#Loaded Guns and Sharp Teeth

[i2rizz]

Did I mention I'm wildly in love with this deranged little bitch? Don't even ask where this idea came from-my brain's basically a cursed fanfic generator fueled by chaos, thirst, and questionable zero impulse control

Locked & Loaded

The alley was slick with demon blood—everywhere, sticky, and steaming where it hit the pavement. The stink of it clung to the night air, thick and metallic, crawling into your lungs even through the adrenaline.

Dante wiped his blade on his coat, standing over the remainings of what had once been a gangly, hissing demon.

"Ugly bastard" he muttered, nudging the corpse with the toe of his boot. "That’s the last time I take a bounty that pays in IOUs and moldy pizza"

You scoffed, stepping over a pile of broken crates. "You weren’t complaining about the pizza when you ate half of it"

"Low standards. Occupational hazard"

You shot him a look over your shoulder as you sheathed your own blade. The two of you made quite the pair—blood-splattered, sweaty, and absolutely unbothered. Dante had his usual swagger, that half-cocked grin that never quite left his face, and you? You were the calm to his chaos. Cool hands, sharp eyes, and a pistol always ready—until tonight.

Because, as fate would have it, both your guns had hit the ground mid-battle. His were kicked across the alley; yours had slid under a rusted dumpster in the middle of dodging a particularly aggressive hellspawn.

You figured you had enough time to grab them—until the second wave hit.

The growl echoed before you saw it. Low. Guttural. Disgusting.

Dante turned just as the wall behind you shattered, bricks flying. Something huge and snarling lunged out from the smoke, claws like meat cleavers and a mouth full of jagged teeth that glistened in the moonlight.

You both dove—instinct, perfect synchronization—but you hit the ground hard, knees scraping.

"Shit—Dante, your guns—"

"Gone" he grunted, rolling to his feet. "Yours?"

You looked under the dumpster. No glint. No chance. "Buried. We’ve got nothing"

The demon roared, charging.

Dante grimaced. "Alright. We’re doing this old-school"

But you held up a hand. Calm. Focused. And very much not panicking.

"Nah, twin" you said smoothly, voice cool as the metal you were about to introduce to the situation. "I got this"

Dante blinked. "Babe, unless you’re hiding a shotgun in your boots, I don’t think—"

You reached into your jacket, tugging at the zipper halfway… then lower.

He paused.

"Wait—are you—?"

And with one confident pull, you drew a sleek, silver pistol from right between your chest—tight holster, custom fit, hidden in plain sight. You cocked it without missing a beat, the click loud and sweet in the tense air.

Dante stared.

"Holy hell," he muttered, visibly stunned. "Is that where you keep it this whole time?"

You smirked, stepping forward with a roll of your shoulder. "Emergency backup, babe. You think I wear this top for style?"

The demon charged again. You raised the pistol.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Each one precise. The demon reeled back, screeching in pain as black ichor burst from its eye socket and shoulder.

Dante watched you—barely breathing, maybe because you looked like a literal fever dream. Bloody, glowing in the alley light, sweat clinging to your collarbone, your weapon still hot in your hands, smoke curling from the barrel.

He let out a low whistle. "You just became the hottest person I’ve ever seen"

You didn’t look at him—too focused, too in the zone. "Flirt later. Cover me"

“God, I love you” he muttered, dazed, as he grabbed a crowbar from the ground and dove in with you.

It was fast, brutal. You moved in tandem—one fluid, lethal machine. The demon never stood a chance.

By the time it crumpled into a pile of twitching limbs, you were breathing heavy, hands on your knees. Dante came up behind you, slow, still catching his breath.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"I’m not even mad about losing my guns," he murmured. "That was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, between the boobs? That’s genius"

You laughed, low and smug. "Told you I had it handled"

He nuzzled your neck, shameless. "You have me handled"

You turned in his arms, lifting the still-warm pistol and tucking it back into its secret holster. His eyes followed the motion like a man hypnotized.

"Stop staring"

"Can’t," he said. "My girl pulls a piece from her tits and kills a demon with three shots to the face. What do you expect me to do, not get turned on?"

You kissed him then—sweaty, blood-spattered, and giggling. He tasted like adrenaline and praise and something wild.

"You’re shameless" you whispered.

"And so hard it's concerning" he said against your mouth. "Now let’s go home. I wanna see what else you’ve been hiding under that top"

[ryoflix]

zombie! sukuna in the apocalypse au | implied f. reader can be read otherwise, no mentioned prns., mentions of blood/violence/cannibalism and other zombie apocalypse things, implied estb. rl ؛ ଓ

you were ready to put a bullet through his head the second he stumbled toward you, blood-matted hair and dried flesh curling at the edges of his mouth. the only reason you didn't—couldn't—was because his eyes still looked like him. 

sukuna’s eyes were sharp, not glassy, not the sunken, hungry blankness you’d seen in every other infected. no, his were locked onto you like he knew you, like he was still in there somewhere, buried under layers of rot and cracked skin.

the safehouse had barely been holding up before he crashed in—wooden panels and metal scrap hastily bolted into place, now splintered and bent from the sheer force of him slamming into it in a frenzy. not to get to you, no. just… because he needed to do something.

rage, starvation, madness—it all seemed to knot in his chest, and instead of lashing out at you, he was slamming fists into the support beams until they groaned. he tore down half a shelf with his bare hands and flung a rusted toolbox through the window, shattering it completely, letting the cold night wind rush in and scatter everything not nailed down.

you were pressed into the corner, heart pounding, eyes darting from the broken wall to him, back and forth, just waiting. but he didn’t lunge at you. didn’t even look at you like food. he just staggered back, huge and twitching and visibly biting down on a guttural growl, until his spine hit the far wall and he slid down to the floor.

you noticed it then—he had chewed through his lower lip, not out of hunger, but restraint. his shoulder was bleeding where his teeth had scraped deep, and one of his hands was locked around the other wrist like he was holding himself back from tearing it off for a snack. it would’ve been grotesque if it wasn’t so… him. dramatic, stubborn, brutal.

he was trying.

and it wasn’t just restraint. when one of the shamblers got too close to your hiding spot earlier in the day, sukuna tore its head off before you even had time to load your gun. his body was fast—too fast for something so dead—and the second it hit the ground, he had backed off again, panting through sharp teeth, hunched and tense like he expected you to run from him too.

you didn’t. not yet, at least.

and now? now he was curled into the wall, massive frame practically shaking with how hard he was holding back. any time you stepped closer, his whole body jolted like he was afraid of himself. like he didn’t trust his mouth, his hands, his hunger.

you saw his eyes flick to you again. still red. still his.

and somehow—despite the decay and the violence and the absolutely terrifying reality that your boyfriend was probably one bad moment away from devouring you whole—you could see it in the way he stared: he wasn’t going to let anything else get to you.

even if it meant eating himself first.

[yassbishimvintage]

Welcome to Chicago

A/N: The First installment of Sinners fanfic enjoy

Sinners Masterlist

Chicago 1926

The SmokeStack twins have made their claim to the city. Fresh from war and from Clarksdale,Mississippi. Stack, the ever so charming one. Looked around the city and smiled at his brother Smoke.

Stack adjusted his hat, the brim low over his eyes, but that smile—sharp as a razor and twice as dangerous—cut through the cold Chicago wind.

"Smell that, Smoke?" he said, his voice smooth like molasses but with an edge of iron. "Opportunity. This city don't know it yet, but it belongs to us now."

Smoke, broader in the shoulders and quieter by nature, just lit a fresh cigarette, the match flaring against the dark. He took a long drag and exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the sky like a signal.

"Ain't nothin' here but dirt and death, Stack," Smoke muttered, his Mississippi drawl still thick despite the months up north. "Same as back home. Just colder."

Stack laughed, that easy, dangerous laugh that had gotten them out of trouble more times than Smoke could count. Or into it.

"Nah, brother. This ain't Cocksdale. This is Chicago. Where dirt turns to gold if you got the stomach for it. And we? We got stomachs full of war and sin. These city boys—they ain't ready for Smoke and Stack."

He slapped his brother’s back, eyes already scanning the streets lined with flickering lamps and the distant thump of jazz clubs. The Outfit ran things now, but Stack had plans. Plans that started with blood and ended with empire.

"Let’s make our introduction," Stack grinned. "Real polite-like. And then we'll take everything else."

Stack looked around and he saw her. She had the pinned up curls. Skin just like honey. 

Stack's smile faltered—just a flicker—but in a man like him, even a flicker meant something.

She stood across the street, framed by the golden haze of a streetlamp and the shimmer of rain slick on the pavement. Pinned curls neat as Sunday morning, but her eyes? They had Saturday night written all over them. Skin rich and warm, like honey poured slow.

She wasn’t looking at him, not yet. But Stack, he already knew. Knew the way trouble smelled sweet before it burned you.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, half to himself.

Smoke caught the shift in his brother’s stance—the stillness, the sudden quiet—and followed his gaze.

"Don't even think about it, Stack," Smoke grunted, flicking ash to the gutter. "We came for business. Not for some city girl to put a noose 'round your neck."

But Stack, he was already stepping off the curb, hat tipped back just so, that crooked grin sliding back into place like a loaded gun.

"Brother," he drawled, "sometimes business starts with a pretty face."

And the city, big and mean and cold, seemed to hold its breath as Stack crossed the street, heading toward the honey-skinned woman who just might change everything.

Stack adjusted his collar, smoothing down the lapels of his coat as he closed the distance. His boots clicked against the wet pavement, each step slow, deliberate—like a man who had all the time in the world and planned to take it.

Up close, she was even more dangerous. Eyes sharp, like she’d seen men like him a hundred times and knew exactly how they fell. But still, she let him get close enough to smell the faint perfume on her skin—jasmine and something darker underneath.

"You lost, soldier?" she asked, voice low and smooth, like a record spinning late at night when the bar’s almost empty.

Stack let that grin spread, all charm and teeth. "Depends who’s asking."

She arched a brow, cool but not cold. "Annalise." She didn’t offer a last name. Didn’t need to. The way she said it made it sound like a promise and a warning all at once.

"Stack," he said, tipping his hat just a little. "And that big fella back there, that’s my brother, Smoke."

Annalise’s eyes flicked past him to Smoke, then back. "Cute names. Like a bad omen."

Stack chuckled, deep and warm. "We’ve been called worse, darlin'."

She shifted her weight, one heel tapping softly against the ground. "Well, Stack, you might want to watch your step. In this city, pretty boys with Southern smiles tend to disappear before they can unpack their bags."

Stack leaned in just enough, voice dropping to a murmur. "Good thing I didn’t come here to unpack. I came to claim."

Annalise held his gaze a beat longer, then smiled—not sweet, but sharp as a knife’s edge. "You’re gonna need more than charm for that."

And just like that, Stack knew—Chicago wasn’t the only thing he wanted to get his hands on.

-

Stack's smile was easy, but his eyes stayed sharp as razors. He tipped his head, watching her like a man sizing up a card table before placing his bet.

"Tell me what you do, pretty lady," he drawled, voice smooth like good bourbon.

Annalise's lips curled, just enough to show she wasn’t impressed—or maybe she was, but she’d never let him know it.

"I sing," she said simply, letting the words hang there between them like cigarette smoke. "At Le Mirage down on State Street. Maybe you’ve heard of it."

Stack’s grin widened. He hadn’t, but he liked the way she said it. Like the place belonged to her, or maybe like she owned every man who stepped inside.

"A singer," he mused, tilting his head. "Figures. A voice sweet enough to get a man killed."

Annalise’s eyes flickered, something colder there now. "Sweet don’t keep me alive in this city, sugar. Knowing when to shut my mouth does."

Stack laughed low. "Well now, ain’t that a shame. I was hopin’ to hear you sometime."

She stepped in a little closer—close enough that Stack caught that jasmine scent again, but her words were cool enough to freeze the air between them.

"Maybe you will. If you last long enough in Chicago to see Friday night."

Then she turned, curls bouncing as she started to walk away, heels clicking against the wet street. But just before she disappeared into the dark, she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Le Mirage. Midnight show. Don’t be late, Stack."

And just like that, she was gone—leaving Stack standing there, grinning like a fool, already knowing he was in deeper than he planned.

Behind him, Smoke muttered, "I told you. City girl’s gonna get you killed."

Stack just chuckled, eyes still on the spot where Annalise vanished. "Maybe, brother. But what a way to go."

Le Mirage hit them like a punch of heat and brass the second they stepped inside. Smoke thick as fog curled around the red velvet curtains, and the thrum of a stand-up bass rolled through the floorboards. The place was packed wall-to-wall: city boys in sharp suits, gang men with fat rings on their fingers, and dames dressed like every night might be their last big score.

Stack’s eyes swept the room, hungry, sharp—searching for that honey-skinned woman with the pinned curls.

But she found them first.

A soft voice, right at his shoulder. "Didn’t think you’d show."

Stack stiffened, then turned slow. And there she was—Annalise, dressed in midnight blue that caught the dim light like the surface of still water. Her pinned curls were perfect, but her eyes? They glittered with something wilder now.

"Couldn’t miss your show," Stack said, that grin sliding back into place. "Smoke and I, we got front-row curiosity."

Smoke grunted behind him, already sizing up the exits and the muscle leaning by the bar.

Annalise’s smile was small but knowing. "You boys are a long way from Mississippi. And you’re already in deeper than you realize." She leaned in, voice dropping low so only they could hear. "You made waves just by walkin’ in here. The kind of waves that get men followed home."

Stack’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed, just a hair. "That a warning, darlin’?"

"It’s a fact," Annalise said, straightening up. "And facts don’t care how pretty you smile."

She stepped back, smoothing her dress, and nodded toward the stage. "Enjoy the show, Stack. But keep your head on a swivel. Le Mirage—it ain’t just for music."

Then she was gone again, slipping through the crowd with the grace of someone who knew exactly who was watching—and wanted them to.

Smoke muttered under his breath. "Told you. Trouble."

Stack just licked his lips, that fire lighting in his chest. "Yeah. But she’s my kind of trouble."

Up on the stage, the house band started to play, the lights dimmed, and somewhere in the shadows, men with cold eyes took note of the two strangers from Cocksdale.

And the night? The night was just getting started.

-

The lights dimmed until only the stage glowed soft and golden, like a secret whispered in the dark.

Then she appeared.

Annalise stepped into that light slow, deliberate, every move practiced to perfection. The room hushed—not because they wanted to, but because she commanded it.

Her dress clung to her like sin, dark blue velvet that shimmered with every sway of her hips. Her pinned curls caught the light just enough to make them gleam like a halo—an angel's crown, if angels had ever learned to smile like that.

And then she sang.

The first note slipped out like warm honey, low and smooth, wrapping around every man in the club and pulling them in closer.

"When the night falls slow… and the devil comes to dance…"

Stack felt it hit him square in the chest. That voice—it wasn’t just a song. It was a net, and he’d walked right into it with open arms.

Smoke shifted beside him, eyes scanning the corners of the club, catching the way certain men leaned in too close, the glint of steel at one table, the hard stares at another.

But Stack? He only had eyes for Annalise.

Because now he understood. This wasn’t just a performance. This was a ritual.

Every time she found a new admirer—someone bold or foolish enough to think they could touch her—she sang like this. Luring them in deeper, making sure they were well and truly tangled before the trap snapped shut.

Her gaze flickered toward him mid-verse, just a flicker, but it felt like a shot fired straight at his heart.

"You can call my name… but you’ll never stand a chance…"

Smoke leaned in close, voice tight. "We got eyes on us, Stack. Real eyes. More than one table. You feel that?"

But Stack didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because right then, Annalise hit that high note, her voice breaking just enough to make every man in that club lean in like moths to flame.

And Stack knew—deep in his bones—that she wasn’t just singing for him.

She was setting the stage.

For what, he didn’t know yet.

But it was coming.

And it had her name written all over it.

-

The final note of Annalise’s song hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-swing. The crowd erupted in applause—cheers, whistles, the clink of glasses. But beneath that noise, Stack felt it. That low, crawling tension. The kind that made a man’s shoulders go tight without knowing why.

Smoke was already shifting. "Doors just locked." His voice was gravel. "Did you hear that click?"

Stack blinked, pulling himself back from the spell Annalise had wrapped around him. He caught it now—the bouncers weren’t watching the crowd. They were watching him and Smoke. The ones at the back doors? Already standing shoulder-to-shoulder. No one was leaving unless they said so.

And Annalise—she didn’t go backstage like a regular singer would. No, she stayed right there at the edge of the stage, one hand on the mic stand, eyes scanning the room. Cool. Calm. Like she’d just lit the fuse and was waiting to see where the explosion landed.

Stack’s grin dropped. Finally.

Smoke muttered, "Told you this place wasn’t just for music. We walked into a goddamn cage match."

The band kept playing, a soft tune now, but Stack noticed half of them were watching the exits too.

Then they saw him.

A big man in a sharp pinstripe suit, shoulders like a truck, stepped out from the shadows near the VIP booth. Gold ring flashing on one hand, the other holding a cigar like it was a weapon. His face was a map of old scars and broken promises.

Dominic "Dom" Lucetti. Capo in the Outfit. The kind of man who didn’t come out unless there was business—and blood—on the line.

He clapped slow, eyes fixed on Stack and Smoke.

"Well, well," Dom rumbled, voice carrying over the thinning applause. "The famous SmokeStack twins. Fresh off the train from Mississippi, thinking they can carve a piece outta my city."

The room went still. Every patron suddenly more interested in their drinks. Even the air seemed to thin.

Stack straightened his collar, forced that old grin back on. "Didn’t realize we were so popular already."

Dom chuckled, dark and humorless. "You made ripples, boys. Big ones. And ripples turn to waves." He gestured around. "This? This is me... making sure the waves don’t get too high."

Behind Stack, Smoke’s hand hovered near his coat—where he kept steel.

And from the stage, Annalise finally spoke.

"Play nice, Dom. They just got here." Her voice was sweet, but her eyes—when they flicked to Stack—were sharp as cut glass.

Dom laughed, a low rumble. "I am playing nice. For now." He turned his attention back to Stack. "So here’s the game, Southern boy: you walk outta here tonight... maybe with a few bruises, maybe not. But you walk out only if you make me believe you’re smart enough to fall in line."

Stack's jaw clenched. He could feel Smoke tensing beside him, ready for the fight.

Annalise stepped down from the stage, slow and graceful, coming to stand between Dom and the twins. Not close enough to take sides. But just close enough to remind everyone she was the one who set this whole thing spinning.

Her eyes met Stack’s, unreadable.

The choice hung there, heavy as a loaded gun.

Play along? Or make their claim the hard way, fists and bullets?

Stack’s fingers curled into fists at his side.

Dom smiled wider. "Well? What’s it gonna be, Mississippi?"

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[fluffymiyaa]

: ̗̀➛Rude Boy(s) ft. LADS Men

TW : Degradation, rough sex, face fucking, choke, hair pulling, tie up, spanking, brat taming, belly bulge, cockwarming, recording, toxic, dom/sub, brush painting play, gun play, biting, possessiveness, slight exhibition

Synopsis : In which, you having hate sex with them

➤ Neighbour!Xavier x reader

You step out of your apartment, dressed casually in just a T-shirt and shorts, clutching plastic bags full of trash. The air is cool, and the hallway is quiet—except for the sound of someone’s heavy footsteps.

It’s Xavier, your neighbor, stomping towards his door with a stormy expression. His face is marred by fresh bruises, and his hands are bandaged, blood seeping faintly through the wrappings. It’s obvious he’s fresh from a mission—one that didn’t go as planned.

A smirk creeps onto your face as you lean casually against the doorframe.

“My, my… someone looks like they had a rough night.” you say, voice laced with mockery.

Xavier’s dark eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as he stops briefly in his tracks. “I’m not in the mood for this.” he mutters through gritted teeth and continues walking past you.

But you’re not about to let him off that easily. You drop the trash bags to the floor with a loud thud and stride after him, your grin widening.

“Aw, come on. What happened? Did you mess up? Failed the big mission?” you taunt, your voice sing-songy.

He halts abruptly, turning on his heel to face you. His sharp gaze feels like it could cut through steel.

“Say another word,” he growls, his voice low and threatening, “and you’ll regret it.”

The tension in the air is electric, but you’re far too entertained to back down. You cock your head, your smirk unfaltering. “Oh? Really? Then make me.”

In a flash, Xavier closes the gap between you two, slamming you against the wall with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. His large hand grips your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together just hard enough to make you wince. His face is inches from yours, his voice a deadly whisper.

“You wanna know what a rough night really feels like?” he hisses, his lips curling into a dangerous grin. “Fine. I’ll make it so rough, you won’t even remember your own name.”

That’s how you end up on your knees in his bedroom. Xavier's grip on your hair tightens as he forces your head down, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. The salty taste of his skin mingles with the coppery tang of blood from your split lip. Tears stream down your face, blurring your vision, but you can still see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes.

"Hmm..finally put that mouth in a good use," he growls, his voice thick with sadistic pleasure. "I knew you'd look so pretty choking on my cock."

“Mmphngh!”

You gag and sputter around his thick length, your throat convulsing as you struggle to breathe.

Xavier's hips snap forward, driving himself deeper still. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, cutting off your air completely. Spots dance in your vision as you claw at his thighs, desperate for relief.

Xavier's fingers tighten in your hair as he groans, his hips stuttering and jerking as he nears his peak. He looks down on your messy face, god you look so hot it makes him wanna cum. His cock throbs against your tongue, the veins pulsing with need.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he pants, his voice ragged. "You better take it all, but don't swallow yet."

His command sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and anticipation. You brace yourself, knowing what's coming.

With a guttural moan, Xavier buries himself to the hilt in your throat. His cock pulses as he spills himself inside you, hot and thick. You can feel each spurt hitting the back of your throat, coating your tongue with his essence.

He holds you in place, his grip unyielding, as he rides out his orgasm. Finally, he pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your lips.

"Open up," he demands, his voice low and rough.

You obey, parting your lips to reveal the creamy load pooled on your tongue. His eyes darken with lust as he watches you,

Xavier's eyes darken with lust as he watches you, his spent cock twitching at the sight of his cum glistening on your tongue. He reaches out, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip, smearing the pearly drops.

"Such a good girl, taking my cum so well," he praises, his voice a low rumble. "Now, swallow it all down like a good little slut."

You obey, tilting your head back and letting the thick, salty fluid slide down your throat. Xavier's thumb presses against your chin, forcing your mouth closed as you swallow every last drop.

"Good girl." he praised, his other hand tapping your cheek.

Xavier's eyes blaze with a fierce, primal hunger as he hoists you up and tosses you onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets cool against your heated skin.

"We're not done." he growls, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

Before you can even catch your breath, he's on you, his hands ripping at your flimsy t-shirt. Buttons fly everywhere as he bares your chest to his greedy gaze.

"Xavier!" you gasp, arching into his touch. But he doesn't slow down, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath.

He grabs the torn remnants of your shirt, using the fabric to bind your wrists together. The rough material bites into your skin, the sting only heightening your arousal.

Your shorts are next, yanked down your legs in one swift motion. You try to protest, to tell him to slow down.

“Wait! Slow-!”

He silences you with your own panties, shoving the damp fabric into your mouth.

"What? You said you wanted it rough, didn’t you?”

Xavier's eyes rake over your naked form, his gaze hot and possessive. He spreads your legs wide, exposing your glistening folds to his hungry stare.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his fingers delving between your thighs. "So wet already, so ready for me.”

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, the touch light and teasing. You arch into his hand, desperate for more, craving the pressure and friction that will send you over the edge.

"Stop teasing." you plead, your voice breathy and needy.

But Xavier just shakes his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "No."

You whine in frustration, your hips bucking against his hand. But he denies you, his movements maddeningly slow and deliberate.

Suddenly, his palm connects with your clit in a sharp, stinging slap. You yelp, your body jerking at the unexpected sensation.

He pull out your panties from your mouth. Give you a chance to speak.

"Beg for it," he demands, his voice low and commanding. "Say that I'm the best hunter, that I'm better than you."

You furrow your brows, hesitating. The words feel foreign on your tongue, a admission of defeat that you're not ready to make.

Xavier's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flashing in their blue depths. "Don't want to? Okay, I'll just leave you here all spread out and unsatisfied."

He starts to pull away, but you stop him. “No! Please! W-wait! P-please xavier.. t-touch me.. want you to make me cum.. you're so good.. such a skilled hunter.. you're the best a-and way so much better than me..please…” your voice cracks, desperation and need coloring every word.

The words pour out of you in a rush, a desperate plea for his touch, his attention. You've never felt so vulnerable, so exposed.

He smirks, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "See? That wasn't so hard."

He shoving you panties back into your mouth.

His fingers find your clit once more, circling the sensitive nub with deliberate, teasing strokes. You moan, your hips rocking against his hand, seeking more friction, more

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire. "Let me hear you. Let me feel you.”

He increases the pressure, rubbing your clit in firm, steady circles. At the same time, he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, his fingers pumping in and out of your tight heat. "So hot and ready for me."

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'm going to make you come so hard," he promises, his breath hot against your skin. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk, until all you can think about is my cock inside you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation and desire. You've never been talked to like this before, never been so thoroughly claimed and possessed.

Without warning, he’s inside you, his hard length stretching you, filling you in one brutal thrust. You cry out around the gag, your back arching off the bed.

“Ah!”

He sets a punishing pace, pounding into you with reckless abandon. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants, his voice rough with need. "So tight, so perfect."

He pulls back, his eyes locking with yours. The intensity in his gaze steals your breath, makes your heart race.

"I'm going to ruin you," he growls, his thrusts growing harder, faster. "Ruin this sweet little cunt until you can't walk straight."

You whimper around the gag, your nails raking down the sheets.

Xavier's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your breasts, kneading and squeezing roughly. He pinches your nipples between his fingers, twisting and tugging until you're gasping and writhing beneath him.

"You said you wanted to know how rough my night was, right?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's find out."

He leans down, his teeth closing around one sensitive peak. He bites down, hard enough to make you cry out, before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Maybe next time I’ll take you there," he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "I’ll fuck you there as we hide from the Wanderers. Let’s see how long you can keep your mouth shut.”

➤ Brat taming!Zayne x brat!reader

Your heels clicked loudly against the polished floor as you walked down the hall, head held high. Every step echoed with confidence, and you could feel the eyes on you—admiring, envious, curious. Flashing a dazzling smile, you tossed a playful wave toward a group of students, then blew a kiss toward a few boys who immediately scrambled to look cool. You chuckled to yourself. Being the most popular girl on campus had its perks.

When you reached the teacher's office, you smoothed your skirt, knocked lightly, and walked in. Mr. Ryo was at his desk, looking up from a pile of papers.

"You called for me, sir?" you asked with a practiced, polite tone.

He sighed, already looking exasperated as he handed you a stack of tests—your tests.

"Explain this." he said sharply.

Your stomach sank as you flipped through them. Red marks dominated every page. "Uh, well, you see... I haven’t been sleeping well because my house is under renov—"

"Save it," he cut you off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’re barely scraping by, and if this keeps up, you’ll fail my class."

Your eyes widened in panic. "What? No, I can’t fail! Please, sir, I’ll—"

"That’s why I’ve arranged a tutor for you," he said flatly, cutting off your plea.

You groaned. "A tutor? Come on, I don’t need—"

"He’s already here." Mr. Ruki interrupted, nodding toward the door as it opened.

You turned to see who it was, and your heart dropped. There, leaning casually against the doorframe, was Zayne.

Of all people.

Zayne, your eternal nemesis. You hated him since high school, where he lorded over everyone as the president of the student council. He had a talent for finding flaws in you specifically—your tardiness, your outfits, your general existence. And now, standing there with his arms crossed, he looked just as insufferable as ever.

His sharp eyes flicked over you, unimpressed, before he straightened. "I’m only doing this because Mr. Ryo asked me to," he said, his voice cool and detached. "We’ll start after class. Your place."

"Wait, my place?" you blurted, already bristling.

He raised an eyebrow, ignoring your tone. "Don’t waste my time." he said simply, then turned and walked away as if the conversation was over.

You stood frozen, jaw dropped. How was this your life right now?

"Dismissed." Mr. Ryo said, waving you off.

You left the office in a daze, gripping the stack of papers tightly. Of all the tutors in the world, it had to be Zayne.

"Oh, he's still an asshole." you muttered under your breath.

You spot him standing near the front gate of the campus, waiting with his usual stiff posture. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his plain slacks, his glasses perched perfectly on his nose. Seriously, who even dresses like that these days? Zayne was still the same nerdy, old-fashioned perfectionist he’d always been.

“You’re late." he said as you approached, his tone as cold as ever.

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms. "Sorry." you muttered, not meaning it in the slightest.

He sighed heavily, the disappointment practically radiating off him. "You never change."

"And neither do you," you snapped back. "Look, let’s just cut this short, okay? We both hate this, and we both hate each other. I’ll tell Mr. Ryo that you were useless and told me to screw off. Problem solved. Bye."

You turned on your heel and walked away. He looked at you from behind, adjusting his glasses as his sharp gaze followed you.

"She needs to be disciplined."

Once you step in your room, Somehow, impossibly, you’ve ended up straddling Zayne’s lap, his thick length nestled snugly between your thighs. Skirt up, panties aside.

His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you steady, his hard length throbbing deep inside you. The books lay open on the desk before you.

He grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh. His hazel eyes are dark with desire as they take over your form. "I'll give you five minutes to finish your quiz," he growls, voice low and commanding. "Start now."

You shiver at the authority in his tone, a thrill running down your spine. With trembling hands, you reach for your pen, but it's a struggle to focus. The heat of Zayne's cock deep inside you is a constant distraction, making it hard to.

You try to focus, pen hovering over the paper, but it's impossible to think with him filling you so completely. Your walls clench around him, desperate for more, for the friction that will send you spiraling into bliss. But he remains still, a cruel master determined to make you earn your pleasure.

"Three minutes," he growls, his breath hot against your neck. His hips twitch, a teasing promise of what's to come. "Don't make me wait."

You whimper, the sound lost in the rustle of turning pages. The first question swims into view, but the words blur together, meaningless in the face of the exquisite ache building within you. Your hand trembles as you scribble down an answer, praying it's correct.

“Times up.”

The exam paper lies crumpled on the desk, your pen clattering to the floor as you whimper loudly. Zayne moves closer, his hazel eyes scanning the answers you've scribbled down. As he reads, his cock twitches inside you, eliciting a moan from your lips.

"Look at your paper," he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Did you really finish high school? How did you even go to college? God, you're still as dumb as ever. What have you been doing all these years?"

You bite your lip, trying to stifle another moan as he pinches your clit. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction against his thick length buried deep within you.

"D-don't be mean, Zayne." you plead, humping against him desperately.

“D-don’t b-be mean, Z-zayne.” He mocked.

He scoffs, grips on your neck tightens, forcing you to meet his piercing gaze. His eyes are dark with lust and frustration, a dangerous combination that sends shivers down your spine.

"This won't do at all," he growls, his voice low and menacing. "You just want to get fucked stupid, don't you? To have your mind completely emptied by my cock until you can't think of anything but the pleasure I give you."

You whimper pathetically, your body trembling under his dominant touch. The degrading words only serve to heighten your arousal, your pussy clenching greedily around his thick shaft.

"Answer me," Zayne demands, his fingers digging into your skin. "Tell me what you want”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but they're not from pain. It's the overwhelming mix of shame and desire that threatens to consume you.

"Y-yes.. please want you to fuck me stupid, zayne.. been waiting for long." You beg.

The cool air hits your exposed skin as Zayne pulls his thick cock out of your dripping pussy, making you whine in protest. He grabs your hips and maneuvers you to the edge of the bed, your ass presented to him like an offering.

SLAP!

His palm connects with your cheek, the sting radiating through your body. You yelp and bury your face in the sheets, your fingers clutching at the fabric.

"And what makes you deserve it?" Zayne asks, his voice cold and demanding.

You can't response, your mind clouded with arousal and the throbbing pain in your ass. He rubs your reddening cheeks, soothing the sting before delivering another sharp spank.

"Ah! Zayne, it hurts!" you cry out, your voice muffled by the sheets.

"You want me to stop?" he asks, his fingers digging into your tender flesh.

"N-no," you whimper, shaking your head frantically. "Please don't stop.."

Zayne's dark chuckle rumbles through his chest as he delivers another stinging spank to your reddened ass. "I knew it," he growls, his fingers digging into your tender flesh. "You're just a pathetic little masochist, aren't you? You crave the pain, the degradation. It's the only way you can get off."

He leans over you, his body pressing against your back as he whispers in your ear. "Now, you better count for me. Maybe if you're being a good little slut, I'll fuck you senseless. But if you miss a number or hesitate, I'll keep spanking you until you can't sit for a week."

His hand hovers over your ass, the threat of another spank hanging in the air. "Start counting.”

You take a shaky breath, your mind racing with anticipation and fear. "O-one." you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

SLAP!

His palm connects with your cheek, the pain searing through your body.

"Louder," he commands, his voice cold and demanding. "I want the whole neighborhood to hear what a pathetic slut you are."

You bite your lip, trying to stifle a whimper as you force out the next number. "T-two."

SLAP!

Another spank lands on your reddened flesh, the sting radiating through your body.

Zayne's hand cracks against your ass again and again, the sharp sting of each spank sending jolts of pain and pleasure through your body. You lose track of how many times his palm connects with your reddened flesh, your mind hazing over with the intensity of it all.

"Twenty." you cry out, your voice hoarse and broken.

Zayne pauses, taking a deep breath as he admires his handiwork. His fingers trace over the raised welts on your skin, the heat radiating from your ass. He spreads your cheeks apart, exposing your dripping pussy to his hungry gaze.

"Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "So wet for me, even after all that. Aren't you ashamed? Didn't you say you hated me since high school? Now look at you, bent over and taking your punishment like a good little slut.

"I-I hate you!" you whimper, even as your hips push back against his touch.

Zayne chuckles darkly, his fingers rubbing your labia teasingly. His fingers slip easily into your soaked entrance, your body betraying your true desires despite your feeble protests. He pumps them in and out, curling them just right to hit that sensitive spot deep inside you.

"Don't worry, the feeling is mutual." he murmurs, his lips brushing against your back as he presses a tender kiss to your skin.

His fingers move faster, harder, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room. Your walls clench around him, desperate for more, even as your mind reels from the degrading words falling from his lips.

Just as you about to cum, his fingers slip out of your dripping pussy, replaced by the thick, hard length of his cock. You arch your back with a loud moan, your body stretching to accommodate him.

"Oh! Zayne!" you cry out, your voice echoing off the walls.

He starts fucking you hard and fast, his grip on your hair tightening as he pulls your head back. His other hand presses down on your back, keeping you arched and exposed to his relentless thrusts.

The skin slapping sounds fill the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. His palm connects with your ass, the sting only heightening your arousal.

"Ahhngh s-so good please please don't stop..!" you beg, your words dissolving into incoherent pleas.

Zayne chuckles darkly, his pace never faltering. "Yeah? Cock drunk already? I barely started, darling.”

He fucks you harder, faster, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. His hand runs to your belly, pressing down on the bulge as he pounds into you. The added pressure makes you scream, your pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.

"Fuck," he groans, his hips snapping forward with brutal force. "I fucking hate you. Fucking hate that short skirt, fucking hate that skimpy outfit, fucking hate your makeup, your attitude. Argh... so fucking hot. Makes me want to fuck you in front of everyone. God, this pussy feels so good."

His words are like a drug, your body responding to the degradation even as your mind reels. You can only moan in response, lost in the haze of pleasure and pain.

"Z-zayne... k-kiss me... please." you manage to gasp out, your voice broken and needy.

Zayne throws his glasses aside, grabbing your face and crushing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, claiming you, owning you.

"Fuck me like you hate me."

➤ Rival!Rafayel x reader

Your footsteps echo through the art exhibition, your eyes scanning the frames on the walls. Each piece is scrutinized in silence, the weight of your judgment unmistakable. You shake your head, disappointment flickering across your face. Sliding your hands into the pockets of your coat, you turn on your heels, ready to leave.

And then you see him.

Rafayel, the owner of the exhibition, stands a few feet away, his sharp gaze cutting through the distance. Anger burns in his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demands, his voice tight.

You scoff, taking a deliberate step toward him.

"Rafayel," you say, your tone laced with mockery, "have you learned nothing?"

His hands clench into fists at his sides, his body tense as he closes the gap between you.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he growls, his face mere inches from yours.

A smirk tugs at your lips, and you laugh softly, cocky and infuriating. Tilting your head, you deliver the blow.

"Your paintings," you say, gesturing toward the walls with a flick of your hand. "Still as dull as ever."

His jaw tightens, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. You can see him fighting the urge to lash out.

"You don’t know a damn thing." he hisses.

Turning back to the nearest painting, you feign a thoughtful gaze, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unnerve him. Then, almost casually, you speak.

"Have you heard the news? About the plagiarism accusations?"

You don’t need to look at him to feel the storm brewing in his chest.

"I didn’t plagiarize anything," he snaps, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury. "I don’t copy, and I don’t steal."

You let out a low laugh, shaking your head as if pitying him.

"Are you sure about that?" you ask, your smug expression cutting deeper than words.

His teeth grind together audibly.

"I don’t need to prove anything to you."

You shrug, your indifference only stoking the fire in his eyes. Slowly, you start toward the exit, your footsteps deliberate.

"Well," you call over your shoulder, "you’d better get a good lawyer, then."

Before you can leave, he grabs your arm, spinning you back toward him. His grip is desperate, his voice shaking.

"I didn’t do it!" he insists, his eyes pleading for you to believe him—or at least stop.

Your smirk widens as you raise a hand, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

"Then you’d better give me a reason not to report you," you say, your voice silky, every word a trap. "What can you do for me, Rafayel? Hmm?"

His breath catches.

"I..." His voice falters, his resolve crumbling under the weight of your gaze. "I’ll do anything."

–

You smirk down at him, your shadow falling over his helpless form as he lies on the bed. His face is flushed, a deep crimson that spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He averts his gaze, his breath shallow and uneven, clearly wrestling with the embarrassment of the situation.

"You look pathetic like this." you say, your tone a mixture of mockery and amusement.

His lips part as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, he turns his head to the side, his fists gripping the sheets beneath him, as though anchoring himself against the storm of emotions threatening to consume him.

"Don’t look away." you command, your voice sharp enough to make him flinch. Slowly, hesitantly, his eyes meet yours, wide and vulnerable.

The sight only fuels your satisfaction. Leaning in, you lower your face closer to his, your smirk widening as you watch him squirm.

"Embarrassed, are we?" you whisper, your words laced with cruel delight.

"I…" he stammers, his voice barely audible.

You chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Reaching out, you trail a finger along his jawline, savoring the way he shivers under your touch.

"Good," you murmur. "Stay just like this. Helpless. Humble."

His breath hitches, and for a moment, it feels as though the world has narrowed to just the two of you—the tension between dominance and submission hanging heavy in the air.

"Do you understand?" you ask, your voice low but firm.

He nods, barely, his pride crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

You slowly take one of the brush paint. Rafayel's eyes widen as he watches you approach, the brush in your hand, a wicked gleam in your eyes. He squirms on the bed, his face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, his hard cock standing proudly against his stomach.

“Mhm.. you’re so sensitive.”

"S-stop teasing.” he whimpers, his hips twitching as you tease the sensitive tip with the soft bristles.

You enjoying the power you hold over him, the way he's at your mercy. "And who said you get to decide?" you purr, your voice low and seductive. "I'm in charge now, and I'm going to take my time with you."

You trail the brush down his length, watching as he shudders and moans, his cock twitching under your touch. "Look at you," you murmur, your eyes roaming over his body, taking in every inch of him. "So hard for me already, so desperate for my touch.”

The brush go lower, teasing his balls, watching as he squirms and moans, his cock twitching and leaking pre-cum.

You trail the pre-cum coated brush over his sensitive skin, his body arching into your touch. He watches, transfixed, as you paint his abs, his nipples, his neck, his face, leaving a glistening trail of his own essence in your wake.

"Fuck," he groans, his voice rough with need. "You're driving me crazy."

He licks his lips as you rub the brush over them, tasting himself, the flavor heady and intoxicating. His eyes meet yours, dark with lust and adoration, his gaze never leaving your face as you admire your handiwork.

"Such a work of art," you murmur, your voice filled with reverence. "My own personal masterpiece.”

You throw away the paintbrush, your hands sliding over his cum-slicked skin. He gasps as you grip his neck, forcing him to meet your piercing gaze, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"I never liked you," you hiss, your voice dripping with venom. "Back in art college, you were so arrogant, so childish. And yet, you always won every competition."

Your other hand flicks and pinches his nipple, making him moan and arch into your touch. "I wonder what people would think if they saw you like this," you mused, your eyes glinting with malice. "So helpless, so desperate under me. Should we show them? Should I record how pathetic you look right now?"

Rafayel's cock twitches at the thought, his body betraying his desire even as he shakes his head, pleading with you. "Please, don't." he begs, his voice hoarse with need.

His breath hitches as your hand drifts lower, your fingers wrapping around his throbbing cock, stroking him slowly, teasingly. "Look at you," you purr, your voice low and seductive. "So hard for me, even as I threaten to expose you."

You squeeze him tighter, your thumb swirling around the sensitive head, smearing the pre-cum that leaks from the tip. "I could ruin you, you know," you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. "One video, one scandal, and your reputation would be in tatters."

Rafayel whimpers, his hips bucking into your hand, seeking more of your touch. "Please," he begs, his voice breaking. "Don't do this. I'll do anything, be anything you want."

You smirk, your eyes gleaming with triumph. "Anything, huh?" you ask, your hand stilling on his cock. "Even if I want to use you like my own personal toy?”

His eyes widen at the suggestion, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through him. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he tries to find his voice.

"Y-yes," he stammers, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red. "I'll do anything you want. Use me however you see fit."

He looks up at you, his gaze pleading and desperate, silently begging you to take control, to dominate him completely. "Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'm yours."

You smirk, your eyes gleaming with triumph and lust. You release his cock, your hand trailing up his body, your nails dragging lightly over his skin.

"Good boy," you purr, your voice low and seductive. "Such a good obedient little toy.”

You take off your bra and panties, crawl on top of him teasingly.

Rafayel's eyes widen as you straddle his face, your bare pussy hovering just inches from his eager mouth. He licks his lips, his tongue darting out to taste you, to savor your essence.

"Make me cum first." you demand, your voice husky with desire. You grip his hair, your nails digging into his scalp as you lower yourself onto his face, your wet heat pressing against his lips.

He moans into you, the vibrations sending shivers through your body. He grips your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you closer, his tongue delving deep into your folds, lapping at your clit, sucking and nibbling until you're writhing above him, your juices coating his face.

You ride him hard, grinding your pussy against his mouth, using his face for your pleasure. "Fuck, yes," you moan, your head thrown back in ecstasy. "Just like that.”

Rafayel's tongue delves deep, lapping at your clit, sucking and nibbling, his lips and teeth and chin all covered in your juices as he devours you. He grips your hips tighter, holding you in place as you grind against his face, using him for your pleasure.

Your hand wanders to look for your phone. Flashing coming up to his face. His eyes widen in shock as the flash of your phone goes off, momentarily blinding him. He squirms beneath you, instinctively trying to pull away from the sudden bright light.

But you press him down harder, your grip on his hair tightening, your thighs clamping around his head. "Stay still," you command, your voice firm. "Keep going, baby. Don't you want to make me cum?"

Rafayel whimpers, his body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. He knows he's helpless, completely at your mercy, and yet the thought of being recorded, of being exposed, only serves to heighten his desire.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and then dives back in, his tongue lapping at your clit, his lips sealing around it and sucking hard. He can feel you tensing above him, your moans growing louder, more desperate, as he works you closer and closer to the edge.

Rafayel's tongue works feverishly, his lips and teeth and chin all covered in your juices as he devours you, determined to bring you to the edge. He can feel you tensing above him, your thighs quivering, your juices flowing freely as he pushes you closer and closer to the release you so desperately crave.

He doubles his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit, his lips sealing around it and sucking hard, his nose pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves as he breathes in your scent, intoxicated by your taste, your smell, the feel of you against his mouth.

Your moans grow louder, more desperate, your hips bucking wildly against his face as you ride him harder, chasing your release. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm gonna cum," you cry out, your voice raw with need.

You came all over his face. Rafayel's face is drenched in your juices as you pull away, your release coating his lips and chin, dripping down onto his chest. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed with a mix of arousal and embarrassment, his cheeks flushed a deep red.

You smirk down at him, your phone still in hand, the camera trained on his cock as you pump it a few times, making him wince at the sensitivity. "Oh? Did you just cum? Only from me sitting on your face?" you mock, your voice dripping with amusement.

He grunts, his face burning with shame at the realization that he came just from pleasuring you, from the taste and feel of you against his mouth. He looks away, unable to meet your gaze, his cock twitching in your hand.

But then you cup his face, your fingers gentle against his skin as you pull him towards you, your lips meeting in a deep, passionate kiss. Rafayel melts into it, his embarrassment forgotten as he loses himself in the taste of you, in the feel of your lips against his.

When you pull away from the kiss, your lips leaving his with a soft smack. He watches, breathless and aching, as you place your phone on the desk, angling it to capture both of you.

"Just because I'm feeling nice, I'm gonna ride tonight," you purr, your hand still wrapped around his throbbing cock, stroking it slowly, teasingly.

"T-thank you," Rafayel stammers, his voice husky with need. He bucks into your touch, desperate for more, for the feel of you around him.

You position yourself over him, your wet heat hovering just above his tip. Then, with a slow, torturous descent, you sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch into your tight, slick heat.

Rafayel groans, his head falling back against the pillow as you envelop him, your walls clenching around his length. "Fuck, you feel so good," he gasps, his hands flying to your hips, gripping them tightly.

You start to move, rising up until just the tip remains inside you, then sinking back down, taking him deep. Rafayel's hips buck up to meet you, his rhythm matching yours as you ride him hard and fast.

"That's it, baby," he pants, his eyes locked on where you're joined, watching as his cock disappears into your heat over and over again. "Fuck, you're so tight, so perfect."

His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples as you bounce on his lap. You moan, your head falling back, your hair cascading down your back as you lose yourself in the pleasure.

He leans forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud as you ride him.

You grin down at him, your confidence radiating as you lean closer, lowering your head until your lips hover near his ear.

"I’m actually the one who’s been copying you.”

➤ Sylus x thief!reader

You slide your gun back into your pocket, your eyes darting around the sprawling, opulent house. The silence here is unnerving, as if the place has been abandoned, yet something about it feels... wrong. You tiptoe cautiously, the soles of your boots making the faintest of sounds against the polished floor.

Your boss had told you to rob this house, promising a hefty payoff. But now, separated from your partners, the task feels like a trap. The eerie quiet, the pristine state of everything—it’s like no one’s lived here in years.

Still, the sheer luxury of it all tempts you. Your gaze lingers on ornate paintings, golden vases, and intricately crafted furniture. You can't wait to make off with some of it. Before you realize it, your wandering feet lead you to the kitchen.

The darkness here is almost tangible, swallowing everything whole. You fumble forward, your fingers brushing against cold countertops. Suddenly, your hand knocks over something small and glass.

A spice jar tumbles to the floor with a sharp clink.

"Shit, shit!" you whisper, your hands scrambling to pick it up.

Then, without warning, the overhead light flicks on.

"Well, well," a low, amused voice drawls. "What do we have here? A curious little kitten prowling where it shouldn’t be?"

Your heart jumps to your throat as you whirl around. Standing in the doorway is a tall man with stark white hair and piercing eyes. He’s immaculate, like he stepped out of some glossy magazine, but there’s something deeply unnerving about the smirk playing on his lips.

You gulp, your hands trembling as you reach for your gun. "W-who are you?"

He steps closer, the smirk widening. "Me? I’m Sylus, the owner of this house. Just got back from... cleaning up a mess. Some little rats who tried to steal from me."

Your stomach drops. Your partners. They’re gone.

Fear overtakes you, but you steady your grip, pulling the gun free and aiming it square at his chest. "Don’t come any closer."

His expression doesn’t falter. If anything, his smirk grows darker, more mocking. "Oh, kitten," he murmurs, "you don’t want to do that."

"Sorry." you breathe, steeling yourself as you pull the trigger.

Bang!

You flinch, your eyes squeezed shut. When you finally force them open, he’s still standing there. Unharmed.

The bullet didn’t touch him.

"What the hell—" you stammer, panic rising as you pull the trigger again. And again.

Nothing works. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he laughs—a cold, menacing sound that echoes through the room.

In a flash, he’s on you, gripping your wrist with an iron strength. Pain shoots through you, forcing the gun to clatter to the floor. He lifts your chin with his free hand, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"I told you," he says, his voice soft but laced with menace. "You didn’t want to do that."

"F-fuck you!" you snap, struggling against his grip. "Let me go!"

He tilts his head, his gaze dragging over your pretty face. There’s an unsettling glint in his eyes, like a predator toying with its prey.

"Hm," he murmurs, his grip tightening. "No. I’ll keep this one.”

—

You're sprawled out on the cold kitchen table, tears streaming down your face as his tongue laps hungrily at your most intimate places. Your wrists are bound with his evol, holding your legs wide open for his feasting. The obscene sounds of his slurping and your desperate moans echo through the house.

"P-please, ahh! No more... too much...!" you beg, voice hoarse from crying out. But he just chuckles darkly, the vibrations sending shivers through your core.

"Mhm... not my fault this is my kitchen. I eat whatever I want. Let me enjoy my meal." he growls, diving back lap at your dripping folds. You arch off the floor, a loud moan tearing from your throat. Gods, if anyone hears...

"Ngghh... fuck you... I hate rich people like you... people like me barely have any meals..." you whimper, even as your hips buck into his face. It's your own fault for trying to rob this place, but what choice did you have? You need to survive.

Sylus pulls back, admiring your glistening body splayed out before him. Your thighs are trembling, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. He licks his lips, savoring your taste.

"People like me, huh? Tell me more, kitten. What do you think about me?" His voice is a low purr, dripping with dark amusement. He trails a clawed finger along your inner thigh, teasing.

You try to think of anything, but your mind is hazy with pleasure. All you can focus on is the heat of his gaze, the promise in his touch. Your body is betraying you, aching for more even as you struggle against the bonds.

"Uh... you... you're annoyingly rich... but ahh... you're so hot... mhh..." The words slip out between moans as you rub your thighs together, seeking friction. It's clear he's getting to you, driving you crazy with need.

He chuckles darkly, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "Is that so? And yet here you are, spread out like a feast just for me. I wonder... do you really hate me? Or do you crave the forbidden thrill of being at the mercy of someone like me?"

Sylus’ clawed hands trails up your thigh, sharp nails lightly scraping your sensitive skin. He can feel you trembling, feel the heat radiating off your body. Your arousal is intoxicating, a heady scent that fills his senses.

"I could give you everything you've ever wanted, kitten. All you have to do is ask nicely." He nips at your earlobe, soothing the sting with his tongue. "Or maybe you'd prefer I take it? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

His hand slides up your body, cupping your breast and squeezing roughly. He pinches your nipple between his fingers, rolling and tugging until you're arching into his touch with a desperate whine. Your body is so responsive, so eager for his touch even as you try to resist.

"Mhm..i could eat you whole up y’know.." he purrs, his voice a dark promise. He leans down, capturing your nipple between his lips and sucking hard. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you, making you gasp and writhe beneath him.

His free hand continues its teasing exploration of your body, dipping between your thighs to circle your clit. You're so wet, so ready for him. He can feel it in the way your hips buck against his touch, seeking more.

"Look at you, so desperate for my cock." he growls, releasing your nipple with a wet pop. He sits back on his heels, admiring the wanton picture you make - bound and spread out, flushed and panting with need.

Sylus smirks, an idea forming in his twisted mind. He pulls away from you, his gaze roaming the kitchen floor as if searching for something. Then he spots it - your gun, lying forgotten on the floor. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You remember this?" he asks, holding it up for you to see. Your eyes widen in fear and you gulp, shaking your head frantically.

"No, no, please don't kill me-" you beg, your voice trembling. But he just laughs, a dark, cruel sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"Shh... I won't kill you, kitten. I've decided to keep you instead. But let's make this more interesting, shall we?" He slides the gun up your body, making you flinch and squirm. He stops when the barrel is pressed against your lips.

"Open up." he commands, his voice brooking no argument. You have no choice but to comply, parting your lips.

He pushes the gun deeper into your mouth, watching with sadistic glee as you gag and choke around it. Tears stream down your face as you struggle to breathe, your body writhing in panic. But he just smirks, enjoying your distress.

"That's it, kitten. Take it all." he purrs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He holds the gun in place for a long moment before finally pulling it out. Strings of saliva connect your lips to the barrel, a degrading reminder of what he's just made you do.

He trails the gun down your body, over your heaving breasts and quivering stomach, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. Your pussy is dripping with arousal, a fact that doesn't escape his notice.

"Look at you, so wet and ready," he taunts, rubbing the gun against your clit. You cry out, your hips bucking involuntarily into the touch. The sensation is strange but not entirely unpleasant, the cold metal a stark contrast to your heated flesh.

He continues to tease your clit with the gun. Your hips writhe and buck, seeking more of the strange sensation even as your mind rebels at the degradation of it all.

"You're such a filthy slut, getting off on having a gun shoved in your mouth and rubbed on your cunt, knowing it could kill you anytime." he growls, his voice thick with lust. He slides the barrel lower, pressing it against your entrance. Your eyes widen in fear and anticipation, your body tensing as he begins to push it inside.

"Oh god!" you cry out as the cold metal breaches your hot, slick flesh. The sensation is intense, bordering on painful, but there's an undeniable thrill to it as well. He works the gun in and out, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts that have you seeing stars.

He continues to fuck you with the gun, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through your body. Your pussy clenches around the cold metal, trying to draw it deeper even as your mind screams at the wrongness of it all. He leans over you, his body caging you in as he drives the gun in harder, faster.

"That's it, kitten. Take it all. Take every fucking inch." he growls, his voice a dark promise. His free hand releases your nipple to trail down your body, fingers dancing over your skin like a promise of more to come. He reaches your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles that have you keening and thrashing beneath him.

The dual stimulation is too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Your body tenses, your muscles coiling tight as the pressure builds to an unbearable crescendo. You're so close, teetering on the brink of something huge and terrifying and utterly inevitable.

"Fuck, I can feel you tightening up.”

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, "Come for me, kitten. Let me feel you come undone on your gun." His fingers work your clit with ruthless precision, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body tenses, your muscles coiling tight as the pressure builds to an unbearable crescendo. You're so close, teetering on the brink of something huge and terrifying and utterly inevitable.

With a final, brutal thrust of the gun, he sends you careening over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your pussy clenching and fluttering around the cold metal as wave after wave of ecstasy washes through you.

“Ahhhh!!”

You scream, your voice raw and ragged, as the intensity of your climax overwhelms you.

He brings the gun to his lips, licking your essence from the barrel with a wicked grin. The taste of your arousal mingles with the metallic tang of the gun, a heady combination that makes his cock throb with need.

"Delicious." he purrs, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. He sets the gun aside, his attention now fully focused on your quivering, spent form. He trails his fingers up your thighs, his touch feather-light and teasing.

"But we're far from done, kitten. I'm going to fuck you now, hard and deep, until you can't even remember your own name. Until the only thing you know is the feel of my cock splitting you open and the sound of my voice commanding you to come."

He positions himself between your legs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your sensitive, swollen flesh. You whimper, your body already tensing in anticipation of the intrusion. He chuckles darkly, enjoying your reaction.

"Shh, just relax and take it like a good little slut. This is what you're made for, after all. To be used and filled and fucked until you can't take anymore."

With those words, he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. You cry out, your back arching off the table as he stretches you wide around his thick length. The burn of the intrusion is intense, your body struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're so tight." he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust before he starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. He sets a punishing pace, his cock pistoning in and out of your dripping cunt with ruthless efficiency.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he pounds into you with wild abandon. His cock stretches you wide, the thick length hitting depths you didn't know you had. Each thrust sends jolts of pleasure-pain through your body, your nerves singing with the intensity of it all.

“Ahhh Sy-sylus! P-please ahh..! S-so good!”

Sylus pounds into you relentlessly, each thrust driving you harder against the table. His claws dig into your hips, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake. You can feel every ridge and vein of his thick cock as he stretches you, claiming you as his own.

He leans over you, his body caging you in as he drives into you harder, faster. His teeth find your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin until you're sure you'll be marked for days. The thought sends a thrill through you, the idea of bearing his claim for all to see.

"Yeah... you're mine now. All mine," he said, his voice low and possessive. His eyes burned into yours, unrelenting. "No matter how much you hate it, I'm going to keep you here. Forever."

Before you could respond, he grabbed the back of your neck and crashed his lips onto yours. The kiss was rough, messy, and unapologetic, leaving you breathless and furious all at once.

When he pulled back, his smirk returned.

"That means I'll take care of you. Feed you. Buy you whatever you want. Take you anywhere you dream of going." he murmured, his tone deceptively sweet.

His grip tightened slightly, holding you in place. "I'll spoil you, treat you better than anyone ever could. But you're not leaving. Not now, not ever.”

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[macabrebr4t]

cw ! dark nsfw. gun play — sarah cameron x reader

summary: sarah finds your gun and wants to have sume fun. content contains— smut. vaginal penetration with gun. spit. reader is deepthroated by a gun.

she found it while she was going through your closet. tucked away in the far corner, inside a shoe box. admiring the cold metal against her finger tips— turning the weapon around, feeling it and, checking to see if its loaded before letting her mind wander. legs clenched.

you find sarah sat on your bed, gun in hand. her head perks up at the sound of the door creaking, a smile gracing her face at the sight of you. “oh hey, you’re back.” lifting up the gun. “i didn’t know you had one. though i shouldn’t be surprised.”

her eyebrows are furrowed as she stares at the weapon. you watch as she stands to face you— raising her arm to point the gun right at you. your hands go up in surrender. eyes wide. even though you know its not loaded.

“what are you doing sare?” you cringe at the way your voice cracked.

sarah moves closer to you. her nose almost touching yours. shes beginning to smirk now. slowly, she caresses your cheek with the gun. “i want to try something.” before placing it to your lips. “suck”

your eyebrows raise but you comply nonetheless. parting your lips, you feel the barrel on the flat of your tongue. swirling your tongue over the cold metal like a lollipop. licking every bit of the weapon. eyes never leaving hers until she pushes the gun further. you gag, a trail of spit running down your jaw.

back and forth. she thrusted the gun into your mouth, almost to your throat. tears welling up in your eyes as sarah tests your limits. “you’re doung so good for me.” she tilts her head loving how sloppy you look. her cunt throbbing at the sound of your gags. you’re no better either. theres a wet spot in your panties formed from the darkness in sarahs eyes, the way she abuses your throat.

wiggling the gun deeper into your throat, you choke. before slowly removing it all together. her hand covered in your spit.

bringing you into a sloppy kiss before you can catch your breath, hand on the back of your neck.

“get on the bed. i’m not done with you.”

you feel so exposed as you lay bare, sprawled out on the bed while sarah is fully clothed. she moves the gun towards your body, running itl down from your chest to pubic bone. she presses the barrel to your core, pupils wide as she watches the way you arch your back, lettingout a sharp gasp at the cold.

“you’re gonna be good for me and take it, yeah” her voice is raspy as she stares in to your eyes. pressing the gun hardwe against you when you nod. “words, baby.”

“yes! i-i’ll be good for you. i can take it.”

“hm.” she crawls in next to you. warm against your side. biting your cheek before kissing the mark.

she then slowly pushes the gun into your aching cunt. you inhale deeply at the strange feeling. “you’re so tight, baby. relax for me.” a kiss to your forehead to your cheek to your neck. “can’t fuck you if you’re so tensed up.”

sarah loves how pathetic you look as you nod against her. bottom lip tucked between your teeth. the gun enters you inch by inch as she pushes it deeper. she lets out a laugh as she watches barrel disappear into you. “spread your legs a bit more.” shakily you do as she says. “thats it.” steadily she thrusts the gun in and out of you. it hits all your sweet spots making you cry and whimper.

sarah kisses you deep. spit making a mess over both of your faces. she sucks on your tongue as she fucks you harder. body shaking at the sensations. sarah clouding all your senses. your hips rocking with the movements of the gun. she swallows all your moans before releasing your tongue. “look at me. look in tonmy eyes as you cum.”

“sarah!” you grip her wrist as you feel the knot form in your tummy. half lidded eyes stare back in to hers as a few mire thrusts push over the edge. you clench hard and your orgasm crashes over you as sarah continues to thrust it in to you. feeling nothing but heat and pure bliss until it becomes too much and youre weakly pushing her away at the overstimulation. liquid gushing from your core, soaking the sheets.

slowly the sarah removes the gun as your chest heaves up and down. staring at the slick coated weapon, she brings it to her lips, lapping at the metal. moaning at the taste of you.

“oh youre sick sare.” you’re breathless, unable to move an inch.

she pulls off the barrel with a ‘pop’ before licking your lips. “you love it.”

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ

KNEELING LAMIA | Witch hunter!Harry x Witch!reader

There's too much tension in this cat-and-mouse. Inevitably, it stretches too taut and snaps.

★18+

This is ᴋɴᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴍɪᴀ for the KINKTOBER projects. Witch x Witch hunter au.

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CONTENT/WARNINGS: enemies. p-in-v. degradation. praise. pussy slapping (light). dom/sub undertones. rough sex. bro is simply kind of an asshole, but it's in an attractive way imo.

WC: 3.7K

You hate him. 

You hate him, you hate the grease in his derisory, lopsided smile, the one, two-tick at the corners of his mouth, like an omen on the hollow barrel of a cocked gun. The stupid white straightness of them, slick with spit and glimmering off the glowing oil lantern. 

The soft humanness in his unchiseled eyes. When they’re narrowed into slits, the color is so soft, so delicate, that they don’t feel nearly as sharp as he intends. The preternatural juxtaposition of a human having eyes that are so mesmerizing is absurd— the pink-rimmed oil painting of his irises, mounted in white, under the tarp of his lashes (they’re long, dark, and cast shadows across the green sfumato). You can nearly find sunstones flecking like gold flakes wading the surface of a pool, if you look close enough.

But the bands are eroded now. Lacking. You always thought his eyes were like the moss speckling the grove in your back garden. Now, the vibrancy of it, crawling up the trunks, feels like a distant memory.

Smeared, pupils bleeding wide like spilled ink. 

(You loathe the way his green reminds you of the malachite scattered across your window sill.)

You hate his hands, too. His fingers. The way they notch on reins, and the steel hilt of a gun. The way his pointer stretches across the metal trigger— click— and the way the aim is off. Misses. A bole eats the bullet, and you think, after so many tries, he has to not miss.

He has to not miss.

But he misses, and misses, and misses— the cat and mouse is an old, familiar game, but a fractured part of you thinks he misses on purpose. And you wonder who’s really the cat; when he’ll finally admit you’ve been filling his shoes out in the hunt, long before his time. 

But you hate his hands most because of the way they touch you. The way they feel good. Pinching your bones in place, thumbprints carving into your skin. 

Pressure points— he’s no good with a gun, but he’s good at finding pressure points, scoping them with his fingertips. Squeezing in. 

You hate his teeth, because you hate him, and he hates you, and you want to sweep them off the floor when you fracture every little bone in the composite of his skull with your palms and shatter them out with your fingers. The way they chew into your nipples and stab a crushed squeak out of you. 

(It’s the nature of the game— a double helix. Taijitu. Water and oil. You’re meant to despise each other, because dark has to exist to balance light. There has to be a villain in every story, otherwise the narrative collapses—)

You can’t stand the way his stupidly fat cock splits you on him, around him. The way when he groans, the way it starts as a hum between his ribs, and metastasizes into that yawning pry of his mouth, his soft lips. 

(Conflict. Resolution. Recycle.)

His hand pawing at a handful of your breast, like kneading dough. Testing the heft when it shakes under the pressure of his hips slamming in wet squelches, sack slapping to your sticky cunt. The blunt of his nails scraping down your sides, prying in where your waist tapers, and wrapping the barbs of his fingers around, where the rungs sit at your back, to lug you against him in filthy, wet smacks. Again— again. 

(Fuck, fuck, fuck—)

“—Fuck,” you mewl, scratching out at his temple, fingertips curling into the burnt umber tufts they can reach, pulling, tangling. Scraping. Your thumb grazes his cheekbone. He bites down on your nipple, instead, where he’s been rolling it between his teeth with his tongue, and grunts. It makes you squirm on the table and arch.

When he unlatches and lurches up to loom over you, he looks wild. Like an untamed beast— reminds you of the wolf that lingers by your doorstep— that you’ve lugged along into your kitchen. Let him splay you across the big, oak table that squeals and rattles under the punishing pace he’s set with his hips. 

“Fuck— no,” Harry grunts, and slams your wrist down onto the table, beside your head, your stuttering pulse. Cuffed in his grip. Your fingers twitch. His throat bobs when he swallows.

The tip of his tongue flicks out, drags across his lips, and you think of a scenting serpent. He huffs.

“Ought to declaw you,” he muses, hunching over you, narrowed eyes oscillating from your nails to your face. Voice a husk that oozes condescension. As if you’re an animal— a feral cat that needs its talons extracted. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, and the words— the petulant tone, the way your chest rattles when his cock throbs inside of you— are enough to crook the corners of his pink mouth. Wry. Acid across his lips, in the ridges between his teeth. 

He sticks his thumb in your mouth, but not really; presses in against the flat of your front tooth when you bare your canines, squeezing at your cheeks. Pressure points— under the side of your mandible, beneath your cheekbone.

“Better watch that mouth,” he taunts. When his eyebrows climb, three ruckles seep across his forehead. Maybe evidence of how he means it, how firm his resolve is, but the way he tips his head down at you, it's goading—

Your chest rolls. “Fuck— you.”

And you get it. You do. Coexisting is an absurd, incompatible fantasy. Deluded, when you cup your teeth around the world and still feel hungry. It only stretches so wide before he’s under your teeth, too, and nobody wants to live in a hungry, sharp mouth. It’s a means of resource. Sanctum; I want sanctum, and you my friend, are preventing that like gum jammed into a lock on a gate. 

This slow dance is called perfect, incongruous symbiosis, like a winter coat and the hot sun. You don’t fit together. You’ll never work— not in tandem. 

It’s just that he doesn’t get that it’s the circle of life.

A snake and a mouse. That works. It’s unpleasant, but it doesn’t have to be watched. 

But it’s ugly. You get the angry men with the pitchforks. You get him— vigilante, here to stab the head off the python with a wooden stick and wring his hands out after, like the hero he’ll be if he manages to tame the beast (glorified pest control— snub the snake in the backyard). You accepted a long time ago that all the little people would get mad that you were eating their little people. 

Nasty, vicious thing in the back garden— get rid of it.  

But hey— that’s life. The ugly, vicious wasp nest dangling off a poplar tree deserves to exist, too, because that’s the anomalous, hideous shape mother nature’s hand squeezed it into. And that’s, you think, the disconnect. The electrical cord spitting white-hot, fizzing sparks from where it’s been gnawed down the middle.

You swallow. His eyes are blade-sharp. So unco. Contemplating, calculating.

You get all that. What you can’t wrap your mind around is the untethered snap between you, like a bungee cord lugging you into a collision. It makes you feel feverish. The fracture in the foundation below you, every atom bred from this, predestined narrative. The sizzle beneath your skin— a charred brand in the shape of his kiss under the layers of your dermis— (a lowly mimicry of what lovemaking is, all teeth). It’s brutal. Sharp. A skirt of canines across your collarbone. A notch across the bone. A means to satiate, a compound of loathing, and pining, and the cozening haze of desire. The yearning curdled in the spiral of the communal pool of your animosity.   

Because he smells like the rain rapping across your roof when you stand out with the door propped, sticking to the fireweed in rivulets under your porch steps. Like suede. Musk. The wilting coriander sprig on your altar. Your resolve is wicker snapping under his thumb. A melting glacier under the heavy heat dripping from his eyes. You don’t like it. You can’t get enough.

You tip your chin up and his thumb snags on the blunt edges, smushes into your lower lip. When his heavy cock slips out of you and slaps up against his belly, a whine prickles at the back of your mouth. You encase it with your throat like a dirty secret left to write on paper. You won’t whine for him. But he’s thick. His cock is stupidly fat, and it throbs like he can feel the encroaching emptiness between your legs for himself. 

You won’t whine, but you feel hollow, and it makes your hips cant up involuntarily. Forward. To him— you hate that— but the stamp of his palm to your cunt makes your thought process crumble apart like notes plummeting off their bars on a sheet of music. A smack of skin on skin is the aria of your twisted affection stretching and collapsing. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. There’s a dull pang that blooms there, under his touch, but it feels smothered under the white-hot lightning streak of shock that jolts your shoulders and sculpts your face. The mortified, blistering heat that spumes your cheeks when the whites of your eyes pool a little wider. You flounder up at him wordlessly. 

Harry hums. It’s haughty, and mocking, and it makes something ripple in your underbelly. “Say that again, little girl?”

You swallow. Squirm. The pseudonym has something bristling in your chest. You’re not a little girl. This thicket has belonged to you for hundreds of years. 

But the warm prickle between your thighs is an ugly, ugly paradox. 

And you hate the way his hand is this humongous thing between your thighs, across your sex, swallowing your smarting cunt in the cup of his palm. The way he leaves it where it landed. His thumb stretched out and lingering in the crease between your mons and your tucked up thigh. You hate the way you drool slick against his fingers, the way your clit pulses under the heel of his hand. Your chest rolls. 

His amusement is acidic. Patronization sloshes off his eyes and burns a hole right through the layer of your mettle when he cocks his head down at you, the way your hips hitch. His lips twist. “Oh you liked that, did you?”

Your face pinches. The corners of your lips curl down despite the way your empty pussy flutters under his skin.

“No."

He makes a sound. A hum that granulates into a rich chuckle, and his eyes flicker off your face, to his hand, and back, and back. Something brews in the depths under his lashes, you think— a sinkhole cratering into the ground beneath the canopy of the woods, driving the forest ground out into a void— watching the breadth of his hand envelop between your thighs. Maybe at the molten heat, or the way he can undeniably feel you clenching up. Throbbing. Against him. For him. 

“Is that right? Look at that, mm— drippy, little pussy,” Harry tells you, voice hardly over a whisper. The words are a livewire zigzagging up your spine, riding the arches of the knobs, spilling something noxious and cloudy along your cerebrospinal fluid. 

It goes straight to your head. 

“Needy, little cunt. Bet you could cum just from me slapping it.”

His middle finger grazes your asshole. Your toes curl, you can’t even argue, despite the vitriol puddling on the back of your tongue like stagnant water. He tips his head. Smiles. The flash of teeth carves an ache into you that makes your bones ring.

“Aren’t you… just the sweetest thing when you’re put in your place,” Harry murmurs down at you, eyebrows climbing, and he’s— unctuous. A headache. The kind that clusters around the arch of your skull and squeezes taut like a bundle of rubber bands. Talking down to you like you’re a wily thing for him to put into a corner, once and for all. Like your demesne isn’t stamped in his soggy footprints, layer after layer, year after year.

You bare your teeth and jut your chin defiantly, but then he drags his thumb down along your pebbled clit, and it makes your shoulders wobble. 

You used to cut hunters down like the loggers muscling in on your timber. Hatred was a pearl folded into your heart. A bead tucked into the soft, fleshy tissue between the little pockets of your ventricles, and it stung like a splinter in your gums. 

You wear it in your chest like his name shaved into a rib. The perfect harmony of dysfunction. You don’t know why being under him kindles a flame. Just that it does. He’s live coal, and you crackle over what he gives you.

The moment of reticence between you has that shattering weight of your little truce, and you’re reminded of the plunge from the hillscape of your dignity. 

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t mind. 

His shoulders swell. You like the spit-slick rim of his mouth, the way the color is an insignia of your teeth making landfall. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

When he plants his hand beside your ear and stretches forward a little more, his cockhead slips across your clit. Hot, like a firebrand coated in sateen. You curl your fingers and realize your wrist is still pinned down. His eyes sway to it like he knows what you’re thinking, and his mouth twitches.

“Gonna keep your hands to yourself?” Harry purrs, grunting when you roll your chin away in scorn. 

“Because—“ His finger prods onto your cheek. Then, two. Under your jaw, enough pressure to turn your head. “You know I love that wild shit. But, can’t have you fucking up my pretty face—“

The humor coagulating his tone tastes bitter when you breathe it from the air. Swallowing it down into your lungs where it ghosts with the subatomic heaviness of want. Your eyes flit. You hate him— you hate—

He grins down at you. Not quite. Close-lipped, eyes vats that shelter his dogma. The intensity of his seriousness. “Can’t do that,” he muses, but his tone is softer than his countenance. 

You look away. And you don’t watch it, but he huffs, like he’s losing patience for your still-not-quite-subservience and lack of zeal. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. Hums. 

“Mm. Come on, doll. You know I don’t want you if you don’t want me,” he tells you, but his mouth crooks because he knows— he knows. 

You blink up at him. His eyes burn down at you from the bridge of his nose, and it feels like you’ve been swaddled into a sudden, wet heatwave. The words would nearly be considerate if it wasn’t for the condescending undertow that spills under the vowels like an oil slick. 

His pointer traces the corner of your mouth, brows furrowing as he tails the motion with his gaze. “Just you say the word.”

And despite the way you blister, something itching under your skin, you won’t. Your teeth are clenched, but you couldn’t pry them apart with pliers to turn him down, not with the fever spilling its way across you. You settle for contempt— let it set your face like a cast congealing, but he doesn’t chase the tail of your indignation with anything beyond mockery. 

He stares back at you. Doesn’t let it wither, drowns in the deluge of your inkpools, mouth curling but-not-quite. 

“No,” he sighs, after a beat of your lull— bereft of your protest— drawing his forefinger away and slinking it down the naked space of your sternum, then around your swollen nipple. You gnaw into your cheek. “You know what I think?”

“—I don’t care,” you pick your head up to hiss. 

You expect to face something crumbling at the retort. Discipline. Retribution— to watch something clot inside of him the way it wads in your chest, caking gravity across his features because— need to be taught a lesson in respect. What did I say about watching that mouth? 

But it flickers over him without a hitch. Slides off. 

Instead, he doubles down, hunching back over you. “I think you love this cock too much. Don’t you? Got you wrapped around it, by now.”

The flame from your core licks up to flare at the apples of your cheeks. He breathes when he straightens out. Deep. Like the prelude to a sigh, and you wonder if the same burning kisses along the nooks of his lungs. You don’t say anything, and he pulls his hand back.

“That’s right,” Harry coos, cocking his head down at you, “Just a sweet, cockdrunk, little whore, by now.”

Your eyes narrow into thin slits. Dagger splits. The wobble in your voice is a swordblade. “Shut— up.”

He laughs. Laughs. This muted, soundless thing that manifests more in his shoulders, the jolt across their breadth. The crater beside a smile line. He shakes his head, and cups the root of his cock with his fist. Your eyes follow it. You swallow.

“Mm, no,” he muses, gaze pooling where the mushroomed ridges of his tip slide along your sopping rim, your puffy lips, your clit, “I think you like it. Gushing all over the table.”

Embarrassment ties its tendrils along the base of your throat. Cogon grass germinating and feathering out across your esophagus, until you’re choking on your spit. You grit your teeth. Your hips nudge up. Forward. He underscores the presumption by pulling the head of his cock back, and sundering the string of tacky slick that’d stretched between him and your seam.

“Makin’ a fucking mess with your messy, desperate pussy,” Harry tells you, pressing his index to his thumb and prying them apart for emphasis. Your slick shimmers in the light. “Look at you. There’s a fuckin’ puddle.”

Your face creases. Cheeks buzzing, white-hot. You feel yourself leaking down along the cleft of your ass, and your fingers itch. A thunderbolt streaks across when you recognize that your hand is still flat against the table. Just where he left it. 

He aims his cock back against you, so thick in his palm, and murmurs, “You want it?”

You don’t know how you ended up here.

You do, but the motions between point A and B feel like a nebulous smear. Hands in motion. Fabric tangling across the floor. Teeth, and tongues, and bones, and claws.

(“Always liked an older woman,” you remember he told you, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. The hubris of a boy sewn into the shoulders of a man. The irony of your preternatural youth folded into his proposition as his eyes roamed across your face.)

(“So let’s put …this,” a motion between with a jutted finger, a murmur drizzled in allure, tucked like a secret into the shape of the night, “aside for a time-out, you and me.”)

You don’t know why you said yes. How. Why your body reacts like he’s a breath you need, whispering along your lungs. Why you let him unspool you over his fingers, his tongue, fucking into you like he was starving. 

But you nod.

You nod, and he presses his weepy tip against your cunt, and it only takes a nudge for him to pry you open around him again. Enveloping him. Sloppy, little pussy pulsing over the tip like a frenetic heartbeat. 

You turn your chin and bite into your own shoulder to stifle the mewl spiraling between your tonsils, and he groans. The sting is better the second-go, but the pressure of having your rim stretched taut anew doesn’t lose its edge. The ache settles in your underbelly. Flourishes in the molten geyser of your arousal. 

“Oh, shit,” Harry hums, pasting his palm flat to your tummy, right over your navel. Like this, you can feel his fingertips under your heartbeat. Across it. Thrumming. His eyes glued to where you swallow up his cock.

He feeds his cock into you slow, but it feels incongruous. The pastiche of what you’re feeling is already enough to cloud your head into delirium— you want teeth. Tongues, bones, claws. 

“Harder,” you grit, catching his eye when he stalls, hand braced across your waist. You resolve paints your words firm, “I can take it.” 

For a moment, Harry stares down at you. The whiplash of pause morphing to taunt, like a seamless rebound, has your rim fluttering over his girth. “My, my. Aren’t we eager.”

“Just—“

Your cosm ripples around you when he drives his hips forward, and lugs you back, hips colliding with your skin in a smack. A horrible, wet sound when he crams his way in, wedging your fuss back into the depth of your stomach. It flings you off your rationale. 

He shivers. “God, you’re slutty. Slutty pussy on a slutty witch.”

The pace he sets is brutal. Merciless. It caters to your complaint, and squashes it out under his thumb. Under the kiss of his tip to your womb. Deliriously, you think he’s going to spill his hot, thick load inside of you, and then what? Then, what?

It feels like he’s wringing you out between his hands, until all that’s left is a pool of want. 

You hate the way he’s chiseled in a place for himself. A tern across your branches, nested in twine and spare filaments of organs that belong to you. A little sinew peeled off of your liver. A sliver off your lung. Maybe that’s why—

You suck in a tight breath and let it rattle the nest he’s built, when he hits something unfathomably deep inside of you. Plugged on his cock, there’s no way for you to smother your moans out. He batters in to the hilt, cupping you by the waist, and rocking you back onto him, over, and over, and over. 

“I want this sweet pussy to cum around my cock,” he pants over you. A curl has flopped across his eye, and your ire is eclipsed by your yearning. The ball inside of you unspooling as if he’s peeling the layers of muscle on your heart back like an onion to temporarily pluck out the undiluted loathing. “Do you hear me?”

It’s a mindless motion— your fingers creeping to land over where you connect, where he’s splitting your gummy walls to what feels like their ceiling. But he bats your hands away, and rams into you until your mons is kissing the wiry bed of hair that’s smattered over his shaft.

“It’s gonna cum around my cock,” he grunts, “or it’s not gonna cum at all.”

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[ki-yomii]

down on you | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, mild praise kink, squirting, hair pulling, standing missionary, rough sex, porn w/ plot, mafia!jk, detective!reader, established relationship, mild angst, mild violence ➥ summary | It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all. ➥ notes | the mafia!jk au no one asked for aka an excuse to write smut w/ feeling lol.

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On his knees staring down the barrel of a loaded gun with a mouthful of blood, he knows this is the end of the line. He’s going to die like a rat in the gutter - no mercy to be found, loopholes to exploit or bribes to be made.

This is the real deal, and there’s no coming back.

Judgement Day comes in the form of a man with dark eyes and a dangerous smirk: Golden, the deadliest guard dog of the underground.

Credited with dozens of hits, you won’t know he’s there until it’s too late. Trying to keep him pinned is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, or a whisper on the wind.

And you won’t know he’s coming until you feel the breath on the back of your neck, hear the crack of a bullet ringing in your ears.

Belonging to one of the most powerful men in the world: Kim Namjoon, he’s more war machine than man.

“Go ahead, do it!” He spits at Golden’s feet, a mess of blood and drool staining the crisp leather of his combat boots. “Killing me won’t change a goddamn thing.”

A coy smile tugs at Golden’s mouth, his grin all sharp teeth and violence. He stays where he stands, his silhouette haloed by distant streetlights.

Water laps at the docks, the tang of salt heavy in the mid-summer Seoul air. There’s no rush; they both know he’ll be dead and dumped just like all the rest of the garbage in this rotting city.

“Come on, you prick! Pull the fucking trigger already.”

Golden cocks his head, and hums in the back of his throat. 

“Tch! I hope you’ve got a lot of bullets - we’re gonna knock the crown off Kim’s head one way or another.”

Golden thumbs at the safety of his gun, the barrel glinting through the shadows. “Ahh, is that what you think?” He shrugs, a lazy ripple of muscle. “Well, I have to say: I’d love to see you try.”

The night is shattered by the resounding crack of a gunshot and an echoing splash of something heavy dropping into the water below.

You climb out of the nondescript government-issue car. The faintest tremble of your fingers nearly gives you away but you’re able to reign in the impulse to smooth your hands over your clothes at the last second.

Showing weakness is the last thing you need to be doing right now.

Especially here.

Right in front of where you’ve parked - shoved between two looming apartment complexes - sits a quaint, vintage building. The rough brick face is at odds with the sleek surroundings, but tinted windows keep prying eyes at bay while the classy signing hanging above the door reads The Red Bullet written in caps.

If you didn’t know better, it would be hard to believe this otherwise mundane storefront is a cover for one of the most dangerous international organizations based out of South Korea.

Not only do they hold the keys to the kingdom, but their success is largely in part because they spearhead operations from government espionage all the way to simple blackmail.

Even though it’s been several months since you darkened its doorstep, the familiar sight is enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Send your heart galloping into a tailspin as your stomach swoops.

While time away helped clear your head of stolen kisses and promises whispered in dark rooms, it also drove the longing bone deep.

In those quiet moments to yourself, when you have nothing else to distract from how lonely you are, you miss this place like one misses a limb.

You didn’t realize how attached you were to these four walls until it was too late: the hazy air filled with whorls of smoke, the overhead lights that bathe everything in red, the plush chairs you spent many nights sprawled across, the glossy black stages.

You don’t know how, you don’t know when but at some point it (he) started feeling like home. A luxury you can’t afford. Not again. After all, if you give in, any progress you made outside of his gravitational pull will be for naught.

Which puts you in a dangerous position as you find yourself back where it began; feelings at war with duty, mind vs heart. Because even if it leads you to a place you could go a million years without ever seeing again, you have to follow the trail of bodies.

A bouncer grants you access, the heavy door slamming shut behind you like a death knell as he herds you towards the back of the club.

It’s outside of official operating hours but it’s no less busy inside, men and women alike in scattered conversation as you pass through.

“It’s nice to see you again,” the bouncer murmurs, chancing a quick glance at your profile. “Been a while.”

You swallow, gaze darting down to your shoes. “Ah - yeah… Got busy with work. It’s - it’s nice to see you too.”

The small talk fizzles out, a snuffed candle as you arrive at a cordoned off room, “Here we are. Mr Kim is already expecting you.”

Any further pleasantries grow stale on your tongue as you enter the private booth, fighting against the lump in your throat to manage a hoarse ‘thank you’.

And then you find yourself left alone with the man himself, Kim Namjoon. He’s as intimidating as you remember, lounging back into the leather booth with his ankles crossed.

A lukewarm smile stretches across his lips, the slightest hint of a dimple peeking out from the valley of his cheek. Standing at attention on either side of his reposing form are two massive bodyguards. Their hands rest on the butts of their guns, daring any who enter to try and make a move.

“It’s good to see you again. But I gotta ask - what’s the occasion, Detective?” Namjoon hums. “I thought we were past all this.” He waves a nebulous hand between your bodies. “After all, you’re practically family.”

You ignore the hidden barb with a wince. “Mr Kim, you know why I’m here.”

“I used to know why a long time ago.” A well-groomed brow raises, his gaze glacial as it spears you in place. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“Please, Mr Kim. I don’t want to make this more difficult than it is. I just need to know about the man they fished out of the harbor, and then I’ll be on my way. So… who was he?”

Namjoon scoffs. “What makes you think I know more than the police?”

There’s a flash of a smirk, barely noticed, before his face returns to its neutral expression. As calm and cool as a placid river. “A john’s a john. What I do want to know is why you care so much?”

The underlying question is clear; why are you really here?

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters with civillians.”

“Oh? So I’m a civilian now.” His expression is not unlike the cat that caught the canary: vicious and delighting in the discomfort his evasions are causing. “Gotta say that’s a new one for me.”

Sighing in defeat, you say, “Alright, enough. I get it. I’m wasting my time with you. Let me ask this instead: where is he?” 

“He doesn’t know any more about this than I do,” he says, waving a blase hand towards a door off to the left, “But if you insist, you can find him in the office. Oh, and Detective?”

“...Yes?”

“Take your time, I’ll be out on business all afternoon.”

With a curt nod, you flee the room amid low-throated chuckles and enter the office. Standing near the desk, his broad back turned towards the door, you find the man you simultaneously want to see the most and run from the fastest.

He turns around, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement. Your breath stutters in your chest, and you nearly swallow your tongue as your eyes trace over the cut of his body.

The moment your eyes meet, those many months spent cultivating time and distance turn to ash. You forgot how even the mere sight of him affects you, any resistance to his many charms virtually nonexistent as the world falls away.

Rich, coffee dark; his gaze sucks you in until it’s all you can do not to reach out, to brush your fingers over his edges and feel them soften beneath your palms.

Rocking back on your heels, you clear your throat and glance to the side as you remain standing in the entryway, more than a little off-kilter.

Coming back after so long apart, only to find him the same as the day you left… How do you reconcile everything that’s changed with everything that was?

“Well, hello there.” Jungkook croons, leaning his hip against the corner of the desk with a roll of his shoulders. His arms cross over the trunk of his chest, accentuating the bulk of his chest, the flex of inked bicep. “Long time no see.”

Shifting, you gulp. “Ah - yeah…”

The burn of his gaze - a palpable sensation prickling across your skin - tracks a path from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes as he gives you a thorough once-over.

“You’re looking good,” Jungkook hums in approval, “real good. I’ve missed those pretty eyes of yours.”

“You - you too.”

Your attention doesn’t know where to settle: drifting from the curve of his shoulders to the jut of his bloody knuckles, the tuck of his trim hips to the thick-soled combat boots.

Tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand on end, and your palms slick with sweat.

“I mean, you look… y’know, uh, good too.”

A flash of a crooked smirk, the raising of a pierced brow gets your blood pumping, your heart tattooing a rhythm against your ribs. Emboldens you to reach back with shaky fingers to turn the lock. The sound grates down your spine, bolts of anticipation slicing through you.

It was dumb to think coming here, seeing him again, would end any other way than his taste on your tongue and his cock in your cunt. Hope makes fools of us all.

Should’ve known better but you’d been hopeful those days were long behind you. Now you realize it was inevitable.

After all, Jungkook is magnetic.

The black hole at the center of your universe, consuming everything in its path until he’s what remains in your head, your heart. You’re helpless, ceaselessly drawn to him like a moth to flame.

And try as you might, you can’t say no to a face like that.

Never could, in fact.

Failure to extract yourself from his orbit during your not-relationship is nothing new. That doesn’t mean you can’t make it difficult.

After all, you still have some dignity intact.

So try, try, try again.

“Ahem.” You try to banish the heat from your cheeks, guiding the conversation into the correct territory. “I’m not here on a-a social call, Jeon. I need to know: were you the one that killed and dumped the john in the harbor?”

Stalking closer, a lazy jungle cat on the prowl, Jungkook crosses the distance between you. He only stops once your bodies brush with every labored inhale. Heat radiates from him, and you’re achingly aware of every point of contact.

The light scent of his cologne teases your nose, and his eyes - god, his eyes. They’re shaded and hungry, devouring your expression with single-minded possessiveness. 

“What makes you think I know anything about that?”

“Jeon -- Jungkook.”

He hums.

Your heart thrums, pulse rushing hard through your head until you feel faint, blood surging the longer you stay in close contact. The shameful clench of your cunt makes your cheeks burn all the brighter.

The last time you were looking up at him like this, his hand was on your jaw while his cock thrust balls deep.

“C’mon, you know that isn’t going to work. This is me you’re talking to, not some rookie.”

“Mm,” he purrs, “it is you I’m talking to, isn’t it?”

You manage to bite back the groan but can’t stop your eyes from rolling even if there’s the slightest hint of a stutter when you reply, “Please, I just need to know if you killed him.”

Jungkook looms tall and proud, crowding closer. “And if I did, baby?” he asks.

Instinctively you back up, only to be followed step by step. A game of cat and mouse that finds you pinned against the wall before long. With nowhere to run, you watch, heart in your throat, as Jungkook dips his dark head.

His nose runs along the length of your neck, breath puffing across your sensitive skin as he inhales the pleasant scent of your perfume.

“I - I…”

“Would you see me in handcuffs?” His lips caress the underside of your jaw, a soft groan escaping him. “… C’mon, answer me. Would you?”

“I would - if I had to.”

As much as you wish that was true, you know in your heart of heart's you would do everything in your power to make sure that never happens.

No matter how much you like to think you’d do the right thing when push comes to shove, you’d choose him a thousand times over.

His eyes dance playfully. “Careful, I might like it.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” you say with a snort.

Jungkook chuckles low and warm, using the arm around your waist to tug you into the safety of his body. The softness of your breasts presses into the hard planes of his chest, your nipples pebbling through the thin cotton shirt you wear.

With a deep-throated groan, his hands encircle the curves of your hips as a thickly muscled thigh slots between yours.

An answering quiet sigh gets his blood pumping and his cock twitching.

“Mm, something tells me you’d enjoy it just as much, Detective.”

The use of your title is a rude awakening.

“Jungkook,” You warn, moving to push him away. Only once you start touching him, you can’t stop. His muscles flex beneath your curious fingertips. “We really shouldn’t.”

You’re sure if he could, Jungkook would spend days worshipping between your thighs, velvet heat wrapped around his tongue and hands in his hair as he brings you to peak again and again until you’re a sobbing, sopping, boneless mess beneath him.

“Come on, I know you want me - that you’ve missed me. I can see it in your eyes.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, tongue flickering out for a brief taste before a rough thumb skates across your bottom lip, tugging down to expose your teeth, the glitter of your tongue as it darts out to flick over the pad of his finger..

“I’ve certainly missed you, baby. Want me to show you?”

Even though you refuse to admit anything out loud, you can’t help but angle your throat back and grind into his hips pressed against yours.

Jungkook tsks, “That’s alright. I’ll get that pretty mouth open one way or another.”

Before you can retort, a mouth swoops down to fuse with yours in a fierce, all-consuming kiss. A low, broken moan punches from your chest.

Reaching up, your fingers sink into the mane of dark hair that brushes the cut of Jungkook’s jaw. Soft, thick, and wavy in your grip; you tug at the roots.

Jungkook hisses. 

Teeth nip at your lip, kittenish licks soothing away the string as blood bursts across your tongues. The thigh shoved between yours grinds up with every wet, sloppy pass of your lips.

Thick muscle spreads your pussy open through the thin slacks of your work uniform. Sparks of pleasure dance down your spine with every rock against your swollen clit.

“S-Shit!” Your shoulders curl in, a shudder jerking through you. “K-Kook, I… !”

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” Jungkook growls, rutting his cock against the jut of your hip. The wet patch you’re making on his jeans grows larger with every filthy grind. “You’ve been gone too fucking long. Never again, you hear me?”

You claw at his shoulders, stuttering out, “there’s noth-ing you can do t’stop me.”

“If you don’t come back to me,” his eyes are dark and stormy, voice whiskey rough, “I’ll find you.”

It’s not a threat - it’s a promise.

“Then make sure I never want to leave,” you challenge breathlessly, staring into his blown out pupils, “Make me want to stay.”

Above all else, you think.

The words are barely past your lips when Jungkook accepts your challenge with gusto (just like you knew he would). Without delay, he thumbs open the button on your pants.

Refusing to let you look away, Jungkook yanks them to your feet and swings you up into his arms one-handed. They hang from your ankle like a chain.

Your surprised squeak is quickly swallowed up by a moan when he settles you over the bulge in his pants, your cunt hovering over his erection.

The heat of his skin sinks through the thin cotton of your panties, so, so close to where you need him. Slick soaks into the fabric, and clings to your inner thighs.

Every shift is a smooth, sticky glide of folds that stirs, and stokes the ember of desire smoldering behind your navel.

“Kook,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your head rolls back, and you sag into his chest. Your hips twitch in pathetic little attempts, trying to get pressure where you need it. Having him hot and hard and all for you; any distance between you is suddenly unbearable.

He needs to spread you wide and stuff you full with every inch of his thick cock until he’s so deep you won’t be able to walk for days.

“Shh baby, I’ll give you what you want,” he says, gaze heavy and possessive. “I’m gonna ruin you so good, you’ll have no choice but to come back. You’re mine.”

“Says who?”

“Hmm. You don’t think you are?”

Nibbling on your ear, Jungkook slips a finger under the hem of your panties. He smirks when you keen, rubbing his knuckle up and down your sloppy folds with teasing pressure.

“How about I show you what your body already knows?”

Wasting no time, he lifts you off his cock, the scrap of cloth fluttering to the ground. His free hand dives between your bodies. Then comes the clink of a belt, the sound of a zipper pulling down.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, your body coiled with anticipation as your stomach swoops at the brush of his fingers along the underside of your thigh.

“Look so pretty like this, baby.” Jungkook twists his wrist, hips arching back. “And it’s all for me. Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside this pretty pussy.”

Any response dies on your tongue, brain short-circuiting as the slick, fat cockhead rubs along your slit. Pressing against your entrance the slightest bit before slipping up to nudge at your clit - coating himself up in your sticky juices.

The ultimate tease - something Jungkook’s always been overly fond of doing until you’re out of your mind with desperation.

“Please, please, please,” you chant, cheeks on fire and eyes half-lidded as you circle your hips. “Stop playing around. I want it - want you, Kook.”

“Oh, baby,” he smiles, ducking down to kiss your forehead. “You’ll take whatever I give you.”

You can’t stifle the broken sob, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Liquid fire surges through your veins, a thousand bolts of lightening crackling beneath the surface of your skin. Your pussy is tender, swollen. Walls fluttering in time with your heartbeat. 

“Ha, you’re so needy for me.”

Jungkook’s lips brush away the moisture around your eyes, his thumb drawing soothing circles into the base of your spine. All the while, his torturous grinding never ceases.

“Aren’t you?”

You croak, “I can’t – Kook, please. Anything, I’ll do anything you want just fuck me.”

The flash of his eyes is your only warning before he’s right there, your walls embracing the girth of his erection inch by inch. Every ridge, every jerk as he seats himself as deep inside your silken heat as he can is absolute heaven.

The stretch as you take him to the hilt sends you careening towards the edge, eyes rolling back and toes curling in your shoes.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” you whimper.

“Shit!” Jungkook grits his teeth, squeezing the base of his cock as you tighten  around him. With every deep inhale, his pelvis brushes your swollen, needy clit. “Forgot how good you feel wrapped around my dick, baby.”

“Me too,” You gasp, tightening your legs around Jungkook’s hips.”Me too, Kook.”

Dropping his forehead to yours, he says gruffly, “‘m not gonna last long.”

Making a noise of acknowledgement, you wiggle your hips. Sinking your teeth into the side of Jungkook’s jaw, you bite and suck at his skin, wanting to leave a mark to remember you by. His reaction is instantaneous, releasing the grip on his shaft to grab a fist full of hair.

He yanks back.

The long, elegant line of your throat is exposed to his butterfly kisses and scolding love bites.

“Now you’ve really asked for it,” Jungkook huffs out with a dirty chuckle.

“Then give it to me.” You lick your puffy lips, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. “Show me who I belong to.”  

The brewing hurricane in his eyes is unleashed. Wide palms and strong fingers grip your hips so tight you feel bones grind together. His stance widens, his unwavering gaze locking onto your face, brow pinched, and mouth slack.

His lip piercing glints in the light, his tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip. Dark curls tussle about his head, a wild halo that sweeps down into the burning umber of his eyes.

Helpless, you succumb - enchanted by the darkness peering at you from behind those dangerous eyes. He’s ethereal; a siren song that threatens to drown you, swallow you whole.

You’d happily let him, you realize with a shiver.

It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all.

“Hold on tight,” Jungkook says, hooking his hands under your bottom. 

And then, he’s jackhammering into your cunt so hard and fast all you can do is hold on for the ride. Punch drunk and moaning as he manhandles you how he likes, spreads you wide and stuffs you full until you’re panting for breath and clinging to sanity by your fingernails.

“Fuck yes, that’s it. Look how well your pretty pussy always takes my fat cock.”

His low voice whispering filthy praises in your ear makes you whimper, whine, and writhe as the band of pleasure coiling tight in your belly comes close to snapping. It’s the fastest he’s ever fucked an orgasm out of you, and it feels so good you don’t even care.

The pace is brutal, slamming into you so hard you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your hips come morning. But it’ll be so fucking worth it. You’re going to cum hard and long, you just know it.

About to melt as Jungkook fucks the slick out of you, groaning as you drip down the base of his cock, his balls - his very own pretty little mess.

“Yeah, you gonna cum, baby?” he laughs, pressing a sweaty kiss to the side of your face. “Can feel how - haaah shit - how tight you’re squeezing me.”

“Uh-huh,” you cry, holding onto the tops of his wide shoulders. Every thrust has his cockhead dragging over the spongy patch of your g-spot, sending fissions of pleasure rocketing through your nervous system. “So - so close, baby. Just a little more, I--”

Balancing yourself, you lift up only to slam back down, meeting Jungkook’s thrust with all the force of gravity. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

Crashing over you like a tsunami, your orgasm shoots through your limbs and zips down your spine. A warm rush of cum soaks Jungkook’s shaft, the wet and messy sound of your squirt splashing against the floor secondary to the cry that claws its way out of your throat.

“K-Kook!”

Jungkook grunts, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he helps you keep bouncing up and down on his erection. “Yeah, that’s it - keep going, baby. Wanna feel you keep cumming all over this cock.”

Aftershocks slice through you like lightning, tiny jolts of electricity. As you come down from your high, your gummy walls pulse, milking at Jungkook’s thick shaft.

He groans softly whenever your muscles tense, release; your body a worn-out rubber band as your breath stutters from you.

Then a hand pets down your flank, your skin shivering with hypersensitivity at the tender touch. “S’okay. Just breathe, baby.”

Peeling open your heavy eyes, you look up at his face. Take in the crinkle of his brow and the ravenous expression. Even floating on a sea of bliss, white noise fills your ears, you want more.

You slur, determined, “Kook, baby, please. Cum in me, want you s’bad.”

“Fuck! Can’t just say shit like that to me or I…” Jungkook bites down onto the tender crook of your neck, muffling his grunts in your flesh. “Shit - ’m so --”

You cry out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, “A-haah, K-Kook!”

Snapping his hips forward one last time, Jungkook grinds as deep as he can get and lets go. The fat head of his cock kisses your cervix, his length throbbing in time with his heartbeat as a rush of cum floods your insides.

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunts, rutting once - twice into the cradle of your body, “take it like a good girl.”

He croons when you whine at the press of his pelvis against your oversensitive clit. Thready sparks of pain shoot down your legs that hang limply over his forearms. Every breath stutters from your lungs, slow and deep.

“No more, can’t - can’t…” Shifting, you arch your spine and burrow your head into his chest, nearly catatonic in his arms. “S’too much.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Fingers brush over your closed eyelids, smoothing over the arch of your brow. With every kiss dropped to the top of your head, he mumbles in dulcet tones, “I really have missed you, you know.”

You mewl in response as strong fingers knead the backs of your thighs.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”

“Oh,” you can’t muster up enough energy to say anything more, body tender and trembling with little aftershocks, “s’that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He chuckles. “You’re staying here - right where I want you.”

In lieu of a response, you pick your head up off the pillow of his chest and seek out his gaze. Liquid soft; he’s looking at you like you hung the world on a string.

“I’ve missed you too, Kook,” you say with a gentle smile.

You’ll allow yourself this moment of weakness when there’s no space between your bodies or hearts. Titles don’t matter much when he’s cradling you to his chest like a piece of precious china.

Between the two of us, you’re the one who hung the moon and stars, you think while combing back his sweaty bangs.

And I think I love you, you whisper voiceless against his lips.

[lazy-ahh]

Haiii !! Me again lmao >:3 I dooo have a request I fear - idk how to explain it tho but I have songs that gave me the ideas, hopefully when you /if you listen to then you'll get what I mean !! I just think the way you write would be perfect for this

the songs =

Like real people do, from Eden, Nobody's soilder, cherry wine, it will come back

All by Hozier lol, if I find a proper way to explain it I will!

Thanks again!! ʕ≧ᴥ≦ʔ

IT WILL COME BACK

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

twenty five times jason todd warned you not to love him, and one time he begged you to stay.

this is the first of two! (i'm sorry, but i only have the time to write two of the songs and those two songs were the ones that clicked for me and i just NEED to write about them) i listened to this song first and immediately searched up the meaning of this song. and then i read someone's interpretation of the song and I JUST NEEDED TO WRITE ABOUT IT, especially with emotionally repressed jason who worships reader, who doesn't think that he deserves them but with the way reader teases and encourages him and showers him with love, to let him not be afraid of showing his true feelings, then how could he ever say no? hopefully you enjoyed this one!

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

jason knows you know. he’s a mess of scar tissue and bad decisions, a boy who clawed his way out of his own grave only to keep dragging the dirt behind him—so why do you look at him like he’s something worth loving? like he’s not just a ghost wearing a man’s skin? you shouldn’t. you know better.

but then you grin at him, all sharp edges and softness, and say, "what’s that face for, jay? thinking too hard again?" like it’s that simple. like he’s not a loaded gun and you’re not pressing your finger to the trigger just to feel the danger of it.

the way you look at him, all mischief and molten affection—you know what it does to him. he’s not stupid. you’re not subtle. (he’s memorized the exact shade of your smile when you tease him, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh at his scowling.) but god, he loves it anyway. loves you anyway. even when he doesn’t think he deserves to.

than to look at it, look at it like that

your eyes drag over him like you’re starving, like he’s something worth devouring—and fuck, maybe he is, the way you touch him like you can’t get enough. fingers tracing the ridges of his abs, nails scraping just to hear his breath hitch. teeth sinking into the curve of his bicep, just hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to make him groan. lips pressing hot and open-mouthed against the back of his neck while your hands slip under his shirt, greedy, needy, like you want to memorize every scar, every shudder you pull from him.

"jason," you sigh, voice dripping with something sweet and sinful, "you’re so tense, baby. let me help."

he should scowl. should shove you away before this goes too far, before he loses what little control he has left. but then your tongue flicks over his pulse point, and his head falls back against your shoulder with a ragged fuck.

he never does push you away. never could.

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

he’s warned you before—voice rough like gravel under tires, that low growl he gets when you’re pushing all his buttons just to watch him unravel. "don’t," he mutters, fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself. "you shouldn’t poke the beast, sweetheart."

but you just tilt your head, all faux innocence, lips quirking into that grin that makes his pulse stutter. "beast?" you echo, stepping closer until your breath ghosts over his jaw. "where? all i see is you, jason." and god, the way you say his name—like it’s something sacred, something yours—it wrecks him.

his hands find your hips on instinct, grip tight enough to bruise, but you don’t flinch. you never do. instead, you press closer, all warm skin and teasing fingers tracing the scars on his knuckles. "see?" you murmur, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "just you."

he should argue. should remind you he’s not something to play with, not something gentle. but the way you look at him—like he’s yours, like you’d fight the whole damn world to keep him—steals the words right from his throat.

than to talk to it, talk to it like that

your voice drops to something slow and syrupy, honey-thick with teasing—the kind of tone that curls under his skin and lingers there, sticky-sweet. "jason," you sigh, dragging out each syllable like you're savoring the taste, and fuck, it's not even his name anymore. it's a blade between his ribs, a match to gasoline, and you wield it with devastating precision.

he tenses, jaw clenching as he pointedly stares at the ceiling instead of you. "don't," he grits out, but there's no heat behind it—just that rough, frayed edge that means he's already losing.

"don't what?" you hum, all false innocence, fingers walking up his chest like you own every inch of him (you do). "i'm just saying your name."

"yeah, like that," he mutters, finally snapping—one hand catching yours mid-taunt, pinning it against his heartbeat. it's racing. you can feel it. "like you fucking mean it."

don’t give it a hand, offer it a soul

he doesn’t want half-measures, doesn’t want the tentative brush of your fingers like you’re afraid he’ll break. if you’re going to touch him, he wants all of you—your laughter tangled in his sheets, your stubborn mouth biting back moans, the way you dig your nails into his shoulders when he fucks you just right. he wants the way you press your cold feet against his calves just to hear him yelp, the way you gasp his name like a prayer when he pins you down.

"jason—" you pant, arching under him as his teeth graze your throat.

"tell me," he growls, hands mapping your skin like he’s memorizing every beauty mark, every scar. "tell me you’re mine."

you laugh, breathless and bright, even as he steals the sound with a kiss. "always," you murmur against his lips, fingers twisting in his hair. "you know you’ve got me."

and he does. he does. your soul is already his—has been since the first time you looked at him like he was worth something. but he’ll still take it again and again, greedy and desperate, until neither of you can remember where he ends and you begin.

honey, make this easy

it should be simple. he should be able to push you away, to stay in the shadows where he belongs—where he can't hurt you. but then he sees you on that rooftop, outnumbered and backed into a corner, and his body moves before his mind can catch up.

the takedown is brutal, efficient. he doesn't let himself linger, already turning to disappear into the night—until your hand catches his wrist.

"jason."

his name on your lips is a punch to the gut. he freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. you shouldn't know. you shouldn't see him.

"you're dead," you whisper, but your fingers tighten like you're afraid he'll vanish. "i watched them bury you."

he should lie. should shake you off and run. but the way you're looking at him—like he's your only salvation, something precious, something real—makes the words stick in his throat.

"make this easy," he rasps, voice rough from disuse. "pretend you didn't see me."

you laugh, sharp and wet, and suddenly your arms are around him, holding on like he's the only solid thing in the world. "never," you breathe against his neck. "you don't get to ask me that."

and god, he's so fucked. because he should pull away. should run. but your warmth, your scent, the way you cling to him like he's worth keeping—it ruins him.

leave it to the land, this is what it knows

he was made for violence—knuckles split on brick walls, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, the way pain sings through his veins like an old friend. survival is coded in his bones, written in every scar. but you—you with your stupid jokes and softer hands, with the way you trace his scars like they're something precious instead of proof of how broken he is—you make him want. want mornings tangled in sheets, want lazy kisses pressed to his shoulder blades, want things he has no right to ask for. it terrifies him.

"stop that," he grumbles when you catch his hand, turning it over to press your lips to his bruised knuckles.

"stop what?" you murmur, all innocence, but your eyes spark with mischief.

"this." he gestures vaguely between you, at the way your thumb rubs circles into his palm. "acting like i'm—"

"like you're what?" you interrupt, leaning in until your breath ghosts over his lips. "worth loving?"

he flinches like you've struck him. "that's not—"

"too bad," you whisper, and kiss him before he can protest further. and god help him, he kisses back, hands clutching at your waist like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.

(he was made for blood and brutality. but maybe—just maybe—he could learn to be made for this too.)

honey, that’s how it sleeps

the nightmares come less often when you’re there—when he can feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against his chest, when your warmth seeps into his bones like sunlight through cracked blinds. he’ll never say it out loud, but he sleeps deeper with your limbs tangled in his, with your head tucked under his chin like you belong there. (you do.)

one night, after a particularly bad mission, you catch him staring at you in the dim light, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“what?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep, blinking up at him.

“nothing,” he mutters, but his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer.

you smirk against his collarbone. “you’re such a liar.”

he huffs, but doesn’t deny it, just presses his lips to your forehead in a silent confession.

don’t let it in with no intention to keep it

his hands are rough when they grab your wrists, pinning them to the mattress as he hovers over you, breath ragged. "this isn't a game," he grits out, eyes dark with something dangerous. "i'm not some fucking toy you can pick up when it's convenient and toss aside when you're bored."

you tilt your chin up, defiant even as your pulse jumps under his grip. "who said anything about tossing you aside?"

"don't," he warns, voice dropping to that low growl that makes your stomach flip. "don't act like you don't know what you do to me. like you haven't always known."

your smile is all sharp edges and sweetness. "maybe i like what i do to you."

he exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "then you better be prepared to deal with the consequences, sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. "because if you let me in, i'm not leaving. ever."

(he means it. he'll ruin anyone who tries to take him away from you—including himself.)

"who says i'd let you out?" you answer, voice just as raw, just as wrecked, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you loosen your grip. the look on his face mirrors yours—something desperate, something starving—and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. "i lost you once before, i'm never losing you again."

jesus christ, don’t be kind to it

your kindness is worse than cruelty. the way you cup his face like he’s something precious, the way you press feather-light kisses to every scar—each one a silent i love you, i love you, i love you—it undoes him completely. he knows how to take a punch, how to bleed and keep fighting, but this? this tenderness? it terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.

"stop," he rasps when you trace the jagged line along his ribs—a souvenir from a fight he barely walked away from. his voice cracks, rough with something too close to vulnerability. "you don’t have to—"

"i know," you interrupt softly, lips brushing the raised skin before you look up at him, eyes warm as sunlight. "i want to."

and that’s the thing that wrecks him most of all—that you choose this, choose him, even when he’s all sharp edges and broken pieces. your fingers card through his hair, gentle as a summer breeze, and he leans into the touch before he can stop himself.

honey, don’t feed it, it will come back

he always comes back. no matter how many times he tells himself this is the last time, no matter how many miles he puts between you, his feet always find their way to your doorstep—bruised, breathless, and aching. tonight is no different. the second you open the door, he’s on you, hands rough as they pin you against the wall, his mouth hot and desperate against yours.

“told you not to let me in,” he growls between kisses, teeth scraping your bottom lip. “told you i’d come back.”

you laugh, breathless, arching into him as his fingers dig into your hips. “like you could stay away,” you taunt, dragging your nails down his back just to hear him groan.

he nips at your throat in retaliation, sucking a bruise into your skin as his hands roam, claiming, possessive. “fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “you ruin me.”

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

you smile at him, all sunshine and sharp edges, and he aches—not just with want, but with something terrifyingly tender that coils tight in his chest. he knows better than to reach for it, knows better than to let himself believe he could have this. but then your fingers brush against his, tentative and warm, and something in him cracks open.

"jason," you murmur, thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles—the same hands that have done unspeakable things, now trembling under your touch. "you can hold my hand, you know. i won’t break."

he hesitates, breath catching, before his fingers finally—finally—intertwine with yours, clumsy and unsure. "...this okay?" he mutters, voice rough, like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

you squeeze his hand, grinning up at him like he’s just given you the world. "more than okay," you whisper, leaning in until your forehead rests against his. "perfect, actually."

than to smile at me, smile at me like that

like he's something precious. like he's something yours—a secret treasure you found buried in the wreckage and decided to keep. it makes his chest too tight, makes his hands shake with the effort of not reaching for you, not crushing you against him until you can't tell where he ends and you begin. he wants to bite that smile off your lips, wants to swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever.

"quit it," he grits out when you catch him staring, your grin widening like you've won something.

"stop what?" you tease, leaning in until your breath ghosts over his mouth. "smiling at my boyfriend?"

the word—boyfriend—sends a jolt through him. his fingers twitch toward you before he can stop them, catching in the fabric of your shirt. "you know what you're doing," he accuses, voice low.

you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feather-light. "yeah," you admit, laughing when he finally snaps and drags you in. "and you love it."

you know better babe, you know better babe

he’s told you. he’s told you—with rough words and scowls and hands that push you away even when they tremble with the need to pull you closer. but you still curl into him like you belong there, still press your cold nose against the pulse point in his neck like you’re memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat. and the worst part? he’s starting to let you.

tonight, when you burrow under his arm with a sleepy sigh, he doesn’t stiffen. doesn’t grumble. his breath hitches, just once, before his arm settles around your shoulders, pulling you in like he’s been waiting for this all along.

"...comfortable?" he mutters, voice gruff but lacking its usual edge.

you hum, nuzzling closer. "mhm. you’re warm."

his fingers flex against your side, hesitant, before they start tracing idle patterns on your hip—his version of an apology, a confession, a please don’t let go.

than to hold me just, hold me just like that

your arms around him are a vice, a salvation, the only thing anchoring him to this world when the memories threaten to drag him under. he should pull away—shouldn’t let you cling to something so broken, shouldn’t let himself believe he deserves this. but then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding tight like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again, and something in him cracks open.

"...you’re gonna suffocate me," he mumbles, but there’s no bite to it, just a rough edge of something tender he’s still learning to name.

you laugh against his collarbone, warm and bright. "liar," you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. "you love this."

he should deny it. should shove you off and retreat to the shadows where he belongs. but instead, his arms tighten around you—just a fraction, just enough to feel the way your breath hitches—and he ducks his head to press his lips to your hair.

"...shut up," he mutters, but it’s ruined by the way his voice cracks, by the way his hands tremble where they rest against your back.

i know who i am when i’m alone

alone, he’s sharp edges and old blood, the metallic taste of violence thick on his tongue. alone, he’s the red hood—a monster stitched together from Gotham’s rot, a ghost wearing a dead boy’s face. sometimes, in the quiet, he thinks maybe he should’ve stayed buried. maybe the world would’ve been kinder if he’d never clawed his way out of that grave.

but then you’re there, your warmth pressing against his back, your fingers threading through his like you’re trying to pull him out of his own head.

"jay," you murmur, soft but insistent, "come back to me."

his breath hitches. he should shrug you off, should snap that he’s not something you can fix. but instead, he turns his hand over, palm-up, an unspoken invitation. your fingers slot between his like they belong there, and he exhales shakily.

"...’m here," he mutters, rough but honest.

you press a kiss to his knuckles, gentle as dawn light. "good," you whisper. "stay."

(he will. for you, he’ll try.)

i’m something else when i see you

with you, he’s just jason—not the red hood, not the ghost, not the boy who should’ve stayed dead. just jason, who loves too hard with hands that have known too much blood, who wants too much when he deserves so little. it terrifies him, this fragile thing between you, like one wrong move could shatter it all. and you—god, you’re just as broken, just as scarred, always waiting for the day he doesn’t come back, always counting his breaths like each one might be the last.

tonight, he finds you curled into yourself, knees to your chest, staring blankly at the door like you’re already mourning him. his chest aches. he doesn’t know how to fix this—doesn’t know if he can. but he kneels in front of you anyway, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch.

"...hey," he murmurs, voice rough. "i’m here."

you look up, eyes red-rimmed, and your breath stutters. "for how long?" you whisper, the question hanging between you like a guillotine.

he doesn’t have an answer. doesn’t know how to promise something he might not be able to keep. so he does the only thing he can—he pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, holding you so tight it almost hurts. "long as i can," he breathes into your hair.

your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate. "that’s not enough," you choke out.

he knows. god, he knows. but he presses a kiss to your temple anyway, slow and lingering, trying to pour every unspoken i love you into it. "i know," he admits, voice cracking. "but it’s all i got."

you don’t understand, you should never know

you don’t realize the power you have—how one touch from you could bring him to his knees, how he’d carve out his own ribs if it meant keeping you safe. (he hopes you never find out.) but that night, with your lips on his and your hands tugging at his belt, he’s not thinking about hiding. he’s not thinking at all.

"jason," you gasp as he pins you to the mattress, his body covering yours like a shield, like a prayer. "are you sure—?"

his answer is a growl against your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point as his hands map every inch of you, desperate and reverent. "shut up," he breathes, but there’s no heat in it, just a raw ache. "just—fuck, just let me have this."

you arch into him, nails dragging down his back, and he swears he sees stars. "you have me," you whisper, voice breaking as he finally, finally sinks into you. "all of me."

(and that’s the thing—he doesn’t have you. you have him, heart and soul, and he’s too far gone to even care.)

how easy you are to need

it’s pathetic, really. the way he craves you—not just in the heat of battle or the dark of night, but in the quiet moments too. the way you hum off-key while making coffee, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, the way you sigh in your sleep like the world can’t touch you here. it’s too much. it’s not enough.

tonight, he watches you bathed in moonlight, fingers tracing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing his favourite verse of a poem. you stir under his touch, blinking up at him with sleep-soft eyes.

"why’re you staring?" you murmur, voice thick with drowsiness.

his thumb brushes your cheekbone, reverent. "just thinking," he admits, quieter than the rustle of sheets.

you turn into his palm, pressing a kiss to his pulse point. "about?"

he swallows. "how you’re like sunlight," he starts, haltingly, "even when you’re not trying to be." it’s clumsy, poetic in a way that makes his ears burn, but it’s true—you warm him from the inside out, melt the frost in his veins until he’s just a man, just jason, just yours.

your smile is slow, sweet. "say that again," you tease, but your eyes are shining.

"shut up," he grumbles, pulling you closer until your laughter vibrates against his chest.

(he’ll never tell you how easy it is to need you. but he’ll show you, every day, in every touch, for as long as you let him.)

don’t let me in with no intention to keep me

he’s not asking. he’s warning—voice rough like gravel, hands trembling where they frame your face. if you let him in, if you peel back his armor and see the broken thing beneath, he’s not leaving. he’ll carve a place between your ribs and make a home there, ruin you for anyone else, love you until it hurts.

"you sure about this?" he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky. "i’m not—i don’t know how to do this right."

you kiss him anyway, slow and sweet, fingers carding through his hair like he’s something precious. "good thing i don’t need you to be perfect," you whisper against his lips. "just yours."

his breath hitches. he kisses you back like he’s drowning, like you’re air, hands sliding down to grip your waist—gentler now, but no less desperate. "...mine," he repeats, testing the word, and it sounds so right.

jesus christ, don’t be kind to me

your kindness is a knife, twisting deeper every time you look at him like he’s worth something. your love is a live wire, sparking through his veins until he’s breathless with it. he can’t take it—the way you reach for him first, fingers lacing through his without hesitation, the way you press kisses to his scars like they’re something holy. but god, he’ll take anything you give him.

tonight, it’s him who initiates, catching your wrist as you pass by and pulling you into his lap with a quiet grunt. you yelp, then melt against him instantly, laughter bubbling up as his arms tighten around you.

"missed me?" you tease, tilting your head to nuzzle against his jaw.

his nose brushes your temple, inhaling the scent of your shampoo like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. "shut up," he mumbles, but there’s no heat in it—just a rough tenderness that makes your chest ache.

you pull back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing the dark circles under his eyes. "you’re so pretty," you murmur, hopelessly, helplessly in love.

he flushes, scowling, but leans into your touch anyway. "you’re such a sap," he mutters, before kissing you—soft, slow, and so painfully sweet it steals your breath. as if he hasn't said cheesier things in his head about you.

honey, don’t feed me, i will come back

he always does. no matter how many times he grumbles about needing space, no matter how dramatically he flops onto the couch complaining about your terrible taste in movies, he always circles back—drawn to you like gravity, like his bones know they belong wherever you are. and now? now he doesn’t even pretend to resist.

today, he catches you mid-eyeroll as you reorganize his haphazard stack of books (alphabetized by color, what the hell—), and before you can protest, he’s lifting you clear off the ground, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"jason!" you shriek, kicking halfheartedly as he carries you toward the bedroom. "i was fixing your chaos!"

"ruining my system, you mean," he counters, giving your thigh a light smack just to hear you squawk. "besides, you’re way more fun when you’re not judging my life choices."

you pinch his side in retaliation, grinning when he yelps. "oh, so now you admit i’m fun?"

he dumps you onto the mattress, looming over you with a smirk. "shut up," he mutters, but he’s already leaning down to kiss you, swallowing your laughter like it’s his favorite flavor.

it can’t be unlearned

he’s tasted your mouth, your skin, your laughter—memorized the way you arch beneath him, the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze that spot just below your ear. he’s ruined for anything else, addicted to the way you fall apart in his hands, and now? now he doesn’t hesitate to take what he wants.

tonight, he pins you to the sheets with a hunger that borders on desperation, hands roaming like he’s mapping a religion he’ll never stop worshipping. “mine,” he growls against your throat, and the way you shudder—like the word alone is enough to undo you—sends a thrill down his spine.

afterward, when the air is thick with sweat and the scent of you, he surprises even himself by pulling you close, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

“...okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

you hum, nuzzling into his chest with a contented sigh. "more than okay," you mumble, already half-asleep. "you?"

he huffs a laugh, tucking the blanket around you both. "could go for a few more rounds," jason teases, voice thick with exhaustion but still grinning as he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

you laugh—soft and breathless, the sound curling warm in his chest. "oh my god, jay."

"alright, fine," he concedes, already pulling you closer as his breathing evens out. "sleep it is." but the way his arms lock around you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish by morning, says everything his voice won’t.

i’ve known the warmth of your doorways

your home is his—the creak of the floorboards, the way your sheets smell like that cheap lavender detergent you swear by, the half-empty coffee mugs left scattered on the counter because neither of you can be bothered to clean up properly. your bed is his, with its too-soft pillows and the way you always steal the blankets, leaving him to grumble and pull you closer just to steal your warmth instead. your heart is his, beating steady under his palm when he wakes from nightmares to find you already watching him, fingers carding through his hair before he even has to ask. (he’s not giving it back. he couldn’t if he tried.)

tonight, it’s him who reaches for you first once more, catching your wrist as you walk by and tugging you into his lap with a quiet "c’mere." you go willingly, laughing as he nuzzles into the curve of your neck, his arms locking around your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

"since when do you initiate cuddles?" you tease, but your hands are already sliding into his hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck the way he likes.

he hums, low and content, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "since you ruined me," he mumbles, like it’s a confession, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever spoken.

(he has. you have. and neither of you would change a thing.)

through the cold, i’ll find my way back to you

no matter how far he goes, no matter how lost he gets in the blood and the noise and the weight of his own ghosts, he’ll always come back. you’re his north star, his fixed point—the only thing that makes sense in this godforsaken city. tonight, he watches you from the rooftops, silhouetted against the neon glow of gotham’s skyline as you move through the fight below. you’re beautiful like this, all sharp edges and fluid motion, but his stomach twists when he sees you take a hit, when blood blooms dark against your sleeve.

he’s there before you can stumble, his hands steady as he hauls you into the shadows of an alleyway. "hold still," he mutters, voice rough with worry as he presses a gloved hand to the wound. you hiss but don’t pull away, your breath warm against his jaw as he works.

"since when do you play medic?" you tease, though your voice is tight with pain.

he doesn’t answer, just peels back the fabric of your suit with careful fingers, his touch reverent as he cleans the cut. when he’s done, he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—soft, clumsy, lingering—before lifting your hand to his mouth and brushing his lips over your bruised knuckles. "don’t do that again," he murmurs, but it’s not an order. it’s a plea.

you smile, thumb stroking the stubble along his jaw. "make me," you whisper, and the way he leans into your touch says everything he won’t.

(he’ll always come back. and you’ll always be there, waiting.)

oh, please, give me mercy no more

"apologise, and maybe i'll think about going easy on you."

you laugh, bright and teasing, when he pins you to the mattress, his hips pressing yours deep into the sheets. "offering me mercy, jay?" you gasp, like the concept is foreign, back arching as he drags his teeth down your throat. "since when do you believe in mercy?"

he doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway. instead, he sinks into you in one slow, deliberate thrust, the stretch so perfect it punches the air from your lungs. he groans, forehead dropping to yours as he bottoms out, the heat of you clenching around him like you were made to take him. "fuck," he grits out, voice wrecked already. "you feel—" but he can’t finish, too lost in the way your nails dig into his shoulders, the way your thighs tremble around his waist.

he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips dragging a broken sound from your lips. "jason—" you whimper, fingers twisting in the sheets.

"look at me," he demands, voice rough, and when you do—when your eyes meet his, hazy with pleasure—something in his chest cracks open. suddenly, he’s imagining more than just this: lazy mornings tangled in your limbs, a house with too many windows, maybe even a tiny human with your sense of humour and his temper. the thought is so terrifyingly sweet it makes him falter, his rhythm stuttering.

you notice, of course. "where’d you go?" you pant, hips rolling to meet his.

he shakes his head, thrusts deeper, harder, until you’re gasping. "nowhere," he lies, but the way his hands cradle your face, the way his lips brush yours like a promise, says otherwise.

(he wants it all. and one day, he’ll tell you.)

that’s a kindness you can’t afford

he’s not kind—not in the way that matters, not when his hands are stained and his heart’s been carved out too many times to count. but you, with your stupid, stubborn hope, keep offering it anyway. tonight, it’s in the way you press a kiss to his scarred knuckles, like he’s something fragile, something worth gentleness. it makes his chest ache.

“stop,” he rasps, fingers twitching in your grip. “i told you this before, you don’t gotta—”

“i know,” you interrupt, lips quirking. “i want to.”

your thumb traces the ridge of his knuckles, slow and deliberate, and he should pull away. should remind you he’s not built for softness. but then you lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his jaw, and whisper, “guess you’re just stuck with me being nice.”

he huffs, but his hand turns under yours, palm-up, fingers curling to catch yours before you can retreat. “...reckless,” he mutters, but the way his thumb brushes your wrist is tender, almost apologetic.

(you are. and he’s not sorry at all.)

i warn you, babe, each night, as sure as you’re born

he tells you. every time. don’t start what you can’t finish. you never listen.

(like that first night he came back—really came back—when he appeared outside your window like some half-feral ghost, all sharp edges and haunted eyes. the fire escape creaked under his weight, the cold metal biting through his gloves as he hesitated, knuckles hovering just shy of the glass. he shouldn’t be here. shouldn’t let you see him like this, still smelling of blood and gotham’s rot. but god, he missed you.)

then the curtain twitched, and there you were—sleep-rumpled and wide-eyed, your breath fogging the pane as you stared at him like he was the answer to a prayer you’d never said out loud.

“...jason?” your voice was barely a whisper, cracked open with something like hope.

he swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists. “go back to bed,” he muttered, rough as gravel. “this ain’t—you don’t want this.”

but you were already unlatching the window, already reaching for him with hands that didn’t shake. “shut up,” you breathed, and then you were pulling him inside, your arms wrapping around him so tight he couldn’t tell where his trembling ended and yours began.

“i told you—” he started, but his voice broke, his face buried in your hair like he could memorize the scent of you.

“i know,” you interrupted, fingers gripping the back of his jacket like you were afraid he’d vanish. “i don’t care.”

you’ll hear me howling outside your door

you always let him in.

(like today, when the two of you are walking along the beach, barefoot and carefree, the golden hour sun painting everything in warm hues. the sand is soft under your toes, the waves lapping at your ankles as you laugh over some stupid childhood memory—that time he tried to bake cookies and nearly set the kitchen on fire, or when you tripped over your own feet trying to impress him with a skateboard trick. his laughter is rough but bright, unfiltered in a way it rarely is, and it makes your chest ache with how much you love him.)

then, because you’ve never been able to resist, you shove him playfully, sending him stumbling into the surf with a yelp. “oh, you’re dead,” he growls, but there’s no real threat in it, just that fond exasperation he reserves only for you. he lunges, catching you around the waist, and the two of you go down in a tangle of limbs and saltwater, the waves swallowing your shrieks of laughter.

you come up sputtering, coughing as you accidentally swallow a mouthful of the ocean. “tastes like shit,” you wheeze, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

he’s no better, blinking furiously as the water stings his eyes. “serves you right,” he mutters, but he’s already reaching for you, his hands gentle as they brush the wet hair from your face.

“worth it,” you grin, leaning into his touch.

he rolls his eyes, but the way his thumb traces your cheekbone is achingly tender. “idiot,” he murmurs, and it sounds like i love you.

don’t you hear me howling, babe?

you always will.

bullets ping off the metal crates you’re crouched behind, the sharp scent of gunpowder thick in the air. jason’s pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with you, his breath warm against your ear as he grins, wild and bright. "told you this was a bad idea," he says, like he’s not having the time of his life.

"you love my bad ideas," you shoot back, peeking over the crate just long enough to return fire. a man yelps as your shot grazes his arm, and jason barks out a laugh, loud enough to startle the goons into hesitating.

"showoff," he mutters, but there’s pride in his voice as he leans around the corner and takes down two men with precise shots. you cover him without missing a beat, your movements synced like you share the same pulse.

when the last thug hits the ground, the warehouse falls silent except for your shared, ragged breathing. jason turns to you, blood smeared across his cheekbone, and you reach out, thumb brushing it away. "messy," you tease.

"you love it," he counters, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm, right over the bruise forming from where you’d punched someone too hard.

the walk back to his bike is slow, the adrenaline fading into something softer. you bump his shoulder, grinning. "can’t wait to deal with this bullshit every day when we’re married."

his heart stutters in his chest, so loud he's half-afraid you'll hear it. his right hand curls instinctively in his pocket, thumb brushing against gold—the same way it has every day for weeks, checking, reassuring. the weight of what he's about to do tightens his throat, makes your casual words echo like church bells in his skull. when we're married. like it's inevitable. like he hasn't been lying awake rehearsing this moment for months. "yeah?" he manages, voice rougher than the gunfight warranted. the smile that tugs at his lips is helpless, unbearably soft. "...me neither."

(he looks at you then—really looks. the way the streetlights halo your hair, the way your smile cuts through the grime and exhaustion like sunlight. he wants to memorize this, wants to carve it into his ribs so he never forgets the way you love him, reckless and relentless.

"c’mon," he murmurs, nodding toward a quieter street. "let’s go somewhere else first."

you raise a brow but follow, because you always do.

and tonight, he’ll kneel on the rooftop where you first kissed—where the city lights painted your face in gold and he realized he’d never love anything as much as he loves you—ring in hand, voice trembling just once as he asks you to keep following. forever.)

WOAH this one was a long one—6.5k words??? i'm literally crying right now as i wrote this last part cause like AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH it took me 4 hours... 4 FUCKING HOURS TO WRITE THIS AND AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE IT I NEED MORE I NEED MORE OF JASON (as if i don't have the ability to write more of this.......)

[underghostgaze]

“Stronger then they know”

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x New Recruit!Reader

Summary: Being a woman in the military was never easy, but you could handle yourself. The real problem started when your fellow soldiers—the ones who didn’t know about you and Simon—decided to make you their new favorite target. What they didn’t realize was who had your back.

Warnings: Heavy misogyny, crude comments, harassment, tension, protective Simon, strong language, violent confrontation, reader trying to calm Simon down.

——————————————————————————————————

The barracks smelled of sweat, metal, and gun oil—just like any other base you’d been stationed at. You’d only been here a week, but that was long enough to know how things worked.

Earn your place. Stay quiet. Work twice as hard as the men.

But it didn’t matter how sharp you were with your training or how quickly you learned. A woman in special forces? To some of these guys, it was nothing more than a joke.

“Hey, sweetheart.” The drawl came from behind you as you cleaned your rifle. “Didn’t know they were lettin’ skirts into the task force now. Thought this was a place for soldiers, not little housewives playin’ dress-up.”

You didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge it. They wanted a reaction. You wouldn’t give them one.

Another voice chimed in, this one rougher, cocky. “Maybe that’s why the brass keeps sending us on these shit deployments. Got too many distractions around here.” His tone dropped lower. “Though, I gotta say, I wouldn’t mind a little… personal distraction after hours.”

Laughter echoed around the room. Your blood ran hot.

You gritted your teeth, jaw tight as you kept your focus on your gun. One deep breath. Another.

“Oi.” A new voice cut through the air like a blade. Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.

The room fell silent.

Simon.

Your stomach twisted, but not out of fear.

They had no idea who they’d been talking about.

Simon stood in the doorway, his massive frame casting a shadow over the room. His skull-patterned balaclava was pulled up just enough to reveal the firm set of his jaw—and the look in his eyes was murderous.

He walked in slow, deliberate steps. No words. Just the weight of his presence enough to make even the cockiest men tense up.

“You lot got a problem with my recruit?” His voice was low, steady, deadly.

Silence.

One of them—Mason, you thought—had the nerve to scoff. “Relax, L.T. We were just having a laugh.”

Simon stopped in front of him, towering over him like a goddamn executioner. “A laugh?” His voice barely above a whisper, but it held more threat than a loaded gun.

Mason shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking toward the others for backup, but no one spoke.

Simon leaned in slightly. “Say it again.”

Mason swallowed.

Simon didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just waited.

The silence stretched until the air felt suffocating. The tension so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.

“Nothin’ to say now?” Simon’s voice was softer, mocking. Dangerous.

Mason clenched his jaw. “It was just a joke.”

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose. “Funny. I didn’t laugh.”

Then, without warning—he moved.

Fast.

He grabbed Mason by the front of his uniform and slammed him against the nearest wall so hard the metal lockers rattled.

The entire room froze.

“You think you’re tough?” Simon growled. His grip tightened. “Think you can run your mouth like that without consequences?”

Mason’s face paled. “L.T.—”

Simon shoved him again, harder. “You talk about her like that again, and I’ll make sure you don’t have a tongue left to run.” His voice dropped to a low rasp, dangerous and quiet. “Understood?”

Mason nodded quickly, eyes wide.

“Simon.” Your voice was soft, meant only for him, but it cut through his anger like a bullet.

His grip didn’t loosen.

You swallowed, stepping closer. Your fingers curled gently around his arm. “Baby, that’s enough.”

The room shifted.

It wasn’t just the way everyone’s eyes widened at the pet name—it was the way Simon responded to it.

His body tensed, his breath sharp and uneven.

But he didn’t let go.

“Simon.” A little firmer this time. You ran your fingers over his wrist, grounding him. “Hun, stop.”

His fingers twitched.

His jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked. His breathing came fast, controlled but heavy.

Then, finally—he let Mason go.

The man hit the ground with a thud, coughing as he scrambled back.

Simon took a step away. His fists were still tight, his body still tense as a coiled wire.

But when he looked at you—his gaze softened. Just enough.

“With me.” His voice was still hard, but not unkind.

You nodded, following him out of the room.

Behind you, no one spoke.

——————————————————————————————————

The second you were alone, Simon turned to you, searching your face. “You alright?”

You swallowed, nodding. “I can handle myself, Simon.”

His jaw tightened. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let them treat you like that.”

Your chest ached. He was still angry, still on edge.

So you reached up, gently placing your palm against his cheek.

His breath hitched.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I’m okay.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning into your touch.

The fight was over.

But the war?

The next man who disrespected you wouldn’t be so lucky.

——————————————————————————————————

💬 Let me know if you want a part two!

[mrrharper]

Player Of The Month

You can support me at ko-fi.com/mrrharper

It did not take long.

Jake got a notification saying he'd been chosen as the Player of the Month from the server he's been playing on for months now. He was very excited about this as he's never got any in-game title like that before.

He clicked on the notification and scrolled through all the buzzwords to see what rewards he would be getting. Weirdly, there was no mention of any items, upgrades or other perks. Instead there was a button. "Brand new personalized experience".

Jack eagerly clicked the button, the only option avaliable to him. At first nothing happened and he just assumed the game was loading some new assests which would probably take some time.

Suddenly he felt some buzzing in his head, followed by a sharp pain and a feeling as if his headset was tightening around his head. He was paralyzed by this for a moment, his mind completely losing track of what was happening with his body as it was experiencing sudden sensory overload.

And then he was back in the game, but something was different. He was transported to Iron Gym, a locaton on the opposite side of the map from he was just a minute ago. He looked down and saw that his avatar had changed completely. He tried to access his character menu to see what had happened but he couldn't, so he walked up to a mirror.

In in he saw someone completely different. A young dude, clearly muscular, wearing a backwards cap and a pair of tight compression shorts. He looked like a gym bro! Not only that, he looked pretty similiar to the NPCs that populated this area of the game world, which Jake found very strange. Something went wrong here.

Wait, where was his headset? Jake put his hands on his face, but couldn't find the bulky gear he had to wear to play. What was going on?

A player came up to Jake and chose the option to initiate the conversation.

Jake #27AD0019 turned around to face Player#A97F4. His eyes flashed red, showing he was now in interaction mode.

"ey dude, ya got any issue with me bruh?" he asked, an arrogant streak in his voice. He then waited for the player to choose a response form the dialog tree, entering one of his idling animations, moving slightly from left to right and flexing his bare chest.

"Damn, that's a new one, didn't see this character before here" the player muttered to himself, clearly intrigued by the sudden appearance of a new NPC. He then chose a response.

"No, I just noticed you're a regular here and you seem to be doing pretty good, so I wanted to say hi."

#27AD0019's changed his attitude from annoyed and arrogant to proud and cocky. A new animation was triggered by the player's response, making him flash his teeth in a cocky smile, then flex his arms in a double biceps pose.

"hell yeah bruh, am the top dawg here dude"

The player focused on the NPC's muscular arms, while the character kept them in a flexed position up in the air. Player#A97F4 was starting to enjoy the conversation and knew exactly what dialog option he would choose.

"I see, you clearly work out every day. Your form is very impressive."

This prompted another few animations, in which #27AD0019 flexed his arms, chest and legs, showing off his muscles to the player.

"fuck yeah bro! i lift, like, all day dude, gotta work for guns like this bro huhuhuhuhuhuh" He let out a low, dumb laugh. The player grinned as he saw one of the potential responses he had avaliable.

"So not much happening in your life except the gym, right?"

A few calculations happened int he background that determined whether the NPC would respond positively or with anger. The result then took into account the character's intelligence statistic - 3/10. This gave the player the exact result he was looking for.

"huhuhuh yeah dude, am a real gym bro dude, ain't nothin' more important that liftin' bro. head empty, just gains huhuhuhuhuh" The answer triggered another loop of flexing animations.

#27AD0019 was going to be a very popular NPC.

[sicutpuella]

Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry

[theicarusconstellation]

i want jinx to tear out throats with her teeth for her big sister and look to vi with a sharp-toothed grin and flashing eyes. aren’t you proud, sister? and vi is rooted to the floor in horror searching for a baby sister she’ll never find again in irises of remorseless, shimmering pink. powder, what did you do? so jinx will pout thinking that it’s like when she was a kid and she just hasn’t proven herself yet, and the carnage builds and builds and builds until all that’s left is the two of them and a loaded gun.

[darlinluxx]

— 𝐀𝐈𝐌 | 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐎 ౨ৎ

↳ pairing : natalie scatorccio x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : hunting, guns

𝐓he air hangs thick and cold, biting at your exposed cheeks. snow crunches under your shoes with every hesitant step. this isn’t a pleasant situation. it’s survival training, courtesy of Natalie.

you watch her, silhouette sharp against the stark white landscape. Nat has transformed. gone is the sarcastic girl you knew back in New Jersey. this is a wilderness wraith, a predator in timberlands. holding a rifle, she’s a different animal, a creature of the hunt, familiar with the unforgiving rules of this frozen hell.

“alright, princess,” she says, her voice flat, almost devoid of emotion. it’s a mask she wears, you know, to keep the fear at bay. “time to stop admiring the scenery and start learning.”

you swallow, the lump in your throat suddenly enormous. you’ve never held a gun in your life, much less fired one. back home, the closest you got to hunting was ordering chicken at the local butcher shop. now, you’re staring down the barrel of a rifle that’s going to decide whether or not you eat tonight, tomorrow, maybe ever again.

“first,” Nat says, breaking you from your reverie, “safety. this is not a toy. this is not a game. treat it with respect, or it’ll bite you.” she hands you the rifle, its weight surprisingly substantial in your cold-numbed hands.

you nod, your teeth chattering slightly. it’s not just the cold.

she goes through the basics, mechanics you struggle to retrain. loading, unloading, the safety, the sights. she’s patient, surprisingly so, correcting your clumsy movements with firm but gentle hands. you can feel the tremor in her fingertips, the same tremor that plagues her at night, when the forest whispers secrets you don’t want to hear.

“okay,” she says, finally. “now, let’s talk about hunting. we can’t just go blasting away at anything that moves.”

Natalie explains, referencing hunts she’s described in the past. she speaks of deer as if she knows their habits intimately, their routes through the forest, the way they drink at the frozen creek.

“we need to be smart. quiet. patient.” she pauses, her eyes boring into yours. “and we need to be efficient. one shot. clean kill. no suffering.”

she sets up a makeshift target, a tattered piece of fabric tied to a stunted tree branch. then she demonstrates, raising the rifle, her movements fluid and practiced. the crack of the shot echoes through the silent woods, and the fabric flutters to the ground, riddled with a single, precise hole.

your turn.

you raise the rifle, the weight suddenly feeling unbearable. your hands shake. you squint, trying to align the sights, but everything blurs. the cold, the fear, the overwhelming pressure of survival—it all conspires against you.

“breathe,” Nat says, her voice softer now, closer. she steps behind you, her hands gently guiding yours. “slow, deep breaths. center yourself.”

you follow her instructions, focusing on the rhythm of your breathing. you try to block out the fear, the uncertainty, the gnawing hunger that never truly leaves you. you try to become Natalie, to channel her focus, her resilience.

slowly, the sights come into focus. you squeeze the trigger, the rifle bucking against your shoulder. the sound is deafening. you flinch, lowering the gun.

“well?” Nat asks, her voice tight.

you look at the target. a gaping hole, nowhere near the center, but still… a hit. a messy, imperfect hit, but a hit nonetheless.

a flicker of something, almost pride, crosses Natalie’s face. “not bad,” she says, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “not bad at all.”

it’s not perfect, and you know you have a long way to go. but in this frozen wasteland, where every day is a battle for survival, “not bad” is a victory. and standing here, with the rifle in your hands and Natalie by your side, you feel a sliver of hope, a fragile promise that maybe you can survive this after all. because you have her. and she has you. and maybe, together that’s enough.

[ambiguous-avery]

When It Refused To Rain

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 917

Summary: The sky wouldn’t cry and neither would Dean. That was the deal Dean made with himself after everything. After losing Bobby. But when you’re hurt on a hunt, the weight of what he almost lost hits harder than what’s already gone.

Tags/Warnings: Dealing with grief, poor coping mechanisms, hurt/comfort, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: My submission for @impala-dreamer’s Through His Eyes challenge! My prompt was the title "When It Refused To Rain." I’m so awful with summaries, my apologies, and I was a dumb-dumb and didn’t realize this challenge had a deadline, so this is me hastily putting my idea together.

The sky had been threatening to rain for three damn days. The entire duration of the last case. Every time he glanced out the window, Dean expected to see it. Heavy raindrops breaking on the window. Dark clouds opening up and drenching the earth. But instead, they just lingered. Grey and swollen and looming over everything like a loaded gun just waiting to go off. 

Just like him.

You were stretched out on the couch behind him, breaths shallow and eyes screwed shut in a perpetual grimace. The blood – your blood – had been washed down the drain hours ago, but he still felt like he could feel it. Could feel the way it pooled in the creases of his hands and clung to his skin no matter how many times he scrubbed them.

You shouldn’t have gone in alone, but that's beside the point. The point was that you almost didn’t make it back out.

And he couldn’t bear to lose you. Not you, too.

“You gonna keep staring out the window all night?” you asked, your voice soft and raw.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Not when he was hanging on by a breath. Instead, he brought the bottle to his lips, the whiskey burning its way down his throat and falling into the abyss inside him where his panic lived. If he turned around, if he faced you, he knew he would break.

“You could keep me company. Or... just say something. Anything.”

He closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face like the motion alone would be enough to calm every emotion running through him. His hand settled onto the windowsill, grounding him.

“You shouldn’t have gone in alone,” he finally managed, grinding his teeth together as he carefully tucked everything away. He would be fine. He was always fine.

“I had to. That thing was about to kill–”

“You could’ve died!” His words came out too sharp. Too loud. Too angry. He turned to look at you just in time to catch the shock in your expression. You blinked, taken aback, then blinked again as if holding back tears.

And God that nearly undid him.

You shifted slightly, grimacing as you moved to sit up.

“I didn’t, though. I’m still right here.”

Yeah. Barely. And he wasn’t sure what he would do if you weren’t. Dean finally stepped away from the window and sank down onto the floor next to the couch, his back to you. The whiskey sloshed around in the bottle, and the glass clinked against the floor. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t look at you.

“I keep waiting for it to rain,” he murmured after a long pause. You made a soft noise of acknowledgement. “Feels like it should, right? Like the sky’s about to let loose. It has to.” You remained silent, just listening to him. You’re so good at that. Listening to him and hearing him ramble about the things he can’t always find the words for. “I thought when it finally did, I would feel like I could breathe again. Like maybe the world was mourning him too.”

He turned to look at you finally.

“Cause then maybe I could too.”

The look you gave him said everything. Gentle. Hurt. Loving. He didn’t deserve that look. Not after everything he’s put you through. All the yelling and arguing and stubbornness. He deserved your anger. Your wrath. The moment when you decided that he wasn’t worth all the heartache. But you still gave him that look. The one that said he was everything in the world you had ever wanted.

You reached a hand out to him, your fingers gently brushing along the shoulder of his jacket, and he covered your hand with his. You were warm. You were always warm. And you always shared that warmth with him.

“You don’t have to wait for the rain, Dean.” Your voice was quiet but steady, grounding him like a rock in the hurricane that was his grief. “You can let go if you need to.”

He squeezed your hand, harder than he meant to, but you didn't pull away. You never did.

"I can't lose you," he whispered, the words scraping his throat raw. "Not after–" He couldn't finish. Couldn't say his name.

The silence stretched between you, filled with all the things he couldn't say. All the grief he couldn't let himself feel because if he started, he might never stop.

"Come here," you murmured, tugging at his hand.

Dean hesitated, then shifted to face you fully. His eyes stung. His throat constricted. He didn’t let the tears fall, but he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours like he was hanging on a precipice and you were the only thing keeping him from falling.

The kiss happened before he could stop it. Soft at first, like an apology, then deeper, more urgent. Like everything he had been holding back was rushing out of him all at once.

And you’re kissing him as if he meant the world. As if you truly wanted him. As if his fractures weren’t the kind that people would run from. Dean had never been good with emotions. His expertise was in slamming doors and burning corpses. But here you were, quivering against him, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his flannel like he was your anchor instead of the other way around.

Outside, the sky never shattered. The storm never broke.

But something inside of him did.

---

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Dean taglist: @jollyhunter @aylacavebear @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @maddie0101 @sir-thisisadndserver @colours-of-thewind @kiddieclaws @mostlymarvelgirl @rurwu @imalapdog @losers-clvb @zyra-7 @ladykitana90

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

[risingoftime]

WHERE HE WAITS | LOUSTACK |

I heard your hearts dancing ᝰ.ᐟ

synopsis: Stack Moore is the man standing between Louis and Lestat. Blood, business, and something far more dangerous than desire.

The smell of New Orleans was different than Chicago. It was sweet with rot and jasmine, steeped in music and magic. Stack didn’t like it at first. The way it made his cigarette smoke hang longer. But the city grew on him, like moss, like a wound you stopped minding.

Tonight was different from most nights for Stack; Mary had just left him, and he was on the hunt for the vampire responsible for the dent in the food supply. He was following blood. Not fresh blood, old blood. The kind that clung to walls long after the body was gone. He’d been in juke joints, card rooms, even back alleys behind brothels. But tonight, the trail led him to a narrow street with no name, where the gaslights flickered like they knew something was coming. And there he was.

All dressed in his Sunday's best, like mourning never left him. Candlelight spilled from an open window, catching on the edge of his cheekbone. He looked less like a man and more like a question with sharp teeth to Stack.

"You following me?" Louis asked, not turning his head. Just spoke it softly, like he already knew.

"I don’t follow. I hunt." Stack didn’t blink.

Louis let out a slow, bitter laugh. "You think I’m a meal?"

Stack stepped closer. "No. I think you’re what’s been leaving bodies all over the city. Just wanted to see if the bloodsucker wore silk."

"And if I am?" Louis turned then, his eyes were dark like the night sky.

Stack’s grin curled. "Then maybe I’ll let you teach me something." They stood there, the tension between them like a loaded gun. Louis stepped forward, hands behind his back like he didn’t need them to kill.

"You’re like us. The only way I was able to figure it out was now. I could feel your presence from a mile away," he said. It wasn’t a question.

Stack’s voice dropped an octave. "Well, I ain’t go flaunting it around like you do."

"Then you haven’t been paying attention."

And just like that, the street seemed quieter, waiting to see who would flinch first.

Louis’s eyes dragged over Stack slowly, like he was trying to read him, and his expression shifted between amusement and disdain. "I’ve heard of you, you know," Louis said, finally breaking the silence.

"Stack Moore. The man turning sweat and sound into gold. You manage that juke joint down the street."

Stack raised a brow, a bit taken aback by Louis's knowledge of you. "So you’ve been tunin’ to the gossip."

"Yeah, it seems my brothels are rather quiet these days. Yours, on the other hand…" Louis let his voice trail off, his gaze lazily roaming over Stack's imposing figure again with an interest he hadn't had in a while. The frustration building within him, courtesy of Lestat, needed an outlet. This moment felt like the perfect escape for the night.

He took another step forward, now chest to chest, close enough that Stack could smell whatever cologne Louis wore; it was undoubtedly rich and expensive.

"… is anything but."

Stack didn’t step back. “Business booms where people feel safe enough to do what they like to do in the dark.” Stack let out a small chuckle at the innuendo. "I’m just good at what I do. "

"I don’t doubt it," Louis said softly, "I’d like to continue this conversation somewhere less… uncovered."

Stack has heard of Louis de Pointe du Lac as well. It was a mouthful for him to recount his name, the Black people here were so pretentious 'bout shit like names. Where Stack came from, you just hoped that you would wake up to live another day. Stack leaned in slightly, testing the tension between them. "This is where you lure men into your lair, pretty boy? Talk numbers and slip in a little neck?"

Stack ran a hand into his pockets to grab a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it with ease, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth before continuing. "Just to let you know, I don’t usually take invitations from men in prettier shirts than mine."

"You think I’m trying to charm you?" Louis smiled, faintly at what Stack was hinting at.

"I know you are," Stack said, lips curling. "But let’s get one thing straight. I like pussy."

Louis walked deeper into the alleyway, his back turned as if Stack’s declaration didn’t bother him.

"And yet," Louis said, not looking at him, "you still stalk me!"

"Curiosity’s a hell of a thing." Stack laughed more to himself, as flashbacks of that night last year. The last time we could watch the sun, the last time he was with his brother. If only he hadn’t been so easily swayed by Mary.

"Temptation’s a hell of a thing too," Louis added. Stack was now trying to be in step with him; this wasn’t the point of his finding Louis. He was supposed to be telling him to get off his territory, not striking up a conversation.

"I live just a few blocks from here," he said without looking back. "One drink! You owe me for lost revenue."

"Just so we clear, I don’t owe you nothin’, not a damn thing." Stack hesitated momentarily, habitually brushing his thumb over his belt where his revolver was. "You always talk business this late?" he asked.

"Only the dangerous ones."

That got a grin out of Stack. "You think I’m dangerous?" Stack continued matching his pace, not because he was curious or cautious. But because Louis wasn't what he expected, and it's been a while since he ran into someone similar to him in more ways than most.

"I know you are," Louis murmured, stepping closer. "I can smell it on you. Violence, ambition… the kind of hunger that doesn’t die easily."

Stack’s jaw twitched. "You ain’t exactly soft yourself."

Stack hadn’t expected the vampire’s house to feel like this. The inside of Louis' house looked like a museum. Filled with decor that seemed as old as time itself. Velvet red drapes covered the windows, and the self-portraits of Lestat and Louis bore into Stack's soul with their inhuman stares. Their gazes followed them like hounds on a scent, sharp and unblinking. Candlelight flickered against skin, and the wineglasses glinted like blood.

Louis stood near the fireplace, his presence a strange blend of elegance and quiet threat. Stack swallowed hard. Something stirred behind his eyes, resentment maybe? Or was it desire, confusion, or interest? He looked at Louis, really looked. The way his mouth curled around danger, at the elegance wrapped around centuries of grief.

"…Fuck it," Stack muttered. "One drink."

Louis handed him the glass, their fingers brushing. "Good," he said. "Just one."

They both knew it was a lie.

taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @sinnersappreciation @fadingbelieverexpert @carriemill @blankface333 @slugstarzz @king-cookiex @theelusivemidnighthoe @spicyscorpioo @xxx-aurora-swirls @riellarielle25 @z0mmba3 @remmickcherie @casarahsisland

[venusandsaturnsrings]

Many thoughts of guard dog boothill... -chubby darling anon

MY SWEET!! thank u for sharing the boothill brain mwah mwah!! love u always U^ェ^U

there’s an issue, however… boothill doesn’t make a very good bodyguard, much less a guard dog. he has a habit of causing more trouble than he protects you from, something about his ego, which means that the second he gets even the slightest idea that someone’s looking at you a bit too long?? he’s lunging at them. all sharp teeth on display as he loads his gun with whatever bullets he can grab, inside or outside his body. even if the person was just looking past you, boothill sees it as a personal slight; they were obviously trying to rile him up!!

he’s not exactly the kind of guy i can imagine in a hybrid scenario, mainly because he’s such a mashup of parts already, but a being a dog would suit him… perhaps an australian shepherd… food for thought…

anyways, hiring him as your body guard?? a bad choice and also very bold of you to assume he’d agree!! he’s the travelling type, being a galaxy ranger, so consider this: forbidden lovers.

you were the esteemed child to an esteemed set of parents that expected no less than perfection of you. on one such interastral expedition, boothill happened to be on your planet for reasons he wouldn’t disclose but it all came down to an evening you shared. there was a reception of sorts for an upcoming book your family had endorsed, so you were expected to attended and, at your mothers word, perhaps look for a suitable partner. this particular breed of gathering wasn’t your speed, nor did you have any interest in scouting amongst the primarily geriatric body of people for a potential spouse. inevitably, you ended up tucked off on a balcony, some sort of fruity cocktail in hand as you idly played with the stir stick and waited out the party to its end. that was until a tall and out of breath gentleman stumbled onto the same balcony with a sharp whistle and sigh. it took a couple moments for him to notice you timidly staring, but when he did he jerked out a hand for you to shake and announcing himself as ‘boothill’ with a strangely charming accent. thus began a series of secret meetings and stolen kisses between giggles and the walls of places you’d never been; boothill was quite good at expanding your comfort zone.

eventually, your parents did find out and were livid that you’d been fooling around with a ‘no good wanted criminal,’ and demanded you see him one last time to have him turned in to the authorities. they didn’t realize just how slippery he could be or just how you had been waiting on the chance to finally leave so, you slipped out with all that you needed in the middle of the night to a grinning boothill. he promised to take you to even better bars and shooting ranges on much cooler planets so long as you stayed with him (you couldn’t possibly leave now).