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someone who likes seeing you struggle beneath him... pinning your hands above your head and watching your eyes dilate in pleasure when you realize you can't wriggle out of his grasp
Teasingly asking your bllk man if he’d ever consider sharing you just to feel something 😇
(And you will feel something. It’ll probably just be his cock slamming into you at a brutal pace as he asks you if this really isn’t enough for you and if you’re really such a greedy little thing that you’d want more. What else could you want when they fuck you like this?)
cw: mdni. mild violence and blood. suggestive content. cursing. reader is gn and called “dove” once. wc: 733. notes: this is an old, reworked drabble for my beloathed’s birthday!
The honed edge of your dagger kisses his carotid pulse.
Lightning cracks through your veins and sets your nerves ablaze, a storm brewing in your mind as you stare down the Harbinger you’ve pinned against the wall. One hand grips your weapon, the other splays across his throat in firm warning. He’s hot to the touch—almost burning, a solar flare—tiny clusters of stars and constellations floating across the milky expanse of his skin.
Nonplussed, Tartaglia chuckles. His freckled cheeks are flushed, dimples boyishly framing his smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s not often that I’m greeted so intimately.”
The saccharine lilt of his voice vibrates through your starsilver blade; your fingertips prickle. His flippant tone stokes your temper, words burrowing beneath your flesh. It’s all a game to him—you know this, yet the flames of your anger merely grow, licking up your spine. Keep your cool, you think to yourself. You inhale deeply to steady your breath.
“Why are you here?” Venom coats each syllable of your question, though it’s not enough to fell such a foe.
He grins despite being at the mercy of your blade: knife-sharp teeth gleaming, mien that of a beast on the hunt—predatory. His azure irises, fathomless as the Abyss, glow in the gloom.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
If looks could kill, he’d be nothing more than an oozing heap of meat on the floor. You apply more pressure to the dagger, the delicate skin of his neck stretching, blood welling just below the surface. If nothing else, he’ll have a nice bruise tomorrow to remember you by. “Don’t play coy. How did you get into my bedroom?”
Breezy laughter peals in the air and echoes in your ears; his Adam’s apple bobs against your sweat-slick palm. “That’s a steep accusation, dove. Don’t work yourself up so much—this is an innocent misunderstanding.”
“Shut the fuck up,” you spit. “There’s nothing ‘innocent’ about you breaking into my home in the middle of the night and watching me sleep like a gods-damned psychopath.”
His face contorts in mock-hurt. “Psychopath? You wound me.”
“I’ll do worse than wound you if you keep being a smart-ass. Now tell me how you got in here and I’ll—”
Cutting you off mid-sentence, Tartaglia surges forward and grabs your wrists, forcing your weapon to fall to the floor in a clatter. Taking advantage of your shock, he flips you around and shoves you against the wall, slamming your captive hands above your head. A lithe leg slips between your thighs to further pin you in place. You can’t even take a breath before his lips clash with yours.
The kiss isn’t an embrace so much as it is a spar, a violent scuffle of frustration and fervor. It’s impossible to tell where one mouth begins and the other ends; you blur into one another, saliva and ichor mixed and mingled, pushed back and forth between teeth and tongue. You bite down on his bottom lip, savoring the vibration of his groan, then lap up his blood. Ugly and raw, you duel out of pride…
(You linger, however, for the warmth that blooms low in your belly, aided by the insistent grind of his thigh.)
When the two of you part, it’s at the same time: an impasse. Your lips are swollen and bruised—an embarrassing badge that you’ll deal with later, after the thrill subsides—a red thread of spider-silk still tying you together.
“How was that?” you murmur.
Instead of answering your question, your lover leans down to lick up the mess of fluids that smear your chin. “Mmmm.”
You roll your eyes with a huff as he releases your wrists. “I can’t believe this is what you wanted for your birthday, Ajax. You’re a sick freak.”
Cupping your face, he examines you closely. You squeeze your eyes shut and scrunch your nose.
“Well, you agreed to this, so: pot meet kettle,” he coos. “Archons that was so sexy…You’re lucky I have excellent self-control—I nearly ended it about half a dozen times to fuck you.”
“I had no idea,” you deadpan, brushing against the tent in his pants.
“Well, are you going to help me take care of it?”
Pretending to think for a moment, you hum. “Hm…Convince me.”
“Oh?” His touch wanders downward; he wears a smirk that spells trouble. “Gladly.”
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The faces of two people who definitely shouldn’t have just kissed but did that and have no idea what to do about that (only one of them feels this way though).
Lexier in picture form (everyone cheered!) thanks to TitoFabian on vgen!
