Throwback painting. I may or may not try doing something like that soon again, been missing those loose painterly images i used to do on daily basis way back when.
posted on Instagram – http://bit.ly/2N0x9Jq
Tag: nsfw
Testing out the amazing pens the lovely @moami gifted me with! Scribbled an Iwa-chan from her fic Kissmarked!
So on top of being an incredible host during my visit, you also gift me with this, and that is honestly excessive and very much wonderful. You are a little treasure, Bee.
The realisation comes crashing down on Hajime just as he’s one step into his apartment. There’s no time to think though, because Tooru slams the door shut and Hajime against the wall and their lips together in one fluid, flawless motion.
God, Hajime says inside his own head, we won, we’re going to the Olympics, we – his mind attempts to go on, but Tooru’s mouth breathes heat against his lips and Hajime’s too busy melting away, gone, game and set and he’s no match for him.
“The way you looked,” Tooru says, teeth scraping roughly along Hajime’s mouth, leaving a trail of pressure that’ll be soft red-purple tomorrow, and everyone will think it a bruise from the game. Hajime lets them believe. Volleyball leaves traces on him, marks Tooru up as well but nothing is better at painting their bodies in choked breaths and bruises than each other’s bites.
“What – fuck, what about it?” His knees feel like he’s going to collapse. They’re still in their uniforms, hell, Tooru’s cheek is wet when he slides it against Hajime’s neck, desperately clutching at Hajime’s shorts. His nails are blunt, tiny half-moons of ache dragging over his skin. “I need to,” Tooru presses out. He looks up at Hajime again, eyes drinking in his body like he’s hungry, like Hajime is laid out for him to have. And he is. He’s not easy by far, has never been, but Tooru’s always had him inside and out and now Hajime is burning up, salt on his lips and the game’s adrenalin pumping through his veins.
Tooru slides his hand deeper. “Let me,” he whispers, gives a soft lick to Hajime’s mouth, groans like a man starved when Hajime surges to press their tongues into slick-hot touch. “Hajime. I need to, god, thought about you on the court, knew we’d win. I have to, please, let me make you feel good.”
His throat works heavily when he swallows. “Yeah,” Hajime finally says. He brings his fingers into Tooru’s hair, suddenly tight and I have you, I know you need me to lead, “you can, you can, don’t have to ask me.”
Tooru grins at him. He’s not trembling anymore, hands gone calm where they’d fumbled impatiently at Hajime’s waistband moments ago. “You know I always do. ‘s not like you don’t do the same.” And that’s true, Hajime thinks, he can’t imagine to not at least brush his fingers through Tooru’s hair, to search his glance for a yes. He wants to snarl something back, doesn’t get to do it.
The sight of Tooru sinking to his knees never fails to crush the air in his lungs. How Tooru looks graceful with his nose brushing softly along the dark hair above his shorts, how he’s able to love Hajime in his mouth so much that he swallows him down as soon as the fabric’s out of the way, Hajime can’t understand. He closes his eyes, lets go. Tooru smiles around him, lets a dark moan hum through Hajime’s lower body that sets him ablaze, and he needs this so badly that he could cry.
Tooru, as always, breathes carefully and gives.
He lets Hajime jolt his hips forward, nuzzles into the hard grasp that Hajime has on his hair. He licks the sweat away that’s musk and salt and the burn of Hajime’s skin. The corridor’s quiet until Hajime drops his head back and whimpers, lets out that terribly vulnerable noise from the back of his throat, his knees giving in beneath him. Then Tooru’s hands snap to his hips, his mouth twists in a wicked, sweetly dangerous way, Hajime slides into searing heat and deeper and Tooru holds him up the wall as he comes.
He stays boneless for minutes after. Tooru doesn’t seem to mind. He’s licking his lips with tiny noises as he settles in Hajime’s lap, sweat-dripping forehead making a mess by Hajime’s shoulder. “Not enough,” Tooru decides after a bit of silence. “I still can’t believe we won. I wonder when it’ll kick in.”
Hajime doesn’t let him ponder over it. He gently shoves Tooru off, cutting his attempt at a wail short by lifting him with both arms. “Stop thinking,” Hajime tells him quietly. Tooru looks up at him, then, and lets his head fall against Hajime’s chest. His smile is a tiny, hidden thing. “I’ll try.”
“You’ll believe it tomorrow.” For now, I’ll catch you, Hajime thinks and gets both of them to the bedroom.
inspired by this beautiful artwork of demon Iwaizumi by LordIzxy.
The ink stains Tooru’s fingers for three days. He has dreams about it, how the darkness drips from his fingers as he paints the night sky’s colour on each of the warrior’s skin, hundreds, passing by and getting a touch of Tooru’s finger from shoulder to the back of their hands.
The crown on Tooru’s hair is cold silver. Not a prince but an emperor, not a warrior but a mage. Not in the front line but upon the highest tower of the castle, there he will be in few hours, magic echoing off his trembling muscles and sweeping over the enemies’ fighters in a roar of bursting sparks. But now, he is casting protection.
And the last in the long line, their commander, naked as all of them are with skin that withstands fire, is the man who knows Tooru’s fingertips like he knows war.
“Iwaizumi,” Tooru says softly. The leader of the demons bows his head. There is no smile on his lips, nothing but death waiting silently in the sharpness of his claws, on hand and feet. His wings are folded, the tips trembling.
Tooru waits until the others have left the throne room. Then, a dam breaks. “You will return to me, soldier,” Tooru whispers, “and that is an order you are not allowed to disobey.” His black-dripping hand grabs Iwaizumi’s arm, nails digging deep where shoulder slopes down to arm, and his mouth crashes against that of the man who has taken him apart between his legs just hours ago.
“Then you better cast your spells well.” Iwaizumi’s growl has the windows in the throne room quiver in their frames. He kisses Tooru, no, devours his mouth with a snarl, teeth leaving a puncture of red-hot-pain flaring up at the edge of Tooru’s bottom lip. He tastes copper, shudders when Iwaizumi licks it off, just like last night when he’d buried his face between Tooru’s thighs, slid between them moments later, made him howl and writhe and beg until he fell, bloomed open and grasped his neck to pull Iwaizumi closer, deeper, sheathed in his heat.
“You will come back home.” Tooru wraps a hand around his horn, whispers a spark of magic into Iwaizumi’s mouth until his body shivers, skin glowing with the protection on it. “And if I have to reap them all with my own hands, I’ll take you back into my arms. Now go. Lead them to victory.”
But Iwaizumi laughs, low and sharp. “I’m not whom they obey.” He steals another kiss, burning hot like the fire that suddenly illuminates the windows from outside, followed by a deafening explosion. Tooru lets go, fingers tracing Iwaizumi’s shoulder, and the long line is crowned by a circle just on the top. “Of course you are. You are as much their demon warrior as you are mine.”
“No.”
And the demon spreads his wings, horns elongating, claws growing from sharp to lethal. He turns, approaches the window, the glass shattering in a new burst of fire. Iwaizumi doesn’t look back, yet Tooru hears what he speaks before he soars down into the war.
“They don’t follow a warrior. They follow their ruler.”
“We don’t have a lot of – oh fuck.” There’s a vulnerable grace in the curve of Kuroo’s throat, so Kenma puts his mouth against it and brings a kiss down. It’s narrow in the equipment room of the club, but it’ll do, it has to. A nest of their training jackets and Kuroo’s shirt keeps the ground’s cold off their knees and allows Kenma to sit between Kuroo’s legs, grants him the privilege to run his curious fingers over trembling skin.
“We,” Kuroo starts again, the words sounding heavy in his mouth. It’s all red and swollen, Kenma thinks when he looks up at him, letting go of his throat for barely a second. “Not much time. I know. How much?” Not that he really cares for a reply. Kuroo’s the responsible one here, his eyes are the gold that focuses on the clock hanging across the room while Kenma loses himself in touches, whispers, his own nails raking flickers of white down Kuroo’s darker skin.
“Five. Not more, and if the others – God. You’re gorgeous.”
Kenma lets a soft, tiny noise escape his lips when Kuroo touches his chin. His eyes flutter shut, hand pressed to Kuroo’s warm stomach, the other drawing circles by the ivory of his hipbones. “Kiss,” Kenma demands, quiet as always.
Kuroo gives. He gives in and gives away, granting Kenma whatever wish he has, be it the fact that he accepted Kenma’s awkward confessions months ago or that he kissed him on the last day of training camp, where they had sneaked onto the roof and held hands under too many stars above their heads.
Then he’s back in reality. Kuroo has an arm around his back, hand smoothing against Kenma’s ribcage with a reverence that has been stealing his breath since they were twelve and Kuroo had hugged him as Kenma’s first friend ever. Now, their skin melts together in a harsh twitch of bodies. Kenma curls one of his leg around Kuroo’s waist, and he moans in a broken shadow of his own voice when a soft tongue pushes between his lips, bringing heat and slick pressure to his mouth. Kuroo shifts when Kenma kisses him back, and a noise seeps into the air trembling between their lips. Oh, Kenma thinks, spreading his legs over Kuroo’s lap, he’s hard.
“Kitten.” Kuroo says it like a prayer, when Kenma’s hand finds a way down, and his eyes are liquid gold, home, a ray of yes I want you I have chosen you and we’re each other’s. “You don’t have to – “
“You never make me do anything.” Kenma kisses him, tugs at Kuroo’s lips with careful teeth, until they’re so out of breath that the entire room seems to fill with nothing but them. “I want to. I really, really want to. If you don’t, I won’t, but – can I, could I.”
Kuroo doesn’t let the insecurity spread. His hands are on Kenma’s cheeks, thumbs tracing his breathless mouth. A brush of lips sears against his forehead. “Okay,” Kuroo rasps, “okay. I want you to. Kenma, Kenma.”
They’re late for training. Kenma’s hand is warm, his mouth and cheeks feel like they’re woven from fire, and his skin smells like Kuroo had poured his entire being all over Kenma (when really, he’d gotten his release with a dark noise in Kenma’s hand, lashes black and mouth a cherry-fever that Kenma would never forget). “I want to do that to you, too,” Kuroo had said after they got dressed.
Kenma had smiled.
“There’s a rumour that you have a new girlfriend.”
“Is that so,” Tooru says and closes his mouth around Hajime’s neck until it hurts a bit. Hajime jolts, a syllable of Tooru’s name falling from his lips, but his head falls back against the wall of the broom closet and he groans. “Ow, fuck you! I said no kissma- marks- mhm…”
Tooru ignores him. He tends to do that when they’re alone and Hajime’s half undressed, his pants open and the uniform shirt pushed over his head thrown somewhere he’ll have trouble finding it in ten minutes when lunchtime ends. It’s worth going hungry, though, when Tooru’s fingers trace along his hipbones as if Hajime was something to be admired. It’s worth every second of possibly being caught when Tooru grins and whispers “shhh, sweetest” into Hajime’s throat before nipping at his adam’s apple with sharp teeth, controlling, growling, but careful enough to send Hajime’s knees into surrender.
His words are gone. Hajime slides down the wall, clawing desperately at Tooru’s neck to beg him down, to join him and never fucking stop, to not let go.
Tooru obeys, and this time, he talks. He settles between Hajime’s spread legs to kiss him hard, warm hands sliding over Hajime’s chest, rough thumbs tracing his ribcage in gentle circles. “’course there are rumours,” Tooru whispers when he pulls from the kiss to suck at Hajime’s lower lip. It’s going to be red and swollen. Hajime’s going to look like he’s been mauled, from lips to neck to chest, and the thought alone calms a bit of his possessiveness.
“Why don’ you tell them – ah – that you’re single?” Hajime pulls Tooru down by his hair, enjoys the gasp that is pushed against his lips before Tooru can reply. “Well, Hajime,” oh his name sounds so good on that crimson-kissed mouth, “you see, they don’t believe me. Because they see me walking around with that stupid grin you put on my face, with your nails’ marks all over my back and arms-” Okay, that is Hajime’s fault, but when Tooru says it out loud, he can’t help but moan and press closer, more, more–
Tooru’s hand slides between his legs and presses down, careful, knowing. “I tell them I’m single. But they just don’t believe me, Hajime. You see – they know. They look at me and see your marks and they know that there has to be someone who ruins me, every day, and that they can’t keep up with that person.”
Hajime opens his mouth to moan when Tooru’s hand slips below his waistband, but merciful fingers across his lips stop him. “Five minutes,” Tooru whispers, soft as a demon, and Hajime finds that he can only see his boyfriend’s amber eyes in the dark because the white around them shines like a star.
“More than enough time,” Hajime murmurs below Tooru’s fingers.
“Enough to wreck you,” Tooru replies and kisses him, and moves his hand.
“What is your wish tonight, my prince?” Hajime whispers the word into the hollow of Tooru’s collarbone, where he’s painted him night-blue with his teeth and has flicked the dawn’s colours underneath his skin. Tooru, his prince, the jewel behind his shield, laughs and rolls his head back.
“Do not ask me silly things, Hajime. My wish is the same as always.” There’s a spark of heat through amber eyes, and Hajime catches himself licking his lips. His mouth hovers above Tooru’s neck now, breath catching where his hair is braided out of the way, where the collar of his royal gown will sit tomorrow and his shoulders will tremble beneath the weight of the crown.
“Then I would dare to say that you wish for my touch,” Hajime says. His thumbs caress the sharp edge of Tooru’s hipbones, and as he lowers himself down, knees slipping away, the prince spreads his legs and welcomes him with a soft moan. His thighs catch around Hajime’s waist, slender fingers sliding over his wrists, nail by nail scratching over his skin and leaving white marks that tell stories of whom the guardian of the prince belongs to.
“Not just your touch.” Tooru smiles. His lips are red-kissed and slick, a small tongue flashing as it licks up the residue of Hajime’s length sliding into that whining mouth just earlier. “I want all of you. Are you not to protect me and make sure that I am safe?”
In the end, he always gets what he wants. Hajime leans over his lover, elbows sinking into the bed by Tooru’s head. Their breaths melt into steaming heat, foreheads touching, and Hajime pushes, slow, intoxicating, burning. Tooru falls apart below him with a whimper, a sputter of Hajime’s name on his royal lips, the chest that bears pink marks of Hajime’s rough warrior hands arching into a sweet bow.
“I will have you all night, then, and some more after that.” The promises are accompanied by a gentle rock of Hajime’s hips, and he slides a hand to cradle Tooru’s cheek when the prince moans, oh, he is beautiful like that. His insides tremble, relax, spreading around Hajime as he buries himself into his prince. They breathe, together, hands finding their counterparts and fingers sliding into a web of touch. “Please,” Tooru whimpers. His legs are tight around Hajime’s waist. His mouth is slick, red, spelling words that are love and want and a plea.
Hajime lets their foreheads touch, and takes him apart.
All Tooru has to whisper is “let me take care of you”, and Hajime melts into a shudder underneath the weight of his body.
It’s been too long since Tooru has kissed him like that, too long since his tongue has traced the soft rim of Hajime’s mouth, coaxing a whimper, a sigh, the jolt of strong hips against his own. “I’ll be so good to you, I promise. Jus’ let me – yeah, c’mon. All yours tonight.” Tooru’s promises are sweet, his words catching between the ivory cage of Hajime’s ribs when he kisses his chest and drags a tease of nails over the hitching shiver of Hajime’s stomach.
It’s been too long, Tooru thinks and feels Hajime’s hands slide into his hair, a breathless gasp of “God, I need – “, strong fingers curling into his dark-sweated hair, pulling. It’s so good, he’s going insane, and Hajime will fall apart for Tooru’s touches and it will be his name, the syllables of his soul that crack from Hajime’s lips in heavy moans when –
He can’t wait anymore. His fingers find the waistband of Hajime’s underwear and drag it down. “Tooru.” The noise Hajime makes, oh, that vulnerable sound, he wants to remember that forever. He wants to mark his chest with it and carry this man’s marks around on his lips so that everyone sees how fucking perfectly Hajime makes his blood rush.
“It healed nicely.” Tooru smiles, and brings his lips down on Hajime’s burning skin. “Didn’t think you could become more attractive, but this is – “
And then, Hajime throws his head back and whimpers something that sounds like “please, Tooru, please.”
Oh, he’s so weak for this man, Tooru thinks as his mouth closes around the silver glint at the head of Hajime’s thick cock, and his tongue flicks against the cool metal. His eyes fall shut when Hajime’s fingers tighten in his hair, and his lips tighten, a flutter of dark lashes, before his nails dig into Hajime’s shuddering thighs and Tooru lets him fall.
“If my father ever catches you in this position, we will both be – oh. Ohh.”
Hajime presses his slick mouth against the soft inside of Tooru’s shivering thigh and glances up at him. “I will be dead, you will be disinherited. I know. I do not care.”
Before Tooru can say anything else, Hajime hooks one of his legs over his shoulder and brushes his wet-shining lips against the heat between Tooru’s gorgeous legs. It is a wish come true to watch his lover collapse, hips arching in a bow of pale skin and milky traces from the long hour before where Hajime has made him come. Tooru is taking his breath away, burning his skin off with every touch, and when his long elegant fingers tangle in Hajime’s hair, he can feel Tooru tremble hard and uncontrolled, desperate for more.
Hajime kisses the sharp edge of Tooru’s hips, eyes dark and hungry. “But as long as you let me, I will still return, despite the risk,” he says, low and hot words whispered into the hitching skin of Tooru’s heaving stomach. “I want you,” is what Tooru moans back, before his head falls into a long beautiful column of purple-blue bitten skin when Hajime pushes down to devour him once more.
“Good,” he mumbles before his tongue takes Tooru apart, makes him crumble and scream and sob Hajime’s name into the hand he presses over his mouth. The other curls into the silken bed sheets, and his gown falls open over the crown prince’s naked chest when Hajime kisses him moments later and melts their bodies together with a growl, a careful thrust – and Tooru’s nails leave the best kind of pain on his back that he has ever felt.
Because Tooru is the heir to the crown, and what he takes, he takes to the fullest until it belongs to him with bone and soul.
It’s barely the hint of a touch, when Hajime drags his nail along the soft skin of Tooru’s thigh, along a swirled galaxy of spit-slick bruises, but Tooru whines like it’s all he has, all he needs to crumble and break for this man who owns him down to his naked soul. “Hajime,” his throat works around the name, lips red-fucked from Hajime’s cock earlier, the taste still heavy there, warm, lingering. “Please, oh please, I need – “
“I know.” The kiss on his hipbone is feather-light. But oh, Tooru jolts from it, tries to speak, and fails miserably. Because Hajime’s fingers curl deep inside him, sliding and fucking dragging over the soft rim of his hole that Hajime’s fucked open so well, where he’s made him come and spread him pliant and dripping wet.
And when Hajime’s dark voice growls “you’re the sweetest thing, darlin’, falling apart for me like that” into his bared neck, Tooru sobs. He shatters, white behind his eyes bursting, his skin and broken whimpers and everything, anything, it all belongs to Hajime. The fingers have stilled for a moment, and Tooru’s throat is raw when his back arches, bends into any form that Hajime wants him in, anything to get him deeper, oh please.
But Hajime’s grin is warm and his chuckle rumbles through Tooru’s skin when he kisses Tooru’s thigh once more, and says: “Not yet, love. I’m not done with you yet.”
Moami 