Dog Prince

Dog Prince

💌 Send this to the twelve nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart, and if you get five back, you must be pretty awesome. 💌

This one's for you dear Nadia, seeing you around makes me very happy like you won't believe it <3

SAKI!! 😭🥺💖 Thank you for the sweetest ask in the world 😭

Your love and passion for art and reading will always be admirable to me, as well as your abilities to create so many fun stories and memes 😌💗

Here is a little winter Floyd for you!

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

↬  💌 Nokto has been away for so long, and Emma is alone with her thoughts about him.

Nokto Klein x Emma(MC) • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Reunion Sex; Accidental Voyeurism; Masturbation; Teasing; Dirty Talk; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Some Humor; Aftercare; Fluff and Smut; Couch Cuddles • wordcount: 1,594 • masterlist

a/n: AHH I had the pleasure to participate in yet another amazing ikemen gift exchange hosted by @sunnyikemen and @ikemenlibrary ! My giftee for this round was @nightghoul381 ! GHOULIE!! I squealed when I saw your name in the info message!! Hope you enjoy!🥺❤❤

The night is warm and quiet, every other soul in the palace is fast asleep, distant songs of nocturnal birds make for the perfect background noise to enjoy the company of a good book under soft candlelight…and Emma makes the most of it.

If only she could trade her companion for the night with the one person she misses the most right now.

Tonight too, she prefers being in Nokto's room instead of her own, surrounded by the comforting presence of all things reminiscent of him. The scent on his pillow is becoming fainter with every night he's missing from home and Emma's heart aches for him.

It won't be much longer now. That's what she tells herself as she flips another page.

The letter she used as a bookmark lays open on the coffee table as she'd delayed her pastime just to look at the words inside once again. The evidence of that longing being shared, as Nokto wrote about how much he misses her while he's abroad. How much he wants to kiss her. To hold her in his arms.

He's always been good with words, pressing all her buttons as he selects them carefully to get a desired reaction out of her. The sultry tone of his voice is nowhere to be found yet he doesn't even need to utilize that little curve to the end of his spoken sentences that makes her legs weak; Emma finds out that she can fairly well hear it all in her head as she reads the letter anyway. And Nokto wrote some unspeakable things.

Laying comfortably on his couch now, book held up by a single hand, Emma finds that it's becoming harder to chase after the words in the book. Soon the protagonist takes the visage of Nokto in her mind's eye, and she loses the fight. It's no good when her other hand is unoccupied; it finds the way between her legs all too soon, too easily.

"Ngghh… Nokto.."

It's a small whisper in the night, too weak and too far away to reach the one it's meant for. That's what Emma knows for sure, getting lost in pink-tinted visions produced by her imagination; and so the soft turning of the doorknob falls on deaf ears.

Nokto enters quietly, knowing his Emma well enough to find her in his room - and strangely, knowing her too little to expect she is missing him… that much. Before he knows it, he becomes the bigger pervert in the room as he silently admires the way her fingers would never be enough to resemble his presence. Deep down, he loves that fact more than he pities her. But despite himself, he's soon to coo and reveal himself.

"Are you in trouble, my dear? Those lovely sounds don't sound quite right to me… You need more."

Emma gasps, reasonably startled as she hurries to retrain some decency and pulls down her nightgown where it rode up her waist. Her eyes are big and starry, and Nokto doesn't wait for a reply before he leans down over the couch's back and captures the lips he missed the most.

The kiss comes as a silent 'I missed you' when they both skipped saying it out loud, and quickly morphs into something far less innocent. Almost like a fight to prove one missed the other more.

Emma puts her warm hand on Nokto's face just as he withdraws for air, and she is just as breathless when she attempts to speak out loud. "Are you real?"

Nokto smirks, the red of his eyes stressed by the flickering candlelight. "I might just be real. Or maybe my little vixen's fantasies have become that vivid and tangible."

"Noktooo… don't tease…"

He finds himself tugged down, two hands wrapping securely around his neck until he can't take on the task of removing his coat as planned. It's only fair if she wants more proof of him being real here and now, he'll give her plenty.

It's only after a couple more fierce kisses that Nokto finds himself getting undressed, as Emma makes it up to him by doing it herself. Articles of clothes fall to the ground as suddenly there's nothing in Nokto's way to claim his long-waited prize for being away from home for so long.

"When I found a way to return earlier, I did all in my power to take on the opportunity. I had to see you."

"Nokto…"

"I had to make love to you again before I can forget the taste of your lips. I can't live without it."

Emma's body shudders as Nokto finds the place that aches for him the most, rubbing soft circles on her nub with his slender fingers. She's dripping wet from when she was playing with herself earlier and is quick to whine in protests of not enough.

"Shhh. Be patient. I want to take things nice and slow- Fuck. Emma."

His gaze darkens with lust as he stares her down, from her expression to the hand that mischievously reached down to his crouch to give him a firm squeeze.

"You can't wait to have me either, so why wait? Darling…" Emma asks in a tiny voice that comes out muffled behind her hand. Nokto is fast to capture it in his own and pin it down over her head.

"Why wait, indeed. My clever little Emma."

Taking hold of her leg, Nokto raises it up until it hangs over the edge of the backrest, giving him full access to her glistening pussy. Not even having fully shimmied out of his trousers yet, Nokto leans down until his body is flush against Emma's, and presses his cock against her entrance.

Emma mewls so sweetly as she feels Nokto enter her, her body shivering in ecstasy as she'd prepared it for a much lesser stimulation tonight. Her previous arouse makes Nokto's entry slippery and the noise of their coupling soon begins to fill the night. It's dirty and it's perfect.

Just as Emma gets close, her moans growing in volume, Nokto suddenly halts his movements. She looks at him with a red face and with question marks in her eyes. Nokto is frowning, albeit with a face equally as flushed as hers.

"I thought about this all week. About the possibility of coming to you earlier, and how I'll make our reunion a night you'll never forget. I'd sweep you off your feet wherever you are in the palace, take you back to our room and put you on the bed. I'd take my time undressing you like a present, pressing kisses against all those places that entered my dreams the previous lonely nights. I'd bury my head between those pretty legs of yours and remain there until you're screaming to me all the things you want me to do to you next, making your juices drip down my chin so I can never forget your taste again. And then I'll… then I'll just fuck you. Until we both take our fills."

Emma's breathing grows erratic as she feels herself coming undone, the sensation of him picking the speed up again and his filthy words that her brain barely manages to register, it's all too much. She screams as her walls clamp down on him hard, a strong climax ripped out of her with each thrust of Nokto who just gives her more and more, the way she wanted it and needed it.

"And then I open the door and you're- fuck- you're here touching yourself, moaning my name- and what am I supposed to do other than to claim you on the spot? You turned my plans to dust. You…"

With a groan, Nokto feels himself being dragged over the edge by Emma's pulsing walls, her warm, tight core milking him of all he has. He shoots his load deep inside her, painting her insides white. He remains thrusting into her shallowly, chasing after the last drops of pleasure he can squeeze out of both of them.

They turn into a content pile of entangled limbs on the couch, heavy breaths and soft smooches on whatever part of each other's face they can reach. Emma's pleasure-marred, sore throat voice reaches Nokto's ears.

"Hehe…I'm sorry?"

It takes him a second, all too lost in the sea of afterglow and warm emotions, to realize Emma is apologizing for spoiling his fun. He can tell she's not all that sorry at the same time, and it paints his chuckle a bit sarcastic. There's a hint of teeth to his next kiss, and he finds her mood to be just as playful, despite how blissed out she seemed just a second ago.

"Maybe we can make up for it and go with your version for round two." Emma suggests, putting her hands on Nokto's chest to push him out of her. Once they're both seated up, Nokto caresses the back of her head, his affirmative low humming enough to let her know just how much he's looking forward to that.

"Surely you don't mind if I grab a bite of your dessert before that? Out of all the things I missed about you, your baking is pretty high on the list you know."

"Nokto, no!"

Emma tries to warn him, but it's too late, as Nokto's chewing suddenly pauses, the reason clear as a day - he tasted the carrots in the slice of cake he just forked a bite of.

"N-Nokto, don't frown now! I didn't know you were coming home tonight, remember! God..!"

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Your surprise from the sudden hat descending on your head must have made physical work of your face; in the next second, Cyran's shapely lips pull away with a plush crackle and his breathy laugh somehow impresses you with more intimacy than that consummate kiss still rocking your heels. "Sun's a beast today," he remarks while bending the floppy brim into two ears beside your cheeks. The warmth and weight of his hands delights you through the scratchy tweed. "I don't want your head to get hot. You might faint, and while I don't mind carrying you..." He snatches up your hand with boldness that's almost gaudy coming from him. Of all the poems Cyran writes, not a one will ever be about his own dimpled smile, you think with the nonsensical grief of the lovestricken. You ferry your gaze between his lips and the still-shy invitation in his eyes. "...You haven't yet made it clear whether or not you enjoy being carried by me."

a/n: cyran running around while carrying you might be my favorite cyran fact that thewitchofbooks shared. also, a tiny nod to olivermorningstar's "missed connection" theme

💌 Send this to the twelve nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart, and if you get five back, you must be pretty awesome. 💌

ELLEN! Tumblr has been eating my asks so I saw this very late 🥲

Thank you so much for the message, right back at you 🥺♡

Here's a little Keith for you😌

Cyran gangster spice ^^

A/N: Here you go, anon! I hope you like it!

Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU/ Gangster x Doctor AU

TW: blood, injury, needles

WC:~2.2 k

The ringing cracks the silence of your darkened bedroom like a sledgehammer on ice. You push yourself up, still bleary with sleep, one hand fumbling through the gloom for your phone which should be sleeping too, well-behaved and quiet on your nightstand. It takes another second of angry ringing before you realize it’s not your personal phone. It’s the other phone. The one in the top drawer, rattling the items inside of it as it vibrates in time to the ringing, demanding attention. The phone you don’t want to hear going off, especially not in the heart of nighttime.

Sleep evaporates like frost on a sunny morning as you yank the drawer open and grab the small, nondescript black device. Caller unknown. But you know who it is. Only one person has this number.

“Hello?” Your voice is fuzzy with sleep.

“Good evening. Does your store sell copies of fairy tales? I’m looking for Little Red Riding Hood, the Rosenbrand edition. I hear there are only 10 copies left in circulation.”

Your heart sinks. Red Riding Hood means a serious injury, something bloody. Rosenbrand means the flower shop location. Ten copies means be there in 10 minutes.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.” The standard response. Your code for I’ll be there.

On the other end, the voice you know to be Nokto’s hangs up and you leap out of bed, changing into dark jeans and a black sweater, yanking open the closet to grab your medical kit and then you’re off, dashing out of your apartment and into the deceptively calm night.

You slip into the dark flower shop via the backdoor and immediately the velvet scent of roses overwhelms you. It is their specialty after all. And their symbol. Anywhere the Rhodolite Mafia goes, roses follow in their wake, their dark red petals scattered across crime scenes like little calling cards. Their members all bear the same rose tattoo on their bodies. You don’t have a tattoo. You’re not a member, officially but you are on their payroll and under their protection. So says the delicate golden rose and chain that hangs around your neck, resting against your heart.

You punch in the security code and a door at the back slides open, revealing a set of cement steps that lead down, down, down until you reach the bottom and step into the large room that the mafia uses for all medical emergencies. Your own private little examination room. And if necessary, OR.

For the second time that night, your heart stops. Laying back on the examination table is the one person whose name flashed through your mind like a neon sign the entire moonlit dash here, the one who you were silently hoping wouldn’t be your patient.

Cyran.

His shirt has been unbuttoned and he has bloodied gauze pressed against his arm, his dark eyes closed as he focuses on keeping pressure on his own wound. Clavis turns, golden eyes bright as an owl’s in the dim light.

“What happened?” Your tone is short, brisk. Every nerve in your body is on high alert as you pull on your latex gloves, moving towards Cyran.

“Blade, not a bullet.” Clavis steps back as you move in, the next steps of assessment as automatic to you as breathing. Cyran’s eyes open, only now aware you are there and you notice the flash of something across his features, some light in the depths of the fog of pain that he’s in. Your name passes his lips, a rough whisper.

“Altercation at the docks. Obsidian thugs thought they would be able to disrupt an important shipment.” Clavis’s phone chirps and he turns away from where you are working, removing Cyran’s shirt, cleaning up the bloody mess so you can get a better idea of what you’re dealing with.

You glance over your shoulder at him, the slight frown on his face as he reads whatever message he’s received.

“You ok, Lelouch?”

He fixes a bright smile on his face, but the light never reaches his eyes.

“I have to go.” No explanation. You are too low on the food chain for those. “Take good care of my right-hand man. I need him back in action soon and in one piece.”

You flick him a two-fingered salute and he nods, knowing Cyran is in good hands. As he jogs up the stairs, you hear him on his phone.

“....On my way, Chev….” The door at the top of the stairs closes with a heavy thunk and you are left alone with somewhat less bloody, very tense Cyran.

His shirt has been cast away, banished to a red and white heap on the floor which you casually kick to one side as you lean in to get a better look at his upper arm, where an ugly gash cuts across his deltoid. Reaching up to adjust the overhead lamp, you open your medical kit and begin the careful process of stitching the taunt skin back together. He hasn’t said a word since Clavis left, stoically staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the concrete wall opposite him.

Your head is bowed down, gaze following the rise and fall of your curved needle, the rational, medical part of your mind tightening its grip on the reins of your imagination. After all, there is an entire landscape of shirtless Cyran laid out in front of you. Curves of hard muscle that dip and bulge, secret places usually hidden by austere suits or leather jackets.

You’re close enough to hear the coarse sound of his inhale as you grip his arm. Clearing your throat you make an attempt to pierce the thick fog of tension that has settled over the room.

“Why is it always blades with you? Other members have the decency to just get shot.”

Your comment is so unexpected and honestly, so intentionally ludicrous that he turns his head involuntarily. Now his face is mere inches away from yours and you can feel his gaze on you as strongly as sunshine on a summer’s morning. And just like the sun, it brings a warmth to your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice.

He grunts as you finish suturing the injury, glancing down to take in your handiwork. You straighten up, adjusting your weight on the small padded stool you’ve been sitting on.

“And? Do I pass inspection, Mr. Rose?”

Something about the tone of your voice, an attempt at lightheartedness that skims over the jagged peaks of anxiety, has him finally meet your gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.

“You always do, doc.”

Those words settle across your mind like a silken sheet across a bed. You’re about to pull off your gloves, searching for something to say when you notice the blood staining the top of his gray slacks.

“What’s this…..?” You lean forward, glancing at him for permission to reach into the hem of his pants and take a look. An expression you don’t expect crosses his face: he looks almost sheepish.

“I….I was involved in a scuffle last week.”

You motion for him to lower his pants, trying to ignore what the sight of Cyran’s large, rough hands pulling down his zipper does to your body temperature. He slides his pants down slowly, just low enough for you to be given a tantalizing glimpse of that alluring line where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis muscle.

Medical professionalism trumps lust as you take in the shoddy stitching at his hip.

“What quack did this?” You’re already preparing another needle and thread, brow furrowed in annoyance.

“I did it myself.”

You glance up sharply, hands pausing for a moment.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You return to the work of fixing his on-the-fly patch job. He’s silent a moment and you wait, knowing he heard you. It takes him until you’re nearly done to answer.

“You know I couldn’t.”

Your work is finished and yet somehow you can’t move you away, one hand resting on the hard plane of his lower stomach, the other pressed lightly under the wound you’ve just finished re-stitching. Slowly you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s backlit by the overhead lamplight, his red hair almost black because of it. Shadow falls across the angles of his face and all you can see clearly is the brightness of his eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, your upper body rises slowly, your face coming closer to his. Carefully, with every other part of you crystallized in place, you remove your gloves, then return your hands to where they were, touching the now warm skin of his body.

Your lips are scant inches apart and your heart slams into your breastbone as if urging you forward to close the gap.

Cyran’s beautiful eyes close and his head turns ever so slightly away from you.

“We can’t.” 

The words are tight in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to say them, that he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.

Still so close, you breathe outward and you know he feels the warmth on his cheek. Your nose brushes his, your lips ache at how close they are to the paradise of his kiss.

“We already have,” you whisper in return, forgetting everything: the phone calls in the dead of night. The hiding in secret rooms tricked out with medical equipment. The heart-stopping anxiety every time you think you hear gunshots. All that you know right now is that he’s here, warm to your touch, so close you can count every individual eyelash.

His eyes flutter open and he meets your gaze.

“And it can never happen again.”

It’s there, in the depths of his soulful eyes. The memory of….

….that night, the one where he escorted you home under a black sky, raging with thunder and pent up clouds. Your skirt was stained with blood that wasn’t yours, your fingers trembling with a fear that definitely was. Your car, several streets away, gasping with bullet holes. Cyran had been there, had whisked you away in an armored vehicle and insisted on seeing you to your apartment, on coming inside and making sure everything was secure.

When he turned to go, every nerve in your body screamed at once at the loss. You launched yourself towards him, a wild bird in flight, and he had welcomed you into the sky of his arms, pulling you against the safety of his hard body. He held you until the trembling stopped.

And then the world exploded as the clouds released their pent-up rain and you had lifted yourself up to press your mouth to his. Cyran pushed his fingers into your hair with a groan, allowing himself to fall, a raindrop from heaven, a soul giving in, into you and your sweetness, your want, your heated kisses.

The wild storm had nothing on the two of you, that night. 

You see the way the memory is reaching for you both at once, has you both angling your heads so that only the slightest movement will have your mouths touch once again. Your lips actually hurt with need. Your body practically thrums with the desire to taste him again.

He shifts and suddenly the metal pan holding the needle and thread and gauze clatters to the ground, his thigh having bumped it off the table’s edge. The loud crash shatters the moment and you both jump apart, hearts racing. Cyran clears his throat, his head shaking as if waking himself from a dream. When he speaks, the same words you have heard too many times since that night fall from his lips.

His life is dangerous. 

You are already way too involved. 

The reality of being with him is nothing but heartache and worry. 

You need to remain as innocent and ignorant as possible, for plausibility, deniability, for your own damn safety. 

He could never live with himself if anything happened to you…..

The flow of words stops as you press your finger to his lips. A sigh like the storm-buffeted waves of the ocean escapes him, shaky and uninhibited. The touch turns into the kiss you’ve been hungering for, except it's not the crush of his mouth on yours, the stampede of desire come to call, but rather the softest press to your fingertip, the fleeting caress of a butterfly’s wing.

Your heart both sinks and lifts, a paradox of emotion flowing through you.

He turns his face into your hand, his usual stoicism bled out by the force of his feelings for you. Pain, longing, tenderness bow his shoulders, pull kiss after kiss from his lips to your palm. You slide your hand across the line of his cheekbone, thumb stroking the rough stubble there. And then you lean down, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his forehead. 

Cyran is still as a winter’s night, frozen despite the thundering of his heart. He knows this is for the best….but how much longer can he continue to do the right thing? 

You start to pull away, turning towards the stairs that lead up and away, back into the night and its bright, cold stars, when something clamps around your wrist, stopping you.

You turn to see him, eyes flashing with something hot and bright, his strong fingers wrapped around you, holding you. He whispers your name, an echo of the rough whisper from earlier, when he first realized you were there, and you capitulate, crumbling into the shelter of his embrace even as your mouths seek and find each other.

If not doing this, if not kissing you desperately, touching you, claiming you, if not doing these things is the right thing…..then Cyran is tired of it. 

Forget the right thing. He lives a life that blossoms in the shadows of right and wrong anyway. Right and wrong are shades of gray in his world. And now as he drags his mouth down the smooth line of your neck, revels in the sting of your fingernails digging into his shoulder, he knows that he can deny this, and you, no longer.

He sinks into dark temptation, caring for nothing other than right here and now.

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