#*“little blots that stain my little head.”

[ccruelgods]

being sick sucks so habe this scarlett eyler stress doodle while i try to stay sane in this hell

[safination]

Darling, I'm an Overlord

|Masterlist|

Pairings: Alastor x wife!Reader. Tags: fem!Reader, AFAB, Established Relationship, Alastor is in hell for a reason, Reader is in hell for a reason, Dry humping, licking, biting, sucking, foreplay, MINORS DNI

“I could make an offering,” you say, pressing a kiss to where his jaw ends. It’s a simple act to roll your hips down. “…But I think I would prefer to get on my knees and show you how I worship.” Alastor grips your waist, rolling your hips even deeper. “Just a king?” “How about an emperor?” A twitch tells you everything there is to know—it’s still not enough. “More.” “How greedy,” you tell him and tap a stray finger on his belt buckle. “Hmmm, then—How about I worship you like an Overlord?” Alastor laughs, shaking his head but his hips rut upwards to meet you halfway. It’s the smallest of movements, but if forces you to press a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. TLDR: Alastor's worried you'll be late for dinner, but he promised to be patient, and such control deserves an award

This was stuck in my mind and no, I will not continue it but any other author is free to go and complete it. Honestly, not my best work but I think some of you might enjoy it. Tbh, I felt awkward writing it, but that's a whole different can of worm. This is quite short and I wish I could add more, but not really lol. MINORS DNI—NSFW

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

There’s a specific shade of red that Alastor enjoys on your lips. It’s quite the inconvenience to ask a shop to custom make the color every single time the lipstick runs out, but your husband is a man of fine detail. Even the smallest of changes will be noted.

As all things do, this specific pigment will eventually disappear for good. Still, you swipe the color across your lips, painting it red.

Afterall, a special night requires a special look.

“Dearest, we’re going to be late,” Alastor calls out with a smile that shows the yellow of his teeth. There’s a small twitch on his cheek and his fingers impatiently tap on the tip of his microphone, even as he sports an even tone. “The reservation won’t hold for very long.”

You lock his gaze from the reflection of the mirror. “Late?”

“Yes,late.” Alastor brings a hand out, leaning on the bed. There’s a carefully crafted expression of boredom on his face. “We’re going to be late.”

Darling, you’re the Radio Demon–one of the most powerful Overlords in this realm.” You blot your lips on some tissue. “They wouldn’t give away our table, and there’s always the option to kill anyone who complains.”

A muscle on Alastor’s cheek twitches. “Oh my…It seems I’ve been far too complacent if someone would dare to voice their objections to me.”

Lines trail the skirt of your dress, smoothing the wrinkles before presenting it to Alastor. “Tell me what you think, honey,” you say, smiling as you twirl. “Come on–How does it look on me?

“Good,” Alastor says, humming. “Shall we take our leave? I already have your coat.”

You frown, pointing your nose into the air. “Good?” you parrot back. “That’s not good enough. I was aiming for ravishing. I guess I should change.”

“Take your time, my love.” Alastor pinches the bridges of his nose but smiles nonetheless. “Afterall, I specifically said I wouldn’t complain.”

With a laugh, you stride towards him and present your bare back. “A little help?”

“That’s much better,” Alastor says as a claw gently trails up the skin of your back. The tip sends shivers down your spine and straight into your core until he digs the claw on the base of your shoulder. A drop of blood oozes out, trailing down your back. “Now, it’s absolutely ravishing.”

“I meant the zipper,” you say. “If it stains, Niffty will hang your head.”

“My apologies.”

Oh…his tongue is moist. It trails across your skin, painting slow trails across your shoulder to lap the blood. The zipper of your dress zips up before you could fully lose yourself.

You turn to face Alastor, stepping between his legs to place your hands on his knees. It only takes a single but gentle push to widen the space, and your hands keep pushing wider until you’re leaning down to meet his gaze.

“You’ve been doing an exemplary job of hiding your irritation,” you say, and kiss the edge of his lips, lingering for more than a moment. “Such control deserves a reward.”

Alastor takes his thumb, swiping away the streak of red. It only smudges it across his lips. “We have a reservation,” he says but slots you further between his legs with a firm grasp on your hips. “What was the point of making one if we aren’t going to be on time?”

The tip of your tongue swipes across his lips, lapping away the lipstick stain.

Alastor’s eye twitches, and uses a finger to push you back. Instead you open your mouth to suck his finger, swirling your tongue around the skin. It trails from the base of where his palm meets his finger then until his knuckle. The wetness of your tongue licks until it reaches the tip of his pointed claw.

The edges of your teeth nibble on his skin before taking in another finger. Alastor blinks at you as you suck his digits deeper in your mouth, swirling your tongue around to reach the tip then down the knuckle until his claw hits the back of your throat.

You move your tongue upwards from the base, trailing it to lap around the tip of his claw before releasing his fingers with a small pop.

A line of saliva bridges your tongue to his finger.

The palms of your hands trail up his knees, pressing down the plum of his legs. “We’ve been over this, darling,” you tell him, inching closer to press a kiss on the edges of his lips. “Overlord. Radio Demon. Death.”

Alastor catches your wrists, playing with the tips of your fingers before intertwining them. “Just an Overlord?”

“Powerful Overlord.” The next kiss goes on his jaw.

“Then how would you give me my reward?” Alastor pulls back, pressing his own kiss on the ring around your finger. “Tell me every detail.”

“I could treat you like a king,” you say, brushing your lips down his jaw. Alastor leans to the side, exposing his neck for another one of your kisses. “

Your hands trail across his dress pants once more, stopping when your knees land on the carpet.

The side of your cheek nuzzles against his leg, and you smile up at him, locking his gaze to your eyes. You press your lips along the inside of his thigh, glazing kiss after kiss after kiss. Still, you keep your eyes staring firm into him, even as Alastor’s leg jumps from the sudden bite of your teeth.

The curve of your nose outlines his leg, and a muscle in his thigh tightens. It loosens and relax when you brush the pads of your thumb up and down.

Alastor crawls back to climb down the bed. A steady hand guides the plush of your thigh, beckoning you to crawl after him. It squeezes when his back hits the headboard. Alastor’s thumb swipes over the inside of your leg and he digs a claw into the skin. This prompts you to throw your legs over him, straddling his hip while leaving room for an erection to grow.

“Tell me how you would treat me like a king.”

“I could make an offering,” you tell him, rolling your hips to stimulate his softened member. The crotch of your lace underwear grinds on him. “...But I think I would prefer to get on my knees, and show you how I worship a king.”

Alastor grips your waist to pull your lower into him, steading you as you rub against him. “Just a king?”

“How about an emperor?”

A twitch pokes your crotch and it tells you everything there is to know–it’s still not enough. Alastor needs … “More.”

“How greedy,” you tell him, trailing your hands down his chest until it reaches his belt buckle. Your fingers tap on the metal over and over and over again. “Hmmm, then–How about I worship you like an Overlord?”

Alastor laughs into the air, breathy as he exhales. Sure, it’s a ridiculous notion…but his hips rut upwards to meet you halfway. The way his clothed tip grins on the crotch of your panties pulls a small gasp tumbling out your lips. It’s the smallest of movements but it forces you to press a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself.

Alastor grunts as he snaps his hips up. The claws on his hand dig into your hip when you grind down on him.

More….It’s not enough. You need mo--

Alastor’s bow tie is crooked. That just won’t do.

You pull on the edges of the fabric, unfastening the knot until it pools between your palms. The pace of your grinding slows as the pads of your finger trail down his arms. It wraps around his wrist, and you bring them to your lips, pressing a kiss on the inside before pulling them together above his head.

Another twitch of his clothed cock. It hits deeper into your core this time, prompting you to lean forward with a breath exhale. Never have you been more glad to be wearing such thing panties. The force of your shifting weight grinds your crotch harder into him. The back of Alastor’s head hits the headboard with a slight jump.

There’s an innocent smile on your lips as you take his bowtie and bind his wrist to the bedframe with a knot. “This looks much better, indeed.”

Alastor pulls on the knot and it unfasted around his wrist. “Are you doing this correctly?”

You keep grinding deeper into his cock until small moans release into the air. The pace of your humping quickens as you re-tie the loose knot around his wrist. 

“Don’t you know, darling? Overlords brim with power,” you tell him, trailing a sharp nail between the buttons of his dress-shirt until it snaps open. “I have to protect this feeble body of mine from such strength.”

Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek with a hum. “How smart.”

“Shall we make a deal, my dearest, darling, Overlord husband?” you say, nibbling the edges of your teeth on his shoulder. 

Alastor snaps his hips up to rut the tip even deeper, forcing you to moan into his skin. Soft breaths brush across. His hands dig deeper into your hips, pulling even deeper as he grinds his cock into your underwear.

“Slow… Fast. It doesn't matter,” you say, and the words come breathier than planned. “I will keep going until the knot holds secure. The moment it slips off, so do I…And I will leave, no matter how close … no matter how desperate.”

Each word brushes your lips on the sensitive spot between the junction of his neck and shoulder. Fabric prevents you from burying yourself deeply around his cock and moving until his hips bruise

Alastor leans backward to chase a greedy kiss, but you lean away with a smile. “..Dearest.”

“But we’re going to be late,” you tell him. “Afterall, reservations were mad--”

Shadow tentacles slither around your body, trailing across your waist and up your breasts. Darkness crawls between them, massaging the soft tissue. It trails higher and higher until it reaches your neck.

 “Oh darling…don’t you know?” Alastor says, and the tentacles pull your head lower until you feel the clothed tip pressing on your lips.

There isn’t much else to do but press your lips, giving his cock the smallest of kisses.

“I’m an Overlord.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Tell me what you guys think! I'm not really used to writing such suggestive pieces lol Sooo some feedback would be nice.

[silverstonesainz]

ohhh this prompt:

‘i told you not to fall in love with me’

would go so well with like a brothers best friend!carlos situationship

i told you, he told you 𐙚 or the one where things don't quite go according to plan (1k words)

d rambles. . . i hope this was okay, and i hope it was enough. thank u for requesting

Carlos’s fingers comb through your hair to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in to press a kiss against your forehead. “I have to go.” 

You knew why he was doing this. It’s meant to be precautionary, to keep the lines from blurring and muddling the mess of a situation you’re in any further. But what did it matter if you had blurred the lines yourself? What’s the harm then? 

“Why can’t you just spend the night?” You make your voice small, look up at him with wide eyes in hopes that maybe it’d be enough to make him feel guilty. 

Though it isn’t guilt that you see etched into his face. It’s much more stern, maybe even annoyed because he knows you know why. He sighs your name, resigned. Tired. “You know why.”

“There are worse things than spending that night,” You defend, tugging the blanket against your chest as you sit up, “We’ve done worse things.” 

“That’s different.” 

“Still worse.” 

Carlos rolls his eyes, no longer amused by your act. “I don’t wanna have this argument with you.” 

“It’s not an argument, it’s a discussion.” You reach for the shirt sprawled on the bed, slipping it over your bare body as you begin to clamber out of bed after him. 

Carlos collects his belongings, slips on his clothing one by one in haste, like he couldn’t get further from you quick enough. It’s an argument, he refutes as he slides his sweats over his hips, “when you and I disagree, it’s always an argument.” 

“I just don’t understand why you’re so repulsed by the idea of sleeping over.” 

“And I don’t understand why you’re so insistent I stay.”

Your reluctance to give him an answer sits in the heavy silence. Its a brief moment where neither of you move, neither of you gather the guts to answer the questions posed. Instead the mystery brews above you, makes the air thicker and harder to swallow. 

You knew why you were so insistent, but you beckoned to know why he was resistant. 

“We’ve been sleeping with each other for months now and I just can’t wrap my head around—” 

“— Why is it suddenly such a big deal?”

You pause, frozen in the spot you stand in. Your body is rigid, nerves and anxiety holding you tightly. You couldn’t tell him when this became such a big deal to you, even if you wanted to. All you know is one day you looked at him and everything was different. Suddenly every little thing had become a big deal. The playful touches, the knowing smiles across the rooms, the late nights of sneaking over, everything meant more. 

“It’s like you’re scared or something,” You shake your head, turning away from him and walking over to your vanity. You lean on the desk, trying to steady your breathing and calm your nerves, “Scared that it might make all this mean something.”

You stare at the wood of the desk, stained by every attempt to impress, every attempt to make yourself appealing and ideal. Every swipe of a brush, blot of a sponge, just so Carlos could see you as something more. You’re too afraid to meet Carlos’s gaze in the the reflection of your mirror. But you know he’s looking, you feel his bright brown eyes staring at you, studying you, trying to find a flicker of emotion that might be able to tell him what has suddenly gotten into you. Where words fail, your expression compensates. You face the fear anyway, locking eyes with Carlos and staring at him hopelessly. And then it clicks. Like a flick of a light switch, everything begins to come together and the boy is able to make sense of the situation before him. 

He shakes his head. He smiles, but it’s pained— unamused. Your name slips past his lips, every letter despondent in tone. “I told you—”

“—I know what you told me—” “—I told you not to fall in love with me.”

The words, the indignation and resignation bumping into each other— much like dousing a camp fire with more gasoline. Salt to a wound. Twisting the knife when it’s already embedded in your chest.

You push yourself off your vanity, crossing your arms over your chest, “You act like I wanted this to happen. Like I planned to.” 

You didn’t. Falling in love with Carlos was never part of the plan.

Committing his mannerisms and ticks, the crinkles by his eyes and the small dimples above his lip to memory was a complete accident. Finding comfort in the way he touches you, in the way his skin feels against yours, was never the intention. What was meant to be a hot and heavy temporary fix, became an addiction. You never meant to grow this attached to him, never meant for all this to be anything more than what you agreed upon four months ago. Carlos was never meant to be more than the person to entertain you in your boredom, to make nights a little less lonely.

There was no point in denying the obvious, in denying a truth you’ve known for much longer than you would ever admit out loud. Why hide it? Tears skew your vision, drips down your face and forces you to turn away. 

“I should go.” Carlos mumbles behind you. 

You nod, pretend like your ego isn’t wounded and your hear cracked beneath your ribs, “Yeah. Maybe you should.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence. You hear the hesitation in the breath he takes, the words that are stuck at the top of his throat and held back by the pride he wears so comfortably. It’s the longest second you’ve ever lived through, just waiting— anticipating something you know would never happen. Hoping in the impossible, you were too good at doing that.

Carlos walks out of your room, leaving you to wonder what he wanted to say if it weren’t for the sake of his ego. He shuts your door softly, and then he’s gone. 

‎‧₊˚✧ add to the mix ✧˚₊‧

[heian-era-housewife]

I read ur shiu/toji x reader omegaverse fanfic and let me just say THAT SHIT WAS A BANGER!!! I was writing this to see if u could write a gojo and geto x reader omegaverse fanfic, plz!! (Love the writing very sigma)

Thank you so much!!! 💕

That was my first time dipping into the (sometimes very confusing/intricate) but equally fun and interesting omegaverse. I know everyone has their own interpretations, and I'm probably playing a bit fast and loose with the "rules" of the genre, but I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Thanks also for your request! Apologies for the wait. Things have been a bit hectic lately, but I hope I've done the dynamic duo justice.

Synopsis | When Gojo makes an unexpected discovery, he turns to you for advice. Luckily, you know just the person who can help. How will things "heat up" when your mate Geto enters the scene?

Content | mdni 18+, f!reader x gojo x geto, omegaverse, threesome, oral (f receiving), sex (mm/fm), swearing, biting/marking, mention of blood.

A/N | This fic takes place in the dorms of Juju Tech during their latter student days. All characters are 18+

Word Count | 2.7k

When a knock came on your dormroom door in the middle of the night, the last person you expected to see was a sweating, panting Satoru Gojo.

Top of your class and possibly the strongest sorcerer the world had ever known, Gojo was every bit the alpha everyone knew him to be. Though his reputation preceded him, you knew him best as just plain Satoru. Lover of sweets and showing off. Best friend and perfect foil to your boyfriend, Suguru Geto, not to mention the only one who could rival him in both looks and talent. There was only one explanation as to why he'd be here, at your door, a flushed and pitiful mess.

"I told you not to overdo it." You chided, ushering him in. "You know you can't keep up with those guys."

It wasn't the first time you'd seen him sloppy drunk, but you were surprised he'd come to you rather than stay with the rest of the group. Where everyone else had gone out for drinks and karaoke, you had opted for a quiet night at home.

Grabbing a damp cloth, you blotted his sweat-stained brow as he threw himself on your shabby dormroom couch.

"You know, for an alpha you're quite the lightweight." You teased.

"I'm...not." He panted, eyes downcast.

"Okay. Deny it all you want, but I've seen you drink."

"No...I..."

"It's a little sad, really" you chuckled to yourself.

"No!" He snapped, startling you from your ramblings."I'm...I'm not an alpha..." he finished.

You blinked, the cloth you were holding now hovering just above him where you froze in place. A drip landing squarely on his forehead the only movement as you stared, stark still and speechless. He pushed your hand away.

"I'm not an alpha and I'm not drunk." He said matter-of-factly. "I think I'm in heat."

"Satoru, I-"

"That's why I'm here." He continued. "I wanted to know what you do. How you usually deal with it."

"Oh..." You paused awkwardly, hand drifting to the mark on your neck. "Well, Geto and I usually..."

"Before that, I mean. Before you and Geto got together, what did you do?" He urged, frustration building.

"I was lucky." You said softly. "Geto was there for my first heat. I never had to go it alone."

"I see..."

Words eluded you as you stared at your friend. Satoru Gojo, the Satoru Gojo...an omega?

"Who else knows-"

"No one." He cut you off before you could finish. "Not a soul. I didn’t even know for sure until...well until tonight."

You'd heard of these kinds of things happening. A presumed omega presenting later in life as an alpha when they hit their first rut. A supposed alpha suddenly ripe with sweet smelling pheromones and an urge to nest. Though rare, these things did happen. Just not to people you knew. And certainly not to someone like Satoru Gojo. If your head was spinning, you could only imagine how he felt. His ice blue eyes met yours with a pleading look. You chewed the inside of your cheek as you thought.

It's true you had always been spoiled. While others were forced to slump through their partnerless heats, you had Geto from the very start. At the first sign, he would help you with your nests, staying over in your dorm and skipping classes as needed. He had both the empathy and tenderness to talk you through the worst of your discomfort, as well as the strength and stamina to bed you down any which way and as many times as you needed. A proverbial beauty and beast in one perfect package.

And then there was Gojo. Now that you were thinking on it, Gojo had his own way of being there for you too, whether or not he even realized. Always coming by with snacks and movies. His sweatshirts accidentally making their way into your nests whenever he and Geto swapped by mistake. His voice often the last you'd hear before drifting to sleep as the two friends laughed late into the night in the room beside you.

In a way, dating Geto was sort of like having two partners. They came as a package deal. Gojo was a constant presence within your relationship, at times making you wonder if you were the third wheel, not the other way around. And though his swaggering overconfidence and crude humor were in stark contrast to Geto's quiet assurance and even-temper, there was something so alluring, almost necessary, about the opposing qualities that made you yearn for both.

You couldn't believe what you were about to say. Couldn't stop the words from coming, nor the shameful excitement from welling in your chest. Here was something you never thought possible- something you'd only dared to imagine in your silkiest daydreams, unfolding right before you. A chance to make those dreams a reality. A chance to have your cake and eat it too.

"You know...this might sound crazy," you began tentatively, articulating each word as carefully as if it might detonate upon delivery. "We could ask Suguru if he might be willing to-"

"Ask Suguru what now?" Just then the door swung open causing both you and Gojo to jump. Your wide and guilty looking eyes met those of your boyfriend as he strode into the dorm, his look of worry turning to relief then quickly back to worry. "I've been looking all over for you," he tutted at Gojo. "The way you ran off earlier I thought-"

Geto's words hitched in his throat. He was struck by something hauntingly familiar, causing his mind to race and skin to prickle. The intoxicating scent of heat and slick flooded his senses, goading him as if by some invisible force. He looked at you, confusion written across his face. You weren't due for another heat yet. And even if you were, why was Gojo here in the middle of the night instead of him? In fact, why was Gojo here at all? A hailstorm of emotion rained down in dizzying waves as Geto reached desperately for answers through the haze of sickly sweet pheromones.

He looked to his friend, gaze settling over his brilliant hair and porcelain skin, momentarily adrift in the vast sea of those crystal blue eyes. Suddenly feeling inexplicably shy, he glanced downward noticing the gentle part in his lips, the subtle curve of his neck, the supple skin he wished he could just...bite...

"You..." he breathed, realization dawning. "It's you."

Gojo nodded slowly.

More silence. The would-be lovers bound by the chains of forced friendship and repressed feelings.

You cleared your throat. "Suguru, I was just saying maybe-"

"Yes!" He cut you off, connecting the words unspoken. "Yes. Sorry. I mean if...if that's..."

You couldn't help the smile that crept across your face, or the way your hand clasped eagerly around Gojo's, heart racing as he squeezed back.

Geto knelt by the couch, face serious as the next several minutes were spent in earnest discussion.

Fondness and pheromones aside, he wasn't about to jeopardize his relationship with his mate, nor his best friend. As the three of you spoke, mutual attraction, the façade of friendship, and years' worth of unrequitted feelings unveiled themselves between blushing cheeks and downcast eyes. Only after everyone's intentions and desires were made clear, did he allow the fog of infatuation to take its hold.

"Let's get you comfortable, shall we?" Geto said, scooping Gojo's lanky form with ease as he carried him toward the bedroom. You had to stifle a laugh at Gojo's unconvincing protests, pampered grin betraying his utter delight at being carried despite his string of objections. Geto tossed him playfully onto the plush mattress where you were collecting items for a nest that held just as much of your essence as it did Geto's.

Gojo nuzzled in to the scent-laden fabric, the harsh edge of discomfort starting to melt away from his handsome features, but there was still only one thing that could ease the bristling affliction of a standing heat.

You gave Gojo a devious grin, eager to show him something even his six eyes would find awe-inspiring. Slowly you began to help Geto undress.

Gojo moaned, brows knit together as he leaned into Geto's sultry kisses. He'd been stripped down and sat on the edge of the bed, your arms and legs wrapping around from behind him. Reaching around, you gently stroked his pretty two-toned cock while the two men explored each other's trembling lips. His blushing pink tip leaked silky pearls into your hand while you ran your palm over his generous length.

When Gojo's moans turned to pleading whines and his hips began rutting hungrily into your fist, Geto leaned forward, pressing his wet lips to yours over Gojo's shoulder, before he scooped his friend once more, pulling him gently from your grip and helping him wrap his long legs around his cinched waist. Gojo threw his head back, rubbing his length in languid strokes over Geto's rigid abs. The raven-haired sorcerer burried his face in the crook of Gojo's moonlit neck, breathing him in. Together, they rocked, arms wrapped tightly around one another before a drawn-out whimper from Gojo sent his friend into a tantric storm of thrusting that pushed Gojo's back against the room's wooden panelling, one of Geto's hands planted firmly on Gojo's ass, the other plastered flat against the wall beside his head. Twisting kisses drawing gasping breaths from his pounding chest, every thrust sinking Geto's aching cock to the hilt.

Watching your boyfriend fuck the life out of Gojo against your dormroom wall was sending you into a dizzying heat of your own. Slick stained the sheets beneath you as you rubbed your throbbing clit to the beat of their movements. You couldn't help but lose yourself in the beautifully fucked out expression of Gojo who appeared to be reaching his limits.

"Fuckk" he rasped, pausing long enough to pull his hair from his elastic, black tresses falling over sculpted shoulders in a way that made you crave him even more.

"Suguru..." you pleaded, no longer satisfied just being a spectator.

Gojo's feet hit the floor before Geto spun him in place, using a firm hand on the back of his neck to bend him over onto the matress before plunging his greedy cock back into his sweet-smelling slick.

"I'm getting -fuck- I'm getting closer," Geto panted. "He's so fucking tight. Maybe you can t-talk him through it for me."

Snowy bangs, now doused in sweat clung to Gojo's feverish brow. Brushing them gently away, you pressed a cool kiss to his forehead, praising the sorcerer. With his hands in yours, soft words of encouragement fell from your lips, faces low to the dormroom matress, his rocking in time to powerful thrusts.

"You're doing so good, just a little longer." You cooed. Gojo nodded in reply, pink tongue hanging from his open mouth, drawing ragged breaths.

He arched his back into Geto's sharp thrusts, hips lifting from the matress, his leaky tip drawing dewy lines over the bedding as his heavy cock bounced in perfect rythm to the movement.

"I-I need it," he breathed. "This is torture, I need it." Gojo looked desperate- starved.

"I know, baby. He's almost there," you assured him.

"No, hahhh," he moaned, a wild look darkening his radiant gaze. "I need you," he urged. "Want t'taste you."

His words caught you by complete surprise, stunned he could even think straight the way Geto was railing him into your mattress- thrilled that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him.

"Oh fuuu-" he rutted his ass back into a gasping Geto, flashing that feral smile as he dragged you toward him, firm grip on your hips. Geto's eyes widened as he watched Gojo spread your plush thighs, licking his way to the source of your slick.

With each rock forward, Gojo thrust his tongue deeper into your slit, drinking you in. Your squirms fueled his hunger, soft tongue dipping into you over and over, but it wasn't enough. He needed more.

Geto couldn't look away. He stared, hips slowing their movements as he watched Gojo plunge not two, but three long fingers into your sopping cunt- the one Geto would usually be servicing himself. He stopped moving entirely, mouth going dry. In turn, Gojo stopped too, craning his neck to look at the man behind him.

For a moment, Gojo froze, thinking he'd gone too far, fearing his friend may be having second thoughts about sharing his beloved mate. Then, Geto found his voice, heavy thrusts picking up as he spoke.

"Get under him." It was more of an order than a suggestion.

"What?" You said, struck again by the unexpected.

"Get under him. Please." His eyes met yours in desperate yearning. "I need to watch you fuck each other." His eyes rolled back at the thought, while he pumped his cock into the very man he wanted to see you under.

You and Gojo exchanged a look. Hungry. Excited. Aching for one another. You didn't need to be asked again.

You mewled as Gojo stretched you on his impressive length, deep veins dragging deliciously against your gummy walls. You sucked him in eagerly, shameless squelches sounding from the slick that now coated your inner thighs.

How was this happening? How did you get here?

Not long ago you were spending a peaceful evening alone. Now you found yourself staring up at the two most beautiful men you knew, both inside and out, from where you lay underneath their swaying bodies.

Geto stood beside the bed, fingers tight on Gojo's hips, gorgeous bangs falling softly over his flushed face. Each breath from his open mouth sent them fluttering forward before coming to rest again on his inviting lips.

What a sight to behold.

Gojo leaned down to whisper in your ear, cheek resting against yours, a wry smile twisting his lips as he spoke your own words back to you.

"You're doing so good, just a little longer."

"Ngh...I-"

"Shhh..." he hushed your words with an empassioned kiss causing you to clench on his length."Let's -hahh- show Suguru how good we can c-cum for him."

A final smack from his heavy balls was all it took to set you off. Slick poured from your core as you doused him in your pleasure. A thirsty groan was pulled from his chest at the rush of your walls closing in on his girth. Without thinking, Gojo leaned in to the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth savagely over Geto's mark. Heavy loads of hot cum filled you as his groans of pleasure vibrated against your broken skin.

Geto picked up speed. A familiar, wild look in his eyes, blown pupils turning them to lustful pools of inky black.

"Fuckkk!" He growled, hands coming down on either side of your head as he laid his body across Gojo's broad back. You knew what was coming next.

"S-Satoru." You said, stroking his frosted locks. He groaned a reply, still firmly attached to the spot on your neck. "Take my hand."

Your fingers intertwined just in time to see Geto throw himself over Gojo's shoulder, biting down hard on the base of his neck. The two men moaned their rapture as Gojo squeezed the life from your hand. His glossy lips, now tinged with blood, trembled delicately as he whimpered. You knew too well, Geto's knot was substantial.

"That's it, 'Toru." You cooed.

You felt his body tense from the stretch, felt him pulse with each spurt as Geto unloaded. Little pearls of hot seed dripped onto your quivering thighs below. You could only imagine how full poor Gojo must be if there was enough to slide past that soul-splitting knot.

The two collapsed in a shared exhale, your soft praises offering sweet comfort to the weary man between you.

Gojo peered up at you from where his head rested on your chest. "Now what?" He asked, relying on your seasoned know-how.

You parted his flattened hair and smoothed his brow with another assuring kiss. "Now we wait." Geto gave you a knowing smile from over Gojo's shoulder, chin resting on folded hands, nothing but love in his tired eyes.

"Now we wait."

[sp00kymulderr]

Pairing: Javier Peña x reader

Warnings: 18+. sexual themes, kissing, spitting, Javi just really loves your mouth. Reader wears lipstick, is described as slightly shorter than Javi, no pronouns for reader but some pet names (cariño, baby). Unedited.

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: "The lipstick guarantees you’ll get what you want most"

A/N: This is majorly unedited and mostly drivel, i just need to get a wip out of my drafts and in to the world. To follow for fic updates only go to @sp00kyupdates​ or see taglist details on my masterlist. Header by me. Credit to banner maker @/saradika.

It begins with the application of a cherry red lipstick, and this isn’t the first time.

The one in the sleek dark tube that sits on your dresser, usually only picked out for special occasions.

Today might not involve any kind of occasion but you feel a sparking need in you to apply it as you get dressed for the work day, as the craving of attention from the man in the next room sets in.

The lipstick guarantees you’ll get what you want most, and you know it as you swipe the bright colour onto your lips once, then blot, and swipe again. You’re satisfied when you look in the mirror. You look good.

When you enter the kitchen where Javier is pouring a cup of steaming hot coffee, you rise your head to look in his eyes and he stops in his tracks immediately. You don't miss the twitch of his fingers, a subtle movement as he looks to your eyes, and then down to your lips and lets out a quiet breath. He stares for a beat longer, not saying anything.

"What?" you ask innocently, looking at him only as he steps forward, and then again and once more until he's crowding you against the near wall. He’s so easy to entice, you could almost laugh. If he wasn’t looking at you like that.

"Wearing that for me, cariño?" Javi asks, eyes focussed still on your lips. You bite your bottom lip a little, as you continue to watch him watch you. You both know where this is headed.

"What do you mean?" You feign obtuseness that makes him give you a stern glare, but your heavy breath betrays you. "Oh, the lipstick? Just thought it went with my outfit. Don't you think?"

Javi groans, and one hand traverses from the wall to caress his fingers on your cheek.

It had been clear to you since your second date, when you'd worn a bold colour on your lips and things had ended heatedly. Javier had a certain obsession. Desirous always, but even moreso with the entice of brightness like a beacon to you - a man possessed by even the thought of your lips on him, near him, him in your warm wet and waiting mouth. Your mouth is almost his favourite damn thing in the world; the way you spew pretty, filthy words and spill even prettier, filthier moans from those lips. He stiffens at just the feel of your mouth anywhere on him, warm breath ghosting against his skin and teeth scraping delicately.

You’d learned a while ago that when you wear this lipstick it's a guarantee you'll both be out of the house late, stains smudged on him as a reminder for later in the day.

"Wore it for me, didn't you?" He asks again now and damn him, you can't do much but nod. Suddenly struck dumb as his thumb swipes across your bottom lip and he watches in rapt attention at the detail of the smudge it makes on your skin and his.

"Fuckin' beautiful" He mutters and leans in to kiss you more chaste than you anticipate. He's deliciously delicate in this kiss and you turn to putty, like always.

"Javi…gonna be late" you mutter like you even care but he's shaking his head and already pulling back from the too-short kiss,  a subtle hint of the colour on his own pouted lips now.

After a short moment of contemplation of you, he’s dragging his thumb again to smear the painted colour even more.

"Too pretty for us to go anywhere right now" Javi says softly, lovingly in a way that makes you ache, "Too god damn pretty"

Fuck, he makes you feel dizzy the way you make him feel it. Want and need coursing electric through you both as he presses his mouth to yours again for just a moment longer and grinds his growing bulge against your front for not long enough before he pulls himself back again with effort.

“Open, cariño” Javi growls, thumb back to tracing the plush of your lips. You do as he says, of course, and he slips the digit inside your mouth, groaning deep at the feel of wet heat when you suck on it.

“Fucking perfect. Made all for me, weren’t you?” He murmurs, other hand reaching to his belt and deftly unbuckling with practiced ease.

“Only for me” Javi adds, low tone sparking heat in your core. He presses softly down on your tongue, then traces the ridges of your teeth. A muttered ‘fuck’ that’s almost a whimper when you bite down a little 

You let out a pathetic little whimper of your own that only spurs him on. His thumb pushes all the way in, down to the knuckle and you make sure to suck harder, wetting it with your saliva just like he wants. Once more he pulls it back and passes the digit across your teeth, feeling the indent they'll make on his flesh as you bite a little harder this time.

"Careful" He warns, but it's an empty threat and you both know it. He's hard and needing and he won't do anything but give exactly what you want when you have him wrapped around you like this.

His belt is long unbuckled, that free hand now working down to unbutton and unzip his jeans with ease - not the first nor the last time he's done this particular act, one hand occupied with you.

"Open up wide for me" He rasps, voice wrecked already. It makes your knees buck a little, glad for the wall behind you supporting you.

Once more you do as he says, always so good when you're both getting what you want. You open as wide as you can and he watches with interest as he pulls his thumb out, a string of your saliva attached to it. His attention completely fixated on it.

He repeats the motion again of swiping his thumb across your lips but this time with the added wet the lipstick smudges more, making a beautiful mess just like he likes and when he lifts the still wet digit from you it's stained a diluted red as he sucks between his own gorgeous lips.

"Keep it open, baby"

You can't help the moan that leaves you at his rough voice and the look of devoted lust in his eyes. He's so enraptured with you. With what you have. What he needs.

He directs you a little by pulling you by the chin with his thumb and forefinger, and for a moment there is silence as he looks slightly down at you. You share a breath, quiet and slow, before you stick your tongue out like you know he wants. When he spits directly into your mouth it’s lewd and filthy and perfect when you feel it land on your waiting tongue. You don't swallow down, not yet, you've played this part enough to know not to.

"Fuck me" He groans, and spits again before telling you in a strained tone to close your mouth.

And you do. And he nods, so you swallow like he wants.

"Perfect" Javi sighs again

You feel it. Like a perfect, glorious thing to be seen the way he sees you. Even as he takes his cock out with a sigh of relief all of his attention is on you; not just on the smudge of the lipstick, the pout of your lips, the heat of your mouth, but on you, the one he needs.

One more beat of silence, as he gives you that look.

"On your knees for me, amor"

[poppy-metal]

you get so excited when he writes back. you don’t tell your parents about him, because they never like the boys you bring home anyway, and there’s no need until you actually do bring him home. you’re quite surprised when he does reply, again another thing you didn’t think about, another display of your short sightedness.

hey

thanks for the letter. i don’t get many so yours made my day. you’re a very pretty girl. you know i’m bad don’t you? you shouldn’t be writing to a guy like me. but im happy you did. you said you think im beautiful. tell me more about what you think of me, and what you thought when you watched the trial. what did you think of that cunt of a judge? also, have you done this before? have you spoken to other killers? you have to tell me. i have to know. don’t speak to any others from now on. they might not be as friendly as i am.

yours truly

patrick zweig

aka the hamptons hatchet man xx

you kiss that letter a thousand times and sleep with it under your pillow. you spend hours crafting the perfect reply, while patrick spends his time hoarding his meds to drug guards, and begins stashing away any and all sharp objects he can get his degenerate paws on. anything to reach you before the loose men of the world do.

THE HAMPTONS HATCHET MAN..... stop because him using a hatchet.... swinging it over his head and bringing it down.... I like this visual, I'm seeing it. and thing is he mostly just killed bad people, people who pissed him the fuck off - alot of people feel sympathy for him, especially women. but most of them are cock hounds - they just want a taste of danger without actually knowing what it means. he's kind of disturbed by them. the desperation. he's definitely not the man to harp on about morals, but really?

but there's something about you - you're not horny, for one. you're kind of silly - sweet. you're not writing him because you want a "bad boy" to write you back, you saw something in him you relate to on a deeper level, you feel connected to him on an emotional level. you say you understand what it's like to feel helpless and alone and angry. you're the only girl he ever writes back.

his handwriting is shit - but something about it makes your heart full. the way the ink bleeds in places - the sharp aggressive scrawl. you kiss the paper, blot it with your lip stain.

the connection isn't sexual to start - not for you, anyway. it's not long though that your stomach starts fluttering in your belly at his crude language. a throbbing between your legs you haven't felt before. you wanted to be friends. let him know he had a friend.

he keeps saying fuck in his letters, though. keeps calling you things like sweetheart and good girl and princess - and it makes you feel funny. you feel so guilty, you've never felt this way before.

do you tell him? maybe he can explain these feelings to you. he's much more experienced and he's your friend. he would be honest with you, upfront.

I dont want you to be mad at me - but my feelings are changin' towards you. not in a bad way - I don't think. I'm not sure, actually. maybe it's bad. I care about you. you're my friend. but sometimes...... sometimes when I think about you and the way you speak to me I feel a little funny. it's like butterflies but down there.... you know in my private place. I know it's inappropriate to talk about it - mama would beat my hide for even mentioning my private parts to another man. I'm just so confused. it gets wet. almost like an ache. but not the ache I get in my stomach when it's my monthly - that's a bad ache. this feels different. I know there are things I don't understand that other people do. would you tell me? I don't like not understanding what's happening to my body. I don't think it's bad. if I had to pinpoint it - I'd say it's almost good. but too much good. I'm sorry I'm botherin' you with this. I just trust you more than anyone else. with everything. with me.

[bamfaholic]

From Eden to Sit at Your Door | Part 3 |

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Kurt Wagner x Reader | 2.6k words

A/N: We're finally getting to the fluff! :3

Support me on my AO3!

As you both enter the desolate building, you curl in on yourself. There are cobwebs everywhere, and the dust has you sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” The elfish man chimes in. “You need not be afraid, friend.” His smile has turned weak, but never left his face. He lifts sheets off some furniture, mostly pews, which kicks up more dust. It irritates your nose, having you sneeze more.

As you reach the podium, the stir has a flock of pigeons pick up and fight to get to the support beams first. You let out a little shriek, caught off guard by the feathery guests. Kurt only chuckles.

“Home, huh?” You say, arms crossed. “I think you need a duster…or two.”

Kurt laughs, but it’s cut short with a choking cough. You think you see blood on the corner of his mouth, but he wipes it away before you could truly know. “Ah, I know. But as I told you, it has been some time since I’ve been home.”

Kurt kneels before the cross and whispers a prayer. He clutches the rosary from before tightly, pressing his hands to his forehead. You stand there awkwardly, seeing the bleeding man pray to his savior nailed on a cross. Once finished, he lights a candle, before rising.

“Come, I will take you away from this dusty room, Sneezy.” His eyes have grown slightly mischievous as he offers you a hand.

You tell yourself you’re only humoring as you chuckle in response, “Oh, don’t insult the spiders’ handiwork, they’re skilled workers.” You gently take his hand.

His grin is back, bringing life and light to his features. His eyes illuminate the dim environment as he guides you through a few hallways. He brings you to a comfortable bedroom, illuminated with large candles that have cooled wax drips pooling at their base. There’s one large bed, and it looks recently slept in. The blankets are kicked to the side, pillow ajar. A bench on the other side of the room is covered in supplies.

Kurt sheepishly chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “So... This is where I have been staying.” He heads right to the bench, pulling out a robust first aid kit and plopping down his crimson stained swords. It’s full of creams and vials you can’t recognize by sight alone. So he really did have a barrel of antidotes.

You sit down on the bed, and sink. It’s delightfully soft, and the blanket is rather warm too. You watch curiously as Kurt pulls out a suture kit, first grabbing the forceps. He reaches around his back, attempting to reach the pieces of glass. He struggles, immensely. The tips of his ears darken, a pretty indigo, as the time painfully ticks on.

“Do… Do you need help?” You offer, feeling so out of place in this room.

A beat passes. “A-Aye. That would be… Appreciated.” He huffs, lowering his arms in defeat.

You crawl beside him, kneeling on the ground. His face is that bright purple too, you notice. He gently places the forceps in your hands before turning his back to you. “Please let me know if I hurt you.” You mutter, before beginning. You target the biggest pieces first, knowing they would be easiest to grab. You try to go slow, but with enough force to get each piece out.

Kurt sharply inhales, his claw-nails scratching the cement floor as you pull out each piece. They tink in the metal pan beside you, leaving bits of purple blood behind. The smaller pieces are far more difficult, but you manage just fine. Your heart aches for Kurt, though, as it’s clear this isn’t the most pleasant experience.

“There.” You softly say, setting the forceps down. “Nothing seems to deep to need stitches.

“Thank God.” He sighs, relaxing his tense muscles. “Thank you, friend, truly.”

He begins to get up, but you grab his wrist. “No, sit, let me help. You’ve helped me plenty.” His eyes only stare, mouth slightly agape, but he refuses to protest. He resumes sitting, but stretches out his legs.

You gently blot away the blood and clean the wounds, much to his dismay. “Can you take your shirt off for me?” It’s too late when you realize how intimate that could be, turning a furious red. The blush trickles all the way up to the tips of your ears.

“Ja,” Kurt stumbles over himself, “Of course.” He carefully undoes his suit enough to wiggle his arms free, his back then following suit.

His bare back is now in front of you. You mindlessly delicately trace a finger tip down his defined muscles. His raw strength must be incredible.

Ha, you think to yourself, Incredible Nightcrawler indeed.

You continue to be gentle, barely touching him as you clean his wounds, pulling more hisses from his lips as the alcohol burns away any possible infection. You get the small scrapes and knicks too, and then notice all the scarring. Most, if not all, seem old. Very old. Again, without thinking, you touch him.

“What happened here?” You whisper.

He’s silent, and your heart jumps into your throat. You fear you crossed a line without intending to and are moments away from scrambling before he reaches behind and places a hand over yours. “Whips.” He begins. “Whips, from the circus.”

You swallow hard. Ah, right. He had mentioned the horrific conditions. “They… They did this to you?”

“Aye.” His eyes cast down. “If I failed tricks, if I did not bring in enough money, if they felt like it.” His voice trails off. “What good is a pet if it does not entertain nor make money?”

“Pet?” You scoff. “Kurt you are not some pet. You- You’re-“ That tongue of yours is going to get you in hot water one day, “You are the most awe-inspiring man I have ever met. A legend, if I dare say so.”

He chuckles, turning to face you. You both now sit on the cold floor, your hot breath on the other. He looks so winded, tired, like he hasn’t slept in ages. “I am happy you think so. I know most do not.”

You blame the adrenaline, the chance there’s still drugs in your system, anything and everything as you reach up to cup his cheek. “You saved my life, Kurt Wagner, and I must thank you for it. You showed me kindness, and even took the blow for me.”

You hear his heart pound against his ribcage, his face hot. “Ah, I guess I did-“ He nervously chuckles, leaning away from your touch. “But that is the job of an X-Man, no?” He leans back, pulling his face out of your palm.

Your heart sinks, and you can’t place why. “I suppose…”

You look away, letting your eyes scan the room. The candle light makes it feel warmer, the walls reflecting the flickering yellow flame. Beside the bed you notice a poster with an awfully familiar figure hand painted on it. The Nightcrawler. A part of you wishes to have seen him soar in the air, but knowing the cost you’re happy he’s now an X-Man.

Kurt rises, rolling his shoulders back. They crack as he does this, and then he stretches his arms up, his tail shooting straight out as well. “Stretching is good for you, friend.” He says with a small smile. “I do it every morning, noon, and night.” He snaps himself in half next, touching his toes. He loosens his neck last, and then rummages around in a bag.

“I’m glad you’re dedicated.” You slightly chuckle. “I don��t think I could ever be a trapeze artist.”

“No,” Kurt laughs, “No you could not. Too much… Needing your eyes.” He admits as he continues to dig.

“What was it like?” You pique his interest, the sharp tip of one of his ears flicks. “Doing such feats?”

“Like being an angel.” He admits, sighing dreamily. He pulls a thin tank top out, tossing it over his head. “I flew.” He mumbles softly. “I brought joy and smiles to those who saw me and did the unthinkable. I believe that to be tasks of angels.” He snakes out of the remainder of his suit, and you breathe a sigh of relief seeing he had shorts on underneath.

He returns to digging in the bag, and you chew on his words. He pulls out a few more items, turning to you. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Huh?” You’re stumped. “For what?”

He hands you a beautiful, handcrafted cane, something you only ever dreamt of owning. It was exactly your style, the grip being comfortable for long use, and adjustable to the correct height. “For making you lose your cane.” Both his sharp fangs peek out in this smile. He really is proud of himself, and his wagging tail is giving it away.

You return the grin, running your hand down the smooth craftsmanship. “It’s… It’s beautiful.” Your smile widens, “Thank you.”

“It was no problem, really. Besides, do not thank me yet,” His nose crinkles, just like before, “I have more gifts.”

He pulls out a change of clothes for you, your white cane, and a few snacks from your cupboard.

“I may have… Snooped. Only a little!” He swiftly raises his hands in defense. “I had a feeling we would have to lie low, and so who am I to make someone uncomfortable when it was me who dragged them into this?”

You’re far too focused on the warm fuzzy feeling in your tummy to even assume the worst of Kurt. He had your trust wholeheartedly. “It’s alright.” You chuckle. “Thank you.”

A yawn worms its way out of Kurt, “Ah, apologies. Too much excitement for one day.”

“You can sleep, you know.” You motion to the bed. “You should, you have done a lot today.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I can’t take the bed from you. I will sleep elsewhere.”

“Where, precisely?”

“…From the beams?” His embarrassment is endearing and palpable.

You snort. “You are not hanging upside down like a bat.” You get to your feet, propping your canes on the wall. “Go on, get into bed Kurt.”

He stammers, turning even more purple. “B-But, where will you sleep?”

You are pushing him gently toward the bed, “I don’t know, I’ll figure it out.”

You manage to get him on his back, reaching for the blanket when he snatches you up. You squeak as his arms wrap around you. “If we are to argue, then we will both bear the burden!” He jokes, laughing.

Your entire body burns, blood rushing to your face. You hear it happening to him, too. He adjusts you both, and luckily the bed is large enough for you both to lay comfortably on your side. He takes the wall, so he can see the door, and makes himself as small as possible, corkscrewing his tail around one leg. He pulls the soft blanket over top and blows out the single candle.

The snuffed light has you limited in where you can focus your gaze. Unfortunately, for you, all you have is the soft glow of his eyes.

“Goodnight, Schatz.” Kurt says through a yawn. His damp curls fall in his face, and his eyes slowly flutter shut.

Your heart does a few flips at the Schatz. He couldn’t possibly mean it, could he? Your insides are warm, you’re melting into the sheets. His breathing slows and remains soft. He so quickly fell asleep; he must have been exhausted.

You try your best to sleep, closing your eyes, but it’s too loud. You hear the faint trickle of a creek, the occasional flutter from the pigeons, the skitters of the rodents. It’s all too much. You had grown accustomed to the ambience of your flat, the water dripping, soft talking, the cars driving by; but this was all new.

You couldn’t even toss and turn, stuck in your one position. You huff.

“Struggling to sleep?” You could have jumped seven feet. Kurt had one eye open, analyzing you, that devilish grin on his face.

“How did you know?” You whisper back.

“I have my ways.” He chuckles. “Also, I can feel how tense you are.”

A few moments pass, the only sound is both of your breathing.

You open and then close your mouth, swallowing. “I… Yes. It’s too loud.”

“I can imagine.” He sounds so sleepy, like he could drift away in an instant. “It must be so difficult to be so in tune with sound.”

You give a small nod. “You could say that.” You sigh, closing your eyes. “I can hear a creek, the mice, the pigeons…”

Kurt doesn’t offer a reply, instead gently running a hand through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

You must bite your tongue to prevent any squeaks. “A-Anyway-“ You putter out. “Since I can’t sleep… Do you mind if we talk?”

“No, go on. Speak freely, you are safe in the house of God.”

You begin with a burning question. “How do you do it?” You adjust yourself slightly, trying to make yourself comfortable. “Walk around in the open?”

“Ah well… There are plenty of sympathizers. Many who keep to themselves and mind their business. Most are too cowardly to enact on their hatred and biases.” He pulls his hand back to himself. “I have long ago learned to ‘mind my own business.’” He laughs. “A friend of mine would disagree, he would say ‘give them a piece of your mind, bub.’” He effortlessly says those words in an Americanized accent, you can’t help but giggle.

“I hope to never cross that friend of yours.”

“Ah, well, he is soft at heart.” Kurt rolls onto his back, his shoulder brushing up against you.  “It takes much for him to bare his claws.”

“Mmm…” You gently chew the nail on your thumb. “Have you… Always been blue? I hope that doesn’t sound insensitive.”

Kurt lightly chuckles, “Ah, you are alright friend. But, yes, I was born like this. Blue and fuzzy.” He gently wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, having you rest your head on his chest. “There, you can listen to my breathing and heart instead of the scampering of our fellow squatters.”

You feel like air has gotten thicker, you can’t seem to breathe right. You aren’t certain if he’s being flirtatious or genuine. You hear the thump thump of his ventricles opening and closing, the rushing of blood through his veins. Softer is the air filling his lungs.

He is fuzzy, like a teddy bear. You mindlessly paw at it. “Mmm… Soft.” You mutter, sleep finally clutching you in its grasp. If Kurt heard you, he pays it no mind. “Do you like being a mutant?” You yawn.

“Of course.” He begins, softly smiling. “I could not be without it. I am a mutant, and without that I would cease to be.” He ruffles your hair, easing you further into sleep. “I find joy in my identity, and I regret taking so long to do so. I only hope you experience the same some day, friend.”

Your eyes flutter closed, the warmth radiating from him was intoxicating. You tried to ask more, this was your chance, after all, but slumber was the ultimate victor. You both drifted off, in the old church, huddled together.

It was the best sleep you had in a very, very long time. The only sour note was that when you woke up, the bed was empty.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Follow this work and read my others on my AO3

[chronically-ghosted]

Taylor!!! Happy 1k to you!!!!! So well deserved. Hope you’re having fun celebrating 💕

💫- “Do you have to leave right now?” “I can stay for a little while longer.” with big soft guy Frankie Morales please 🥰

Em xx

heat lightning

rating: teen pairing: frankie morales x f!reader word count: 1.1K summary: this is not your frankie warnings: angst, reader and frankie have a daughter, proceeds the events of the movie, everyone's having a really bad time a/n: thank you for your request, Em! i know i don't usually do angsty!frankie but i think this scene had been brewing in my head for a while and i wanted to try it out! love you so much and i hope you like it!

🤍Masterlist 🤍 Frankie Morales Masterlist

When you were nine, your aunt and uncle divorced. An ugly thing – lots of crying, late nights up with your mother, arguments over the phone, loyalties tested, lines drawn in the sand. You didn’t understand much of it at the time, but there was always a moment that imprinted on your young psyche that has stayed there ever since.

You can almost smell the spilt wine on the carpet in the living room, hear your mother muttering and blotting with one hand, the other on her sister’s knee. You couldn’t see your aunt’s face from your perch on the staircase. Perhaps because it was elicit – you had been put to bed hours ago – or because you were curious – you had never seen an adult cry before – but you can recall the memory as if it were yesterday. From between the banisters of the stairs, only your aunt’s back was visible, hunched over and swaying as if unable to hold herself up right. It reminded you of your baby brother before he could hold his neck – precarious and loose in a way that was almost horrific in its vulnerability. She sways, back and forth, your mother’s hand on her knee - it’s alright, it’s just a spill, we’ll clean it up, don’t worry, it won’t stain – and then your aunt mutters the words you will forever remember for the rest of your life. The words butting up against each other, slurred on top of each other, she whispers:

“I woke up to a stranger.”

You think about your aunt and your mother and the fights and the wine and the calls and how you never saw your cousins much after that as you stare up at the shadowed ceiling, as lighting blinks reality white for a fraction of a second. Thunder rumbles, angry like your aunt, but for some reason you can’t feel anger. You don’t know what you feel but your jaw remains slacked, your joints sink into the sheets, your throat clear. 

Another growl of thunder, a single shriek of the alarm clock at 3AM, and Frankie’s hand slaps it silent, the alarm unnatural and too loud, threatening to bring the ire down from some great furious eye. Rage you couldn’t begin to grasp at, but wished for. The fortifying self-righteousness of anger would feel lovely right now. 

Instead, all you can hear is your aunt’s drunken words. 

Beside you, Frankie is still through the next beat of thunder, the spark of lightning, and then he sits up. He faces away from you, shoulders rounded like your aunt, but firm and steady unlike your aunt. In the next snap of lightning, you watch the planes of his back glow, muscle and scars and bone and sinew just as familiar to you as your own hands. You could trace Frankie blind-folded if you had to. Your hand goes to him as it has an incalculable amount of times over the past few years, unaware of what your conscious mind knows: you can’t make him stay.

A stranger – how can he possibly be a stranger to me?

Your hand on his lower back stirs him, waking up to the heat of your palm.

“It won’t be long,” he says for the dozenth time, a mantra for him as well as you. “I’ll be back before Alejandra’s party.” 

The Frankie you know, the Frankie you love would never even risk missing his daughter’s birthday. This hulking thing in the shape of your husband sees it as something worth losing, in favor of money. This hulking thing in the shape of your husband wants to provide, wants to prove there is a sliver of a better man beneath the coke addiction, beneath the suspension of his license. It wants to provide, provide, provide when all it does to you is take. 

Neither of you know this now but it will take him over a month to come back, empty handed but filled to the brim with more nightmares than before. One month to the day of this night, you will google, “when is a missing person presumed dead?” and then close your laptop so hard, it shatters and you blow a hole in your bedroom wall with the force you throw it across the room. 

This hulking thing in the shape of your husband is foreign to you, strange, but it still smells like him. Sounds like him. Has the same warm cup of his hands. 

When you don’t respond, or even beg, he moves to stand, the slats under the bed groaning. He promised to fix those months ago. 

He stands and your fingers curl around your husband’s wrist. Even the beat of his pulse sounds just like Frankie’s. But this is not your Frankie.

You hope to God and whatever else is listening that Frankie finds himself in the dark bowels of that wet jungle. 

Your mouth dry and your own heartbeat loud in your ears, you look up at him, into those dark brown eyes that make up your whole world. They are unfamiliar to you as they watch you with an emotion you can’t ever remember seeing in his eyes before. 

“I know you have to go,” and you do, you know this is something he has to do for himself, not for you or your daughter, but himself and there’s nothing you can do to stop him. “But do you have to leave right now?”

This hulking thing that smells like your husband, sounds like your husband, maybe loves you like your husband goes still. Beneath your fingertips, you swear his heartbeat slows. Lightning flashes again and you lose completely the shadowy outlines of his face in the total darkness.

And in that flash, his wrist slips out from between your fingers – this thing is going to be intentionally cruel as he cuts the cord and takes off with the soul of your husband – and then a broad hand slips down to your shoulder, your elbow. Gently pushing, guiding you back onto your side, he slips back under the covers, encasing your body in skin and warmth you know so well,  muscle and scars and bone and sinew just as familiar to you as your own hands. His breath is soft, relaxing as he curls around you and you hate this thing even more because it really does a wonderful impersonation of your husband, the man you love, the man you will always love. 

You let the tears come because you know they won’t break his fickle stone heart and you need relief. 

He holds you as you cry, his nose in your ear as he says, 

“I can stay for a little while longer.”

[gothic-thoughts]

Disarranged Marriage

Soap MacTavish x Black Fem Reader Smut

Strangers2Lovers, MeetCute, Viking!Soap, ApprenticeHealer!Reader

CW: porn wit plot fr, just met smashing, quiet sex

Word Count: 1391 (give or take)

My head pounded with a splitting headache and an aching pain in my chest as a sweet, hushed voice coaxed me from slumber. Dazed, I slowly opened my eyes as sunlight filtered into my vision, only to be met with the sight of her. I didn’t know if I was seeing an angel or if she was this gorgeous. Maybe I'm just dizzy. 

I blink again, seeing a little better through the sun's rays and better registering her face— her glowing dark skin, those pretty beauty marks, plump lips curved into a sweet smile... braided hair put up into a high ponytail. I even double-checked to confirm there wasn't a halo above her head. It didn’t matter in the slightest, my heart was already thudding against my sore, heavily tattooed chest rapidly as my mind cleared.

“Marry me...”

Her eyes widen and her hand halts its slow movements on my chest. Shite. My cheeks immediately flush with embarrassment but when she giggles, my shoulders relax a little knowing I haven't offended her or anything. In an attempt to salvage my dignity, I clear my throat.

“Uh...” I speak in my groggy voice, “What I meant was good mornin’, gorgeous.”

“It's not morning, MacTavish. This morning was the tournament.”

“Right, right... and what happened to me...?” 

“I was told after you got bucked off your horse, a wild boar speared you with its tusk.”

My eyes widen at her words. Fuck, that sounds bad. I looked down at my chest to see what her hand was doing— dabbing a rag over the large stitched-up gash across my left and center of my chest. I wince at the sight, grimacing. Fuck, that looks bad. I shift on the wooden cot, trying to find a comfortable position but the wound stings with the movement, scolding me to remain still.

“How long have I been out?”

“About 4 hours, I'm afraid.”

“Damn, how bad is it?”

“Puttin' it bluntly, you should be dead. It's a pretty deep and over your heart.”

I raise my eyebrows in shock but I couldn't stop my voice from lowering an octave as I kept my eyes on hers.

"And, uh... just how deep is... pretty deep, lass?"

She bites her lip a little, clearing her throat. She lifts her hand from the rag and traces a finger up the length of my wound.

"Pretty deep would mean an inch or two from your aorta." Her finger gently circles the center of my chest, tapping over the organ she was referring to, "And seeing that you're already awake? You're the luckiest man I've ever met."

"I was thinking the exact same thing since I somehow ended up under the care of the most eye-catchin' angel Valhalla could send."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, I definitely do."

She looks away with a sheepish chuckle, no doubt hiding a blush before looking back at me. "I don't take the credit, MacTavish."

"Why not?"

"I can't."

"You should; I should be worshippin' you for helping me live to see an actual angel on Earth.”

“I'm only an apprentice healer— the one cleaning you and your sutures every hour so you don't look as if you've been run over by a wagon. Twice.”

I let out a soft chuckle, impressed by her determination to deflect praise. "Your care isn't insignificant; wounds would get infected without your work. You saved me from looking like roadkill.”

I watch her work in silence for a few moments, appreciating the careful way she handles the bloodied rag and the meticulous way she blots my wound. My eyes can’t help but wander up and down her figure, gaze taking in her chubby form, her curves, her focused eyes... her breasts. She wrings out the rag into a wooden bucket near my bed, filling it with blood-stained water.

“There a name to go with that... absolutely gorgeous face o’ yours?”

She smirks, holding my flirty gaze with one of her own. “(Y/n) (L/n).”

“Pleased to meet you, (Y/n). I’m Johnny.”

“Nice to meet you, Johnny.”

“You’re good with your hands, y’know?”

She pauses, her hand halting again. "What's that supposed to mean?”

“You’re handlin’ me with care, aren’t you? Your hands are soft, gentle, skilled... Makes me wonder what else you’re skilled at…”

“Only a Viking would flirt with an injury like this." 

"Only a fool wouldn't-- 'specially upon seeing the most mesmerizing woman he's seen in all his life."

She laughs softly, "You know being stabbed hurts no less when a healer does it, right?”

I chuckle loudly. Dammit, stop flirting with her. This is a healer tending to my injury, not some tavern wench.

“Oh, come now, no need for threats, love. Unless, you are betrothed...?”

“I am working... Johnny~”

“Ah, clever evasion. So you’re a single lass then…”

“Yes, and you are a patient.”

Oh, this is fun. “And what happens when I’m not a patient anymore, love?”

“Then I would ignore you because you would be a recent patient.”

“You’d ignore me? Even if I begged for your attention so brazenly the village knew?”

“Yes, I'm told warriors don't make good partners.”

My eyebrows raise, intrigued by her comment. With a slight hiss of pain, I prop myself up on my arms, leaning my face closer to hers.

“And who said that?” I ask, my voice a low rumble.

“Many married women in the village.” 

I snort in amusement. “And who were these women married to?”

“Warriors.”

I let out a belly laugh. “Of course they would say that. They probably aren’t satisfied with their husbands… But me? Oh I can tell you, love, I’d make a damn good partner~”

“Mhm... I'm sure.”

“You don’t sound convinced, lassie.”

"I'm not." 

“Maybe I’ll have to prove it to you.”

She gasps and holds her hips. “And what's that s'posed to mean?”

“It means I’ll have to show you that I’d make a perfect partner, love."

“Tch, and how ya plan on doin’ that with an injury this big?”

“Sweetheart, this little thing isn’t going to hold me back. I’m a warrior, remember? I’ve had worse, and that never stopped me before.”

“I doubt that~”

I throw my head back, my laugh deep and hearty as a challenge presents itself.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t long before I was behind a stack of crates in the corner of the healing cabin with my massive tattooed hand clamped over (Y/n)'s mouth to keep her adorable moans at bay each time my muscular thighs and pelvis collided with her plump ass. I bury my face in (Y/n)'s neck, my nose nuzzling the space behind her ear as my strokes become quick and deep, relishing the soft, brown skin that I’ve been dying to feel since I came to.

“Unh my god~”

“That’s it... fuck yes~”

With every deep thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the small space while she gasps and pants softly into my hand, being sure to keep her palms planted firmly against the wall. Her moans being muffled by my calloused hand made my cock throb inside her, the knowledge that she has to bite her lip to not cry out is driving me wild.

"Ah f-fuck, how did I let you talk me into this?" She whispered.

I can’t help but chuckle against her skin, repeatedly pulling her hips back to me. “Unh... oh fuck... Don’t pretend you weren’t interested from the start, lass.”

"Y-you're only sayin’ that cuz you asked me to marry you~"

“And it was a ‘yes’.”

"N-no it wasn't."

I let out a quiet laugh and let go of (Y/n)’s hip to gently grab her by the chin, forcing those glazed-over eyes to meet mine over her shoulder. 

“Yeah? Then why am I with you like this right now?”

“I... I, ah—”

“Hm?” I pull her chin up higher, forcing her to arch deeper, “Why you lettin’ me do this to you, eh?” 

Before she can respond, I slam into her to make her gasp in shock at my sudden depth, her ass now completely flush against my pelvis as her body shudders against my aching chest. I growl lowly at the new and intense squeezing around my cock and continue to fuck her through her orgasm.

“O-Ooh shit, mnh~!” She moaned, her sounds of pleasure muffled behind my tattooed fingers.

“You refuse my proposal but you’re lettin’ me make you cum like this? Taking care of you like a good husband should...?”

I press a kiss to her neck as her orgasm subsides, leaving nothing but aftershocks wracking her body. My hand released her chin to run down the curves of her side, my fingernails running lightly over the fabric of her tunic.

“Mmh, nah... I think this...“ I thrust deeply again, “Is you accepting my proposal.”

[perpetualfox]

Salvation - König x GN!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Fuck Or Die, Heavy Dub-Con, Rough-Handling, Knife-Play, Fear of Death, Use of Stimulants

Wordcount: 1009

@bunny-extract posted this and I blacked out. When I woke up, I found this on my laptop screen. Enjoy.

[Guys, I'm not kidding with this one, the dub-con is heavy. This is probably the closest I'll ever come to non-con. Take that into account.]

→The man loomed above you, a hulking figure that blotted out the weak, dusty blue of the sky. He knelt, one knee braced firmly against your sternum, pinning your body with frightening ease to the uneven, rocky ground. Jagged rocks and pebbles dug into your flesh as he pressed you down, marring your back with deep indentations. You could feel your skin tearing against the rough edges; blood leaking from the wounds and pain lighting up your nerves. You thrashed beneath him, but it was like struggling against a wall of iron.

→“Ah, ah, ah,” he hissed, “Mach das nicht.”

→The cold tip of a knife kissed the side of your throat, and you stilled, a terrible, hollow pit opening in your stomach. The chill of the blade spread through you, infecting you with an icy terror that surged through your veins with each frantic pulse of your heart.

→He was going to kill you.

→“Sag mir, wo sind deine Freunde?”

→You stared up into his face—or what passed for his face: a ratty mask—the dark fabric tattered and bleach-burned beneath the slits through which his dark eyes gleamed. It was torn and stained with sweat and dust and…worse.

→“I-I don’t—”

→The tip of the knife bit a little deeper into your throat. A hot bead of blood welled beneath the tip, fattening until it rolled down to collect and cool in the hollow of your throat. Tears flooded your eyes, blurring the nightmare that loomed above you into an indistinct smudge.

→“Please! Please don’t! I-I-I don’t understand!”

→He scoffed, his eyes rolling skyward. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as though he thought you terribly stupid. He formed each word very carefully, his accent curling about the vowels, each syllable accompanied by a tap on the butt of the knife. A threat and a promise.

→“Where. Are. Your. Friends?”

→“I-I don’t…I don’t have…?”

→The knife bit in just little deeper, the blood now trickling down your neck in a thin stream. “Don’t play dumb.”

→A sob tore free from deep within your chest as you writhed beneath him; a wet, wretched sound. “I swear! I swear!”

→You flashed him your hands—empty and trembling; harmless. He leaned back, tilting his hips forward as his eyes raked over your body, really taking in your appearance for the first time—the scrapes and bruises marring your face and limbs; your clothing, rumpled and dirty; lacking any sort of insignia that might denote your company or rank; the way you cowered beneath him, your eyes not trained on him, seeking out weakness, but flitting about wildly, desperately searching for a means of escape.

→A civilian?

→His head cocked to the side; a dog taking a keen interest in a strange new toy. Though he did not withdraw the knife, his demeanor shifted.

→“Oh, Mäuschen. You’re a long way from where you belong.” You could hear the smile in his voice, cruel and sharp, but it did not reach his flat, dead eyes.

→A bullet whizzed by, and you flinched, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. He threw his head back and laughed, a terrible sound, dark as oil and thick as tar, “You’re afraid, Schatzi.”

→He leaned in, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply, as though he could smell the fear on you. His eyes were wide and wild, pupils blown out so large they nearly swallowed his iris whole. Only when he’d leaned in had you caught the thinnest strip of green circling that deep, void black. Between that and the jittery, twitching of his shoulders, you were sure he was high on something—some stimulant or another coursing through him—blowing his brains out the back of his skull.

→Another bullet zipped by, cutting a chunk clean out of the wall. The man didn’t blink, even as you bit back a scream.

→“Ah. Someone knows we’re here,” he said, his tone shockingly matter of fact.

→He leaned in a little closer, the sour smell of him—sweat and blood and gunpowder—washing over you. “Beg me,” he whispered, the rough material of his mask brushing against the shell of your ear, “Beg me to save your life.”

→You just stared up at him, your eyes huge and wet. He surged forth, your face slotting neatly into his palm. His fingers dug into your cheeks, smooshing them together with a thick thumb and forefinger, “I said, ‘BEG!’”

→Hot tears slid down your face, flowing over his fingers, “P-Please, save me!”

→His bruising grip relented, the rough pad of his thumb grazing over your cheek in a misguided attempt to comfort you.

→“Such a good little thing you are, yes? Yes. Now, stay put.”

→The weight on your chest vanished, and you gasped for breath, coughing as the dust in the air tried to settle in your lungs. Your dirty fingers curled around your throat; your blood-soaked flesh slippery beneath your fingers. As you struggled to sit up, the big man turned, slinging the rifle from his back, and setting it up atop a low-slung wall of crumbling stone.

→When he was satisfied with his position, he grabbed for you. Taking you by the scruff of the neck, he half-dragged you forward, pressing your back against the wall. He kicked your legs form under you, letting you drop like a sack of stones into the rubble at his feet. His hand fisted into your hair, pressing your face between his legs. His hips kicked forward with an eager, greedy air. Even through the thick canvas of his pants, you could feel what lay, thick and throbbing beneath them.

→God, he’s massive.

→You braced your hands against his knees, using what little leverage you had to push yourself back, “B-But…I thought…”

→He glanced down at you, drinking in your horrified expression. The skin around those dead-man’s eyes crinkled and you realized with a sick jolt, that he was smiling.

→“Oh, not for free, Schatzi. You’ll need to make it worth my while.”

Translations:

→Mach das nicht - Don't do that

→Sag mir, wo sind deine Freunde? - Tell me, where are your friends?

→Mäuschen - Mousie

→Schatzi - Treasure

[ccruelgods]

just in time to see what could have been.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Could you make a fic with Jake x reader that maybe she is in a relationship with the other two (Marc and Steven don't need to be in the whole fic, just mentioning them maybe?) And Jake at first is rude to her until one day she comes late from work and Jake is covered in blood (not his) from a mission that left him like really bad and he can't stop thinking about it, so the reader helps him (although she's a bit hesitant at first because one day he told her that he didn't want her close), she helps him get a shower, cleans some little cuts on his face, and then when his dressed and ready to sleep, he asks her to stay with him.

I hope it's not too much 😅💖

hii honey!! I love this! so very sorry this is so late. thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌 @thewinterv

stay a while

jake lockley x f reader

wc || 0.8k

warnings || none? brief mentions of blood

I haven’t wrote for jake before, so I really hope this feels like him

masterlist + rules

taglist

Being in a relationship with Marc and Steven was always very entertaining, never shying away from a dull moment when you shared your time with them. As Jake didn't front as regularly as the other two, you were still foreign to one another, only ever meeting him occasionally. On the very few chances you've met, he was rather hostile towards you, much preferring to keep you at arm's length. You weren't sure if you upset him or offended him in some way, but you couldn't quite figure out what you may have done wrong for him to dislike you.

Returning home from an extra long shift, you pull your keys out of your bag, jingling in the lock before twisting. You open the door, and your eyes immediately land on a very thin trail of blood. Following the blood drips, you see the silhouette of someone hunched over your sink.

"Marc?" you whisper, reaching for the light switch.

Stepping forward, you see a newsboy cap on the counter. A heavy feeling now clouds your stomach. "Jake?" you ask, almost in disbelief.

"What's going on? Are you okay? Are you hurt?" you anxiously blabber, slowly walking towards him.

He grunts in response, yanking the small towel from the hook to dry his swollen and bloodied knuckles.

"That's a white towel," you mumble, watching the fabric fill with small red spots that were sure to stain.

His head snaps over his shoulder towards you, practically glaring at your comment.

"Don't worry, I got more," you awkwardly laugh, reaching into the cupboard for the first aid equipment. "That cut up there looks pretty bad," you start, nodding to the bust piece of skin above his eyebrow. "Let me help you clean it?"

"It's fine," he grumbles, dabbing the towel over it to 'clean' it, instantly wincing at the painful sensation.

"Doesn't seem fine," you say quietly, flicking on the tap and thoroughly washing your hands. "Just-" you say, pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a cotton ball. "Can I?" you question, hesitantly extending your hand towards his face.

He nods in response.

You watch the way he flinched at your soft, delicate touch, practically cowering away from your comfort. "I'm gonna hurt you," you whisper, lightly blotting around the open skin. "It's okay," you say tenderly, cupping his cheek with your other hand, angling his face downwards as you clean his wound.

He closes his eyes as he melts into your tender touch, finally allowing himself to feel a moment of warmth.

"Okay, some of these are gonna need covering… I think you should have a shower first. Clean yourself up, and I can bandage you up after." you sweetly instruct, sorting through the bag as you search for everything you need for later.

"A shower?" he repeats, looking down at his blood-covered clothes.

"I have a change of clothes for you," you cutely laugh. "They're your exact size too,"

A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his lips, watching you with softened eyes.

"Bathroom is just down here. I'll put a pile of clothes on my bed for afterwards," you smile, leading him down the small hallway. "The controls are easy, but if you need me, call me…. oh wait, also. Clean towels in there," pointing to the cabinet behind the door.

As you turn on your heel, a soft yet firm grip on your arm halts your movements. "Thank you," Jake whispers, wryly grinning.

You sweetly smile. "No problem, take as long as you need,"

Allowing Jake some time alone to recuperate after his clearly intense mission, you make your way back into the kitchen to clean up the mess. Wiping the blood from the floors and counters, throwing the tissues, anything and everything to keep your mind busy.

You notice the quietness from the bathroom down the hall, hearing nothing but a few scuffles and small groans. You collect the first aid equipment, stuffing everything in the bag, walking towards your room. Waiting a couple extra minutes, you knock on the door, waiting patiently to enter.

"Yeah," Jake calls out from behind the door.

"Hi," you say slowly, making your way in, laying the creams and bandages on the bed. "I'll just quickly put these on, then you can get some rest,"

"Okay," he nods, sitting at the edge of the mattress, facing you.

With clean hands, you apply small dots of antiseptic cream on the cut areas, lightly rubbing it in as you gaze at his face, watching the dozen tiny expressions play out. You tear open a plaster, laying it across his temple, covering the bust part of the skin from earlier and gently smoothing the sticky part to his forehead.

"There we go, all better," you smile, kissing your finger and placing it over the fabric. "I'll let you get some sleep," you say somewhat awkwardly, not quite sure if you overstepped a boundary.

"Stay," he whispers, holding your arm to stop you from leaving. "I won't see you for a while. Please stay.”

[urlocalrambler]

DN fanfic: an exploration into Kai Mori's mind while he's in prison. Introspective piece. So get ready for self-loathing, the woes of the disgraced son and the Banks reminiscence and yearning that we deserved.

My first Devils Night fanfiction ever. Actually, it's my first writing piece in a long time in general, but fuck it, we balling. I've always struggled a little with understanding Kai, but I think this piece helped me get more of a grip on my characterisation of him <3.

_

Kai sits in jail, and he knows he's a scrouge on his family name. He’s the shameful blot in their lineage, the fuck up who keeps on giving even when all they want is for him to stop. Kai's the shadow in his family's illustrious life. A good boy gone wrong, the ungrateful child, responsible for his mother's tight smiles and fervent worry — he’s the parasite leeching away at his mother's kindness, carelessly ruining the happy life his father fought to give her. It took one blow of a hammer slamming against a gavel, and his parents have a sword of humiliation rammed into their guts. The pain is only dug in deeper with the indignity of a sentence of 28 months lost to the confines of walls crammed to the brim with prisoners, with his fitted suits for interviews traded in for a standardised orange jumpsuit, as a lifestyle befitting of an animal is thrust into the hands of their only son. 

The worst part is that they still loved him despite his neverending failures.

"–Gave him three broken ribs. So he fractured his fucking spine."

"Who?"

"The rich brat. Mori. He didn't even hesitate."

"Shit, he might belong here, after all."

Yeah, maybe he does belong here.

From the start of it all, he's been the defining reason for the lines marring his father's forehead, those were wrinkles etched in from worrying about Kai's unfortunate tendencies, but he's still forgiven again and again for every indiscretion that they catch him in and he learns to forgive himself for the thousands that they don't know about as a default. Kai's allowed to follow his own path even if it means spitting at his father's feet and disparaging the legacy that Katsu built with his roughened hands. It's wrong, grievously so, but he takes the chances and the freedom, Kai proves he's a certified fuck up. Useless boy who's worth nothing much when compared to the father who tried to give him every head start in life no matter what it cost. Katsu's a man who pulled his family out of poverty, he gives his wife her old life back tenfold, and Kai’s the worthless son who ruins it by gorging himself on endless vices, amusing himself by toeing the lines, and eventually, he gets a crew and starts obliterating the lines. Never improving even as they ardently pray for him, Kai only gets worse as the years pass.

Everyone knows it in Thunder Bay. Kai Mori's a cautionary tale in the flesh. 

The good boy who gets caught up in the wrong crowd and suffers for it. Prince amongst the heathens, gilded gold stained by their tar, a demon playing at being an angel. Kinder smiles and 'thank you's' on his tongue don’t get rid of the taste of sin, but they mask it well enough. Until it suddenly doesn't anymore, and they see that he's made of the same strokes as his friends. Demon, not an angel. Predator, not the prey. Villain, never a prince. Sins can't be hidden forever in a modern era of phones to the ear and the glimmer of cameras catching their every move. He should’ve known better than to have expected zero consequences – Kai hid his truths better than his friends ever managed to, but an unchained nature couldn't be hidden forever.

People were predisposed to making assumptions. 

In Thunder Bay, they accepted and revered the version of him that they thought they knew, and they share their aggrieved regrets as his fall from grace occurs in the brightened spotlight. Analysed just like Icarus, with a tragic fate of his own making – Kai can't meet his father's eyes for the first couple of weeks after his wrongs are aired to the public. Kai Mori had potential in spades, the gossip somberly chastens, and he squandered it away on freedom ravelled within insanity, he wasted a guaranteed future on the kind of lust that made priests look away in discomfort, and he ruined himself due to a useless loyalty towards friends that should've never amounted to much more than a footnote in his life.

Outsiders never understood how the blood of the covenant could run thicker than the water of the womb. They didn't feel the allure of darkness in its fullest form. Nor could they understand the power that control gave him when it was cradled in his palms, and he had chaos biting at his neck. She had, though, that one girl who hides in his mind just like she'd veiled herself into that confession all those years ago– she understood it all, and she even fed into it back then. 

He wonders what she felt when she saw him in cuffs. 

Mystery Girl was among his worst mistakes, mostly because she quickly became his darkest daydream and a favourite nightmare.

Kai's quiet when he does it. In the showers, when heat spindles against the mirror, he washes off the heat of shame by engaging in more depravity. He thinks about her often. And he's not gentle, not even close to it. Whenever he thinks about girls wrapped up in men's clothes, in shirts that aren't his, he's harsh and angry because they should've been his clothes, she should've been his girl. He thinks of smart quips on the curve of her lips, and he wonders how sweet it would've been to have held her and shut her up in the way he'd desperately wanted to whenever she said the name of a man who wasn't him. Kai's got a hand on his cock and he jerks it hard to the thoughts of her. 

Chocolate hair. Green eyes. Golden skin. Daydreams and nightmares. 

She's the only thing he never got that he'd desperately wanted in his golden years; she's the thing he still wants so carnally even in his darkest hours. Wants her thighs wrapped around his torso, wants his name to be the only thing she's capable of saying by the time he's done with her, wants her marked and ruined by the touch of him and him only. Indulging in her, Kai knows, would've been his favourite sin. Back then, he got only a speck, got nothing more than a touch, and he'd still been hopelessly addicted, high on fumes when he had the wisp of her silhouetted in his arms, and he was in withdrawal whenever he lost her to a man he hated and loved in equal measure. Just a taste back then, just the thoughts now, and he's still maddeningly hooked on her. Pretty girl, harsh girl, but never his girl. Sweet like candy with a tangy kick to her. She's the only drug in his veins, inching in without warning, putting him in a trance and an unruly high.

In the dead of night, she visits him, and Kai welcomes her. 

He is a fuck-up, Kai knows it well. Somehow, he's still so ready to engage in the betrayal of his brother in everything but blood. Damon's down in a living nightmare in solitary, and he dreams of stealing his girl. He dreams of using her up. He yearns to take her and have her feed the desires of his concupiscent flesh for as long as he wants, and he thinks he wants to keep her for months, for years, for as long as it takes until she feels more his than anything else.

Irreverent lust, onerous fingers, amatory desires, and all for what? A girl he had known all of a couple of weeks. And he thinks he'd sell the flesh on his back to go back to that time with her. For her, he thinks he'd do anything because if she's a reverie then he's a victim to the ghost of her. Kai thinks of her and that hotel room, and he wonders why he let his dream girl go. 

She's the only person to ever make him feel alive, to make him feel desire on an impulse, the only one who could easily stoke his dangerous need for control, and she did it all without ever trying. No fight to take and no need to make his blood boil; there was no need to force himself into those conversations with her because he was already obsessed with her voice from the second he heard it. Everything came naturally when it was with her. 

He thinks she could've been his if she hadn't been Damon's to keep. 

Kai laughs when he grips the plexiglass, breathes harder, and strokes faster– she's certainly not either’s now, and she wasn't his back then, but she is all Kai’s in the darkness of his mind. Smooth skin pressed against his chest, lips to his neck, and she's begging for it, for his dirty criminal's hands to stay on her neck. Moaning, whining, crying for more. He's undone by the idea of her, air caught in the chasm of his lungs, knuckles tightened to a pale white, as he gives into his favourite nightmare. Kai's spent by the thought of her, the evidence washed away by water, as his back presses against the shower wall. 

Suddenly, he's almost glad that he doesn't see Damon here at all. Kai tries to convince himself that he should be relieved that he'll likely never see her again either (it doesn't work but he tries). If he doesn't see her, then it means the fantasies, the output of those unreachable desires, can stay intact.

There's no Damon to stop him. No dancer in a hotel to distort what they could've had. No blood to mop away and no nights to hide away. It was just him and her again.

In his dreams, Banks is everything he still desires.

In his dreams, she belongs to no one else.

In his dreams, Banks is all his.

--

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the King of the Underworld.

Praise be to the King of the Underworld, lonely at the top of his rotting domain.

Before he can save their souls, he must first save himself.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

This world is a one great big lie.

Idia recognizes it now, clenched in the gaping jaws of the Underworld. Phantoms squirm around him, moaning as their distended limbs claw at the air, seeking out the final shreds of hope in their hellish pit called home. They are prisoners, trapped in Tartarus, and he, a prisoner of his own mind.

He forces himself against the bars that keep him in and violently rattles them. The ceiling above--he's filled with a visceral need to smash it, cracking it wide open.

If he is a beast, then so be it.

He will let them--let himself--out.

A dark power courses through his bloodstream. It soars, sings, uplifting him in his sorrows. It is ignorant of the tears of ink that trail down his pale cheeks and drips onto his armor. Sapphire flames, tattered fabric, and midnight ink swirl around him in a hypnotizing vortex.

He knows this form, this dizzying, addictive strength.

Overblot.

He floats, untouchable, above the masses, and above his staggering opponent. A giant, hulking figure cloaked in a flowing black toga, fire wreathing the glass bottle of its head. It bleeds ink, this being that he has knocked down.

But it is still his inner demon, this Phantom.

It is still Ortho.

It is how he is in real life, and how he appears in his nightmares. A frail soul consumed by the shadows.

Idia throws his head back, letting out a stuttering, panting, mad laugh. He gasps, rasps, chokes, heaves for air. It hurts to breathe, to try and contain his cynical grin in the face of the circumstances.

It’s fake. None of it is real.

That memory…

"Shroud. It's good of you to join us for the Opening Ceremony. Here, take my hand. We can attend the event together."

And that memory…

"That was a fun match 🎵 We completely destroyed the opposing team. Let's go for another round, Gloomy Samurai!"

All of my memories are…!!

"I need to go--my dorm leader's calling--but I'll talk to you later, Nii-chan. Tell me all about your first day of third year, okay? That's a promise!"

His senses spiral, scrambling to make sense of the revelations. They come, one after another, rapid-fire and blinding. A blitz of truths, each a punch to the gut.

He never attended the ceremony, he was holed up in his bedroom. Crimson Muscle is abandoning all of his accounts. And Ortho is... Ortho is...!!

Ortho is dead.

He isn't coming back, ever.

You lost one brother and gained another.

The happy illusion at last cracks. Its pieces fall away, revealing the ugliness beneath the splintered fantasy.

That's right. I'm always being saved by my little brothers.... What a pathetic big brother I turned out to be.

How stupid. How stupid...! Wasn't I... Wasn't I supposed to be the one to save them?

He clenches his fists.

"... Sorry, Ortho. I can't stay." Idia lifts his head, staring intently at the ceiling's closed gates. "I have to go. People are waiting for me."

"Ahahah..." The Phantom shudders, a quiet chuckle reverberating from its glass bottle cranium. No eyes, no lips--but Idia can tell he must be smiling sadly. "That's my big bro."

"Are you going to try and stop me again?" Idia tenses, and his power pulsates at the tips of his fingers, waiting for the command to be given.

"No, I understand. Besides, there's no point! You already beat the Final Boss--I don't have a second form," Ortho replies cheerily. "You just shine way too brightly to be stuck down here and shunned."

"Shine?"

The word gives him pause. Idia has never thought of himself as someone that radiates light. He imagines Cater and Kalim and Rook, tries to place himself beside them.

Him, in his blot-stained armor and gloomy disposition.

He doesn't fit.

"Me?" Idia squeaks. "LMAO. Nice bait there, Ortho. I could never be a part of that world."

"Okay, maybe not that shiny." Ortho bobs his head. "But you get it now, right? This is a strength only you have. You can go and share that amazing strength with everyone."

His curse, a blessing.

His pitiful fortune, reversed.

One last tear slides down his face.

"... Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Idia whispers. “I can.”

I can do this.

Magic pools before him, forming a single sphere of light that cuts through the depths of Tartarus. The Phantoms below vocalize louder and louder, as if in awe, in reverence, even as they balk away from the incredible shine.

"Game, set match. Gate to the Underworld."

At his incantation, a low groan rolls through the pit. Not from the monsters that inhabit it, but from the earth itself. There's a screech, a lurch, and then--

The gates above slowly pry open, letting light seep in.

"It's open. You can leave." Ortho rights himself, offering a large hand to Idia. "Here, hop on. I'll give you a boost!"

"Kk, thnx."

Idia boards--and the difference in scale between him and his "little" brother shocks him. Once, Ortho was two thirds of his height. Now Idia fits in his palm.

"Hang on tight! Keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle, we're outta here!"

The Phantom rises. Higher, higher, higher... to that single spot of light, the thread of hope in hell.

Soon, Idia will be out.

And Ortho will be no more once again.

"... You know, I really liked this," Idia muttered, a hand on Ortho's thumb. "The dream. It was fun while it lasted."

"It was," Ortho agrees, "but dreams can't last forever, can they?"

"No," Idia replies curtly, resolution in his voice, "they can't."

As the word leaves his mouth, Ortho comes to a stop. They've arrived at the cusp, at the border between this place and beyond.

Idia's grip on Ortho's thumb tightens.

"... It's alright, Nii-chan," the Phantom says quietly. "The whole universe is waiting for you."

He fights back a sob.

"Ortho... Of course. Just leave it to your big bro."

“Shoot for glory among the stars and soar like a comet," Ortho recites, poking him in the chest. "Go and get'm--and make many new memories for me, 'kay?"

“Shoot for glory among the stars and soar like a comet," Idia repeats, letting go and leaping into the air.

He blasts off in a blaze of glory, like a hero in the comics and video games. Some gallant figure, off to save the his home, his people.

"Safe travels, Nii-chan!" Ortho's voice calls after him. It's strong at first, but grows weaker as the distance between them grows.

"Good-bye!

"Good-bye...!

"Good... bye..."

"Good-bye, Ortho."

And hello, world.

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

I’ve kinda already written about this before with the college AU I started a while ago but I have a mighty need for a life drawing workshop with Ghost and Soap.

Like maybe Soap runs some classes in a local bar venue space or something and he puts out ads every so often for models. Ghost meanwhile is discharged from the army with a shitty shoulder injury and no where to go. After going for a pint with Gaz to commiserate, and drown their shared sorrows of having to leave army life, Gaz tells Ghost about a new side hustle he has going ever since he’d had to leave months prior.

Ghost snorts out a laugh at first “are you bloody joking? You. A life model?”

Gaz pretends not to get too offended, but rolls his eyes and take a drink.

“It’s not as weird as you think. You stand in a couple different poses-“

“With your kit off,” Ghost chuckles.

“Yes, with your kit off,” Gaz huffs. “You get told how to stand and what props to use and then a bunch of people draw you for a couple hours. It’s totally painless and you get decent dosh for it. I do Soap’s class twice a month and Alex’s class three times - it’s easy money, plus it’s cash in hand so HMRC don’t have to be any the wiser bout it.”

“Hang on a minute, Soap?” Ghost says, shaking his head. “What kind of a name is Soap? He gives you props as well? What next, does he ask you to dance for him too? Give ‘im the old dazzle dazzle, do you?”

“Fuck off Ghost.”

“Aw, im only messing. ‘Sides even if I wanted to do little poses for your art class, I wouldn’t be able to. My shoulder’s buggered remember? I wouldn’t be able to hold a lot of positions for long.”

“Soap’s pretty understanding. He can pick poses that suit your body and he can adjust the times so that you don’t have to stay still too long if you can’t take it. You just have to tell him about your injury and he’ll be understanding.”

Ghost shook his head again and took another gulp.

“Fuckin’ Soap.”

“He’s an eccentric guy, but he’s cool,” Gaz shrugs. “Do you want me to speak to him for you? He’s usually on the lookout for new models.”

Ghost would say he’d need to take some time to think about it, but Gaz would take that as a yes. So a few days roll by and soon enough Ghost gets a text through telling him that Soap would be ‘well up’ for meeting him and said he should come by the next evening before class.

Ghost - I told you I’d think about it, you twat. Not to go on ahead and tell him I wanna join his little cult.

Gaz - show up or don’t, you can think about it all you like between now and then. You’ll thank me later 🤪

After that last text Gaz then sent him a picture of a wad of cash and few coins spread out over a blotted bar top. Ghost would sigh, but as soon as he saw that money he knew his decision was made. He needed something until he was able to figure out what to do with the rest of his life, something to tide him over till he received payments for his injury.

He’d turn up for Soap’s class with a flustered air around him and would step through the shadowy doorway to the bar with soft unsure steps. It was still early, there wouldn’t be many people inside. He’d ask the barman where the function room was and sullenly walk through the curtain, raising his brows when he’d finally lay eyes on Soap.

Ghost wouldn’t know what to expect but it’s not the mohawked barrel of a man that’s lugging chairs around the room and running around like a little worker ant. His eyes would linger on the muscles that were exposed from Soap’s paint and charcoal stained tank top and he’d watch on wordlessly, widening his eyes when Soap would finally notice him. He’d dig his nails into his palms to try to stop himself from blushing in embarrassment.

“You’re a bit early for the class’ mate,” Soap would huff, settling another chair around the raised stage. “Looking to join?”

“Uh sort of,” Ghost would say, frowning as he struggled to find words around the bodybuilder/artist. “My friend Gaz, uh Kyle you probably know him as - he said you were looking for more models and that I should come by…”

Soap’s eyes would light in recognition and he’d smile warmly, striding over to greet Ghost properly. Ghost wouldn’t be prepared for the warm grip in Ghost’s handshake and he especiallly wasn’t prepared for those big blue crystalline eyes to be roaming over him as if they were mentally taking him apart.

“Simon right?” Soap would say, revealing a perfect white grin. “I’m Soap, John’s my name, but I prefer Soap so you can go with that, yeah? Kyle mentioned you had a shoulder injury and that you weren’t sure you could hold certain poses.”

Ghost would straighten up then and nod, pointing out which one it was. From then Soap would take him through a few positions and would discuss the technicalities with him, were Ghost to join. Apparently it was easy to make accommodations for him, and Soap would be more than pleased to have him as a model, and like Kyle had already mentioned, the pay was pretty good.

Ghost would grow interested the more he would hear and eventually Soap would wear him down enough into taking him through a few practice ones. They would be relatively easy, and Ghost would find himself realising that Gaz was right - it was easy money. Plus Soap was no bad company either.

He’d be convinced into watching the class that night and getting to have a little taster of what he would be doing. The model that night would be a tiny little thing, a dancer, and would hold the most intricate stances for the eager artists to draw, contorting themselves into pretzel like shapes that Ghost couldn’t possibly hold. They’d capture his attention for a minute, but Ghost would always find himself staring at Soap right after.

He’d watch the way he directed the model, stroking the air to dictate how he wanted them and guiding them gently into form all without physically touching. He’d encourage the artists, complimenting a few people, and helping anyone that needed guidance. His favourite would be when the others would fall silent and Soap would take to gathering himself a pencil and paper and drawing for a little bit. The immense concentration, the way he’d clench his jaw and narrow his eyes would be so captivating and there was nothing that could stop Ghost looking away. Nothing that could stop him from wondering what it would be like having Soap’s eyes on him like that.

As it turns out it would almost steal all the breath from his lungs. Ghost would be sitting on that same stage the next week, stone faced and gritting his teeth through the slight chill in the air. He’d be used to resisting the cold, though he wouldn’t be used to all the eyes on his naked body, most of all Soap’s as his furrowed brow stayed glued to him. Ghost would swear that Soap could read his thoughts, could strip his mind just as easily as his body and he would know that Ghost was developing a stupid obsession with him (he’d refuse to think of it as a crush).

He’d look purposely look away on the next pose and would still feel Soap’s eyes on him still. They’d warm a path from the bones at his collar, all the way down the ridges of his pecs and right down to the pit of his belly. Butterflies would dance where his empty stomach should have been.

He’d love and hate it in equal measure, barely feeling the eyes of Soap’s gaggle of students because of the intensity of their teacher, but he would still show up again the next week and the next after that. Just hoping that maybe one night it wouldn’t be his own hands pulling the cord on his robe, perhaps he could embrace a pair covered in charcoal and graphite and entice them to touch instead of trace the air. He’d want to break through Soap’s page and show him new colours, tear the world as he knew it apart in only the way that Ghost could.

[shaunamilfman]

Vampire!Jackie Drabble

Summary: "You meet Jackie for the first time as she's unsuccessfully trying to blot out a suspicious red stain with a napkin."

A/N: girlfailure vampire Jackie who can't hunt. 🥰

nsfw mention

You meet Jackie Taylor for the first time as she frets over the state of her shirt in the bathroom. She's unsuccessfully trying to blot out a suspicious red stain with a napkin. You looked curiously at her after you finished washing your hands and asked, "What's wrong?". She glanced up, the frustration evident on her face. 

"Oh, I just got some red wine all over my shirt." She lied unconvincingly. You hesitated for a moment because you definitely thought it was blood, but it was midterms and you were delirious enough from lack of sleep that you decided not to question it. 

You shrugged your bag off of one shoulder to riffle through the pockets. She watched you curiously as you reached into your bag and gingerly handed her a tide pen. Her face lights up as she starts immediately blotting at the stain. "Thanks!" She said cheerfully, and you waved her off as you left the bathroom.

… 

It's a few days later as you're working the night shift at a coffee shop. You weren't sure what the point of a 24/7 coffee shop was, but it pays the bills and doesn't overlap with classes. You're bent down fiddling with a bag of coffee beans trying to look busy when you hear the soft sounds of someone clearing their throat. You reluctantly stand up and look towards the counter when you see her again. 

You eye her curiously as you almost never actually get customers beyond your regulars this late. Her face lights up as she sees you and you can't quite quell the way you smile in response. She excitedly holds up one finger as she starts rummaging through her purse. She pulls out your tide pen and you tentatively lay out a hand for it. 

"You could have kept it." You say honestly, "I have more. I wasn't looking for it." She grins softly at you. 

"I could've?" She asks. She raises her hand back up. "Give it back then." She says teasingly. You shake your head playfully as you drop it in your apron pocket.

"Nope," You say. "It's mine now." She scoffs but the smile doesn't leave her face. 

… 

She shows up regularly after that to talk to you. There's rarely more than three people in here at a time this late: it's why you chose this shift in the first place, as it gave you plenty of time to catch up on assignments behind the counter. 

That's why you're pretty surprised when you realize that you aren't all that upset about her monopolizing your time. There's something about her that's so magnetizing. You spend more time thinking about her than you're comfortable admitting. She's even started to invade your dreams. 

You keep dreaming of her smile. You figure she must be self conscious of it because she's started to cover her mouth with her hand sometimes when she starts to laugh. You aren't sure what changed, but you desperately wish she wouldn't. You wonder if her teeth would feel as sharp as they looked. 

You're starting to get pretty worried about her, actually. She's been acting weirder in other ways as well. Every time she comes in she looks a little paler, a little weaker. You're worried enough that you start offering her food on the house, which you've never done for anyone before. She would just shake her head fondly and start talking about one of her classes.

One night you get the courage to ask her if you can kiss her. Her face lights up and she leans forward to kiss you. You can’t help but notice how sharp some of her teeth are, but you get distracted too quickly to think much of it.

… 

It's been a few days since the last time she came in, and you're admittedly very worried about her. You keep hanging around the building you initially met her in, but it must have been a one off because you never seem to run into her. 

You're walking home after your shift when you hear the clang of a trash can lid but the ground. You look over and can't help but scoff as you see her seemingly making out with some girl in an alleyway. This is what she was so busy with? You think angrily. Your righteous indignation fades away quickly when you hear her curse as she pulls away. 

"Damn it." She complains, "Not again." You watch with wide eyes at the blood spurting out from the other girl's neck soaks Jackie. You can see the streetlight glinting off of her… Teeth? Fangs? You wonder. 

Jackie stands there pouting, covered in blood looking like a wet dog. She crosses her arms moodily staring at the corpse on the ground as she makes an annoyed whining noise. 

You almost trip as you start hurriedly stepping backwards. She looks up and finally seems to realize you're there. She steps towards you but stops at your look of terror. She gives you a desperate look as she tries to explain but you take off running down the street to your apartment. 

… 

You're standing in the middle of your room trying to calm yourself down, which isn't helped by the loud knocks from your balcony door. You look over to see her unmistakable figure silhouetted against the curtain. “Let me in Y/N. I can explain.” She says. You laugh wryly. 

"You never wanted to be my friend! You were just trying to eat me!" You accuse. She scoffs, looking offended. 

"Just because I'm a vampire that means I had to be trying to eat you? That's speciesist." She says indignantly. 

"Speciesist." You repeat slowly in disbelief. 

"Yep," She confirms. "That's what I said." Nope. You think, and lay on your bed to go to sleep.

You groan as you hold your pillow tighter over your ears. “I know you can hear me!” She whines from your balcony. She’s been pleading with you for hours to invite her into your apartment to talk about it. 

Your initial fear from finding out she’s a vampire has long since faded the longer she begged as it reminded you how absolutely pitiful she could be. You have found, however, that your jealousy still hasn't faded in the slightest. Perhaps it was a little ridiculous, but you couldn’t help but feel jealous that she would bite someone else when she could have asked you.

You finally get out of bed and throw the balcony door open. She stands just outside the doorway watching you carefully. “Why her?” You ask sharply. She sends you a curious look. 

"Who?" She asks. 

"The girl. In the alleyway." You say slowly. She shrugs. 

"I don't know her name. She was just there." She says. "I'm not very good at hunting." She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “It gets messy when they fight, as you've probably guessed." She gestures vaguely at all of her. 

She sighs loudly and looks embarrassed as she admits, "I usually pay someone to let me feed from them but she went abroad this semester."

You soften slightly and ask teasingly, "Is that why you looked like shit recently?" She looks offended but ultimately nods.

You stare at her for a few moments out of sheer disbelief before surging forward to kiss her in the doorway. She reciprocates happily, you can feel the corners of her mouth lifting in a grin. You make her promise not to drink from anyone else before you’ll invite her in.

… 

"And you're not going to bite too hard?" You ask pointedly. She sighs dramatically and holds out her pinky. You reach up to link your pinkies together. 

"One time and you never get over it." She whines. You scoff. 

"I looked like I got mauled by a bear." You retort. She preens at the perceived compliment and you roll your eyes. "Yeah, you're a mighty hunter, I get it." You tease. She maturely chooses to stick her tongue out at you. 

You laugh quietly, gathering her hair into your hand and wrapping it around your first. "Okay, Baby." You say, leading her towards your neck. She lunges forward the second the words leave your mouth, but groans painfully as she tugs hard on her own hair. 

She looks pitiful as you give her a warning glance. She avoids your eyes as she stares hungrily at your neck. "Last chance," You say. She nods and chooses not to fight against your grip this time as you lead her head towards your neck once again. 

She releases a pleased sounding whine the second her teeth slip into your neck. You rut down hard against her lap out of instinct and Jackie's hands move up to rest lightly on your hips, pulling you gently against her.

You can feel the way the cords of muscle flex beneath her skin like steel wires. Jackie's the most powerful being you've ever met. And you’ve got her wrapped around your finger.