you it took him a while before he could turn his back to you like this, trust you like this.

"Fuck Simon, look at you." Gently you push another pillow under his hips to hike them up and the way he arches his back to grind his cock against it has your breath stuttering in your chest. You can't keep your hands off him, gingerly massaging the back of his thighs as you slowly trail up, purposely skipping over his ass to dig your thumbs into his lower back. "Gorgeous."

Simon lets out a slow breath as your fingers make the muscles relax, eyes closing and his back rippling as he melts into the sheets. "Well aren't you a charmer." His voice is mumbled into the pillow and the small wiggle of his ass he does to entice you is cute as hell. "C'mon." He nags, throwing the harshest glare he can at you. "Fuck me already." He demands, but he doesn't try to get up from his position, content to just lay and have you listen to his commands.

That's another thing side of Ghost you only see when he's high as a kite — he likes being a pillow prince, to give you orders and rest easy knowing you won't do anything he doesn't want. If it doesn't make your heart melt, that he trusts you like that, you don't know what will.

"Alright, alright," You placate him by finally groping his ass while you grab the lube on the nightstand with your other hand. You squirt a generous amount on your hand and warm it up between your fingers, settling between his legs in a way you can lay kisses along his spine while you slowly circle your fingers around his hole. You reach around with your other hand to lazily stroke him, the lube making the glide of your hand smooth and pleasant.

He's more vocal like this, a low half moan leaving him as Simon closes his eyes. Usually the feeling of a body looming over his back would have him tensing and bearing his teeth, but all he does now is breathe in and relax, muscles tensing for a fraction of a moment when your fingers breach him before he relaxes again. Simon's arms tense to hug the pillow tighter, the soft material muffling the soft moans and deeper grunts you pull from his chest with every small movement of your finger.

It's impossible for you not to tease him. "You like that, sweet prince?" But your tone is light and loving, pushing your finger deeper and distracting him from the small hints of pain the stretching of his muscles brings by stroking his cock more firmly, thumbing his cumhole.

Simon moans unabashedly and nods, biting the pillow and worrying it between his teeth when you push another finger inside him. "Mhm," He doesn't deny it. He can't deny it when the weed in his system makes the pleasure 10 times stronger, the usual electric pleasure now slowly replacing the marrow in his bones as your fingers twist and curl against his slick walls. "So good fer me." He mumbles.

Simon feels like he's floating on a cloud; Each kiss along his spine makes small shivers race down his limbs, the coldness of you pouring more lube over his hole complementing the heat of your hand around his cock, his drool soaking into the pillow and the sweetest sounds escaping him as you stretch him out. His cock leaks a constant stream of precum, his hips occasionally giving minute twitches to fuck into your hand but he's too relaxed to do more than that.

"Ready?" You ask when you think he's stretched enough, slowly pulling your fingers out of him. His hole clenches around nothing, dollops of slick lube escaping past his rim and running down his heavy balls; neither him nor his body is happy about the sudden lack of stimulation.

"Hurry." He orders, cracking an eye to watch you from the corner of his eye as you trail kisses up his spine until you're draped over him, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss while you lube your cock and line yourself up.

He moans into your mouth when the tip of your cock pops into him. "Fuck, yes lovie- just like that. . ." Your name sounds like honey on his tongue as you slide in deeper. His muscles contract and relax with each inch you push into him until he's left panting against the pillow when your balls finally rest against him. He's so hot around you, slick and pliant and trusting, blindly seeking you out for another kiss as you both adjust to the new position.

"Good?" You lazily stroke his cock again, feeling his back muscles ripple against your front as the pleasure washes over his system.

"Perfect." He moans and rolls his hips into your hand, simultaneously fucking himself onto your cock. "Move."

"Yes sir." You grin. You keep the pace slow and loving, a continuous and slow roll of your hips making your cock drag against his prostate. Reaching out to hold his free hand you rock your hips to meet his own movements. Each slow scrape of your cock against his walls has him whimpering, an occasional sharp thrust earning you a pleased moan, the pillow muffling the little breathy 'ah- hah-hm- ah' he makes when you grind your cock as deep as it'll go while rubbing his shaft.

Pleasure continues to build in his body, muscles tensing and relaxing, every single thought melting out of his skull save for your name that he moans like a prayer, your loving movements slowly and steadily turning Simon into a pile of goo. He doesn't even notice when he cums, it rushes through him like lightning striking a tree, pearly cum spurting over your hand as he shouts a loud "Fuck!".

You slow down only for a few seconds, long enough for him to come down from his high and begin grumbling and whining, showing you that he's nowhere near reaches his limit despite his cock softening in your hand. So you indulge his gluttonous side, starting to slowly thrust into him as you stroke his soft shaft. You cum eventually, his hole greedily clenching around you as you shoot your cum inside him and then keep going on fucking him until his voice becomes hoarse from screaming your name.

By the time you two are well and truly done you're both wrung dry, a sizable puddle of cum formed beneath his cock and his hole loose and lax, trying to clench around your cock and the cum you fucked deep inside him.

You use what sense you have in your skull that hadn't melted through your cock to roll you to over on the side so he's not laying in his own cum. Simon grunts when you attempt to pull out, gripping your hand as tightly as his relaxed muscles can until you get the message and lay back down, spooning him with your cock still deep inside him.

And fuck, the buzz of weed and pleasure from sex has him so loose and relaxed you could do anything to him and he wouldn't object. But you don't, simply cuddling up against his back and kissing his sweaty nape.

He loves you for that. He loves that he can trust you. He doesn't know when the last time was when he was this relaxed. A small giggle escapes him and he tilts his head back so you can lay kisses on his neck.

"Love you too Si." He hears you mutter against his ear before he falls asleep. And for the first time since the last time you two did this, does he sleep without the nightmares of a cold grave and a burning home haunting his dreams.

Tag list: @dead-end-stuff

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