✩ The name's Ver - short for Vermilion. I'm 18 and use any pronouns.
✩ I like writing and literature, art, history/mythology and music.
✩ What you can find in my account; (main masterlist here)
✒ Bungou Stray Dogs
✒ Moriarty The Patriot
✒ Vanitas No Carte
✒ Sk8 the Infinity
✒ Genshin Impact
✒ Honkai Star Rail
✒ TOUCHSTARVED (Red Spring Studio)
✩ Requests and asks are open.
✒ Requests: check out the guidelines here
✒ Commissions: check out the prices here
✩ If you're someone who discriminates or disrespects and hates others because of what they like or who they are (racist, homophobe, sexist/mysogynist etc.) or are a pedo; fuck you and fuck off.
˚₊ · »-♡→ ┊: (tags;) ᵎ ✰ oneshot, character study, angst & hurt no comfort; passively suicidal dick, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms; heavy drug abuse & addiction, vomit, Dick Grayson Hallucinating Jason Todd; grief/mourning, body horror & mild gore, self blame — Ao3 link here
Dick misses his baby brother terribly, and the voices still haven't stopped — vaguely inspired by a post from sagusart and the song nerds & cigarettes
The light of the television is bright—too bright in the small apartment. It illuminates everything in its path; a desk and the trash—empty bowls with scraps of food still inside, wrappers, torn papers and broken pencils—left on it for weeks to rot, a chair and the clothes laid across it that had started to fill the room with a musky, near-choking scent, and a silhouette atop messy bed sheets.
He is just as unkempt; hair dark as the night sky cover his eyes, the dirty shirt he hasn’t changed from in… a week, maybe? His gaze lowers to his hands; and to that small needle that lies in between the calloused pads.
Dick Grayson has spent hours upon hours on his little brother’s grave—the only thing missing over the small, freshly-dug grass patch is a mattress for him to be able to spend the night as well. He goes nearly every day now; from when the sun rises to when it hides behind the city skyline.
Sometimes, he brings Jason’s books with him; he had gone into his room in the mansion at some point, and found a few with the bookmarks half-way through. He wasn’t sure if they’d be kept around, so he secretly grabbed a few, and now he reads them out loud while leaning against the cold stone. He says whatever—he doesn’t do much these days, but if there’s gossip he thinks Jason might like, he spills it. Kori comes along occasionally—moreso to check up on Dick.
It’s good that Gotham and Blüdhaven are so close… unlike him and Jason. And that’s another reason—reasons, plural—why Dick hates himself, he thinks—he lists off; giving him Robin, then distancing himself from the city that swallowed the baby bird. It should have never happened like this, Dick should have never allowed it, but he was so caught up in his newfound independence, he couldn’t see through the mask’s blindspots.
If Dick regrets something, truly and utterly, is not keeping closer tabs on the young one. Not spending more time with him when he could; fleeting moments during missions meant nothing for him, but probably everything from the other. He used to look up at him with such admiration, handing from every word that left his lips like thick honey, and then huffing sheepishly when called out.
He’s so used to second chances, simply because he knows he can never have enough time with someone from the get-go. His power comes from his relationships with others; blessing and curse—what’s there to lead when everyone ends underground at least once per season? How can he be trusted to be there for the civilians when he couldn’t even be there for his own brother’s funeral?
Bruce and he had fought. Bad. It was maybe the ugliest they’ve either ever been. The blame was tossed like a tennis ball that rapidly transformed into flying fists near the batcave’s stairs. Dick hadn’t even attempted striking back. He’d only curled in on himself when silence overtook the scene, and not even a wing’s flatter could be heard.
His phone buzzes. Dick doesn’t pick it up. Probably Kori. Or Babs. Or someone else. He doesn’t have the energy to care—his guilt can do that for him, later. For now, he lets the war drums that is his heart thunder in his head, under his skin for a few moments longer.
Thump, thump, thump…
He takes the small cap off, revealing the needle’s sharp edge. Using his thumb and middle finger, he hits it one, twice, until the bubbles surface to the tip, and he pushes the bottom so that the tiniest drops of liquid escape.
Pure, unadulterated nicotine, diluted in the smallest volume of water. Cigarettes can’t hush the voices that ring in his head anymore. Pills don’t even affect him, nevermind patches. Damn the poison training—but also thank fuck for it because a shot like this won’t kill him.
And if it does, so what? At least he’ll have a chance to see his brother again—the actual Jason, not the horrifying amalgamation of a ghost that creeps over shadowy corners.
It’s rather short—definately a noticeable difference from how Jason was when… you know—and it’s wearing Dick’s original Robin uniform, not the red one that was torn to shreds that night. The black curly hair is there, but they’re covered in blood—he is covered in blood all over. Half his face is missing and replaced with bare flesh that drips to the side like the skin itself is melting—Dick swears he can see bits of his brain exposed. Bone is laid bare, especially across his ribcage, and his lungs—visible—are black as if from soot. And his eyes—damn, his eyes aren’t that clear, innocent blue Dick remembers.
They’re red.
Dick usually avoids looking at it. He outright ignores it—and yet, it speaks to him. Constantly. It likes to appear whenever within the day, wherever Dick might be. It’s either lingering behind him, breathing down his neck, or right on the edge of his vision. It speaks like Jason too—infuriatingly so. It comments on literally any choice Dick makes in that chirpy tone Jason used when he was a bit younger.
Other times, Dick chases it. He throws stuff at it, or begs it to appear and openly invites it to haunt him. It never mercies him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” it says, loud and clear for Dick to hear from somewhere in the living room.
Dick grabs a nearby shirt and ties it tightly over his upper arm using his teeth. He feels the skin around a little, before running his middle finger over his tongue and covering the inside of his elbow with a thin layer of spit.
There is minimal effort in pushing the thin metal through and in his bloodstream. When he finally pushes the bottom, and the nicotine rushes inside, the relief is instant—it hits him so hard he almost wants to cry; he does. Thick teardrops carve paths down his rather hollow cheeks as he throws his head back, needle tossed somewhere on the floor. He hits the mattress, sucking air into his lungs greedily.
A small, broken laugh escapes him—it’s quiet. Finally, for a moment, there is silence.
And then, that moment passes.
…Why does his chest feel tight? He places a hand where his neck connects with the rest of him. He doesn’t have much time to think before his body reflexively turns him right around and upside down so that he doesn’t drown in his own puke.
The sudden movement makes him dizzy too, and another wave hits him immediately; he tries to uselessly put a hand over his lips to stop the rush. He’s folded in two, and tremors are rushing through his whole body. He feels cold and extremely hot at the same time, and before he makes more of a mess of himself he tries reaching for the bathroom.
It’s impossible; his legs can’t hold his weight. He falls off the bed, and stumbles across whatever’s on the floor before crushing on his knees, defeated, with more vomit making its way out of him—where did all that even come from? He hasn’t eaten that much in the past few…weeks? Months. Collectively.
He can’t even catch his breath properly. It’s like he’s looking through a kaleidoscope—like that one time he had hit his head hard during a fight—everything in his miserable grey world swirls with non-existent colour that he can taste amidst his guts.
Dick can’t distinguish between shapes, but he could recognise it blind, deaf and tied up; sitting on his bedside table looking away thoughtfully.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take a look at the news?” Jason says playfully. “You might wanna take a closer look at this…” It gestures vaguely at the television still open on a random channel.
Instinctively, Dick tries—and his insides respond for him, eyes widening like dinner plates. He’s not sure what he’s watching, where or when it’s from, but he knows only one other person who would move like that. But no answer felt certain when he wore such a thick red hood and Dick’s vision was already fainting to black before he could process another coherent thought.
Tis I, once again; informing that commissions are fully open and available from June 1st to June 14th.
I will not have laptop access until Septermber 1st again, so if you want to commission me but the above timeframe is too short for you and you need the work within the next months, you have a few options;
Request the work now, and receive it upon payment ✩
Aka I will write for you now, and send the product via email normaly once payment is received. I will hold onto the work until September and then contact you in case there has been a problem
Request the work during summertime, but receive it with a... rather ugly format
Request the work within summertime, but receive it on September
If you have a specific deal in mind that might align with the above, feel free to message me whenever :)
˚₊ · »-♡→ ┊: (tags;) ᵎ ✰ oneshot, character study, angst & hurt no comfort; passively suicidal dick, depression, past rape/non-con, unhealthy coping mechanisms, non-graphic smut, internalized victim blaming — Ao3 link here
Dick Grayson thinks too much. At least let him get to the bottom of this before he bottoms another pack of cigars
The first time Dick Grayson admitted to himself he wanted to die was in his mid twenties. That aside, the times he thought of it and dare he say attempted to taste the edge was way before—when, exactly?
Before you jump to put him on trial where you play judge, jury and executioner against him, let him at least recall the events of his life properly.
Let’s see… Definitely not before or after his parents died, not during the titans gig; maybe somewhere between assuming Nightwing and meeting Jason? He would have been… eighteen? Twenty at most.
Dick is a fair man—he’s not blaming anyone for not noticing the embers crackling against each other slowly till they lit him on fire. After all, he has a tendency of rarely admitting incompetence—or that’s what he thinks it is, that’s what he likes to tell himself it is. It’s… the inability to… stay—no, that doesn’t sound right. The inability to keep… is it an inability or lack of will?
Does he want to live? Has he tried living? What is “living”? What’s… love, baby don’t hurt me, he shakes his head at the sudden intensifying melody. Yeah, ain’t nobody going to take him seriously when he can’t even keep his own thoughts in line.
The smoke leaves his lips in a lazy spiral, the scent of tobacco mingling with the cool night air as it curls upwards towards the full moon. Why was it always full? Now that he thinks of it, the weather is basically the same every day. He can't recall rain coming and going; how did the river flood again?
It all feels like a dream all too suddenly. His head becomes lighter, and not because of the nicotine. The veins in his arms and legs burn as if infused with poison—he briefly questions his own knowledge of toxins.
The other’s voices are—least—hushed. He should’ve bought a jacket. But, again, he doesn’t want to be caught fag-handed with his one guilty pleasure. Dick can’t hear them, they can’t see him; they can’t judge him. His body is a big sluggish from tiredness, and everything had mushed into a giant ball of bullshit that sat up on his chest, choking his air out and replacing it with forwards-moving bile that he had to swallow away.
He might fall asleep on the balcony railing—it’s quite high, and that alerts him a little—but that rids him of excuses as he steadies himself by resting the palm of his hand on the small pole.
It’s so innocent it’s almost funny; Grayson is innocent… Nightwing isn’t. And he isn’t Bruce for his and the Batman identities to collide heads with each other. But he’s just as mean; with the way he barks like a chained dog, with his insides rotting and… oozing hate and he hates himself for that—he hates himself for so many reasons and he never has enough time to cover that disgusting hate with a mint or a casual wave where the longer sleeves don’t slip when he quietly looks aside to hide. He’s always hiding. He needed air and when he got it he trashed it—he trashes a whole bunch of stuff and that’s his fault.
So, if Dick isn’t Nightwing, and Bruce isn’t Batman, and Nightwing isn’t Batman but he is Batman’s successor and Dick is… supposed? To be Bruce’s successor… who is who? Hold on, why isn’t he Nightwing, again? Uh… he runs a hand down his face. Hate, right… But what does hate have to do with low performance? Unless he means low performance in life, which circles us all back to the original point and right here again.
Nothing makes sense tonight. He puts the cigar down, coughing up the flavour—sing and dance, like we mentioned. And he does dance alright, until he’s in a stranger’s arms and a stranger's bed, with the stranger’s scent and the danger’s lips all over his toned body. He’s so full of himself, full of bullshit, that he doesn’t give either Grayson or Nightwing any space to breathe whatsoever as he’s shoved head first into the pillows with more force than necessary; he needs the air to leave him so that he can ask for more.
Victim much?
Yeah, he can’t be complaining. He likes running the circus—any circus—he likes playing hero even when it’s meaningless; it’s been meaningless for… how long… a little over half a decade, in any case. He owns the stage—even if he hasn’t felt like it for a long time—he sucks their praise and hope dry, until he can inevitably let them down.
And he’s so full of that too—duty, pain, rage, embarrassment, leadership. Childishness… That, yeah.
Tag.
He blinks hard enough for a tear to roll down his cheek. Huh?
Tag.
Tag… you’re it. Fitting, right? Isn’t that how the little ones go about? Point and laugh everyone—point, laugh and run away because he’s not a kid. What’s he even doing here, instead of man-ing up and taking it, when he asked—begged—for it?
Because
you practically did.
Even through those fake tears—we all know you’re faking it—you should shut the fuck up. You are it, the one carrying the city, Blüdhaven, the mantle, Batman when Bruce isn’t there, Bruce’s image when Batman’s on the run again.
Well, if he’s going to bear the name of a god, he better act like one. If he could help it, he’d never let someone else suffer like he did, but even when you think death is gone, it rears its ugly head in the world—his world—like an old friend he hasn’t ever looked in the eye… because he’s a coward too, he thinks; not in the field, never, but in the shadows of his bedroom. Sometimes, the scariest enemies you’ll fight might be hiding behind the mirror.
When was his body flipped again? Damn it… at least it’s not raining this time. It is a little painfull—a lot, but he won’t say that outloud, whenever did he?—but he thinks nestling his fingers in his hair would numb it down a little.
He’s pinned.
As much as he’d admire the other’s raw or adrenaline-infused strength—or his sudden weakness—he lets out sounds he didn’t know he could make when his hair is pulled by another’s hands that he doesn’t trust to ground him but would pick every time instead of his, because maybe, at the end of the day he doesn’t value what he has until he loses it. It was the same with his parents. It was the same with his brothers. He wonders if it’s going to be the same with his life.
After the rain calms down, he’s invited to stay—Dick would prefer a command. He functions well with those too. He… wants some air.
The tobacco is bitter, again, but the taste never left his mouth in the first place. He won’t fall—it’s not high enough—and he knows he’s never going to slip on a roof or fade to a gunshot, but if he ever does, he hopes he won’t miss it.
Bottom!Ais who gets flustered for absolutely no reason. His face might be the mask of epitome of calmness but his heart's beating faster than a sparrow's wings
Bottom!Ais who is reflexively obedient; his body moves before his brain registers it. Grab the bull oni by the horns—or the hair; either will do—and tilt his head back; especially if you're shoving yourself in his mouth
Bottom!Ais who twitches helplessly against his abdoment when you forbid him from touching you. Cute
Bottom!Ais who begs with his eyes; way too stubborn to admit defeat without a fight.
Bottom!Ais who is a huge brat and has to be put in his place
Bottom!Ais who is really flexible; getting absolutely railed into the pillows face down ass up like tomorrow doesn't exist and god is dead
Bottom!Ais whose hands grab the sheets so tightly his nails rip the damn fabric from the sheer force
Bottom!Ais whose not-so-little dick is hanging pathetically between his taunt thighs, dripping precum and staining everything
Bottom!Ais whose loud cries and whimpers echo through the temple whever you dig at him
Bottom!Ais who isn't extremely sensitive or anything like, but he does feel everything... Intently, to say the least
Bottom!Ais who, at the end of the day, is doing a very good job and is very good for you, so when he tries caging you into cuddles, he gets rolled over, shoved off the bed and right into the Spring :)
a/n; I wish I had the freaky-Joker-Vere image to add here...
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GIVE US DOM LEANDER WHO WORSHIPS US (NO DEGRADATION OR HUMILIATION)
˚₊ · »-♡→ ┊: (tags;) ᵎ ✰ dominant!Leander x gn submissive!cursed/mc!reader — worship; body worship, praise, sexual tension & smut; groping, oral sex & penetration, finishing inside
Dom!Leander who kneels because his knees wobble so much he physically can’t stand infront of you
Dom!Leander who peels away the fabrics covering you one by one, tossing them somewhere in the room unhurried, like time doesn’t bound the both of you in the moment
Dom!Leander who places open-mouthed kisses up your calves, your inner thighs, your hipbones, your lower stomach
Dom!Leander who nuzzles in your tummy before his hands trail the path he had just set alight, resting right over your glutes
Dom!Leander who loves to pray against your skin, half his words lost between small groans or moans when he grinds against you
Dom!Leander who shudders when your curse rests lightly over his hair, and he feels honoured—blessed to be the one you call “yours”
Dom!Leander who angles your legs over his shoulders, tongue dancing against your sensitive walls, eating you out like a man starved
Dom!Leander who maps over you back, thanking you with every thrust that makes your body collide with his lewdly
Dom!Leander who can’t stop trembling over you when his need consumes him whole and he’s forced to swallow thickly, eyes wide and vaguely glassy as precious emeralds stare down at you
Dom!Leander who cums deep inside you, your name dripping onto the sheets like honey, louder than what the walls can silence—why wouldn’t he want everyone to know who he’s devoted to?
Dom!Leander who doesn’t believe in anything but you, who sees heaven in you and only you—because you are the only one whose gaze reflects back something other than his desperation
what do u think abt mc asking the li’s to help them out cream on after a shower… take that as you will
Ngl, initially I understood the req as “the lis asking the MC to help them after a shower and was like “...I don’t think these men + mhin shower that often”
Ais
✩ Doesn’t question it, very casual about it.
✩ Is very careful. Flawless execution all around; even, like, platonically.
✩ The pads of his fingers and the skin of his palms are all calloused and rough; but surprisingly pleasant.
✩ He takes a bunch of cream and spreads it all over them before working in sections.
✩ More focused than they’d expect, too.
✩ Quiet without seemingly having anything specific in his mind.
✩ “All done :)”
✩ I headcanon he’s also the one giving the best massages. Yes please, flex those muscles while you knead mine like dough.
Kuras
✞ Is the one who inquires whether they seed assistance.
✞ Quick with it. They barely feel him start when he announces they’re good to go
✞ Speaking of, them barely feel him, period. Feather-light is an understatement. Although he does manage to provoke surprise when his hands “accidentally” dip dangerously low
✞ Smoothest hands in town.
And in my humble opinion it’s a sin that the eons-old fucker gets to look, what? Thirty? At most. Shapeshift into a fifty-year-old with wrinkles and less-than-perfect grip, THANKS.
✞ Takes little product, then more only when he has finished spreading the first handful.
✞ “Good choice. Moisturising after a shower is very important and—” yapa yapa yap.
✞ Not oblivious, and not a pusher or initiator. They can always ask him, after all he’s right there.
Leander
🗡 “What are we”
🗡 More than happy to help :D Please ask him :D
🗡 Hands aren’t as rough—probably because of the gloves he always wears
🗡 But they are big. Long. It’s easy to grab onto them if he wants to
🗡 Starts on their shoulders, trailing the cream down and back up again.
🗡 Pleasant expression, slight frown if he misses a spot and is probably humming something.
🗡 lingers
🗡 “There we go :D Did I do good? :D”
Mhin
🕊 Depends on the state they catch them in. Bet on “no” casually or “are you insane” flustered-ly.
🕊 Mhin’s on it anyway.
🕊 Mhin exploring stuff with their hands is one of my favourite concepts.
🕊 Thin fingers tracing every crevice and fold of skin with a gaze that’s something between deep focus and wonder because yeah… that feels nice for them too
🕊 I see them squeezing your arms a little, for no apparent reason
🕊 They take tiny amounts of cream each time
🕊 Which makes it all take longer, but it’s like they’re doing it on purpose
🕊 They just stand still when they’re finished
Vere
✦ Raises an eyebrow when they ask because… really?
✦ Of course, he understands—they wanted to… come to the expert.
✦ Rubs the cream all over his own hands first
✦ Now those are skilled.
✦ And the pads are… more animal-like
✦ Hums loudly. Carelessly. Tail’s swishing behind him rhythmically
✦ Is the bare minimum. No lingering, no teasing aside the occasional scratch of his nail, nada
✦ Stretches theatrically afterwards
I don’t think, therefore I am not. If I wasn’t feeling kind and generous and a good person, I’d end it here and edge you, dear anon because that's how I am willing to take that /silly But I guess it’s been enough of that…
Disclaimer! They/them & Gn!Mc, no specific mentions of their or Mhin's bottoms
Ais
✩ Tis gettin spicy
✩ Said it before and will say it again—Ais is an ass man. He’s fiddling their asscheeks before they can call his name in protest. No matter, they’ll make up for that in a bit with the way they ain’t gonna remember anything BUT his name.
✩ Easiest to rile up sexually. Let the man want in PEACE. That peace just happens to involve his dick being ridden, but that’s in the details.
✩ Man’s ain’t afraid of water *looks menacingly at the seaspring that stares back*
✩ 🙏 Seaspring sex 🙏
✩ Ride him sat half-way into the spring
✩ Licks the droplets off their skin, letting his hands move along their curves like the water itself
✩ Would he cream on them? Yes, yes he would. Yes he does.
✩ And isn’t shy to lick it off after
Kuras
✞ Have you seen a thirsty dog? Now you have
✞ He is still, he is calm, he is patient, he is… horny—
✞ The moment the words leave their lips, he’s pounding on them
✞ I mean flying across the damn room
✞ Face down ass up either on the sheets or the wall—whatever is closer
✞ Eats their ass and fingers them damn near fisting them.
✞ Nearly cums in his pants; pulls out and spreads it all over their thighs
✞ I can hear you asking, ‘why ain’t he putting it in?’ …well—
✞ “Looks like you’ll have to shower again. Shall I join you?”
Leander
🗡 Dropping the towel in front of him invokes a reaction like he has discovered the holy grail
🗡 The surprised pikachu face? Him. No matter if MC has been fucking married to him for over two decades—it’s the same. damn. face.
🗡 Honestly, I’m with them. Who would be against pushing him down on the sheets, getting on top of him and—
Ahem
…
The fuck is “ahem” we’re writing smut here
🗡 Also a pretty ride.
🗡 Only he doesn’t shut the fuck up
🗡 Moans and praises fall between kisses over their skin
🗡 He offers to pull out and help them spread his cream all over their body
🗡 And his, because aside from his shit aim, if the two aren’t chest-to-chest like they’re trying to exchange souls, what’s he doing?
Mhin
🕊 Something something about Mhin being extremely affected by the elements and states of matter…
🕊 Please get them wet.
In every sense
🕊 Dinner for two. Six to the nine. gAyMEN.
🕊 They’re way too hot when they push themselves against MC with more strength than necessary, betraying their desperation
🕊 Their grip on MC is perfectly steady, despite the clinging water
🕊 Genuenly, what’s better than having Mhin cum on their face?
🕊 I guess a cure might fall just about short in comparison
🕊 Shower sex with Mhin is top tire. Pull them in afterwards
Vere
✦ …not a fan
✦ He loves really likes them wet, obviously, just not that kind of wet
✦ In this shitty ass city with the shitty ass weather full of moisture during the whole ass year he’s already having a hard time keeping his hair, fur and tail from looking like an amateur hairstylist’s passion project
✦ So, safe to say if they want to cum they can go ahead and touch themselves for all he cares or he can touch himself over them while they squirm in denial
✦ And if that plan falls through it’s the fault of their skin for being so… biteable. Glistening in the low light.
How dare.
✦ It’s basically provoking him
✦ Will keep the visual in mind to draw later—it belongs to a museum, at least.
✦ Swoops them up for yet again another round in the shower
I also have a question that I won't ask, but expect a part 2 since this just happened to land twice in my hands 😏😘
🗡 It is still a great mystery whether this man would even be a good dom—much more a brat tamer. I wouldn’t trust the part of me that’s a brat with him.
🗡 Leander is very much an initiator, that we know—it doesn’t mean that you won’t be begging for it.
🗡 Is his absence better than his presence? Fine. If you don’t want to listen, he can just leave.
🗡 “Oh, you’re asking for it now” — sure, yeah, he’s flexible. But you have to make up for it.
🗡 I don’t see him be into task-managing as much, rather coldness and indifference.
🗡 Manhandling is a given.
As per the time I’m writing this, I be looking at his damn face to try making the gears turn. And I believe it just now clicked how MASSIVE this guy is. It’s like, when you see something every day in passing, you tend to underestimate it… until you confront it. The others? Fine; I had calculated, I had measured, fine—Leander and Ais? Nope. Just clicked.
🗡 He likes pissing you off just as much as you like making his eye twitch. He doesn’t give you what you want, instead he makes you say it, then repeat it back mockingly.
🗡 Leander wouldn’t be blind to your emotional state at any time—don’t get him wrong; he just conveniently ignores it.
🗡 He is naked of a power trip he rides daily, and there’s this saying where I come from; “where reason does not fall, a rod does”
🗡 In this case, a paddle, or a very hard slap that you don’t expect, just because it’s so out of character for him—but he’s not good at edging and there has to be an alternative; in his case, overstimulation
🗡 On the other hand, blindfolding and sensory deprivation are definitely on his plate. Now you see him, now you don’t. “But isn’t deprivation, edging?” Not necessarily, me thinks.
🗡 Like bondage for example, gags also count.
🗡 Actually, I’m quite confident he wouldn’t go for gags. He wants everyone to hear how disrespectful you’ve been, after all.
🗡 Similarly, bondage is also off the table for the sole reason of Curse™
🗡 And even if we don’t consider it as a variable, nails scratching and arms swaying wildly against him are just more reasons for punishment, no?
🗡 Having mentioned it, rip Leander, you would have loved remote controlled toys </3
🗡 like, he be sitting on the other side of the bar after you’ve been a little shit and just carelessly playing with the intensity of a vibrator he himself had pushed earlier inside of you until you come crawling and apologizing?
🗡 Aftercare is very real. He, too, really needs it; will go on a limb here and claim that it’s not something he usually does with his escapades, BUT with a serious partner it matters to him to know and physically feel you’re fine afterwards—a simple confirmation just isn’t enough.
.. AMAB mhin? i've only seen afab mhin so far but no amab mhin huhuhuhuhuhu can it be gn and smut pls? omg i sound so rude i'm sosososososososo sorry pls tell me if i'm invading anything:((
AMAB MHIN TRUTHERS WYAAAAAAAAAAAA - hehehe, dw aint nobody gettin offended, aint nobody bein rude nuh uh babe; tis a safe space for all my lil freaks, and tbh that's a fairly tame request :3
Id love to hear more from ya
Disclaimer! Male genitalia descriptions for Mhin as per the request
🕊 Mhin likes to hover. That means, either around familiar places, or breathing right over your lips—but you suppose it counts. Long, careful fingers like to wrap around your waist, playing with the hem as they pull it off of you unceremoniously. They mostly like how warm your skin feels against their frozen flushed cheeks—weather in Eridia is, simply put, enough to turn anyone into a popsicle.
🕊 It’s psychological warfare. You can already feel them hard in their pants—give them any reason to jump you; they’ll send you flying to the headboard and they’re onto you like a deprived animal. You know what—scrap any simile—they are deprived, hungry, touch-fucking-starved; the title is there for a reason; and that’s not even taking into account the whole divine magic whatever hands shenanigans.
🕊 We know their whole act of trying to look tough and unaffected when they very much are—and that song and dance continues as kisses down your neck when they lay above you, forearms flexing on your sides. Even if you’re quiet, Mhin won’t be able to swallow the small squeals—of pure reflex over anything—that escape the thin line that has become their lips; if you didn’t know them better, you’d say they’re in pain.
🕊 You’re the sweetest fucking thing they’ve ever tasted. They wouldn’t dare show you whether they’re shaking as they unbuckle their belts, pushing themselves inside you slowly—as desperate as they are careful. You’re getting pinned down if they can help it; slightly propped up over the pillows, chests flush, thrusting deep inside you till your bodies refuse them any more.
🕊 Otherwise, Mhin grunts when you dig your nails in them or pull their hair too hard, looking at you beneath their lashes in questioning daze; debatable if they’re willing to form a coherent sentence. They feel good—way too good—and you think you do too, when they hide away, hands gripping your hips as their thrusts become sloppy and uncoordinated, until they go limp in your arms. Perfect opportunity to run your hands through their hair, I say, despite their small protests.
Have I mentioned that I DESPISE the new layout omg im forced to face my mediocracy head on and evolve like a pokemon /lh <3
Heya everyone! Quick update on commissioning me; From May 1st to June 1st, I will not be able to complete anything you send my way. I am still accepting, just know there will be a ~5 week delay
