A Thread Yall Wanna Read.

Where my Gaz stans at

GO GIVE OUR BOY SOME LOVE!!!

The cod fandom is so fucking white what even .The Gaz erasure is so gross .a lot of you don’t even try to hide it .Don’t get me wrong you can write about whoever you want but to title it is as 141 X reader and then not include gaz is just disgusting .

THANK YOU PARENTAL FIGURE

*raises hand*

I HAVE A QUESTION PARENTAL FIGURE

Mayhap would you bestow unto thee the glorious knowledge of what the 1fae1 would dress like?

Not because I'm drawing fae!Price right now. Definitely not. :]

I don't think they dress any special way but I can try!

Soap and Gaz dress the "best", more in line with current fashion trends. I think Soap is a muscle tee kind of guy, fitted shirts to show off his muscles, and in my mind he has those slick tech wear cargo-pants that he trades out with dark jeans. He's meant to look pretty but I don't think he puts a lot of effort into his actual clothes.

Gaz is practical but definitely on top of current trends since he dies a lot of hunting at clubs. I think streetwear is a good bet for him. I think of his hoodie look in the games, that sort of casual but put together vibe. He absolutely isn't putting a lot of thought into his appearance, he has this vibe for me that he just throws clothes on and the fit always works for him.

Price is easy. Dark warm jumpers or button downs, Witch's handmade hat, a nice warm scarf, dark jeans and a leather jacket. There's a feeling about him of quiet luxury. Cashmere and leather, good cologne and hand rolled cigars(thank you Witch). I think he dresses the same as he does in the games just without the tac gear.

Ghost wear what Love tells him to, but I think it's very military, leaning into the aesthetic of his mask. Cargo pants, neutral tone tees, heavy boots and a bomber or dark leather jacket. The man will always grab a jacket and heavy boots, maybe a zipup hoodie if he's dressing himself. Strikes me as a layers "always cold" sort of guy. I think he likes stupid tee-shirts, and has a lot of hand embroidered patches on his jackets from Love.

"I hope this fic doesn't awaken something inside me."

It did in fact, awaken everything inside them

HOLY FUCK

𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚'𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐲

❀ character(s): könig x reader

❀ word count: 5,265

❀ cw/tw: AFAB reader (AFAB anatomy, femme pet names and pronouns), sub!könig, dom!reader, mommy kink, edging, dacryphilia, praise, nipple play, body worship, face sitting, protected sex, obsessive thoughts/tendencies, hints of könig being co-dependent, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, cowgirl + mating press positions, mentions of aftercare

❀ a/n: after teasing it for far too long, i finally present the fic everyone has been waiting for: könig with a raging mommy kink. it has taken every single ounce of self-restraint i could muster to not snap my laptop in half in a flurry of horny rage while writing this. i hope it makes you as feral as it has made me <3

König is a man made of far too many scars and not enough introspection to understand why he’s so good at his job. A trained and skilled fighter, after taking one too many hits, vowing to himself to never ever be on the receiving end of them anymore. Constantly bloodied knuckles and split lips to serve as a reminder of how dangerous he is, how deadly, as if his mountainous height weren’t enough. Red was never his favorite color until he saw how good it looked on his own skin.

König is someone who demands control—sometimes with his words, mostly with his actions. For as anxious and silly he may come across as, there’s something undeniably intimidating about him most people are too scared to try to decipher. As soon as his boots hit the battlefield, he’s arrogant, condescending, confrontational, and the worst perfectionist to ever grace the German armed forces.

König is the face of the best insertion specialists, a name whispered on base that is often praised for his dedication to his job. Often begrudgingly named the best of the best. Pointed out with trembling hands as being a model soldier, even if he gets a little sloppy at times. 

So to be the person to break him down slowly piece by piece until he’s a babbling mess underneath you is the greatest honor you could ever ask for.

His fingers are clutching the bed sheets, strong brow furrowed, sharp incisors digging into his swollen lip, a blanket of sweat clinging to his skin, love bites scattered across his board chest, and he looks up at you through thick lashes like a starved man in love with the meal sitting on his lap.

“Schatz,” he pants. “Ca-Can’t take much anymore...”

You run a gentle thumb across his cheek and smile sweetly at him. “Just a little more, sweetheart? For me? For mommy?”

Before he can answer, you lace your fingers through his hair and tug at the ends, eliciting a groan from his parched throat and a buck of his hips. Glistening tears fill his eyes, nearly spilling over his puffy cheeks, but he only barely manages to hold them at bay. His neglected cock throbs between your bodies, but his attention remains on you. Nodding his head, he leans his forehead against your shoulder and groans when you run your fingers down his spine.

“Good boy, König,” you murmur against the shell of his ear, and he whines at the praise, hips trembling as he fights the urge to buck them.  “Good boy. You’re so pretty like this, you know that? My pretty, good boy.”

He preens under your saccharine words, hot mouth filled with whimpers and moans, scarred knuckles bone-white and hands nearly numb, chest heaving as he tries to maintain control. “All I ever want to do is be good for you...,” he mutters.

Unsatisfied with his sudden shyness, you pull at his hair again, rougher this time, demanding his attention. Though he hisses at the pain, melted sapphires flicker up to meet your gaze, and you're pleased to see submission shining through the tears. “Hm? What was that, baby? Didn’t quite hear you.”

Another whimper and he licks at his dry lips. Oh, he's in it deep now. “Jus’ want to be mama’s good boy,” he mewls, eyes pleading with yours, hands at his side no matter how much they ache to touch you and, judging by the steady pulse of his cock, you're driving him to the brink of sanity. “‘s all I want to do.”

Your fingers stoke his cheek, and he nuzzles against your palm, mouth catching your fingers and kissing the tips.

A dangerous mixture of adoration and submission swims in his eyes, causes his pupils to swell until they're nearly consuming his shining irises. And he looks so enamored with you, so sickeningly in love and obsessed despite the ache in his cock and the tremble in his hands that it's difficult to keep yourself from consuming him completely. Devouring him until he’s a lovely stain on your lips and kept safe in the deepest depths of your stomach. All yours, yours, yours. Your good boy, your pet, your peace and sanity, your love and irrationality, all of it, encased in the ribcage of one of the most deadly soldiers seen in recent years. It makes you dizzy with control.

Humming with approval, you drag your digits down to the valley of his chest, nails grazing the skin enough to make him shiver. And right when he begins to lean into your touch, you lightly twist his nipple. He hisses with pain and screws his eyes shut, but you can feel his cock harshly throb against your thigh. You give his other nipple a twist for good measure. This time, his head lolls back and a low moan crawls its way out of his throat.

“That feel good, baby?” you ask. When he doesn’t answer, you pinch his chin between your thumb and pointer finger and force him to look back down at you. He appears to be stunned, surprised, as if you just pulled him out of his favorite dream. “I need you to answer me, baby boy,” you remind him gently.

He blinks a few times and nods. “Y-Yeah. Feels really good, mama.”

Too good, almost. The places where your soft skin is pressed against him feels raw, sensitive enough to bring tears in his eyes and cause his chest to ache. The legs wrapped around his waist weigh him down as his heart slams up into the ceiling, taking his rationality and any hope he had of maintaining control with it. Even after all of this time, you still manage to turn him into a puddle of love with a few kisses and honeyed words dripping from a sweet tongue. Keeping his head clear is becoming more and more difficult, and your sparkling eyes are beckoning him to allow himself to drown in the safety you provide him with.

Just do it, he tells himself. Just let go. You're safe, you're safe, you're safe.

A welcomed sharp pain blooms in his nipple again, but this time is soothed with your tongue after, teeth grazing and lightly nibbling. His knuckles might split if he keeps clutching onto the bed sheets so tightly. He might not care if they do. It if means you'll keep doing whatever it is you do to make him feel so vulnerable and exposed, he'll do it again and again until his hands are full of stitches and he can't move them anymore. Even then, he might find a way to keep doing it, even with all of the familiar gore.

“So handsome.” Your warm breath fans across his chest, and he shivers under it all. “My handsome boy. So special and sweet. So good for me, hm? Are you my good boy?”

He lets out a whimper when you brush your lips against his neck. “J-Ja! ‘m your good boy!”

“Maybe even my best boy. How does that sound, sweetheart? Do you want to be my best boy?”

“Always.”

It’s hypnotizing watching his head loll as you continue to tweak and play with his nipples, how his Adam’s apple bobs whenever you drag your tongue across his jugular, feeling his thighs twitch with every little movement from you. He’s putty in your palms, allowing you to manipulate him any way you wish, trusting you to handle him with clean hands, and you’ve learned how to mould out his best curves over the months you’ve been together. Thick fingers dig into the fleshy parts of your hips when you grind against his cock, and his brows pinch in concentration to keep his inevitable orgasm at bay.

You pout up at him. “I thought you wanted to be my best boy. What’s the matter, darling?”

König looks down at you with bashful eyes, a heat rising to his cheeks again and bringing out the freckles splattered on his nose. “I do! But I’ll cum if you keep doing that…”

And, by god, when you tilt your head to the side, he thinks he might melt into a puddle. “Hm? What’s the problem with that?”

“It’s embarrassing, cumming so early...”

“You think mommy pleasing you is embarrassing?”

This time, König shakes his head vehemently and tightens his grip on you, voice cracking with panic. “No, of course not! Just…” He looks down at where your bare pussy brushes his hard, weeping dick. “You’ve only just played with my nipples and grinded on me a little, and I’m all riled up and aching.”

You cup his warm cheeks in your hands and guide his eyes to yours, and you can feel him melt underneath you. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with that. We can take a break if you really need one, but you don’t need to worry so much about cumming early. I like getting you off. That’s the whole point of doing what we do. So don’t worry, love, okay? If anything, you cumming early is a compliment.”

After a few shaky breaths, he nods along with you and loosens his hold on you. Take control, shiny sapphires say. Fuck me, break me, make me yours. And Heaven help any man who tries to compare himself to König because he’s so fucking pretty–all blown pupils and swollen lips begging you to toy with him however you wish. There’s nothing in this world that even comes close to him; nothing that can capture your heart the way he does; nothing that gives you the same high he does.

König looks up at you as if you hung the stars in the sky, but little does he know they were hung in his image.

And so what if you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips a few more times. So what if you suck and nibble on his neck so anyone who looks at him knows he’s loved and fucked properly. So fucking what if you swirl your tongue around his pebbled nipple until he’s rutting against you again. Sharp fingernails drag down a muscular chest, and König cries out your name as thick white ropes spurt from his cock.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, eyes screwed shut and cheeks flushed. “‘m sorry, mommy, didn’t mean to cum without your permission.”

“Shh, shh, ‘s okay, König,” you reassure him and plant a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. When he comes down from his high and peeks his eyes open, you push on his chest a little and shimmy your hips down. “Lay down, baby boy. Can you do that for me?”

And just like a rubber band, König snaps back into the fuzzy headspace that makes listening to your every command the most imperative thing he can do. Your glistening cunt is hovering over his face as soon as he gets into position, and he doesn’t need to be told twice what it is you want him to do. Large hands grip the fleshy parts of your thighs and pull you down until his nose is brushing against your soaking slit, electricity dancing across where your hot skin meets his. Blue eyes peek past your mound, searching for the unspoken permission he longs for, and when you run your fingers through his dark hair, he knows he has it.

König is almost certain he’s addicted to the taste of your essence; honeydew on a parched tongue and bringing every nerve in his body to life. There are clouds in his head, stars dancing behind his eyes, sunlight coming out of his fingertips and splaying across your skin, and he has an angel sitting on his face and moaning out his name. He swirls his tongue around your clit, sucking and licking and nibbling in ways that has your thighs shaking around his head.

“O-Oh, König,” you moan out and dig your fingers into the headboard in front of you to regain your balance. “Oh, baby boy, just like that. Fuck, you’re so good.”

A groan reverberates in his chest, and you grind your hips when the vibration hits your cunt. All he can possibly think about is pleasing you, lapping at your pussy until you’re creaming on his tongue and screaming out his name, praising him for doing such a good job—because that’s all he needs, really. In a world full of deceptive words meant to inflate fragile egos, all König has ever wanted is someone to love him for who he is currently, not who he could be.

As if you can read his mind, you card your fingers through his thick hair, eyes full of unadulterated love and unabashed pleasure, and contently sigh. “Pretty baby boy. Look even prettier with my pussy in your mouth. Do I taste good, baby?”

He answers by burying his face even more into your heated core, tongue lapping at your puffy folds before latching onto your swollen clit. Expert fingers ease into your tight core, and he whines at how much you’re clamping down on him. He’ll never get over how reactive your body is to his touch. You might be the one sitting on the throne, but he’s the one making sure it’s the best throne to sit on.

“König, sweetheart, you make mommy feel so good. Fuck, such a good boy.”

Flowers begin to bloom in his chest, and he thinks he might be capable of more than just burying bullets into skulls. He’s surrounded by love, reminded of how precious it is and how fragile it can be if handed by rough palms. He can hear how much it causes your voice to tremble and shake, how it grows peonies and tulips until his chest is a garden and petals sit on the corners of his mouth; can see how your eyes overflow with it until he’s almost certain he’s drowning in it.

Never did he ever think of himself as someone worthy of the sweet words tumbling out of your lips, but you make it so easy to swallow them down and keep them locked behind his ribcage. An odd sort of guilt attempts to burrow  itself in his guts, as if trying to starve him of the affection he so hopelessly craves, but it’s quickly washed away when your eyes find his and he sees the same flowers that rest in his lungs. He’s allowed to be and feel loved. He’s allowed to indulge in the blanket of security you provide him with. He’s allowed to be something other than König: contractor for Kortac and insertion specialist for Kommando Speziälkrafte. He’s your good boy, and he thinks that’s the highest honor he’s ever received.

And, oh god, does he make you feel good. Good doesn’t even begin to describe the sunlight flooding your veins right now, the fire burning in your guts, the twitching in your thighs. König has become an expert in the matters of your pleasure, quickly learning how to curl his fingers inside of you and at what rhythm. He might be known for his petulant attitude and glass ego, but he’s a perfectionist down to his core, and every time he finds himself with his face buried in your heat, he takes notes of how to improve his technique.

It isn't long before you can feel yourself clamping down on your partner’s fingers, hips grinding in tandem with his tongue and shaky fingers pulling at his hair. And König drinks it all in, half-lidded eyes watching your jaw slacken and chest heave as your body shutters above him, drunk off of the reassurance that he’s good for something other than murder. Your orgasm washes over you as subtle as a tsunami, juices flowing out of you and coating his face until it drips down his chin. He doesn’t bother wiping himself clean. He likes having the reassurance that he makes you feel good enough to unabashedly release all over him.

König is high on carnality and voracity, submission and dominance and the freedom it gives him to love and be loved with every flaw but on display for prying eyes. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe, and safety is such an indulgence in a life spent on a battlefield. Open-mouthed kisses are pressed against your twitching thighs, and König smiles against your warm skin when he hears you mewl.

“Did I do good, mama?” he asks and has the audacity to sound bashful.

A chuckle slips past your lips. “So, so good. Mommy’s good boy, remember? And my good boy makes me feel the best.”

“Always want to be your good boy.” It’s his personal mantra at this point; the thing that plays on repeat in his ears while he’s losing himself in all of the flowers you plant in him with delicate hands and a soft heart. For no one could put such gardens together, tend to them and keep them as flourishing as you do, flowers overflowing until they’re crawling out of his mouth and spilling onto the floor. He’s full of love, full of life, full of beauty and colors that you’ve been kind enough to offer him. He can only hope to be the best vase he can be.

Somewhere along the way you’ve crawled onto his lap and dug a condom out of the side dresser, opened wrapper laying useless on the bedsheets and the latex rolling over his half hard cock. He hisses as your palm grazes over his sensitive head, but swallows down any whines when you place a tender kiss on his chest. It’s obvious he’s completely lost himself in his favorite headspace—swollen lips slightly agape, watery sapphires being swallowed by blackholes, hands trembling as if it strains him to not touch you, and, somewhere in the mix of all of the obedience and passion, you swear you see a flash of sunflowers.  

Gently, tender for the man who feeds off of your affections like a starved animal, you lace your fingers through his and place them on your hips, steadying yourself and finally giving him the touch he craves. “C’mere, baby. Gimme a kiss, yeah? Do you want to give mommy a kiss?”

“Please,” he whines out. “Want to kiss you so bad, mommy. Please lemme kiss you.”

“So cute,” you coo, tracing your finger over the outline of his lips, “when you’re so desperate for me. Are you desperate for me, baby? Want me so bad?”

König is babbling incoherently underneath you, begging and panting to touch you, begging to kiss you, begging to be worthy of such things. And yet, despite how much he whines and pleads, he remains with his hands by his side and his back against the headboard, because, above all else, he’s obedient, waiting for your permission, waiting to hear you tell him how good he is and how he deserves a reward. “Need you, mama,” he slurs, light eyes peeking through dark hair and pleading. “Need you feel you. Please, mama, let me feel you. I’ll make you feel so, so good! I’ll be the best boy! Just need to be close to you. Just need to love you. Please, mama, let me love you.”

You bring your lips close enough to ghost over his, close enough that you can feel his minty breath fanning over your face, close enough that he remembers what love tastes like and his tongue is yearning for it. “Kiss me then, König. Kiss me and touch me and love me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With shaking hands, he cups your face in his palms and slots his lips against yours gingerly. In a world where König is known for being aggressive and abrasive, he’s gentle with you, lips slowly sliding over yours and memorizing how sweet love tastes when swimming across his tongue. His hands drift down your shoulders where they trace all of the bumps and outlines of bones and muscles, before sliding down to your breasts, grazing over your pebbled nipples and goosebumps, and then finally resting on your hips, rough palms massaging the plushness of your body. And, just like every other time you’ve allowed him to love and be loved, he kisses his way from your mouth down to the hollow of your throat, your pulse thumping against his lips and reminding him of how fragile you both are.

Your pussy slides against the underside of his cock, and he whines into your mouth, nails digging into your hips and muscular thighs twitching. He’s insistent on kissing you, however, insistent on sliding his tongue in your mouth and committing obsession to memory. Because all he can do is obsess—obsess over you, over the way you make him feel, over how your hands trace the planes of his body, over every sound that falls from your mouth and nestles into his ears, over how sweet you make submission feel. He’s in over his head, he knows it, but as long as you continue to hold his hand, he thinks he might be okay with it.

And maybe it was you shifting your hips, or maybe he bucked his up at just the right angle, but somehow you’ve wound up impaled on him and moaning out his name, and König is certain he’s died and gone to heaven, pretty lilies and orchids laid out on his tombstone.

His cock stretches your pussy so nicely, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to feeling so full, feeling his veins drag against your plush walls and his head nearly kissing your cervix. Even with a condom on, everything about König’s cock is deliciously addictive. You give yourself a breath of a moment to adjust to his size, and right when his eyes flicker up to meet yours, you begin to rock your hips.

König loses all semblance of control at the sudden feeling of your warm walls around his shaft, babbling nonsensically and pathetically whimpering your name over and over, hands shaking and chest heaving. If you thought he was on the brink of losing it before, he’s absolutely gone now, not a trace of constraint or control to be found in his pleas for, “More, mama, oh bitte, can’t get enough of you. Never get enough of you.” Part of you suspects he’s still sensitive from his first orgasm, but that part is quickly crushed when König wraps his arms around your waist and begins to buck up into you.

“König,” you pant. “You’re such a good boy, oh my god! Fuck, keep fucking me like that. Oh, you’re so good!”

Tears poke at the edge of his eyes, whether it’s due to overstimulation of his body or mind, you’re unsure, but you keep bucking your hips in tandem with his, careful to match his distraught pace as you both chase your highs. And, oh, he’s so beautiful like this; all blown pupils and parted lips as he tries his damndest to make you feel a fraction of what he feels, terribly hopeful that you feel for him what he feels for you.

“F-Fick, mama, you make me crazy,” he moans out, “Making me so insane and needing you. Ich liebe dich zu sehr.”

Desperate doesn’t even begin to cover how he feels towards you and all of your flowers, though it’s often a sentiment used. Carnal, obsessive, incapable of thinking of anything or anyone else in your presence, willing and wanting to do anything just to see a glimmer of joy on your face, so fucking consumed by you he’s learned how to keep you in his ribcage.

The sunlight in your veins has broken through the surface, basking both of your bodies in warmth and security you couldn’t possibly find anywhere else. With his fingers creating crescent moons in your skin and his cock hitting all of your favorite spots, it’s impossible to not lose yourself in the greatness of it all. Your arms are wrapping around his neck in an attempt to bring his body—no, his heart—closer to yours, and König buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“So good,” you cry out, and you can feel him moan into your skin. Your bouncing is getting sloppier and sloppier by the second as the coil in your abdomen tightens, and König’s thrusts and whines are becoming more feral. So close, so close, so close. “König—”

“Ich komme gleich, Gott,” he manages to slur out, the English language a nuisance to try and translate to. “Komm mit mir, mama, bitte! Ich flehe dich an, cum with me, mama!”

After a few more messy thrusts, König’s hips stutter to a stop as your pussy milks him for all he’s got. Exhausted, your body falls apart on his, all lead muscles and rubber bones, and he catches you before you slide off of him. He mumbles something you don’t catch, and right when you lift your head up to ask him, he’s sliding his still-hardened dick out of you and tossing the used condom in favor of a new one.

“König?” you question. “What are you—?”

“Not enough,” he states adamantly. “Haven’t loved you enough. Bitte, mommy, let me love you s’more.”

He should be tired. He should be worn down to the bone. After two orgasms and being in this headspace for such an extended amount of time, he should be outright exhausted and ready for a bath. But König is looking up at you with a hard cock, blown pupils, and hungry lips ready to devour as much as you will allow him. He’s pleading all but with his voice and, like the obedient boy he is, eagerly waiting for your answer. Even with so many flowers in his body that they’re beginning to pour out from him and petals scattered across the bed, he still wants to prove he’s worth it all.

You can feel a monster start to stir in your chest—a monster starved of all affection and ready to feed on whatever scraps are tossed its way, sharp claws delicately caressing the very same plants you presented him with. You want to devour him piece by piece until your lips are stained with his blood and all of his shards are protected in your stomach.

And the worst part of it all is you both know he would let you. He would absolutely allow you to eat, eat, eat! Sharpen your teeth and bite as hard as you want! You’ll never go hungry as long as you’re with me! Just eat, goddammit, eat, eat, eat! Eat all of me until we aren’t sure where you end and I begin! Eat until I’m swimming in your veins! Just fucking eat!

Hunger is such a hard thing to ignore, especially when you have such a pretty meal right in front of you.

Rather than answer him verbally, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in for another soul-crushing kiss. He has you underneath him before either of you have time to grasp the consequences of obsession and infatuation. With an ease that onlyKönig could possess, he pins your knees up to your chest, lips brushing against the length of your calves before he begins a steady rhythm of thrusts.

“Baby boy,” you mewl. “You’re so good, you know that? So, so fucking good. Your cock is amazing, darling. Keep fucking me just like that! O-O-Oh, König!”

With claws as sharp as diamonds, you dig your nails onto his back, and he cries out your name until it’s all he dares to think about. “F-Fick, mama,” he swears, and throws his head back, “du bist schön. You know that right, mommy? Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

His skin is on fire, a beautiful display for you to drink in as he brings himself to the brink of sanity. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts; he’s so overstimulated that there’s tears burning behind his eyes and his legs feel as if they may give out any second. But you’re looking up at him as if he’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen and he just wants to be able to say he’s worthy of it all. He’ll keep feeding the monster growling in your chest until he’s just a sad pile of bones. He’d burn himself down to ashes if it meant keeping you warm. He’d rip out his own vocal chords if you woke up one day and decided he talks too much.

Anything, anything, anything to love and to be loved. 

His whines and moans become more and more warbled the closer he gets to his orgasm, and you’re drinking every ounce of his submission. Unable to maintain self-control in the face of greed, sharp teeth pinch his nipple, the swell of his pecs, his shoulder, his neck, his jaw—anywhere you can feed and hear him cry out in delight, just so long as you eat, eat, eat. Every time enamel pinches plush flesh, you can feel a piece of him slither down your throat and land in your ever-growing stomach—somewhere he’s learned to consider home. Whispers of praise and love dance across his skin, your hands running up and down his spine as if coaxing him to give you just a little more of himself, just a bit more so you can sedate the beast and continue to be the practical person he knows and loves.

“Mama,” he pants out, “ca—oh gott—won’t last much longer!”

“So fucking good for me,” you moan and can feel his cock beginning to throb with the need to release. “There go you, just a little more. I’m so close, darling.”

Shaky hands claw their way down a broad chest, and you dig until you can hear a hiss leave his lips. “Bitte, mama, komme mit mir, bitte!”

“My baby wants me to cum with him, hmm?” you tease, albeit weakly. He’s losing control, you both know it. His abs flex with strain, his brow is shining with sweat, and his lips wobble with weakness, and yet he’s fighting to have you cum first just so he can taste how sweet you are on his tongue before the guilt washes it all out.

“Ja, bitte! Ich flehe dich an, mama, komme mit mir!”

“O-O-Oh, fuck...” The monster in your chest is roaring so loudly, you can hear the echoes of it ringing in your ears. “I’m cumming, sweetheart, cum! Cum with me! You deserve to, baby boy, deserve to cum with me.”

And he does so, embarrassingly quick, your name a prayer on his lips and your voice crying out his. For the fourth time that night, you’re both left panting and clinging to each other. He collapses on you, careful as to not crush you under his weight, burying his face into your chest and struggling to catch his breath.

“You did so well for me, darling,” you mumble against his shoulder, your lips fumbling to kiss everywhere your teeth sunk into. “I love you so much.”

“Ich liebe dich auch.” Voice muffled by your skin, but you still hear him nonetheless. “Ich liebe dich so sehr.”

“C’mon, let’s get you in a bath and I’ll cook some food for us, yeah? That sound good?”

He whines out and nuzzles his face more into you, hands pulling you closer to him and refusing to let go. “In a little bit.”

You smile down fondly at him, though he can’t see. “Snuggles first?”

“Snuggles first,” he confirms. And, for a little bit, everything feels right in the world.

Reblogs/comments are always appreciated! ♡

REBLOG THE WIZARD

In New Zealand, there is a man legally known as ‘The Wizard’ who is an educator, comedian, magician and politician. Some of his political ideas include:

Abolishing old-fashioned gender roles

Travelling to find the “center of the universe”

Replacing God and the Church with Wizardry and the World Wide Web

Love love LOVE this

raise crows and they'll gouge your eyes out

HAPPY TO BE OF SERVICE BOO <33

And thanks for the compliment, I'll be here lurking for a while so if you want anything else drawn just turn on a lamp and I'll be there :))

HAHAHAHA GUESS WHAT I JUST FINISHED

M O T H

OMFG SHES SODKSNRKSSHAOLEMSJSH SHES AMAZING

IM FREAKING OUT RN

OMFG4H3I29WKAHSJAKA SHES ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUUULLLLL

This is the first time someone has drawn something for me. And especially from my writing. This is truly amazing and I'm so glad and grateful. <3<3 AND SECOND OFF YOU'RE AN AMAZING ARTIST???? HOLY SHIT

yesyesyesyesyes always happy to inspire your writing

did you get the fae tapping from that one magician guy from season 9 supernatural? when he taps dean in his zoo to make him like compliant i mean

Nope! I get it from my brain. I saw it in the dream fae!Ghost first appeared in.

It's the quickest way for magic to get into the brain. And for me it feels like an unnatural gesture for people to make. How often does someone touch your forehead? It's an unexpected gesture(the element of surprise can be an important part of hypnotism) and because of that it's one that people can't guard against. Or don't think to guard against until it's too late. It's also a touch that could be sweet! Your partner brushing your hair off your forehead suddenly is much more sinister when it's a ruse to tap you.

So that's where tapping came from

Bro you cannot just drop prep/jock soap and goth ghost and dip. We need you to give us your brain worms so we can analyze it like a science project

When you have time of course

I will put my worms in a petri dish for you

Soap was an artist! He liked sketching and painting and the act of making art. But he didn't like art essays. The explaining over and over again each detail. Breaking down everything until it felt like a bunch of paint strokes instead of art.

But part of an art degree is a ton of art essays. So Soap went to the museum to write what he needed. He preferred museums to finding art online. A big part of art for him was texture. His preference would've been to touch the art, to feel the paint underneath his fingers. But the assignment specified art from the Baroque period and therefore they had to be older and no museum was going to allow his grubby hands to touch the art.

Soap glanced down one of halls to see if there was anything interesting there when he faltered.

Oh lord.

The man was big. His shoulders. His height. The thighs he had that looked like tree trunks. It was all covered in tight black fabric and silver chains. A work of bloody art himself.

Soap had to hold himself back from wolf whistling.

Once he was done objectifying admiring the man's body, he looked higher up. There was a mask covering the bottom of his face, the only thing visible being his eyes which had heavy eyeliner on them. He could still see the locs of bleached blond hair that surrounded him like a halo.

Soap wanted to paint him.

"You gonna stare all day?" Someone snarked at him and he jumped, glancing at a slightly smaller blond man. He looked at him like he was gross and for a brief moment, he worried he might be about to be hate crimed. The man looked a lot the other one actually now that he was looking closer. Dressed the same way too.

"Aye, what's your fucking problem with it?"

The man's face scrunched. "Ew." He walked away, leaving Soap rather confused but now a bit determined to talk to mystery man.

Pretending to be looking through the paintings, he got closer to him.

Dark brown eyes quickly glanced over at him before glancing back at the paintings.

"Hey. My name is Soap."

"Ghost."

Ooh, he's from Manchester and sticks with his aesthetic. Nice. He'd prefer a not British person, but as far as British people go, he could do worse than Manchester. He glanced at the painting Simon had been admiring.

The Raising of Lazarus by Rembrandt.

"It's a lovely painting." Soap put on his normal charm, acting suave and polite.

"Aye." Ghost gruffed and went quiet again, staring in simple contemplation. His arms were crossed, making already large arms flex.

Soap started to take notes for his assignment. Although he was definitely hoping to score well in more than one ways, he did need to take notes for his assignment.

Ghost glanced over at what he was writing quizzically and Soap answered the unasked question. "I'm doing a project."

"Fun." He huffed and looked back at the painting.

Soap looked down at his chest and licked his hips. "Yeah, it's a good one." He kept writing stuff. "You a college student?"

"Yeah."

"What do you study?"

"Forensics. I'm assuming you're art?"

"Chemistry with a minor in art!" Right as Soap went to mention how funny it was that they didn't share any classes, Ghost interrupted him.

"Wait. Johnny? Johnny MacTavish? We share several classes."

Soap brightened. "Do you dress like this all the time?" There was zero chance he did or Soap would already know his name, address and dick size.

"We have morning classes together. I don't dress up for morning classes." Ghost said decisively. He stretched and shook his head.

How did he manage to not notice the shoulders though at least? The man was huge. He was also several inches taller than Soap and therefore the majority of the class. Maybe if he sat in the back and left later than everyone?

Soap nodded. "Understandable. You look nice."

"Nice huh?" Ghost smiled at him. He could tell cause his eyes scrunched slightly.

"Yeah. Nice." Soap said softly, his chest doing something weird.

They stared at the painting a while before Ghost pulled away to start exploring the rest of the exhibit.

Soap finished up the notes he needed to write his paper and then started to walk with him. He tried to find his opening during all of this.

Ghost stopped at a very specific painting.

ARTEMESIA GENTILESCHI, JUDITH SLAYING HOLOFERNES, C. 1612–1613

The art was... stunning. The red, faded from time and wear, was still beautiful against the white of the blankets.

The women held him down and there was a movement to it that Soap wanted in his own work. His fingers trembled with the want to touch it. To feel the texture of the paint under his fingers. Ridges and bumps and smooth layers of the different strokes.

Ghost hummed. "I don't really get art. It's pretty but some people look at it and it... gives them something. An epiphany."

Soap hummed. "I find touching it helps."

Ghost looked at him, raking his eyes over him. "I see. Do you want to head out then?"

Soap frowned. "Why?"

"You're a piece of art and I'm looking for an epiphany."

*incomprehensible screaming*

ANOTHER ARTIST HAS ENTERED THE ARENA. PREPARE FOR A FIGHT TO THE DEATH.

Lmao but honestly gimme your art I'm gonna eat it ITSSOGFUCKINGGOODOMLLLLL

I would 100% let Sweetheart do this to me frfr

100% gay intended please tall queen step on me lmao

Helloo!! I love your writing and especially your sweetheart series that has really brightened up some of my days! I recently started to get into anatomy again soooooo, here's sweetheart!

Take care of yourself! ♡♡

YEEEAAASSSS

THIS IS IT YALL. THIS IS A MASTER AT WORK

Bro but actually tho Lowkey reminds me of the conversations with my bf where he likes boils himself alive in the bath like a lobster. We've now dubbed him Sir. Snipps. He's just doom scrolling on his phone and I'm banging on the door like BABES PLEASE-

I’m an absolute rat bastard at hotels, by which I mean that if I get my own room I’ll turn on the shower as hot as it’ll go and just vibe in there. Like yeah I’ll clean up and wash my hair but after that? Straight vibes, just hanging out, doom scrolling…playingmermaids…. Not my water bill not my problem.

Now imagine ghost does the same thing. Gets to a hotel and just hogs the bathroom for fucking hours and finally Soaps like Lt what the actual FUCK are you doing in there. And like, he’d almost understand it more if Ghost was getting nasty in there yknow? But no, mans just looking at shitty memes and soaps like you didn’t inVITE ME????? It becomes a tradition after that. Hotel, clean up, turn shower into a sauna, profit.