inferna

im inferna, and dont bother asking whats in my pants because it’s nothing youre going to wanna see.

i write call of duty, horrorverse, resident evil, miku (crack and nonromantic comfort mostly for me) and some analog horror (non romantic and sometimes crack)

i wont write illegal shit, fuck off with that.

Cumulus and Aether are mated, they room together and cumulus tends to nest for Aether since he has retired, leaving her scent and feathers all over it so he won’t get hostile whilst she is away

he loves how ram-like her horns are, and how her hooked nose looks like a birdie beak, the way she chirps around him

his ears are blown out after all his years in the field, eyes damaged from the light, sand, temperature. so he uses scent as an identifier.

a messy sleeper, sprawled out through the sheets and over your body like a troublesome briar bush. his face is always pressed to you, lips and breath tickling the skin of your neck or chest. he needs to always have his face on you, squished against your skin as he shuffles.

i usually don’t write price just of personal preference, so let’s go with johnny ^^

the soft pattering on the awning outside the bar sounded out above you, nursing a cigarette to your cold lips as you shrunk into the fake fur of your jacket. smoke trailed to the side like an ornate picture, which was soon interrupted by the waving hand of your emotional support scot, johnny. your boyfriend — soon to be fiance, you hoped, as his family was getting antsy about grandkids — swept out from the bar with a beer in his hand and straight under the awning with you.

“pishin’ it doon, out ‘ere, bonnie. back inside wit’ ye.”

he tries to usher you with his arm, but you pat his shoulder.

“hey, i can’t take this in-!”

you pause, cigarette still in your hands. he relents, leaning against the wall with you tucked into his side, sharing your cigarette between soft kisses, his free hand making itself home in your back pocket.

“johnny, my lips are cold, you’re not going to—“

it first started when you pricked him. three times to be exact.

once administering an IV of anesthetic.

once while sewing up the slash across his face.

and once more while giving him a tetanus shot.

you were helping him after being extracted from a mission, his ichor still coagulating on his skin and the wound as he was shoved into the nearest medical bay. the bay where you now had the hulking beast, leaking his crimson inside on to a handful of gauze while you made sure the IV was hooked up, and properly dripping.

you weren’t much concerned with him, much less afraid and more respectless than he was used to. ghost was used to his presence commanding attention and respect, but you glared and called him a pussy for flinching at the needle sliding into his vein.

you, calling lieutenant simon riley, a pussy.

he couldn’t even argue that, he didn’t know why he flinched. probably the mild grogginess from being injured, and the mild intimidation. he wasn’t used to being disregarded, like when his dad was still alive all those disgusting years ago.

he hated it. but you were beautiful. it was thrilling.

like a luminous jellyfish with an earth shattering sting.

you were thrilling.

thats where he fixated on you.

you, who stumbled once in a while carrying trays. you who would drop vials and cuss yourself all the way back to grab another out of storage. you who would accidentally prick with needles administering vaccinations and IVs. you, in all your clumsy habits.

(BTW.. I can't stop thinking about this,THIS IS WHAT MY DADDY ISSUS WANTS IT FEEDS ON THIS)

he thinks its both pitiful and comical.

as a man — a grown man, in the military, whom has killed people — he thinks its downright pathetic that you are ogling him like a common slag.

plaes giv me a crumm…… a pinch….. a single ask….

loves the sound of the chunky nails and how they feel scratching his back. bright and bold is absolutely his thing decor wise, and even though he doesn’t mention it all that much, he loves the way you do your makeup and dress. he’s used to having to put your belongings in his pockets due to you lacking them — either in a skirt or lowrise jeans that barely has enough space for a lip gloss.

and ghost likes goth girls. trad/victorian gothic.