残念ですが、さようなら

This is an example fill! Those icons are 100% free to use, though credit is appreciated.

I love your Magnemite prompts every time!! Hope you like this little doodle!

I love Ilima so much! Here's a little doodle of him training his smeargle into sketching new moves :D!

The moon is huge and round in the sky above Jubilife, shining like a giant eye looking down at them, when Beni slips into Kamado's quarters, his feet so light on the tatami that, were he not so attuned to the ninja's ways, Kamado would have missed it. Only once he's fully inside and certain that they are both safe does he let his steps grow heavier, his pace more relaxed, his gait less practiced. He stops at the feet of Kamado's futon and crouches down to his level.

"I know you're awake," he says. Kamado doesn't open his eyes. "There's nothing to report. Everything is as it always is."

Kamado purses his lips. His mustache bristles. He can't see it, but he swears he can hear the corners of Beni's mouth lift as he smiles.

"If the young master won't wake, I suppose it is my duty to ensure he is not sick." He pauses, and adds, cheerful, "In any way necessary."

His palm lands on Kamado's forehead, startling him into opening his eyes.

"Your hand's freezing cold!" he groans.

He reaches up to grip Beni's wrist and move it away. In terms of sheer raw strength, they both know he comes out on top, just as they know that he would never use it on him – at least, not in such a petty context. Beni doesn't try to resist him. He laughs, a sharp little cackle, and lets Kamado pull him down until he lands on top of him.

"What about the kid?" Kamado asks. Beni's weight on his chest comforts him more than any words, but he needs to know, just in case. "Did you see him?"

Beni breathes in deep. "He was asleep where we left him. I don't trust him," he says, his tone suddenly serious, "but whether he's preparing something, I can't tell what it is for now."

"Whatever it is, we will deal with it," Kamado murmurs. He wraps his arm around Beni's waist and brings him closer, until their cheeks touch and he can feel Beni's eyelashes against his temple every time he blinks. "In any way necessary."

When Beni snorts, it's close enough to Kamado's ear that he grimaces at the sound. "You'd have me murder a child, Commander Kamado?"

This time, his tone is light, humorous, yet there's a tension there, a challenge. Kamado stares at the ceiling, thinks about all the trials they've gone through together, all the things Beni has done in his family's name that no one at the Galaxy Team would ever suspect.

"And you would do it, too," Kamado says.

Slowly, Beni stretches, allowing his body to relax further into Kamado's embrace. He's no longer the sinewy young man who could tear down a target twice as large by sneaking through the shadows and hitting where it hurt. They've both had to weather the years, and the history, and the uncertainty of whatever lies beyond, in their shared future, so far away from where they grew up.

Beni grins in the crook of Kamado's shoulder, and Kamado knows what kind of smile it is without needing to look: the self-assured smirk of a sneasler who knows its place on the food chain.

"For you?" Beni says. "Anything."

You have great tastes! Furret is so cute. Hope you enjoy this doodle! :D

Please don't apologize! Honestly I just keep forgetting to post NSFW prompts, lmao. Anyway maybe I got carried away and wrote 1k of bad decisions, who can say.

It's easy for Archer to be in control, like this. Petrel's seen him, following Giovanni's guidance, trailing behind the boss the way his houndour does with him, doing tricks just so he can have a little treat: a quarter of a smile, a lift of the eyebrow, perhaps even a pat on the shoulder on his finest days. It's not as if Petrel can look down on him for that, not as if he, too, doesn't crave that praise, but it still lingers in his mind whenever they indulge in whatever is going on between them.

Control is easy for Archer because he has a good teacher, a good master who's shaped him into what he needs. It doesn't come as easily for Petrel, not unless he's already pretending, already in his role – and the role Archer wants him to play as soon as they're alone isn't one where he calls the shots.

"You're here early," Archer drawls, once the door of the storage room they've been meeting in has clicked shut. He smirks when Petrel's response is to roll his eyes. "Don't give me that look, Mr Overeager. We both know what we're here for."

He's always smug about it, which doesn't help. Petrel suspects that, to him, this is nothing more than a way to wind down after work. It's not as if he can resent him for that; they're not really in a position to afford something closer to a relationship.

Not that it's something Petrel wants.

"Cut the niceties," Petrel says, and gets on his knees, his arousal already swirling inside his gut. "Unlike you, I don't have all day."

Archer laughs, a fake sound that's a poor imitation of Giovanni's at its worst. Petrel would know: he's practiced it many times.

"Ah, the face-fucking special, I see," he says, unbothered. He steps toward him, taking hold of his belt casually. "You know, you really don't have the face for this. Your ugly mug is more the sort that makes me want to fuck you from behind."

If there's one thing Archer has learned from the boss, it's the art of enjoying the sound of your own voice. Petrel bares his teeth, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of even performative annoyance.

"None of that," Archer says. He finally takes his cock out, pointing it toward Petrel's face with emphasis. "Open. We're making this quick, hm?"

The tip of his cock tastes like soap as it slides over Petrel's tongue at last. He always showers before and after their encounters, like he's trying to avoid some unknown disease, which only serves to make Petrel feel more pathetic. He sucks him in, hollows out his cheeks the way he knows Archer likes, even lets him drag his cock a little too far in, where his gag reflex makes him jump and brings tears to his eyes.

If there's anything Petrel is good at, it's putting on a show; he's been recruited for it, after all. He looks up at Archer, to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his face flush, his brow glisten with sweat, and bats his eyelashes. He can feel himself getting hard, his cock pressing against his fly, but there's no rush. Archer knows better than to leave himself in Petrel's debt.

"Clever little cocksucker," Archer rasps. He rolls his hips once, as deep as Petrel can handle, and then pulls back only to push into him twice as hard, again and again, until Petrel's head starts to spin and his vision wavers. "This is what you like, isn't it?"

As he speaks, he fists Petrel's hair to better ram into his throat at the same time as he digs the heel of his shoe right where his cock is trapped inside his pants. Petrel tries to grab him, to pull away, but it only excites him further, spurs him into fucking his mouth at an even more erratic pace.

"What's that?" Archer asks, the slight edge in his voice the only thing betraying his upcoming orgasm. "I'm sorry, ah, I can't hear you with your mouth full. Ah, fuck–"

Petrel's nose is crushed against his public hair when Archer comes, buried deep enough that he's at least spared most of the taste; small mercies. He sputters and gags against the onslaught, clawing desperately at Archer's thighs. There's nothing he can do about it any more than he can do anything about what comes right after: Archer keeps his cock inside him, holding his mouth wrapped around it, careful to keep his teeth out of the way, and rubs his shoe over Petrel's cockhead.

It's too hard, and too fast, and too much, and yet it takes only a few heartbeats for Petrel to come, too, spilling in his pants and underwear, surrounded by the smell of jizz and soap and sweat and the salty aftertaste of his own tears.

Archer releases him only once he's sure he's done, tugging himself back quickly while Petrel falls forward to spit on the cold floor and wait for his vertigo to recede.

"That was nice," Archer singsongs. Petrel doesn't look up to see him stretch, but he does hear the characteristic crack of his neck muscles. "Very refreshing. I didn't even have to see your face too much."

Petrel glares at his shoes. The front of his pants feels sticky and cold, and his jaw hurts. The burn in his throat is what he hates the most; he needs his voice for what he's skilled at, and of course Archer had to go and ruin it for him just because he could.

"Go fuck yourself," he croaks.

Even those three words are painful to say. He clears his throat and then clears it again.

Archer's laugh at that is genuine in its cruelty. "Why would I do that? I wouldn't want you to feel left out." He snickers, and Petrel wonders who Giovanni would side with were he to punch him in the face. Neither of them, probably. "Now then, I'll leave you to it. Don't forget the briefing tomorrow at noon."

Petrel stares down at the spot where he's just spat and says nothing. He's still staring when the door to the storeroom opens and then closes. What a fucking shitshow, he thinks. All of that, and he didn't even get a good orgasm out of it.

And now he has to find a change of pants, too. Whatever Giovanni would think about it, maybe punching Archer would be worth it. If only for the thrill.

What wouldn't a man do for the thrill, really.