#MYFICS

[taintandviolent]

Tricky Situation ; Marquis de Gramont x reader

summary: In an unfortunate turn of events, you are kidnapped by a powerful man looking for someone. However, when he has you all to himself, he decides to take advantage of the tricky situation you're in.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.3K | SMUT, female reader, heavy dub-con (I feel like things got a little blurry in this scenario, whoopsies.), kidnapping, violence, choking, foul language, name calling, elements of sexual torture, use of sex toys, brief knife play, hints of a romance with John Wick if you squint and read between the lines.

a/n: requested by anon! I hope this is what you had in mind! thank you for reading if you do. ♥️ banners by @/adornedwithlight @/strangergraphics and @/arminsumi!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

So, it finally happened.

After months of being on the outskirts of this dangerous game that operated constantly unbeknownst to most citizens, you finally got caught. A few public interactions with a man named John Wick, and it all came crashing down around you.

It had been worth it though, those nights with John. The dinner in Paris was the last time you'd seen him. It had been a week, and you'd heard nothing. The thought was troubling, but the situation at hand was far more troubling than that.

You're carried by men, one of either side of you. They're rough with you, not caring if they bruise you as their fingers dig into the soft flesh of your arms. Without warning, you're pushed backwards — your ass hits the hard surface of a chair. There's rustling as your limbs are arranged and secured.

"Motherfuckers!!" You scream, though it's muffled by the cloth that's over your head.

Then, the blackness is ripped off your face, harshly, without regard for comfort, and in doing so, pulls your damp hair in front of your eyes. Slender fingers roughly push it from your features, exposing them to the cool air of wherever it is you are. Your clothes are still wet from the rain. It takes a moment, but you adjust to your surroundings, taking note of everything you can.

There's a single metal chair in the middle of the room — which you're tied tightly to. It looks like an underground room; stark and clinically cold. All cement, fluorescent lights and silence. You immediately clock the security cameras in all four corners of the room — they're angled towards you. Wherever you are is heavily monitored. This wasn't a spur of the moment kidnapping — this was planned. This had to do with John.

"Ah, bonsoir."

You lift your gaze to the man, feeling your lip curl into an unintentional snarl. You expected someone… else. Your brain stutters on the visual of him, a melange of emotions fluttering through your system like little moths.

He's tall. Painfully so. Dressed very smartly in a grey, three-piece suit that looks more expensive than your entire wardrobe put together, and a pair of shoes that are so polished that they reflect the lights above. He has sharp, angular features with a pair of full, pouting lips — attractive, and if you weren't currently looking into the eyes of your apparent kidnapper, you might've acted on said impulse of wanting to flirt with him.

He begins to circle you, much like a predator would.

"What's your name?"

Your immediate reaction is to struggle violently against the ropes, wrenching your body to and fro. Two piercing green eyes watch you, unfazed by the weak attempts at getting free.

"First name is FUCK. Last name is YOU."

He stops in front of you and lets out a soft, dark chuckle. He lifts his brows — his expression is one of amusement, clearly enthralled by your vibrancy. "Such a pretty little thing… and so difficult to find. Why is that?"

"Because…. hm. I don't know, maybe your men suck at finding people?"

He smirks. Pauses.

You fill the silence with your voice.

"I haven't done anything, I don't know why the fuck I'm here."

A lie.

Something glitters in his bright, intense eyes; a thought, a revelation. He lifts his hand and snaps his finger, signaling to no one. However, a few moments later, the only door in the room opens, and a man hurries over to his side.

"Oui, Marquis?"

So he's a Marquis, you think. Power. Money. Entitlement. But what does he want with John?

"Apporte-moi mes outils. Dépêche-toi!"

You blink, not understanding. Naturally, because you don't speak enough French to catch it. But the man he's speaking to clearly does, because he nods and briskly walks back out the small, plain door.

"Where is John Wick?"

Bingo.

You set your jaw and glower up at the man. "How the fuck should I know?"

"You were with him three nights ago, non?"

"Yeah, three nights ago. Not now, asshole. Over a hundred thousand flights take off a day. He could be anywhere."

"That's not a very helpful answer, ma belle."

You smile at him, though it feels mean and false as it contorts your lips. There's nothing sweet about it — and he takes note of that. He hinges at the waist, bending to your level.

"I see why Mr. Wick likes you," he comments passively, examining you like a rare artifact. "You have a… fire about you."

"You don't know the first thing about me, motherfucker."

He clicks his tongue and abruptly grips your jaw with his thumb and middle finger. They press into the soft flesh, pulling you forward. "Language, ma petite chose."

You clench your teeth tightly, staring up into his eyes with a burning defiance, wanting nothing more than to bite his nose clean off. Your tongue moves inside your mouth, gathering a mouthful of spit.

"Ah!" He grips harder. Tighter. "Don't you dare. I will make you regret that."

Your eyes narrow. You do it anyway.

THWACK!

The Marquis backhands you with an unimaginable ferocity that knocks your head to the side. Pain blossoms on the side of your face, hot and angry. Your tongue darts out to the side of your lip; the iron, biting taste of blood meets your tastebuds. Your gaze falls heavy to his hand; he's wearing a ring. You let out a weak, trembling laugh as a twinge of arousal clutches you tight. Interesting reaction on your part.

"Do not," he barks, bringing his large hand to your throat and squeezing tightly. "…do that again."

You gasp for air as he increases the pressure. Your head suddenly feels swimmy, and your eyes flick to him, desperate. A few more agonizing seconds, and his hand drops away from your throat. You suck in a large breath of air, coughing harshly, trying to regain your oxygen as quickly as possible.

"So…" Another cough. "…what now? I have no fucking information for you, so what the hell do you plan to do now? Huh? Kill me?"

He smiles. "Kill you? Non, non."

His accent is intoxicating; the way he blends words between French and English has the muscles of your thighs clenching together. Reminding yourself of the situation at hand however, you hurriedly shake it off.

"You saw him. What does John Wick say to a woman like you?"

"None of your business."

It really wasn't — what you and John shared was private. What he'd said to you… how he'd looked at you…

The door opens again, and the same man wheels a tray in front of him. It has a single drawer. You clench your jaw muscles, trying to hide your worry. Once it's close enough, you crane your neck to see what lies on top of the silver tray.

A black handgun, nestled amongst an assortment of glimmering knives.

You swallow back the fear and try to adjust your wrists again — to no avail… they're raw at this point, and the rope does nothing but bite further into your flesh.

The Marquis says nothing, but speaks loudly when he reaches for one of the knives on the small tray. It catches the light as he turns it, examining its perfectly polished surface. It has a mean serrated edge, made for ripping skin and muscle from bone with ease.

"Let's try this."

He runs the tip of the knife along your collarbone with enough pressure to leave a blossoming red line behind, but not enough to break skin. Your breathing is shallow, but your resolve is made of steel.

"Non? Nothing? You are a brave little thing. Interesting."

Not fear, no. Something else, something nastier, blossoms in your core.

"I don't have anything to say to you. I told you. I don't know anyth—" You wince, breath hitching as he lifts your chin with the tip of the blade, the pointed tip digging into the delicate flesh underneath. You feel the blade pierce your flesh and clench your teeth.

"You know something."

He leans closer, his cool breath washing over your face. It smells like peppermint. "And I will get it."

With one swift flick, he cuts the straps of your dress and bra, allowing your tits to fall free. You look down at yourself quickly before lifting your gaze to the Marquis.

He's not looking at you anymore. Instead, his attention has drifted to your thighs. They're both spread, tied to the legs of the chair. Without warning, the Marquis brings the knife back to you. He angles it down, dragging the blade along the length of your exposed thigh. Just as he flicks the edge of your dress up with the blade, exposing your core to him, goosebumps explode over your skin at the dangerous contact. Nimble fingers of his free hand grip the side of your underwear and yank them harshly down your thighs.

He examines her for a moment; his fingers prod your slit, feeling the warmth of her. Your lids flutter ever so slightly and you're thankful he's too focused on your cunt to notice. Despite that, it's wrong, and you know it. You shouldn't be aroused, you should be plotting an escape, trying to figure out how to survive.

One finger slips inside, and you watch enrapt as his pupils dilate, his nostrils flaring. You're wet and now he knows. Aside from the micro-expressions, he doesn't give away anything, though. No vocalizations, no expressive changes. It's unnerving that he's so calm and collected while he violates you.

Turning his gaze suddenly, he lifts his hand to the small, single drawer underneath the tray. He opens it with a painstaking slowness, and you crane your neck to see what's inside — it's just out of your vision's reach however, and you slump back against the chair.

If he was going to torture you, you'd withhold. You'd rather die than be a rat. And a rat against John? That's an even worse crime. The man had done nothing but protect you. You adored him, maybe too much.

Abruptly, you hear a dull click and lift your gaze. He's holding…. a vibrator? It's a dusty rose colour and slightly curved, angled for optimal pleasure, you assume. You squint at it, and lean your head back in confusion. With a neutral expression, the Marquis presses his thumb against the toy again, holding it down until it buzzes to life.

A smirk curls around your lips. You expected something wretched, like needles under the nails. Not this. Perhaps this had started out about John, but it doesn't seem to be about him anymore…

The Marquis slots himself between your tied-down legs wordlessly. He reaches forward to cruelly tweak one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, pulling a hiss from your mouth. When he presses it against your cunt once, your body seizes up immediately, and you arch away from the chair. You settle back against the chair and chuckle breathily. A devilish grin curls around his lips as he strokes it along the length of your folds, slowly, deliberately.

"You're gonna' have to…. mmmh…. try harder than that."

"Oh," he breathes, his face absent. He's focused on the task at hand, and for a fleeting moment, that almost scares you. "I plan to."

The first orgasm comes after he turns the vibrator up to level three, and circles it around your clit mercilessly. The muscles in your thighs quiver, and you toss your head back, moaning into the void of the room. The sound of you echoes off the cement walls and the Marquis laughs through his nose at how quickly you come undone.

He gives you no time to recover, holding the vibrator on the underside of your still pulsing clit. He says something in French that you don't understand, and the second comes shortly after when he roughly opens your mouth, forcing his fingers against the seam of your lips and sticks his fingers down your throat, and fucks you with the vibrator.

The third comes with screams, and the fourth comes with tears after he changes the rhythm of the vibrator — something that starts out soft and climbs higher. The fifth comes when he thrusts the vibrator into you again, into your clenching heat, and matching the movement of it, he presses his groin against you, forcing you to feel his hard-on. You come around the vibrator, thinking about how his massive cock would feel as he fucked it down your throat.

Your entire body is on fire, and there's a blinding white hot pressure building on your cunt. A sheen of sweat covers your forehead, neck and chest, but it doesn't bring any relief. The overstimulation is too much to bear and you desperately writhe your hips, trying to find relief away from the vibrator's insistent pulses. There's a puddle beneath you, pooling on the silvery surface of the chair. Your arousal drips out of you, incessantly.

With his free hand, the Marquis pinches your mouth open, holding your bottom jaw tight. The stimulation ceases for just a moment as he looks into your eyes, assessing the damage and your willingness to crack. Your gaze is half-lidded, weary with pleasure and agony. He lets go of your face, sensing defeat.

"Had enough, ma petite chose?"

Your hair is damp with sweat, and your body hangs forward in the chair, limp with exertion. Orgasm after blinding orgasm, and you can't take another. You muster up the first place that comes to mind and pray it sounds convincing enough. You knew where John really was, and it wasn't where you were about to say.

"Cah…"

The Marquis urges the vibrator against your clit again, and your legs twitch spasmodically. Your toes curl tightly as another broken moan leaves your lips, sounding something like a sob and a plea.

"Cah… Casa…Casablanca."

The buzzing disappears, and your muscles go slack. "F-fuck… he said… something about Casablanca. Not to me. He was on the phone, but… Casablanca."

"You did well. I have tortured men who have broken sooner than you did."

"…f-fuck you…."

"Maybe I'll do that next, just for fun, hm?"

[joelsrose]

A/N I'm so glad yall enjoyed part 1 ! made me so happy seeing all the comments, hope you enjoy this part x

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You adored Tommy and Maria. That was no secret. Their house felt like a second home—the door always open, the hearth always warm, baby Benji always giggling in your arms like he knew something the rest of the world had forgotten.

You were there often enough that your teacup had a place on the shelf, your name was a murmur in bedtime lullabies, and your laughter belonged to the walls.

But Joel? Joel was different.

Despite your closeness with his brother and Maria, you and Joel had never been anything more than… polite shadows crossing paths. A nod at the gates. A quiet "morning" when your boots passed on the trail. He never stayed long enough for more.

Everyone in Jackson knew it—felt it. He carried himself like a man built from silence and steel, like someone forged in grief and never fully cooled. Where Tommy was sunlight, Joel was shadow. And not the soft kind, either. The kind you noticed in your peripheral vision—unavoidable, unmoving.

You didn’t need to know his story to recognize the shape of it. You saw it in the way he moved: cautious, careful, like the earth beneath him might give way if he stepped wrong.

You saw it in the tension that never left his shoulders, the way he never lingered, never asked questions he didn’t need answered. His eyes held the look of someone who had loved and lost so deeply he’d buried the whole concept beside whatever grave he no longer visited.

And he was, quite plainly, the last man in Jackson you’d ever try to matchmake.

Not because he didn’t deserve love—but because he didn’t want it.

Your methods weren’t scientific, but you had instincts. You always asked yourself the same quiet questions before setting anyone up:

What are they seeking?

What do they need?

And are they open to love, truly open?

Joel Miller failed the last question before it could even be asked.

He didn’t strike you as someone waiting for anything.

He struck you as the kind of man who’d wake up before dawn just to be alone with his coffee and the sound of his own breath. The kind who preferred the ache of his joints to the vulnerability of comfort. The kind of man who built his world out of habit, routine, and distance—and kept it that way because it hurt less.

He didn’t smile at people. Didn’t linger in town square to chat. Didn’t extend kindness unless necessity forced it from him. He wasn’t polite. He wasn’t soft. He was older, rough-edged, and entirely uninterested in being understood.

That was the truth of it.

So when Tommy leaned back in his chair that day, voice teasing but eyes glinting with something deeper, and said, “Find Joel someone,”—you knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn’t asking. He was testing you. He had picked the one man in Jackson who didn’t want to be chosen.

And maybe… maybe he thought you’d fail.

But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.

Because while Joel wasn’t looking for love—while he’d built his life so carefully around the absence of it—you couldn’t help but wonder:

What if he used to believe in it? What if he still did, quietly, deep down, in a place too bruised to admit it out loud?

And worse—what if the only reason he didn’t believe anymore was because no one had looked at him like he was worth choosing?

Not until now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The first time you tried to bring it up, he was in Tommy and Maria’s kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven and looked like effort.

The scent hit you before you saw him—garlic, thyme, maybe something smoked. It wrapped itself around the room like a warm quilt, rich and unexpected. Joel stood over the stove, jaw tight in concentration, a hand towel slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. His brow was furrowed, focused, almost peaceful in that gruff, guarded way of his.

You hovered in the doorway, heart thudding traitorously in your chest.

You were used to being approached by people who wanted your help—who smiled too wide, who leaned in eagerly, who whispered, “Do you think there’s someone out there for me?” Not… this.

Not trying to coax someone toward the idea of love like it was medicine he’d refuse to take.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Or if he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge you.

You lingered by the counter, clutching the edge like it might give you courage. The silence felt loud. You hated that it made you feel twelve years old.

He finally glanced over, barely. “You need somethin’?” His voice was flat, more gruff than unkind, but still edged like a warning. You were an interruption.

“Oh. No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just—this smells amazing.”

He grunted. Actually grunted. Like a bear in a flannel.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead muttered something under your breath—something like “charming” or maybe just “Jesus Christ.”

You cleared your throat. “So… do you like cooking?”

He turned his head a fraction, enough to eye you sideways. “It’s food.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t really an answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I cook. So I can eat.”

You gave him a flat look, but he was already turning back to the pot, stirring like you hadn’t said anything at all.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Dinner at Tommy and Maria’s was always warm—familiar, comforting, threaded with laughter and the scent of something slow-cooked—but tonight, it buzzed with a quiet, unbearable tension.

Joel’s food was, of course, incredible.

Rich and rustic, seasoned to perfection, made with the kind of care he’d never admit out loud. But he ate like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent hours making it. He was already halfway through his plate by the time you’d taken your second bite, chewing in near silence, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm no one else could feel.

You sat across from him, napkin folded delicately in your lap, heart tapping anxiously against your ribs.

Tommy was loving this. His smirk was nearly unbearable—eyes flicking from your face to Joel’s with all the subtlety of a man watching live theatre. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. He could see the way you kept glancing down, folding and refolding your napkin, trying to find the perfect opening to ask a question you weren’t even sure Joel would let you finish.

You took a breath, then another.

Wiped your mouth—gently.

“This is delicious, Joel,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray how hard your palms were sweating. “Really. It’s… so good.”

He nodded once, without looking up. “Mm.”

That was all.

Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.

You looked at him helplessly, and he looked about ready to combust from holding in his laughter.

You pressed your fingers to your water glass, steadying yourself. And then—“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, a little too casual, “do you cook often for other people? Or… someone in particular?”

Joel’s fork paused. Slowly, he looked up.

His brow furrowed, deep and unmistakable. That classic Joel Miller expression that hovered somewhere between mild confusion and why are you still talking to me?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You tried to smile, but it landed halfway between charm and panic. “Nothing. Just… this kind of meal seems like something you’d make for someone special.”

He blinked at you. Once. Twice.

Then, “This a dinner or a damn interview?”

The words landed sharp. Not cruel, but cutting in that quiet, measured way only Joel could manage. Dry. Dismissive. Final.

It shut you up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After that night, after the dinner table rejection that hummed in your chest like an ache you didn’t know how to name, you decided there was no use in subtlety.

You had tried soft. You had tried polite. You had tried slipping things in like compliments folded into napkins, but Joel Miller was not the kind of man who read between the lines.

So the next time you saw him—three days later, tightening fencing wire behind the stables, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed in that eternal expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—you walked right up, leaned against the gatepost, and said, “Hypothetically… if someone asked you out, would you even go?”

He didn’t stop working. Didn’t glance at you. Just muttered, “Not interested in hypotheticals.”

You huffed, pushed off the post, and walked away.

Two days after that, you caught him hauling firewood into the school kitchen, face flushed from the cold, jaw tight. You handed him a cloth to wipe his hands and asked, “Would it kill you to let someone care about you?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You tryna get yourself assigned latrine duty with all these damn questions?”

You rolled your eyes and let the door shut behind you.

It became a pattern—awkward, pointed, persistent.

You asked him at the tool shed while he was oiling his shotgun, the scent of steel and turpentine between you, your voice feather-light but your eyes fixed carefully on his profile.

“What’s your type, anyway? If you had to pick?”

He didn’t even glance up. “People who mind their business.”

You tried again during patrol prep, the morning still damp with frost, his belt heavy with knives and yours with hope.

“You ever get lonely, Joel?”

He grunted without missing a beat. “You ever stop talkin’?”

After that, you told yourself you’d stop.

That maybe Tommy was right, maybe Joel Miller was the one locked door even your heart couldn’t open. You weren’t built to beg, and love shouldn’t have to be pried loose from someone like a tooth. So you promised yourself: no more questions, no more attempts. He didn’t want to be known.

But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.

It had been a soft evening—one of those rare Jackson nights where the world felt quiet and intact, where the sun dipped low and golden behind the trees and the sky blushed lilac at the edges, and everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the promise of spring.

He was sitting on the porch steps outside the meeting hall, arms resting on his knees, posture taut like he was keeping the world at bay even while it softened around him.

You hadn’t meant to approach—not really—but something about the hush in the air and the loneliness curling at your ankles pushed you forward before you could stop yourself.

“Joel?” you asked gently, your voice low and full of something raw you didn’t try to hide this time.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk away either.

You sat down a few steps above him, enough distance between you to feel it. Enough hope left to try again.

“You really don’t think there’s anyone out there for you?” you asked softly, the words slipping from your lips like petals dropped into water, barely a ripple, as if saying it gently enough might keep it from shattering between you.

The air had cooled into dusk, the kind of quiet evening that made the world feel suspended—trees swaying in slow rhythm, the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes, light from the porch lantern casting golden shadows that didn’t quite reach him.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, and the sound of it felt like something snapping—not loudly, not dramatically, just the quiet, unmistakable give of something that had been holding too much weight for too long.

And then, with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his voice came low and flat and brutal.

“What I think,” he said, “is that you don’t know how to mind your own damn business.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly, but he wasn’t finished. His gaze never touched yours, his jaw tight with the kind of bitterness that had lived in him too long to name.

“You wanna feel needed?” he continued, each word cut clean and cruel. “Go find someone who gives a damn. It ain’t me.”

And then—he looked away.

Not in shame. Not in regret. Just turned his head with the finality of someone who had decided you no longer existed.

Your breath caught in your throat, small and sharp like the echo of a sob that hadn’t made it out. You stood slowly, hands stiff at your sides, your body moving before your mind caught up, every inch of you suddenly aware of how foolish you must have looked—how fragile your hope had been.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, but the words felt like they belonged to someone else. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for—existing, maybe. Caring.

He didn’t look up.

You turned, your steps uncertain at first—just the gentle scrape of boots on wood—but soon they quickened, like maybe if you moved fast enough you could outrun the heat rising behind your eyes or the way your throat had gone tight and narrow, like your heart was trying to climb out of it. Your shoulders curled inward as you walked, a soft, instinctive folding—as if you could shrink yourself into something smaller, something less noticeable, something easier to leave behind.

By the time you reached the path, the sky had deepened to a bruised indigo, the sun swallowed whole behind the trees, and the wind that had once carried the scent of pine and firewood now felt sharp and cold against your skin, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome.

And Joel?

Joel just sat there.

Still. Silent. Staring at nothing like the world around him had gone quiet too.

He didn’t flinch when Ellie approached—her footsteps uneven, heavy with the kind of angry purpose only a teenager could carry—but he didn’t greet her either. Just kept his eyes on the dark horizon like it might tell him what he’d just done.

Ellie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met.

“That was mean,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a branch underfoot.

Joel blinked, slow and deliberate, then rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm loud in the silence.

“Ellie,” he muttered, low and tired, “how many times do I gotta tell you—it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

She rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it in her exhale.

“Yeah?” she shot back. “You know what else is rude? Being a complete asshole to someone who’s literally just tryin’ to care about you.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders tight and his mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, like he was holding something back but wasn’t sure if it was words or regret.

“She wasn’t asking to annoy you,” Ellie went on, climbing the first step now, her voice lower but no less sharp. “She was asking ’cause she sees somethin’ in you. Which, frankly, is a goddamn miracle.”

Joel turned to look at her then—just barely, just enough—and the soft light caught the edge of his face, carved in angles and shadows, every line telling the story of a man who had carried too much for too long, who had forgotten softness because it had stopped surviving in his hands.

Ellie’s voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual armor, her hands still buried in her jacket but her posture more uncertain than defiant.

“You know I never met my mom,” she said suddenly, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him, like the words were too fragile to look directly at.

Joel blinked, the shift in conversation jarring, his brow tightening in the center like something had caught him off guard and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

Ellie shrugged, quick and small, like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth. “I don’t know,” she added, voice softer now. “I guess I wouldn’t mind you… y’know. Finding someone.”

She said it like it was no big deal, like it hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

But Joel was still staring at her, still unmoving, still caught on that sentence—not the words themselves, but the space between them, the unspoken ache in her tone, the confession she hadn’t made outright but had wrapped in something lighter so it wouldn’t break the both of them.

“I mean,” she went on, her voice wobbling only slightly, “someone who’s good. Who could maybe… I don’t know. Be around. Help. Talk to me sometimes. If you weren’t. Not that I need it.” She swallowed. “Just… wouldn’t hate it, is all.”

The wind shifted again, cool and clean, brushing past them like it too was afraid to speak.

Joel looked at her like he hadn’t known—hadn’t let himself know—that there was a piece of her still searching for something she’d never had. Not just safety. Not just shelter. But softness. Guidance. A presence that could fill in the shape of something maternal, something gentle, something lasting.

Something like love.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Joel didn’t feel defensive. Didn’t feel the need to retreat behind some cold remark or hard silence.

He just sat there, staring at this kid—his kid—and realized with a slow, dawning ache that in all his effort to protect her from the world, he hadn’t stopped to think she might want more than just protection.

She might want family.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Tag List: (for future i think i will tag #cupidofwyoming for each chapter instead of a tag list because a lot of the time the tags dont work for some reason?! that way you guys can still find the chapters on my blog xx)

@joelmillerswife9 @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @mrfitzdarcyslover @noeeeeeeel @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

@fitzwlliamdarcy @mystickittytaco @millerdjarinn @missladym1981

@bardot49 @valkyreally @jeongiegram @fpsantiago @rattyfishrock

@wildthyng @quicax3 @alesomoza99 @sunfairyy @heartagram-vv

@4allthestars @vickie5446 @needz1nk @sadsydneystuff-blog @sunndroppp @kristinababy @cuteanimalmama @dailyobsession

@dulcebloodhnd @rigoler @brittmb115 @lizziesfirstwife @nandan11

@cinderblock24 @astroid-wanderer @ashleyfilm @lizzie-cakes

@sagexsenorita

[d1s1ntegrated]

Shigaraki is so pathetic he’s able to cum untouched just from kiss

shared seat (nsfw)

fem!reader x loser!shigaraki

cw: dacryphilia, premature ejaculation, mutual pining, desperation, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, no use of y/n (blank name space instead!!), tomura is a mega computer nerd, reader plays dumb kinda, some light hurt/comfort i guess?? making out, afab/fem reader, implied virgin shiggy :)

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•

naturally.

you have tomura in the palm of your hand. every time you walk by him, brush against him awkwardly, tap his shoulder to get his attention, it sends sparks through his touch-starved limbs and makes him dizzy. every night, he begs and pleads for you to come into his room, even just to sit in there. he wants you in whatever way he can, to see you, smell you, touch you, hear you. gods, of course he wants to taste you, but he's learned the hard way to take whatever he can get.

so when you knock on his door and ask him to teach you how to sort out your PC and mod a few games, his heart lurches in his chest. of course, of course he will. he trudges behind you to your bedroom, watching your ass jiggle lightly in the dingy sweatpants you stole from him a few months back. he takes a deep breath before sitting in your desk chair, immediately clicking through PILES of random trash files and download files.

"_______" he starts sternly, brow already furrowed at the sight. "have you not been deleting the download files after you download a mod?"

you shake your head. "won't that delete the mod?" you lean on your desk next to him, uncomfortably close to him. he smells the conditioner in your hair, your sweet perfume. he tightens his gloved grip on your mouse as he shakes his head and tidies your desktop up.

"fucking idiot" he mumbles as he clears a few gigabytes from the system, "this is why it's so slow, stupid". you giggle and mumble, "ohhhhhh" under your breath.

who's to say you didn't know that. who's to say you just wanted an excuse to have him in your room, huffing at your desk, having his scent fill the room and his frustrations cloud your thoughts. but he didn't have to know that.

he keeps clicking through folders, and you nudge the chair. he turns to face you and you mindlessly sit in his lap, telling him "let me in", spinning the chair back to face the desk.

his breath hitches as your plush ass presses against his dirty pajama pants and half-hardened cock. you watch the pointer on the screen as he sorts through different game files, his breathing unsteady in your ear. you giggle as he groans at the unnecessary folders and shortcuts.

"why...dude, what's with all the sims mods?" he asks, voice filled with genuine concern as he clicks into the mods folder. you panic and spring up, sending the chair back a bit with him still in it. your ass is directly in his face as you scramble, closing the folder.

tomura's eyes widen and he forgets the folder entirely for a moment as your shirt rides up, the small of your back exposed, the waistband of your underwear pulled slightly above the baggy sweats. he starts again and rolls his eyes.

"dipshit, just let me make sure there aren't duplicates, okay?" he pulls you by the waist into him again, your ass falling back onto him. he closes his eyes for a moment to regulate his thoughts.

the mods folder flashes back open. he scrolls through hundreds of mods, your body tensing as he pauses and reads through them all.

"what the hell are you doing to those poor sims" he laughs nervously as his cock grows tighter against you. you grimace as he closes out of it and goes into the save files folder.

he stops when he notices his name front and center, paired with yours.

he nods and stays silent, and you readjust in his lap. your eyes gloss over, unable to confront the clear tension between you two as you shift, his free arm lacing around your waist slowly, holding you tightly as he tries his best to hold back.

he closes out of the tabs and sits on the blank screen for a moment, clearing his throat.

"did...you need me to do anything else here?" he leans forward with you a bit, greedily inhaling your scent again as he awaits a response.

"hm...yeah, can you help me set my new speakers up? they won't connect for some reason." any excuse to keep him here.

"hmph. yeah, sure" he bites his lip and scoots the chair in, opening the program.

"they're plugged in, right?" he asks, and you nod.

"mhm, i'm not that dumb" you playfully lean back, your face all-too-close to his. he rolls his eyes and hums to himself as your weight presses more against him, and he's painfully trying to conceal how hard he is. if you don't stand, maybe you won't notice. he's so fucking close already, he's afraid any small movement will ruin it all.

you lean forward to turn the dial on the speaker and his breath hitches. he twitches in his pants and feels the moisture beading from his tip, hissing lowly to himself as you readjust again.

"jesus, _________. can you figure your shit out" he snips, and you laugh. he groans as he twitches again, dangerously close to finishing right here.

"sorry" your words come out as a whisper as he grips you closer now, his fingers tracing the exposed skin under your shirt as he fiddles around with the settings. you smile as he touches you.

you take it one step too far when you scoot back into him, using his thigh to steady yourself. as you grind into him, he loses control and feels himself cumming sporadically in his fleecy pants. he shakes against you, his head falling into your shoulder as he crumbles underneath you. he nearly crushes your brand new mouse as his hands clench, his uncovered fingers digging into your midriff. he shakes as you feel the moisture seeping from the material, leaking onto the back of your own pants. you don't dare to speak a word, you refuse to ruin it for him.

you go to look at him, but his head is still pressed against your shoulder, his baby blue hair draped over you. his breathing is slowing now, but he's still shaking.

"i'm sorry" he shudders before you can say anything. you grab his hand, still slung across your legs, and squeeze it.

"tomu, it's okay" you comfort him quietly as he continues to shake. you stand and he plants his face into his hands, soft tremors coming from the pale man.

you flip the armrests of the chair up and wrap your legs around him, facing him now. you stroke his hair gently and coax him to look up, his cherry eyes teary and glossed.

you kiss him gently, feeling the tears still running down his cheek. his lips are rough, but they taste like candied apples, and you hold his face in your hands as he falls into the kiss shakily.

as you pull away, he sniffles.

"i'm sorry" he repeats, and looks back down.

you kiss his head, his soft hair tickling your face. he wraps his arms around you and presses his face into you, his tears soaking the front of your shirt. you shush him and brush his hair back. you comfort him best as possible, but feel him hardening underneath you again.

"c'mon" you stand from the seat again, and take his hand. you bring him to the bed, and he sits slowly. you wipe the tears from his cheeks, and he shakes his head.

"why?" he asks quietly, and you kiss his nose, "why aren't you mad at me?".

you tug him into you, kissing him. he moans into the kiss this time, his cock tenting again. your mind swirls with thoughts of him inside of you, making him shiver and cum and whine. why would you be mad at him, your sweet pathetic leader?

no one else would ever see him like this. maybe it played a part in your arousal, knowing that this display was solely for you. that his orgasm was because of you. that he was crying because he was afraid he upset you. your scary, villainous, domineering leader was crying in your room, cock twitching desperately against his minecraft pj pants, because he just came from you sitting in his lap.

the heat between your legs swells as your tongue presses into his mouth, tasting the same sugary sourness from before. his tongue slides forcefully into your mouth, his saliva mixing with yours. he palms aggressively at his erection, trying to push it down nervously before you tug him by his sweater, pulling him on top of you. he instinctively grinds down into you, and as you feel him press against your clothed sex, you moan.

the heavy petting stresses you out. you can't keep kissing him and touching him without feeling him inside of you. tomura's eyes are half-lidded and hungry as you shove him back, and he looks at you nervously for a moment before you pull your pants off, urging him to do the same. he throws the pants off the bed, his cock springing free and tapping against his stomach. the knot in your stomach pulls deeper as you gaze upon the soft sky-blue tuft of hair leading down to his dick, his breathing ragged as you pull yourself on top of him again. you grind down, and he moans as the wetness soaking through your underwear squishes on his admirable length.

he's ready to cum again already, and you can tell from the way he grinds into you from below. you shift your underwear off, awkwardly shimmying as he helps you. he doesn't seem to care as he tugs at the garment, his hands exploring your curves with a greedy grip. as his cock rubs against you, you kiss him, coating him with the slick heat. you help position him against your tight hole, and he thrusts it in, stretching you with a snap. you throw your head back from the sensation and steady yourself for a moment before rocking back and forth, his moans and huffs growing louder. you ride him slowly at first, helping you adjust to his size, and he watches you bounce on him with a feverish daze. he grabs at your shirt and you allow him to bring it up over you, throwing it mindlessly. his hoodie comes off next, yanking haphazardly as you continue to grind and bounce on him. he bites his lip as he cums again, not holding anything back as the sticky seed coats your insides. you don't stop, feeling yourself growing closer. his orgasm brings you even further, and you gyrate your hips against him, his soft hair creating a friction against your clit that is fucking unimaginable. you moan and cry out, chasing the orgasm. you squeeze against him, the searing pain from being stretched before now replaced by a deep craving from the pit of your sex, needing more and more of him to fill you up. his pitiful whining grows in volume as his cock re-hardens inside of you quickly, and his hands grip against your hips and he thrusts from below as you slam down into him, furthering the sensation as his tip nudges your cervix. as you both rock into each other, your climax rushes over you, flooding his cock with a deep heat that sends him over the edge for the third time. tears brim his eyes again as he sprays your cunt with more pearly fluid, and your body shakes as you clench and rub the end of your orgasm out on him. your chest heaves as you both finish, and you fall on top of him with his dick still throbbing inside of you. he whines out and kisses you, tangling his fingers in your hair. the aftershock of your orgasm sends shivers through your body, and you pull yourself off of him. you already miss the feeling of him stuffing you with his cock, but he's spent. he shakes and squeezes his eyes shut, his legs and arms splayed out, vibrating.

you kiss his cheek and reach for something to help him clean up. you grab your shirt and wipe him off, and he frowns.

"didn't have to do that" he chokes out, and you shrug.

"i could never be mad at you, tomura" you say to him as you find clean clothes. as you dress, he drags a blanket over himself.

he nods and doesn't speak again for a moment. you climb in next to him, and he smiles weakly.

"promise?"

you nod. "pinky promise" you lace your fingers with his, the gloves brushing against your soft skin.

the two of you lay together in silence, growing more and more tired with each passing minute. you won't send him back to his room, you'd rather keep him here as long as possible. even if it was left unsaid, you loved him, and you spent every day worrying which day might just be the last. especially with the league growing in infamy, the unknown became scarier every day. but for right now, it felt more than okay. and for right now, you'd rather spend the time with him like this than having to worry about your futures.

"so what's up with that save file on the sims?" his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you groan.

"i think the next thing im gonna ask you how to teach me is hiding folders".

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

thank you for the ask <3 yummy yummy suggestion!!!!!! 🩷🩷🩷

[almostfoxglove]

THE LIBRARIAN

a jackson!joel one shot as requested by anonymous

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 7k CW: Mild allusion to canon-typical violence and danger, but this is fluff. though tbh joel in glasses should probably be its own warning.

SUMMARY: You're on a mission to build a library in Jackson. A secret admirer is on a mission to help.

read on ao3 | get notifications | masterlist

SNEAK PEEK:

Later, it will be funny. The way you shrug and think nothing of his offer as you agree. You’re too busy thinking about the crooked screw in the wall to catch fate’s hands moving you into its path, happily.

READ THE LIBRARIAN ON AO3.

💌 you can follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates, or subscribe on ao3!

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

[glystenangel]

you up?

SoftBoyfriend!Sukuna x GN!Reader Oneshot (Modern AU)

summary: you and sukuna can't sleep w/o each other, in a cute way

tags/warnings: 18+ blog but this story is 100% fluff, established relationship, being clingy, calling each other baby, sukuna's highkeyyy a softie cutie baby boy, shortnsweet like sabrina carpenter

~1k

thanks for reading and enjoy<3

_________________

You’ve been tossing and turning all night.

It was getting more and more difficult to sleep without Sukuna.

You hadn’t been dating for very long. Less than a year, but ever since you started sleeping over at his place, you can’t seem to sleep on your own.

Somehow, your bed feels empty. Worse, you feel alone.

“I want to see him.” You mutter to yourself, yawning into the heel of your palm before smoothing it over your cheek.

A few quiet moments pass, and you can hear your frustrated, sleepy breathing through the silence. Warm puffs of air breeze past your lips as crickets chirp outside of your window.

You worry at your bottom lip for a drawn out minute, indecision tugging at your brain.

Then, you remember that Sukuna had gifted you a key to his apartment last week.

“Happy six months. Come over anytime, babe.” He had said, placing a hand on top of your head.

Sukuna had punctuated the end of the sentiment with a sweet kiss in the space between his forefinger and thumb, right where your temple was.

You reach up and touch the spot, feeling vaguely pathetic because of how much you miss your gruff yet affectionate boyfriend.

The persistent thought repeats over and over.

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

Finally, you sit up with a resolute sigh and swing your feet out of bed.

You quickly bundle up and then grab your keys, nerves fluttering in your stomach as you run your thumb over the metal grooves of Sukuna’s apartment key.

In all honesty, you’re so excited to see him. You just hope that he won’t be too weirded out by you coming over so late.

You pick up your phone and start typing a heads up to him, deftly switching hands to open the door.

“Oh, shit. Hey.”

The familiar voice startles you, and you look up to see Sukuna standing right in front of you.

The roguish grin donned across his face is absolutely infectious. The lifted corners of his mouth only widen when you mirror his expression, the point of his canines complementing the sharp cut of his jawline. Even though every part of Sukuna seems rough, especially with his huge stature and penchant for swearing, his gaze is so soft and open whenever he stares at you.

It’s one of the many reasons why you love him. Plus, he looks too pretty with sweatpants hanging off of his hips.

He also has on a zipped open, baggy jacket that fully displays an olive green band tee. If you look closely, you can see peeks of his ruffled, rosy toned hair underneath the black baseball cap and jacket hood he had thrown over the mussed strands. He touches the brim of it with a hand to lower the cap further, and his sleeve slides down to reveal the tattoos inked above his wrist and further up his arm.

The shy gesture has you immediately jumping up to hug him, a stunned laugh leaving you but feeling happy nonetheless at his unexpected appearance.

“Sukuna!” You exclaim, heart warming when he reciprocates your joy and wraps strong arms around your torso.

Held in his arms, you realize the embrace provides a fond reminder that it really is the little things.

The brush of his cheek against your own, the faint scent of woodsy cologne, and the steady heartbeat beneath your fingertips when you slide your hands down to his chest.

He bends down to kiss around the crown of your head and then your smiling lips. He keeps his hands clasped over yours, and you can feel the rhythm of his heart quickening from your touch.

You hum into the press of his lips, keeping your hands softly resting on his solid chest.

Once Sukuna pulls away, he sends you a nervous look. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him embarrassed, so you practically swoon at how adorable his hesitation is.

“I was just about to call you. I know it’s late and I don’t mean to be weird but-” He bites his lip, and then rakes a large hand across the back of his neck, “Damn it, I missed you. Couldn’t sleep without my new teddy bear, I guess.”

He sweeps his sightline up to you, as if gauging your reaction, and you smile so widely that it hurts your cheeks.

“Really, baby?”

He gazes at you for a brief moment, drinking in your features and then letting out a smitten sigh, “Of course, baby.”

You start laughing as he steps closer to dot your cheeks and nose with a flurry of kisses.

“I missed you. I missed you. I fucking missed you, okay?”

“Okay, stop!” You breathlessly command, and he lets out a tired grumble.

“Okay, okay. Don’t act like you didn’t miss me either though.”

“I did. I was actually about to head to your place.” You sheepishly draw out his apartment key from your pocket, and it glints in the low light.

Sukuna smirks at your admission and then scans you from head to toe.

His eyes flit over your pajama clad figure approvingly, “Guess we had the same idea, huh? God, we are the fuckin’ cutest. Makes me sick.”

He fakes a gag at the end of his sentence, clutching at his stomach and rolling his eyes.

You push his chest with a sarcastic scoff and a scrunch of your nose, “Whatever.”

“You love me, and I love you.” He proudly declares, and then yawns into his hand.

You take in his sleep softened face, beaming at how handsome he still looks with heavy lidded eyes and disheveled hair. Sukuna remains striking even when obviously exhausted.

You love it.

And him, unfathomably.

“I do love you.” You agree, grabbing his hand and tugging him further inside your home, “Now, come inside. I love sleep too.”

He curls his fingers around yours, trying to hide his smile by bowing the brim of his hat and failing miserably.

“I think I’m already dreaming.”

_________________

End Notes:

warming up getting back into writing with some wholesome fluff! this is also partially a thank you for the "in the heat of battle" oneshot reaching 2k notes which is so so wild - thanks everyone! lmk what you think of this one, and ty for reading!!😚😚

[degen-fics]

Show Them What They'll Never Have

[Alastor x Reader] Rating: E Tags: exhibitionism, semi-public sex, dom/sub, light bondage, edging, possessive sex, praise & degradation, dirty talk, no aftercare CW: degradation and dirty talk include references to imaginary situations regarding free use and dubious consent

---[read on ao3]---

Alastor has a laundry list of rules and expectations for you, both in and outside of the hotel, and you always do your best to follow them. They're quite simple, straightforward requests, all of which boil down to one basic concept: Don't do anything stupid. Don't be reckless, don't put yourself in dangerous situations, don’t do anything to warrant extra attention, and above all else, don't be stupid. If you're questioning what falls within those limitations, use your pretty little head and ask yourself, “what would Alastor say?” Not ‘do,’ because your will-they/won't-they partner usually resorts to methods beyond your current capabilities, but ‘say,’ because you ought to know him well enough by now to answer that question for him.

  Suffice it to say, you have no idea what's riled him up this badly. You came back well before dark and all in one piece. Nothing was stolen from you. There aren't any new marks of questionable origin anywhere to be seen. And yet, Alastor was waiting for you right as you returned. Back straight, fingers drumming against his microphone, smile perfectly in place, all with the sharpest, most unforgiving glare you've had the pleasure/misfortune of seeing across your lifespan and beyond. He hadn't even given you a moment's pause to react, opting instead to grab you by the wrist and forcibly drag you up the stairs. 

  After getting shoved into his room and verbally assaulted with various ways of him asking ‘what were you thinking?’ Alastor finally hits you with a command that makes even less sense.

  “Strip.”

  “What?” You gawk at the sheer audacity, instinctively crossing your arms over your body. “I’m sorry?”

  “I told you to strip, darling. Undress. Disrobe. Take your clothes off. My word,” he clicks his tongue, “you really have misplaced that head of yours.”

  You point at your head. He rolls his eyes. Come on, that was an Alastor-tier joke, one for the textbooks, and he doesn't even entertain the idea of faux amusement. Knowing better than to question his reasons, you tug your shirt off in one swift motion. 

  Only for him to throw it right back into your face. 

  “Ah ah ah, let's not be hasty now!” Alastor clasps his hands behind his back, expectant and daring you to undermine him again (somehow). You recoil from the shock and nearly stumble into the wall, your shirt tangled in your hands as a pair of obscenely frigid hands shove you forward. Apparently his shadow has some sort of wardrobe-related vendetta against you too. “Eyes on me, dearest, and do take your time with this.”

  Eyes on him, yeah, sure - he looks livid. Nothing turns you on quite like an old deer man with smoldering resentment and a quick temper. “What’s your deal?” 

  Smack!

  You wince as the shadow tentacle snaps right at your feet, and in that moment, you realize how you fucked up today. Take a second and look at your shoes; They're cute, right? Just a basic pair of strappy sandals, open enough to show off your at-home pedicure, and pairing quite nicely with the rest of your ensemble. All color coordinated with your flowy skirt and flimsy top. 

  Apparently, Alastor thinks you should cook yourself to death. Summer in Hell? Put on the parka, darling. He already lets you get away with showing your ankles every third day of the week, don't push your luck and expose your entire knee to the general public. What you're saving in sunscreen you can spend on hospital bills after incurring heatstroke in the obscenely hot and humid afterlife.

  “The fucking cactuses are dying, and you want me to carry around a ruler to make sure I don't scandalize anyone with my shoulders?” You balk. “What else was I gonna wear?”

  “Something modest enough to keep your chest out of view and your underwear hidden. But if you want to make a spectacle of yourself, by all means!” Alastor snaps a comfy wingback chair into existence, settling into the plush upholstery with his legs crossed like he's the up and coming king of the pride ring. “Go on then. Make a show of yourself.”

  Well, that's a problem. Not that you're uncomfortable undressing, no; he's seen you naked more than you've seen him shirtless, and Alastor's never been shy about his appreciation of your body. Any part you hate, he loves; nudity’s easy. It's the demand for a demonstration that throws you for a loop. You don't do stripteases. The only dance you know by heart is the macarena, and even if you supplement that with a few zumba moves, you’re pretty sure it’s not gonna paint a pretty picture. You take your sweet time tugging your shirt back on, and–

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” 

  –Alastor hates it when you drag your feet. 

  So he drags you out of the room. Literally. Scoops up your forearm and jerks you through the hallways, giving you an extra tug whenever you stumble over your feet. The surroundings become less familiar with every sharp turn and sudden descent, floors blurring underfoot as Alastor impatiently slings you over his shoulder and strong-arms you down the stairs. Never giving you time to find your balance, grumbling under his breath when you fail to match his stride.

  “Keep up. You’ve tested my patience long enough.” 

  “You see dear? Horribly impractical, that outfit of yours. You can hardly walk.” 

  “Whoops! Clumsy girl, tripping over her own two feet. How many times has that flimsy skirt of yours flipped over now?” 

  “Fear not, my dear! We’ll solve your problems in a flash.” Ba-dum-tiss. Laugh track. 

  You find solace in the tepid glass Alastor shoves you into, quick breaths bleeding over the surface like water on a canvas. Gradually, your vision clears, and oh, you hate what you see. Foot traffic stays relatively quiet around the hotel, much to Charlie’s chagrin, but it doesn’t change the fact that Alastor has one of your arms trapped between your back and his chest, his knee and thigh serving as a blockade to make damn sure you can’t slip away. 

  “Now, now, take a deep breath and relax.” A long, foreboding claw traces the length of your face, gliding with calculated threats and the promise of something far worse than public humiliation should you disobey. “Since you had such awful stage fright with me, I figured we’d do this in a more comfortable location for you.” He swipes your hair behind you, his lips teasing the shell of your ear. “You did want people to notice you, after all.” 

  “That,” a grunt of pain and something a little more embarrassing interrupts your train of thought, “isn't what I wanted.”

  “Oh? It was a need then, was it?” Alastor chuckles behind closed lips, throaty and knowing damn well what he's doing to you. He sees it in the way you shift on your feet, the minute squeezes of your thighs. “Does my darling girl really need so many unworthy eyes following her beautiful body around town? Hm?” An arm snakes around your waist, the tickle of his fingertips inching underneath your blouse in wispy steps. “Sinners land here for all sorts of reasons, dear. What if you'd attracted the wrong sort of attention?”

  Alright mister slut shamey rape culture fuckface, that's unfortunately a fair point. Assault in Hell is a daily occurrence, and the bystander effect might as well be the apathetic onlooker effect when it comes to abhorrent decision making. 

  “You wouldn't let that happen,” you choke, stifling a half-pleasured moan as he shoves his bodyweight against you. “You're too possessive.”

  “Yes, I am. And yet, despite knowing this, you choose to throw caution to the wind and garner all sorts of unsavory stares and let people entertain their depraved thoughts. Impulse control is a rarity down here, my sweet. You know better.”

  You do know better. You know a lot of things, really. Don't test Alastor's patience, don't question Alastor's decisions, don't tell Alastor his jokes belong on popsicle sticks, and whatever you do, don't let Alastor see how much you enjoy being treated like a–

  “Stupid girl,” he sneers. 

  Well, that, yeah; you were going more for the ‘desperate attention-loving bitch who needs to be put in her place,’ but ‘stupid girl’ kind of fits too.

  “Did you really think you could get away with this?” Alastor's grip tightens, his gloved claws kneading at your forearm with precision. “Wearing this…” He clicks his tongue, walking his fingers up your thigh and scoffing at your stifled giggles. “Miserable excuse of a skirt, and that blouse, oh dear,” he sighs, “it's awfully translucent, darling. Although…” 

  You're stuck between a rock and a hard place. Glass panes warming under your skin, Alastor practically sinking into your shadow, his lips hot against your exposed neck. “I've always been fond of you in red,” he murmurs. You shudder at the leathery sensation of his lips grazing your ear. “And you let everyone else have a look before I'd even had the chance.”

  Your conscience, the tiny angel on your right, mutters something about the ethics of public exposure; redemption not found in wanton displays, the morality of getting fucked in the eyes of strangers. The devil, though, presses fluttering kisses along the length of your jaw; a perfectly silent siren's song promising more than the temptation of Heaven. 

  “Redemption is a fickle thing my dear! How are we to know where the line is drawn when every single sinner comes in so many shapes and sizes?” Alastor hovered over you in mock concern, jovial in his one-sided banter. “I suppose you could hazard a guess, but where's the fun in guessing for salvation when you could be reaping the guaranteed delights of Hell? Why gamble on a dream when your fantasies are right here?” He cupped your cheek. “Heaven may have its virtues… but it won't have me.”

  You'd never been so scared, and you'd already been in Hell for weeks.

  “Choose wisely,” he'd whispered. “You won't be able to take this back.”

  Alastor can't fuck you against the pearly gates, so really, redemption’s pointless. You whimper, craning your neck to let the devil on your shoulder creep closer. The hand on your thigh slides closer to your panties, your breath hitching when a claw traces over the lacey detailing. Your voice eludes you, your lips delicately parted as if to wait for the protests that will never come. 

  “Now why would my precious thing make such a mindless decision, hm?” Fingers weave between locks of your hair with a slight tug. “You know I prefer having the first look, just as much as the last. Why deny me the pleasure, darling? We could have torn this off of you ages ago if you hadn't pranced off into the unknown. Look at you.” Alastor cradles your chin, letting you focus on your warped reflection. You own a mirror, for fuck's sake. Apparently you forgot how to use it. “You're begging for attention the moment you step outside.”

  Outside feels like Death Valley plunging into a recently erupted volcano. He should be glad you're wearing anything at all. Not everyone grew up on the edge of a Louisiana bayou where humidity and heat went together like two codependent and enmeshed siblings from a fucked up family. Well, my dear, when I was a young lad, I had to walk fifteen miles uphill with nothing but the sweltering sun to keep me company on my way to the market. Shorts hadn't even been invented yet, and–

  “Ah. Perhaps that's what you wanted all along. Attention.”

  If he didn't have it before, he has it now. Your breath catches in your tightening throat as Alastor slips a hand under your shirt. Browsing, per se, aimlessly scraping his fingertips over your back, occasionally toying with the straps of your bra. Goosebumps pop to the surface, your body betraying any chance of a lie to insist that no, this wasn't for attention, it was for his attention and your comfort.

  “Is that it? My devoted darling wants to be ogled by the masses?” Look at him, that obnoxious smirk stretched proudly over his face; lookin’ mighty punchable if it weren't for, y'know, the glass. You're trying so hard to avoid your own doe-eyed reflection– fuck, you really let him get to you. You close your eyes, but Alastor, true to form, is relentless in his pursuits. “Touched, perhaps?”

  Touch me, your body screams, your core shaken at the debauched imagery flipping through your mind’s eye. Rough demon hands, silky sinner claws, promises of torment and torture as you're dragged away by a group of nobodies. A terrifying narrative outside of your imagination, but when you're copiloting Alastor's story… God, you need him to touch you.

  “I'm truly the last to understand the thrill of the hunted, but you…” Alastor lightly tugs at the hem of your attention-seeking shirt. “You've thought about it,” he murmurs. “Dreamed of it.” You're too busy savoring the rush of cool air to yell at him for slicing up your top, expertly avoiding your skin with the traced promise to come back for blood if you misbehave. “The rush that comes with being sought after, the excitement of finding out just how far you can go until you're snatched up with nowhere to run…” Alastor pulls your hair back, skating another nail over the front of your neck and sealing your fate. “Poor darling… her legs aching, lungs ablaze, quivering at the mere thought of what happens when a new set of hands graze her skin.”

  You gonna refute that? That's not what I wanted, you… Uh oh. Already out of insults. Can you hear that? The shattering of your ego as that lewd little moan squeaks past your lips? You're fogging up the glass, you know; Niffty won't be happy.

  But you're gonna be high on endorphins and oxy, so eh, fuck the smudges. Let that heat blossom in your chest. Let it slink down closer to your core and pool in your panties. Let Alastor spin his twisted tale and regret not having a tape recorder nearby.

  “Oh, darling… such a mindless and naive fantasy of yours. Imagining that anyone down here would follow your little script. The people out there won't hesitate to chew up and spit out a beautiful creature like yourself.” Alastor runs his hands over your silhouette as he takes advantage of the height difference, easily keeping you down with one leg between yours. “They'll beat you and bruise you in all the wrong ways. They'll break your bones and bleed you dry. They'll take everything they want without apology, without permission.”

  Technically, Alastor has permission. You gave him a free pass to initiate whatever sort of physical touch he wants, citing the rarity of such an occasion and how willing you'd be to take him up on any offer. Kisses here and there, sometimes a hug from behind; there have been a couple nights where he's slipped into bed with you just to cuddle (according to him, you looked awfully cold, nothing more). Still, he slips in a short beat, busying himself with invisible doodles across your neck.

  There's not a chance in Hell that you're gonna stop him.

  “And despite everything, you keep those dreams alive, don't you, my dear?” Alastor slides down one of your bra straps. “You like to imagine the perfect group of sinners snatching you up and dragging you to a safe, secluded place. A trio, I presume?” The smirk in his voice rings true. “To fill you up in every possible way. And you'd kick and scream as if that isn't exactly what you want.”

  Mental note: Ask Alastor if he has the capacity to read minds or peek into your dreams. The details are scarily uncanny.

  “Tell me I'm wrong,” Alastor slips his hand back under your skirt, fingers fluttering over every edge and seam of your panties. 

  “You're…” Your breath shakes. You're an incredible liar on a good day. Alastor’s making today better than good. You're an awful liar on a great day. “You're wrong. I'm not that fucked in the head.” You're missing that signature slant of sass, and holy fuck, do you sound pathetic and small without it.

  “Oh?” He grins, a finger sliding over your clothed slit. You stifle a gasp and immediately give yourself away, trying in vain to grind against his hand. “You know better than to lie to me.”

  Rewarding bad behavior doesn't exactly send the right message, but you're not complaining. If he wants to rub your clit through your damp underwear, by all means, rub away. You bite back mewls and sighs, failing to hold still. 

  “You're picturing it now, aren't you, you twisted thing. Pinned to the wall by a brutishly gentle pair of hands, another lowlife pulling your hair…” You hear the slight dip in his voice, and the moment he drops the static and his tone, it occurs to you that you might have the slightest of voice kinks

“If you don't shut that whiny mouth of yours, we'll give you something to choke on.” 

  Jesus tapdancing Christ, anatomy is cruel. You can't wriggle your way onto his fingers. Each time your ass tries to back into his hips, he stops you with little effort and a smaller chuckle. If arousal could kill, you're nearing the apex; the emptiness hurts. The half-assed teasing isn't enough, and Alastor knows it. 

  “I've heard your fake cries before, my pet, and you'd give them exactly that. The weak thrashing, the passionless begging. They'd be gullible enough to fall for it, and you'd welcome them with your legs and mouth wide open.”

  A gift from god - your god - descends from the stars. Finally, Alastor taps into what little good-natured spirit he has, tearing your panties with calculated hunger.

  “Don't you want more of a challenge, darling?” He coos, plunging a lone finger into your slicked slit, his thumb finding purchase atop your swollen clit. “Where's the fun in playing games you'll always win?” Squeaks and moans try to penetrate your lips, one kept threaded between your teeth. You don't know what part of the hotel you're in, and if Alastor doesn't care about the stranger peering up through the window, he'll give even less of a fuck if any of the residents hear you. You care though. Kind of. You're still building your reputation, damn it. 

  “Unless, of course, you're that desperate to have each of your pretty holes filled all at once. Oh, how you wound me… I've provided you with such entertainment before. Am I not enough? Or are you simply that hungry for more than one cock at a time?”

  Alastor plunges a hooked finger into your cunt, the sudden sensation biting at your lips and begging to be heard. To sing his praises. To ask for more. To reward him for all the wrong reasons.

  “Imagine my rage. The way I'd stalk the streets in search of my sweetheart.”

  “Fuck…!” You groan, grinding down on his explorative fingers.

  "My sweetheart.” A second squirms in, casually reaching for your g-spot. “My darling.” A third, fuck, the stretch feels so good. “My precious pet.” Four bunched up fingers, almost enough to feel as thick as his dick, but god damn it, you want the real thing. “Only to find her sprawled on the ground like some pay-to-fuck whore, choking on one cock and getting fucked by two more.”

  Nothing has ever sounded as beautiful as the clattering of Alastor's belt buckle. 

  “Called so many vile names - such a good slut, she likes it, see? You want to come on my dick, pretty lady? Ohhh, that's it, yes, scream for daddy, pretend someone will save you. We'll send you home with cum dripping down your legs, and you'll just want more, won't you?”

  Dirty talk was not on the list of skills you'd written up for Alastor. Certainly not this flavor, at least. There's quite a difference between ‘ oh, sweet girl, you look beautiful when you gag on me, you know you can ask for more if you'd just behave and beg like a good girl should,’ and, ‘you want to be used, don't you, you sick little thing, you'd enjoy being passed around like some dumb little doll, having all that cum smeared over your face and thighs, just to have me put you in your place.’

  You’re not complaining, even though he sounds furiously facetious and all but spits out each toxin-coated taunt. 

  “Oh, I would paint the walls with their blood. Defiling what's mine… they don't know how fragile you really are.” 

  You don't have porcelain bones or old man hips. Your body hasn't been deteriorating since the fucking Harding administration. You take papercuts like a champ. You aren't as weak as you look. 

  And you have no shame - your thoughts are just that. Garbled nonsense torn into scraps of coherence as Alastor swirls his thumb over your clit, your panties digging into your dampened skin. See, you have every reason to wear this outfit, it's fucking hot. You grin through a blissful grimace and let Alastor continue to believe he's your lord and savior, every complaint fizzling out on your dry lips.

  “I’m the only one who knows how much you can take, when to test your limits, when to stop… it's why you've never asked me to. But with those creatures you like to imagine?” Your pussy quivers in time with his laughter. “You'd be an utter wreck by the time I arrive! Oh, how I'd loathe your cries of relief. Your tears are only precious when they're shed for me, and me alone. To find you violated and broken… Those wretched creatures would be my sloppiest work.” 

  Ah, romance really is dead. Died and went straight to Hell. Your heart would thump out of your throat if you didn’t just lock eyes with a disheveled sewer rat-looking sinner through the fogged window. He jumps when Alastor’s other hand connects with the glass, the panels vibrating with a sort of rage that only serves to make you that much hornier.

  “Picture it, darling. The sheer anger, the vitriol, my laughter harmonizing with their anguished screams.” A low chuckle vibrates against your back as your head dips back into his collarbone, your mind falling victim to the heavy haze of fantasy and Alastor’s finger fucking. “How does it feel, knowing that I wouldn't just kill for you? That I'd sooner watch my standards plummet into the ground, just to keep you safe.” He gently pushes your hair out of your face, guiding your gaze back to your captive audience. 

  “To keep what's mine,” he whispers, teasing his clothed erection against your ass, adding pressure to your swollen, begging clit.

  Eloquence eludes you. “Oh god…” 

  “There's no god here, darling. Just me.”

  Just Alastor. Him, your God; your sacrifices are  the blood of fictional attackers, your hymnals nothing more than salacious moaning and the chants of ‘yes sir.’

  Hallelujah, you’re about to come.  

  Alastor must feel you clenching around his fingers, because he’s already slowing down despite your groans of protest. A punishment, you figure, and most certainly not the fun kind. He coos and whines in mocking; aww, poor baby, my sweet darling didn’t get to come, oh, the humanity of it all! Yeah, he knows the teasing’s making it worse; he probably secretly loves the way you’re grinding against him in silent plea. Alas, he’s still as stone.

  “I don't enjoy sharing, dearest.” A finger curls dangerously close to your g-spot, knees buckling at the mere thought of his merciful graze. “I don't enjoy the image of you moaning around someone's cock and coming on another’s.” Heat caresses your inner thighs, cooled in an instant by shadowy wisps frolicking over your bare, dampened skin. Fuck, what you wouldn't give to have one of those Eldritch tentacles slither through your slit right now. Alas, they do nothing but tease, winding up and around your thigh just enough for the whispers of a shadow to brush perfectly out of reach. “I find no joy in imagining you strewn out and begging them to stop.”

  Okay, no sharing, got it! Your teeth bury into your tongue, stifling songs of depravity as your hips desperately try to angle closer to the goddamned snake-like tentacles, always perfectly out of reach. Slithering in peals of imaginary laughter, demanding you to beg and promising nothing in return. You try to press your thighs together to no avail, and just when you finally want to crack and cry out for mercy, your god answers you.

  “Do you understand?” Alastor whispers into your neck.

  Never in either life has a moan left you so breathless. Just one gloved finger to your clit, and your knees buckle, more of your glistening body hoisted up against the window for support. 

  “Those pretty words and beautiful faces are meant for me.”

  Oh, the wicked irony. You're two seconds from babbling out a half-baked retort when his hand slips around your mouth. He knows you too well.

  (When did that happen?)

  “I share what's mine when I see fit, and you should know better than anyone that my generosity has its limits.” Alastor lands a kick to your ankle, just enough to shove your legs open wider, to grant him easy access; to put your arousal on display. Such generosity! 

  Through the haze of it all, you muster up the strength to crack open your eyes, lashes heavy with stray beads of sweat and tortured tears. God, you just wanna come already; the ache only grows, festering into a heat so unbearable you're damn near ready to challenge the Radio Demon to a 1v1 hand-to-hand match. Win, and you can finally find release; lose, and you're put out of your misery (assuming he'd knock you out). 

  But which situation allows for more permanent humiliation: Losing a doomed fight to an overlord, or losing yourself to said overlord in front of a startlingly large crowd just outside the hotel? A dozen nameless faces peer up at you, a haze of lust and shock blanketing each sinner as others double take and join the tranced fray. Alastor's rich, low laughter prickles through your ears and down your back, a sadistic sort of glee twisting his grin into a beacon of maleficent pride.

  “Not a step closer,” he hisses. “They will never see all of you, nor will they ever touch you. This…” 

  Whoever made this glass should patent it ASAP. Alastor's teeth nip at the sensitive flesh of your neck, fraying every nerve and severing your connection to your body; you go limp into the squeaking, shaking, never breaking window. Rays of sunlight heat the glass, beating into your flushed skin as Alastor's own warmth grinds against your ass. 

  “...belongs to me.”

  A taut, needy cry rasps through your dry throat as he drags another finger over your soaking wet slit. Your hips barely have a chance to respond before he's shoving you into the translucent barrier, a reminder that you're on stage, you need to behave now, lest you tarnish his dazzling reputation for being an absolute hardass. You grit your teeth as his same finger outlines your thigh with an insulting squeak; maybe, just maybe, there isn't enough fog for people to tell what's going on, and they don't know he's essentially playing forensic psychologist to your dead soul. 

  “My my,” Alastor drawls, “who did that, I wonder?”

  “You.” You're ready to admit defeat. So many sinners randomly loitering outside the hotel is bound to rouse suspicion, and while you harbor an odd sense of trust that you wouldn't get kicked out over this, you do know you'll struggle to wear this badge with pride. There's a whole book about scarlet letters already, and you're not itching to write the modern day sequel. “You did, sir. I'm…” You swallow the lie - or is it your pride? - and groan in agonized arousal. “We should go.”

  “Ohh, don't try and argue with me now. Not after all you've said you wanted!” 

  Whether adrenaline or sheer stupidity, your arms scramble for freedom, twisting and pulling despite the rapid streaks of pain shooting through your limbs. Alastor's claws burst through his gloves, razor sharp assets demanding stillness the moment they rest atop your bare skin, hairs all on end in reply. 

  The tentacles bound around your thighs squeeze and pull your legs further apart, and somehow, the air feels cool against your hot, slick skin. Your panting breaths fog the glass at your lips, forearms uselessly splayed above your head in surrender. 

  You won't fight him. Not when he's crackling and crunching in and out of his truest form, static blazing through your skull, green glow bouncing off the walls. You've seen him before, the full him, the entire radio demon; he might be your “hear me out,” but he's still absolutely fucking terrifying. 

  A normal radio demon arm wraps around your waist, the other hand cupping your chin, guiding you back to your audience. There's… more than twenty? Fuck, you're not in the right headspace to count, and Alastor's reflection serves as too much of a distraction from the others. 

  He wears possession beautifully, even in the throes of rage.

  “Let them look, dearest.” The arm at your waist trails down, down, down, his half-clothed erection throbbing for attention against your ass. “I want them all to know who you belong to…” Two fingertips come knocking at your entrance, and whether you welcome the solicitors or not, they're coming in. Slowly, claws retracted, the side of his palm grinding into your swollen clit. “Show them what they'll never have,” his fingers dive into you, hooked beautifully towards the exactly right spot, “make them live in fear of so much as looking at you the wrong way.”

  You can't handle much more. You've been on the edge of orgasm and the last wall now for far too long, gawked at, ogled, pointed at, the object of more than one thirsty imagination. 

  He's going to kill them, you know. Every single sinner down there watching you get finger fucked by the radio demon is going to die at the same hands being used to get you off. Alastor is going to fucking kill people for you, and he's the one who set them up. 

  The audacity of this old man to be so ridiculously sexy.

  “This is mine. You're all mine. Every inch of your body, every moan, every twitch, they all belong to me.”

  You can't even manage a nod. Your legs tremble, still plenty spread and held in place by his tentacles alone. Any and all words turn to jumbled mush as your orgasm builds, rising higher than you thought possible, the fire in your core hotter than a goddamned summer's day in Hell. You feel the thick, slick juices dripping down your thighs, and the amount of precum Alastor's left on your butt doesn't help matters. You want more of him. You are his; he should be yours.

  You yell behind closed lips, whimpering, far too empty for your liking. 

  “Say it.” Alastor thrusts you against the window with his bodyweight. “Tell me who owns you. Tell them who they'll be answering to if they ever lay a hand on you. I want everyone to hear you scream my name. Mine, and mine alone.”

  “Fuck, I-I'm gonna come, Alastor…!”

  “Louder, dear.”

  “I need your cock, Alastor, please!”

  “Louder,” he seethes against your ear, sweat dripping from his forehead to yours. “I won't remind you again. Let them hear you, and you can have what you want.”

  Falsettos everywhere cower in fear and envy. Alastor's name doesn't tumble from your lips, it fires out at railgun level speeds and doesn't show signs of stopping. And why would it? Why would you stop screaming his name at the top of your lungs? He just shoved his dick into you. You're full in mind, body, and soul; mostly pussy, but the others apply. You have the radio demon fully submerged in your cunt, the tip of his cock grazing against that lovely spongy spot that only sends you into the same sound-barrier shattering cry of his name. The pain when he rams into your cervix - something you detested when you were alive - dismantles something within you, and you crumble and come all over again. 

  “My name sounds so divine on your lips,” Alastor smirks into your neck, nipping less and less gently with every kiss and peck. “Such a beautiful voice, and all for me.”

  Catching your breath feels like a dream lost on a shooting star. When he talks like that, like a goddamned suave and chivalrous gentleman from circa 1920-old, you lose yourself. Helpless, an immediate victim to the charm of questionable authenticity. Automatically, your muscles tense, cunt tight against his dick as the whispered praise nestles into your brain and down to your clit. You reach for this wrist, and he's quick, immediately tending to the pleading nub the moment your fingers graze his pulse.

  Tears gather in your eyes, mourning all the lost orgasms that fell to his hand in the Great Pane Edging of 2024. 

  “Go on dear. Come for me again.”

  No one needs to tell you twice. It almost hurts, each spasm steadfast and unyielding, and for a brief moment, your screams vanish. Voice lost to the vast ocean of silky arousal dousing his dick and your thighs, his deep laughter your only tether to the present.

  “There you go… good girl…”

  “Fuck,” you hiss, choking on air as a tiny orgasm splinters off from the ebb of lust. It dissipates just as quickly, as does your pride, because really? That's all it takes? One non-filtered, static-free murmur of the most overused title?

  “I'm – oh God what the fuck?!” Your knee jerks upright, a spread of spiderweb cracks unfurling under your duress. Breaking you simply isn’t enough, apparently; Alastor craves chaos, paid out in flakes of glass and shards of what little you have left to offer. How he glosses his fingers over your used and abused clit fast enough to imitate literal vibrations bends your realm of understanding, but fuck it, you can’t care. Not when you’re squealing and moaning within an inch of your life, your hips bashing against his in your futile attempts to save yourself the embarrassment of dying via overstimulation. Strained cries tear through your throat, and Alastor takes the shortest of breaks not for you to catch your breath, but to flick glittering specks of glass from your thigh, because he’s a gentleman. You’ll bleed when he wants you to. “Fuck! Fuckkkk!! Ahh-Alastor?!”

  “Oh, my dear,” he coos. “You didn't truly think I was finished with you, did you? No no no.” Alastor’s cock spasms inside you, a teasing twitch accompanied by a feathery shudder of a breath against your ear. “What sort of punishment would that be? Stopping now would only encourage such deviant behavior.” A familiar and deeply personal scent tickles the edges of your nose, the hand that once fed your greedy cunt now positioned at your lips, lazily drawing your mouth open with one slender finger. “Ah, there she is…” Alastor swallows his own songs of sin, exhaling slowly, ravishing your neck and still brilliantly massaging your clit as you suck and lick at his fingers. 

  “Go on,” he mutters against your rapidfire pulse, smirking against your flushed neck, “tell them how I make you feel.”

  Hot, you wanna shout. Sheens of sweat and drool and copious amounts of your slick coat your skin in an iridescent glow, pearlescent tears drawn out by an overdose of feel-good chemicals and whatever else Alastor makes you feel. Words of finely wrapped praise done up in silks and leather tickle the back of your throat, washed away by the lewdly grotesque moans and screams stifled by his fingers on your tongue and your throat gone dry. Your limbs do the rest of the talking, a dazzling speech on Alastor's capabilities as a brutal and unforgiving menace of a lover, dominant ‘til the very end and beyond the finishing numbers. 

  Orgasms four and five split through your core almost back to back, a sixth fluttering out, limping behind as your vision starts to blur, your consciousness lost to a sea of unknown, nameless faces getting off to your obvious blissful torment.

  “Eyes open, sweetheart,” Alastor commands in what might be the most unsettlingly soft whisper you've heard fall from his lips. “You’re so beautifully pathetic when you're fighting to keep those pretty eyes open for me.”

  “Too much…” You rasp against the battered window.

  “It might feel like too much right now, but you'll miss it before long. Wishing you didn't feel so empty…” Alastor heaves a breathy laugh when you clench around his dick, refusing to let him slip out until he's used his cocksleeve to its fullest potential. You can handle a little more load, and he knows it; needs to exploit it, thrust his hips in painstakingly slow measures, loving the exhausted yelp you manage with every deep touch. “Daydreaming about having me, taking whatever I can get my hands on, calling you all those delightfully pretty names you pretend to hate.”

  Not pretending. Your lips move, but you can't utter a sound. You can't argue. You're a fucked out mime with neuropathy at this point. 

  “One last look at them, dearest.” Alastor guides you by the chin, centering your gaze on the blurry crowd. “Remember them fondly,” he smirks. “They’re your victims, after all. Your very first, no less.”

  You assume you're meant to feel disgusted. Turned off and grossed out on a moral level or something like that. But all you feel is warmth. Heat. It's hot. You melt into Alastor's arms, and manage a weary nod.

  “And as long as you're mine,” he adds with one final thrust, bursting into you with a gravely, half-stifled growl, “they won't be the last.”

  All this over an outfit you wore to beat the heat. Lesson learned: Get the Alastor seal of approval before you leave the hotel in anything that isn't a wetsuit or a parka. Or do, and get royally fucked for any passing sinner to see. Tough argument here to be made. 

  “If you'll excuse me moment, darling,” Alastor pats your head, “there's a quick errand I need to run, and time is of the essence!” Of course it is, and of course he looks like he just finished getting done up for the day. Not a hair out of place, no wrinkles in his clothes, and his belt’s already securely fastened around his slutty little waist. You’re a mess, but he’s got places to go and souls to reap, so you’re gonna have to deal for now. “Now go lie down and relax. Don’t get too comfortable though.” 

  You’re absolutely gonna fall asleep, but okay. 

  “You’re keeping every last drop of me inside of you until I return.” 

  But you were gonna sleep!

  “Since I do prefer to keep my belongings orderly and safe, you know.” 

  You’re messy and shaky and exhausted beyond comprehension, and even still, the warmth cascading through your chest lights up just enough willpower to try and listen to him. 

  “And remind me again,” Alastor cups your cheek, “who is it you belong to?” 

  You. You have to mime it, your voice still an echo of its original state, but sliding your hand over his chest delivers the message just as well. You wonder, briefly, if he feels that same abstraction of warmth as you do right now. And if he does, is it because of you, or because he has a couple dozen souls to tear apart? Perhaps it doesn’t really matter, since he’s killing them for you. Right now, you are his, and what’s his is his alone. No one else will have it. No one else will have you. You will, however, be demanding that he shares his bed and all of its comfy accessories, himself included, because that sort of sharing is caring, and deep down, you get the feeling that he cares. A lot. 

  If the tormented screams from downstairs are any indication, then you just might be right. And if you can hear them from up here, they probably heard you too! Hell yeah! Alastor must be so proud. You sure are. You’ll question why later on; right now, you’re getting people killed, and that means Alastor cares. Passionately, violently, and all for you.

[emilarry]

Forever At Your Feet

Explicit ~ 52.5K

Written for @onedirectionbigbang

Featuring art from @justanothershadeofblue!

“Don’t fight it, darling,” Louis breathed, thumb stroking over Harry’s cheekbone. “You’re so very special. I can see it, and God can see it. He wants you to have this opportunity, he wants you to be ultimately purified. He wants you, cherub.”

Or the one where Harry’s in a sex cult, and he’s the leader’s favorite.

Trailer

Read it on AO3

[meyhew]

my brother was the witness of me | a glimpse into the foxes v raven game and its aftermath (pt 1)

For a dizzying moment, Aaron is back in Columbia, waiting uselessly for Neil to break down the door that stood between him and Andrew. That day, Neil knew before anyone else that Andrew was in trouble. Today, too, Aaron only whirled around towards Andrew because Neil started towards the Home goal. He watches the Ravens strikers charge for the goal, he watches Winter swing his racquet like a baseball bat—just like Aaron did when he crushed Drake’s skull with it.  

Aaron screams.

He’ll never know what panicked warning came out of his mouth at that moment, but it’s just barely enough. It buys Andrew just enough time to lift his stick and block Winter’s lethal assault. The unexpected impact still makes him stumble into goal, it still makes him crash into the wall. The sound that peels out of Andrew even in the chaos makes Aaron’s blood go cold and he’s moving without thinking. The other striker, Williams, brings his racquet down in the same moment but Andrew isn’t where he was half a second ago; the racquet skims his helmet and hits his shoulder with enough force to bring him to his knees. Williams lifts his racquet again, but Aaron knocks it out his hands with a violent swing of his own and then lets it clatter to the floor. 

He hits better with his fists.

A moment later Matt is there, too, punching and shoving at the Ravens, both of them trying to keep the assholes away from Andrew’s kneeling form. One of them headbutts Aaron hard enough for Aaron’s vision to swim. The bitter taste of blood fills his mouth. There’s another Raven body, a dealer Aaron vaguely recognizes that Matt easily hauls off of Andrew with one hand. Aaron feels a rush of gratitude for this team that will stand between his brother and the world. It’s gone in an instant, but it’s still dizzying. The two of them stand their ground around Andrew, who swats at Aaron with one arm like he wants to get around them. Raven coaches reach the fray then, trying to pry their beasts off of Aaron and Matt. Aaron understands Andrew’s agitation the moment the Ravens are dragged away; Neil lies crumpled across the court, Kevin kneeling beside him. 

Wymack materializes next to Aaron and hauls Andrew up, who immediately starts dragging them both towards Neil. Fleeting as it may be, a sting of bitterness zaps along Aaron’s spine. The whole world could come crashing down and still his brother would run to Neil. He wants Andrew to look at him, he wants Andrew to let Aaron look at him. Then he catches sight of the limp way Andrew’s hand dangles by his hip and he feels ice shoot through him again. 

I wasn’t fast enough I couldn’t save him again I couldn’t save him he’s always saving me I failed him again

Neil doesn’t get up, and the Raven who took him out breaks free of the refs holding her. She should’ve let them hold her at bay. No sooner is she out of their grasp that Andrew catches up with her and locks her in a one-armed chokehold. They both go down and Wymack tries to break them up with the other referees, but it’s pointless. Even from across the court, Aaron can see the promise etched into Andrew’s agonized features as he fights through the frenzy of his own pain. 

He wants to kill Lane. Aaron kind of wants him to. 

It takes four people to pry Andrew off of the Raven, whose limp body gets dragged away and out of sight. Andrew doesn’t waste any time heading for Neil, who is still curled up beside an anxious and angry Kevin. Dan and Matt make it there just as Aaron does, all of them equally pissed off while Abby crouches next to Neil. Aaron doesn’t hear what Andrew says to Neil or the response Abby gets, and in this moment, Aaron forgets to hate Neil. He can’t think anything past Neil running for Andrew and giving Aaron that half a second needed to save his brother’s life.

Drake’s crushed-in eye and cracked skull flash behind his eyelids. He feels Andrew’s hand in his hair again, Andrew asking did he touch you even as he was the one bleeding. Bile crawls his body. He need to get off this fucking court. Aaron takes his helmet off and spits out the blood that filled his mouth. He kicks Kevin lightly in a silent bid to follow and makes for the door.

—

It takes Abby three days to get a second opinion—not because of her lack of friends in the medical field, but because Andrew refuses to go to a hospital. He lets Abby fit him with a sling at Neil’s insistence and then silently ignores all reason. 

“This is your only warning to shut up,” he says to Abby, like trying to help him is the worst thing she can do. 

“Cut the shit,” Wymack says, “and stop that.” 

He snatches the now nearly-empty pack of cigarettes from Andrew’s lap and stuff it into his pants pockets. Andrew continues crushing the sticks in his hand. 

“You’ll be benched for months,” Neil says from next to Andrew. His one track mind is nauseating and Aaron almost says as much, but Neil keeps talking. “Not to mention the pain you’ll be in.” 

“No one asked you.” 

“I’m speaking anyway. Consider it payback for last year.” 

Last year when Neil came back from Baltimore broken in a million places and Aaron saw a version of his brother he never knew could exist. 

“You made me do as Abby said. Now it’s your turn.” 

“This is not a merry-go-round. We are not taking turns.” 

“Are you stupid?” Aaron finally cuts in, tired of hearing them talk in circles and trying to appeal to Andrew’s nonexistent reason. Andrew doesn’t care about how much pain he’ll be in or how many months he’ll have to stay off the court. Aaron knows what he fears and he’s sure Neil knows, too. Why he hasn’t addressed it, Aaron doesn’t know. “You want to be sitting on your ass outside the court next time someone takes a swing at Neil? Because there will be a next time. He’s a wretched magnet for trouble and I sure as fuck won’t put my life on the line to save his.” 

The look Andrew pins him with should be terrifying, but Aaron doesn’t care. It’s better than his apathy. 

“Leave.” 

“No. We didn’t save your life just to watch you rot in pain. Grow up, Andrew.” 

Neil scowls at him. “Shut up.” 

“No. He’s going to the hospital. Today.” 

Andrew almost smiles, barely. It’s a cold thing and it looks wrong on his face. “Try me. I’ll kill us both.” 

He could—and two years ago Aaron might have believed that. As it is, Andrew has shown his hand time and time again; Aaron has no problem calling his bluff. The compliance with pigs after Columbia, giving a statement, allowing them to run a kit, even testifying in court and reopening those wounds months later—none of it was to hold Drake accountable. The man was already dead and he took his sins with him. Everything Andrew did, he did it for Aaron. 

Aaron flashes Andrew a mirrored smile. “No you won’t. You’ve put in too much effort keeping me alive.”

—

The hospital waiting room makes Aaron’s head hurt. 

Katelyn sits next to him on an uncomfortable chair, her arm hooked through his. Neil’s incessant pacing doesn’t help. He’s a blur of orange and blue as he crosses the room back and forth, back and forth. Being taken off the court for months, even to practice the way he obsessively does, has made him infinitely more irritating.  Aaron lets his eyes glaze over before closing them. He should have joined Wymack when he went out for a smoke half an hour ago, Kevin on his heels. 

Katelyn’s thumb moves in reassuring circles on his arm and Aaron tries to focus on that instead of the dark valley his thoughts are plummeting towards. There are things he’d rather not know, things that don’t need to be added to his repertoire of nightly terrors, but he shares Andrew’s self-destructive streak. Curiosity wins in the end. 

“Neil.” 

The scuffle of Neil’s sneakers against the carpet quiets and Aaron opens his eyes to find Neil staring at him. It’s not so jarring now, his ugly scars and burns. Most days Aaron doesn’t even notice them. Most days when he’s wearing the clothes Andrew has bought for him, he almost looks like he belongs with them. He could be a shadow of Andrew if Aaron weren’t around. Even those armbands Aaron thought were ridiculous until he saw Andrew’s forearms look normal on his arms, like they belong. 

He’s no longer pacing, eyes fixed on Aaron. 

“What’s the deal with Andrew and doctors?” Aaron asks. 

Neil looks mildly surprised, which piques Aaron’s interest. Barring Baltimore and the time his locker exploded with animal blood, Aaron has really only seen two expressions on the man’s face: an open stare or a cold smile. He won’t have to wonder for long; Neil hardly ever shies away from saying what’s on his mind. 

“You have to leave,” he says with a jerk of his head towards Katelyn. 

Aaron bristles. “Like hell she does.”

Neil looks unfazed. “I won’t talk about Andrew with her.” 

The anger Aaron usually manages to keep at bay rises up again. That he has to turn to this crime ring heir to understand his brother, and that Neil knows this and uses it to dictate terms makes Aaron slightly irrational. The urge to knock his teeth out is nearly blinding. 

Katelyn squeezes his arm, once. “It’s okay. I’ll take a walk.” She kisses his cheek as she gets up. 

Aaron knows she isn’t offended. She once told him it doesn’t matter to her what Andrew thinks of her, or Neil. “It’d be easier if they didn’t hate me, sure, but I’m not in this for them. I just want you,” she’d said. And Aaron loved her doubly in that moment. But he doesn’t have to be so forgiving. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

“I don’t have a problem.” 

Aaron laughs. Fucking liar. “I get why Andrew doesn’t like her—I mean, I don’t. He’s stupid and childish. But there’s no reason you should have an issue with Katelyn, so again: what the fuck is your problem?” 

That same unbothered expression. “My problem is you airing out Andrew’s business when he doesn’t want them to know.” 

She’s not people, Aaron wants to scream. But it would fall on deaf ears. He doesn’t know how Andrew and Neil define whatever their relationship is, but he knows they’re not calling each other boyfriends. Saying he loves Katelyn will mean nothing to Neil. 

“What’s his deal with doctors?” he asks again. “And stop fucking pacing before you pull something.” 

Neil sits. And he talks. 

Not about Drake, but about Easthaven. About Proust. 

Proust drugging Andrew to control his reactions. Proust putting restraints on Andrew so he could put his hands on Andrew, knowing Andrew couldn’t fight back, couldn’t do anything except pull the restraints tighter. Proust using the ammunition Riko gave him to use Andrew’s foster families against him. The bite marks on Andrew’s scars that still haven’t faded. The new scars Andrew came home with that Aaron never got to see. Violation after violation after violation. 

“He’s not being obtusely difficult, he’s scared.”

By the time Neil stops speaking, Aaron feels sick with an honest to god knot in his stomach. 

He’s scared. 

His brother who suffered abuse after abuse to shield him. His brother who never spoke a word of it so Aaron wouldn’t be burdened by it. His brother who said it all in his testimony because he wouldn’t let Aaron be taken away. His brother who still kept so much buried so far away from prying eyes. 

he’s scared he’s scared he’s scared 

Aaron’s anger at Neil is a distant, forgotten thing. 

His brother who witnessed the pain in his life and killed it at the root. 

At length, all he’s able to say is, “Thanks.” 

It puts an acid taste in his mouth, but Neil can figure the rest out himself. All the things that pride won’t let him say. The only thing Aaron can think is, his brother is scared. He wasn’t fast enough and his unshakable brother is scared.

[mapofyourstars]

soulmates in every universe.

chapter 15: blue-gray thread. charles chooses to not follow his string of fate until it descends into the ocean towards a mind brighter than the sun.

cherik week 2025: red-thread

[heycalaboz]

Blood Lust.

SE ATENTEM AOS AVISOS, ESSA ONE PODE NÃO SER PRA TODOS.

Bloodkink

Bloodplay

Knifeplay

Automutilação

Personagens extremamente codependentes, psicopatas.

Sexo

Cumplay

Ltops/hbottom

Louis vampiro/ Harry humano

Dinâmica d/s

É isso basicamente, desculpem qualquer erro, aproveitem e se puderem deixar um comentário pra eu saber sobre a opinião de vocês eu agradeço ❤️

Aproveitem. Happy Halloween 🎃

“And when you're gone

I'll tell them my religion's you”

Naquela noite tenebrosa, na pequena cidade oculta da sociedade humana, a lua cheia lançava sua luz gélida sobre a casa abandonada, conferindo à cena um toque de melancolia sinistra. A casa, como um relicário de segredos obscuros, era o cenário de uma reunião secreta do clã de vampiros. Entre os membros da assembleia, um jovem e intrigante vampiro de sangue puro chamado Louis se destacava, com seus olhos vermelhos que brilhavam como rubis em meio à escuridão.

A criança vampira estava prestes a fazer sua estreia em uma reunião que seria lembrada por gerações. Louis, contudo, não compreendia completamente o significado do evento que se desenrolava à sua volta. Sua natureza como herdeiro do trono do clã era um segredo bem guardado, e ele ainda não tinha conhecimento de sua linhagem real. O que ele sabia era que a sensação em sua boca era insuportável, sua gengiva latejava com uma dor estranha, e uma sede inexplicável o consumia, como se algo primal o chamasse das profundezas do inferno.

Os olhares dos vampiros adultos se voltaram para Louis com uma intensidade que o fez estremecer. Era como se a atmosfera pesada da sala se concentrasse nele, e sua presença atraísse uma atenção inquietante. Os murmúrios em uma língua antiga e misteriosa preenchiam o ambiente, como se os vampiros estivessem sussurrando segredos ancestrais.

O mentor de Louis, um vampiro mais velho de aparência macabra percebeu a confusão em seus olhos e aproximou-se com um sorriso enigmático. Ele sussurrou a Louis, revelando apenas o suficiente para instigar sua curiosidade: "Chegou a hora, meu jovem. Beba do cálice da noite e toque no poder que flui em nossas veias."

Louis, com suas mãos trêmulas, pegou o cálice ornado com runas e símbolos misteriosos, que parecia um artefato arcaico de um mundo distante. O líquido dentro, quente e pulsante, emanava uma aura hipnótica e sedutora. Enquanto ele hesitava, sua mente era tomada pela vertigem do desconhecido, e sua gengiva latejava como se fosse uma chama que ardesse incontrolável.

O primeiro gole foi como uma revelação sobrenatural. O sangue, com seu sabor ancestral e poder mágico, inundou seu corpo e sua mente, como se uma torrente de poder de outras gerações despertasse em seu interior. Louis sentiu-se mergulhar em um abismo de êxtase e medo, uma experiência que o deixou ofegante e desorientado.

Todos na reunião, agora cientes da identidade real de Louis como herdeiro do trono, pararam para observá-lo. O salão, antes cheio de murmúrios, caiu em silêncio absoluto. Os olhares de admiração se voltaram para o jovem vampiro, e então, uma aclamação ensurdecedora irrompeu. Os vampiros aplaudiram não apenas o ato de beber o sangue, mas a confirmação de que o herdeiro do trono, o escolhido para liderar o clã, estava próximo de seu poder pela primeira vez.

Louis, atordoado e confuso, observava os vampiros o aplaudirem com um sentimento de perturbação e realização que ainda não compreendia completamente. A jornada rumo ao seu destino como líder do clã havia começado, e ele mal arranhara a superfície da escuridão que o aguardava. Com o sabor do sangue ainda em seus lábios, ele se viu imerso em um mundo de intriga e segredos, onde o trono do clã o esperava, um trono de sombras e poder.

Com o gosto do sangue ainda fresco em sua boca, Louis sentiu o poder do lado sombrio de sua natureza o envolver como uma tempestade. Seus olhos, antes vermelhos como rubis, foram tomados por uma escuridão profunda e avassaladora. O preto que consumiu suas íris não era apenas uma ausência de cor, mas uma negrura que sugava a luz do ambiente, como se a própria escuridão tivesse ganhado vida em seus olhos.

Um arrepio percorreu a espinha de todos os vampiros presentes na cerimônia. O ar se tornou mais pesado, carregado de uma energia sombria que se espalhava pelo recinto. Os lábios dos vampiros se curvaram em sorrisos maliciosos, e um arrepio de excitação os dominou. Sussurravam entre si em uma língua antiga e profana, chamando Louis de "o emissário das trevas" e "o herdeiro da noite eterna".

O mentor de Louis se aproximou novamente, olhos fixos nos dele, e disse com uma voz que carregava o peso de séculos de existência vampírica: "O pequenino rei das trevas realmente honra o sobrenome que tem."

O ambiente se encheu de uma tensão palpável enquanto o pequeno Louis, agora transfigurado em um ser de puro terror, ergueu sua cabeça com uma dignidade sombria. Ele sentiu um misto de poder, êxtase e desespero inundar sua mente. O que ele tinha se tornado? Era o senhor da escuridão, mas sua humanidade estava perdida para sempre.

A assembleia de vampiros riu e aplaudiu, celebrando a transformação de Louis como se fosse a mais grandiosa das conquistas. O pequeno vampiro tinha abraçado a noite, mas também selado seu destino, tornando-se um ser de pura escuridão, cuja fome insaciável estava prestes a desencadear um reinado de terror inimaginável. A noite estava apenas começando, e as sombras que o cercavam se estenderiam para além do entendimento humano.

Naquele cenário sombrio e aterrorizante, Louis, ainda uma criança, se via envolvido em um ritual macabro que o afastava cada vez mais de sua humanidade. Os vampiros ao seu redor comemoravam com uma alegria sádica, seus rostos retorcidos em expressões de regozijo. O pequeno Louis, no entanto, olhava para o cálice em suas mãos trêmulas e via o líquido escarlate como um portal para a escuridão eterna. Cada gota que tocava seus lábios era como um pacto com o diabo, e o poder avassalador que se apossava dele era sufocante.

Ele contemplou o reflexo de seus olhos negros nas sombras dançantes de uma vela próxima. Era como se o próprio abismo olhasse de volta para ele, uma negrura sem fim e sem misericórdia. O sangue que havia bebido corria por suas veias como rios de trevas líquidas, e uma risada malévola ecoou em sua mente, como o eco das almas torturadas em busca de vingança.

Num momento de inadvertência, Louis involuntariamente projetou suas presas afiadas, como garras da própria morte, revelando sua juventude e inexperiência. No entanto, em vez de zombarem dele, o mentor o elogiou na frente de todos. "Vejam todos!" ele exclamou, "Nosso jovem Louis, ainda uma criança, mas o sangue de um vampiro puro já o faz mais forte do que muitos aqui. Um prodígio verdadeiramente raro!"

Na penumbra das sombras, a mãe de Louis, agora uma vampira atormentada, observava com o coração pesaroso. Ela havia sido humana uma vez, e o amor que sentia por seu filho a mantinha à distância. O que ela via era a transformação implacável do menino que um dia fora inocente e brincalhão, agora mergulhado na escuridão sem fim.

O mentor, percebendo o desejo insaciável de Louis, perguntou: "Louis, meu querido, você quer mais sangue?" O pequeno vampiro, com um sorriso infantil e macabro, respondeu: "Claro, papai."

Suas presas afiadas se projetaram novamente, como se tivessem vida própria, e seus olhos oscilaram entre o vermelho e o preto, como portais para o fim. O poder que ele sentia era avassalador, e o sabor do sangue era como uma droga que o seduzia implacavelmente. Louis estava perdido nas profundezas da escuridão, e nada o impediria de abraçar completamente o terror que se desenrolava à sua volta. Seu sorriso, agora sombrio e impiedoso, era como o de uma criança sapeca que acabara de descobrir e se apaixonar pelo sabor do poder e do sangue, uma alegria demoníaca que manchava sua inocência para sempre.

•••••••••••

- Não é uma boa resposta. – Harry franziu a testa e fez um leve biquinho, ultimamente suas discussões com Louis sempre terminavam assim. – Por que você não pode quando já fez isso com meio mundo?

Louis suspirou indignado e perdendo a paciência; seus olhos ficando completamente pretos para encarar o ser petulante a sua frente. Harry mal ergueu as sobrancelhas para a mudança de aparência aterrorizante a sua frente. Quando Harry encanava com alguma coisa nem o capeta mudava a cabeça do menino.

- Porque eu já disse que não porra. Não vou te usar assim. Você sabe que antes dos meus dezoito anos eu não tenho controle total sobre o que estou fazendo.

- Você não está me usando se eu estou pedindo por isso. E eu sei que você tem treinado faz anos.

Louis respirou fundo. Ele sabia que qualquer argumento que usasse naquela discussão ia ser inútil. Talvez seu erro fosse ter contado para Harry o que era quando ambos tinham doze anos de idade e mostrado o que ele podia fazer. Ele só não esperava que ao invés de aterrorizar o melhor amigo, ia ganhar uma criança fascinada por si e pelos seus poderes. E que a mesma criança ia crescer sem se importar com atrocidades que Louis lhe contava que cometia.

O cheiro do sangue de Harry era maravilhoso e tudo que ele mais queria era lhe morder; mas sabia pelo próprio bem que não podia fazer isso. Ele tinha matado uma mulher fazia dois dias por não saber controlar a própria sede, e Harry sabia disso. Era infundada a discussão que estavam tendo. Era pela própria segurança do mesmo que Louis estava falando não.

- Não. Você não vai me convencer na base da birra. Eu não sei o que você tanto quer nisso, você devia olhar pra mim e querer distância, eu matei uma mulher dois dias atrás por sede Harry. Ao invés de sair correndo sua cabeça acha uma boa ideia você oferecer seu pescoço numa bandeja pra mim.

Louis suspirou recuperando um pouco o autocontrole e se afastando do mesmo, indo em direção a porta do quarto de Harry enquanto o outro ainda estava com os braços cruzados apoiado no canto da cama; era aniversário de dezesseis anos de Harry e os dois estavam trancados fazia pelo menos meia hora desde que a discussão tinha começado. O cheiro do quarto estava sufocando Louis, e o estresse da discussão não ajudava. Louis precisava de ar puro antes que fizesse merda.

Se fosse um humano ali, o que Harry disse em seguida jamais teria sido ouvido mas não era e o cérebro de Louis tomou milésimos de segundos pra processar a frase.

- Não é só o meu pescoço que eu estou oferecendo.

Seu corpo agiu mais rápido que seus pensamentos, e quando Louis se deu conta Harry estava embaixo de si na cama, as mãos presas por uma das mãos de Louis enquanto a outra se apoiava na cintura do mais novo. O rosto a milímetros de distância um do outro.

Os olhos pretos haviam voltados e as presas de Louis se projetavam para fora, e o maldito provocadozrinho embaixo de si tentava manter a respiração quando eles estavam a centímetros de distância com a boca aberta e os olhos encarando a boca de Louis..

Louis olhou no fundo dos olhos de Harry e apertou com mais força seus pulsos e cintura, mesmo sabendo que Harry o deixaria fazer o que quisesse tentou se conter, precisava se reestruturar e sair dali, não importava o quanto o corpo abaixo de si fosse convidativo. Louis mordeu a própria boca com força tentando sair daquela névoa e fechou os olhos tentando focar em qualquer coisa que não fosse o misto de tesão e sangue. Sua cabeça limpou por breves segundos e ele afrouxou o aperto do corpo de Harry, até que um gemido manhoso o fez abrir os olhos. Levou cerca de dois segundos para entender o que estava acontecendo, mas quando viu, seu pau pulsou. Os lábios de Harry estavam manchados de vermelho e a língua do garoto levemente para fora numa cena completamente obscena tentava alcançar mais dos lábios de Louis; a mordida que Louis tinha dado nos próprios lábios vertendo sangue por conta das presas que outrora estiveram ali, e a boca de Harry capturando cada gota, sua língua antes tímida agora roçava nos lábios de Louis coletando o sangue do mesmo. O corpo de Louis se arrepiando com a sensação e seus ouvidos capturando o murmurinho de desprazer que saiu da boca de Harry quando as feridas se curaram.

A boca de Harry aberta num pedido mudo pra ser tomada e seus olhos fechados foi o que fizeram Louis mergulhar a própria língua na boca do garoto e o beijar como se fosse o último resquício de oxigênio, ele ainda podia sentir o gosto doce de seu próprio sangue nos lábios alheios, e passaria o resto da vida ali. Foi quando suas presas ameaçaram sair para fora novamente que ele cortou o beijo e voou para o outro lado do quarto. A visão que tinha certamente o artomentaria por meses, Harry estava com a boca manchada de sangue, os pulsos com marcas roxas ainda levantados e o pau marcando sobre a calça enquanto estava deitado sobre a própria cama.

A mão de Louis fechou sobre a maçaneta da porta e ele inalou o cheiro do quarto mais uma vez.

- Feliz aniversário, seu merdinha.

Harry sorriu com os olhos fechados e escutou a maçaneta se abrir para que Louis saísse. Se Louis não ia lhe morder ainda, pouco importava, porque agora ele sabia que teria acesso ao sangue dele quando quisesse e que o vampiro tinha amado aquele inferno particular tanto quanto ele.

•••••••••••••••

A lâmina da adaga brincava na mão de Harry, virando-a entre seus dedos ele a observava. Tinha sido um presente de Louis no seu 17º aniversário, e a primeira vista poderia até ser algo simples mas era muito mais que especial. Existiam apenas duas daquela, uma estava na suas mãos e a outra afundada em algum lugar do oceano Pacífico. A única arma capaz de matar qualquer ser místico.. A única arma capaz de matar um sangue puro, tão antiga quantos os encantamentos e runas que adornavam seu cabo. Ele a deixava sempre por perto, porque por mais que fosse um artefato para se defender, ele tinha descoberto uma utilidade muito mais prática.

Depois dos seus dezoito anos as coisas tinham se tornado estranhas, Louis tinha praticamente sumido de sua vida e a única coisa que havia dito era “espere até o Halloween”. Todas as vezes que Harry tinha visto o vampiro depois disso envolveram sua quase morte, discussões onde ele não sabia se no próximo segundo ia ser morto ou fodido e Louis saindo no meio de tudo deixando Harry extremamente frustrado, sem entender que merda estava acontecendo entre eles. Ainda brincando com a adaga observou seu próprio reflexo na lâmina, se a janela ao lado da sua cama dizia alguma coisa, era que era quase noite. O sol se pondo e o crepúsculo da noite tomando conta.

Era quase noite do dia trinta e um e Louis não tinha dado as caras. Harry franziu o cenho, ele sabia que a última discussão que teve com o vampiro foi justamente por ter feito isso mas ao mesmo tempo algo em si ardia e ansiava tanto pela presença de Louis que ele não se importava se fazer aquilo só traria um vampiro puto pra caralho pra sua casa.

Ele sentou na cama observando a adaga, a blusa branca que usava subiu um pouco deixando sua cueca a mostra, mas sinceramente ele pouco se importava em como a própria aparência ia parecer para o outro, ele só precisava ver Louis e ouvir sua voz. Ter o vampiro longe parecia uma abstinência das piores das drogas.

Ele firmou a adaga na mão direita e estendeu o braço esquerdo, suspirando por alguns segundos antes de cravar um corte em diagonal fundo o bastante para precisar de pontos. Ele não se importava com a dor, o sangue escorreu pelo seu braço todo e seu cérebro contou exatos vinte e oito segundos antes da voz na porta do seu quarto ecoar.

- Eu não te dei essa porra de adaga pra você se matar

Louis estava encostado no batente de sua porta, usando uma calça preta e blusa na mesma cor com os olhos vermelhos observando o sangue pingar, enquanto mantinha os braços cruzados e uma feição nada agradável que fez quando Harry olhar pra ele quase engasgar a própria saliva.

Harry sabia exatamente o que estava fazendo, e Louis também. Ele não ia se matar, e se o vampiro queria jogar aquele joguinho, Harry não ia se fingir de santo.

- Uma pena então não é mesmo?

Harry largou a adaga ao lado da cama e levantou para ir até onde Louis estava, ele mal deu um passo antes que o vampiro estivesse na sua frente. Os olhos vermelhos de Louis demonstravam raiva e um outro sentimento que a muito tempo Harry não via nos mesmos.

Desejo e sede.

Foi questão de segundos antes que Louis estivesse mordendo a própria mão e enfiando na boca de Harry, e depois disso tudo ficou turvo na cabeça do mais novo, ele podia sentir o sangue do vampiro na sua boca, o corte em seu braço se fechando, seu próprio pau pulsando dentro da cueca e a vontade ensurecedora de ter mais sangue na própria boca. Era como a melhor droga que ele já tinha provado, a mais viciante de todas.

- Flor, o vampiro sou eu, você pode parar de agir como uma puta desesperada pelo meu sangue.

De alguma maneira Louis tinha se apoiado sentado na cama e trazido Harry para seu colo, o mais novo deveria sentir vergonha de perceber que estava no colo de Louis se contorcendo mas ele apenas ignorou e fincou os joelhos na própria cama para observar a feição de Louis.

O vampiro podia falar o que quisesse, mas seus olhos mesclando entre vermelho e preto eram indicativos suficientes que ele sentia tanto desejo por Harry quanto deixava transparecer.

Harry fez questão de se inclinar novamente e lamber uma linha no pescoço do vampiro até que sua boca estivesse rente a orelha do outro, onde ele se afastou só o suficiente para que pudesse murmurar.

- Eu sempre fui uma puta desesperada pelo seu sangue. Diferente de você que parece ter medo do meu.

Antes que o vampiro pudesse reagir, Harry sentiu a adaga relando na própria perna e a pegou, deixando a ponta posicionada bem ao centro do coração de Louis. O que obrigou o vampiro a lhe encarar e ficar imóvel

- Você tem sangue de virgem Harry, caralho, você acha mesmo que eu nunca quis te morder? Só que só de estar perto de você eu já perco o controle. Você acha que eu gosto de te ter rebolando em cima do meu pau como uma puta barata depois de ver que você é tão desesperado por mim que quase se mata e não fazer nada?

Harry observou o vampiro falando e parou para notar o quanto o pau dele estava duro em sua bunda, com a adaga ainda pressionada sobre o coração de Louis, ele rebolou a cintura observando o vampiro por as presas pra fora e um arrepio subir por seu corpo. Ele não sabia se queria mais que Louis mordesse ele ou o fodesse.

- Isso também é sua culpa.

- Sim, é minha culpa eu não querer te foder porque você acha que eu teria autocontrole pra não te morder.

- Você já fez isso com outras pessoas, qual a diferença?

- Nenhuma delas estava tão impregnada com o meu sangue a ponto de eu ter uma ligação com elas inferno.

As mãos de Louis cravaram ainda mais sobre a bunda de Harry e o menino gemeu jogando a cabeça para trás a adaga deslizando um corte fino sobre a pele e camiseta de Louis.

- Isso vai ser um problema seu.

A petulância de Harry irritava Louis a níveis profundos, ele tinha acabado de soletrar que praticamente mataria o mesmo e isso não parecia o atingir.

Harry enfiou a mão sobre o cabelo de Louis e puxou para o lado, deixando a cabeça do vampiro exposta.

- Que porra você…?

Antes que pudesse completar a frase Louis sentiu um corte com a adaga sendo feito em seu pescoço, e Harry a jogando longe em seguida. Ele pensou por milésimos de segundos em parar aquilo enquanto ainda sentia o mínimo autocontrole mas se fosse pra falar a verdade, ele estava cansado de anos de autocontrole. Harry o encarou como se pedisse permissão, e ele virou mais a cabeça deixando com que o corte escorresse. Ele não ia cicatrizar tão rápido por conta da adaga e Louis estava cansado de lutar uma batalha perdida.

Quando os lábios de Harry encostaram definitivamente no seu pescoço ele foi ao inferno e voltou, a sensação de sentir exatamente o que Harry estava sentindo no momento e o laço entre eles ficando mais forte era avassaladora, e tornava sua sede ainda maior.

Harry começou instintivamente rebolar no seu colo e a cueca que ele ainda usava foi rasgada e jogada longe pelos dedos de Louis em segundos, que envolveram o pau do mesmo seguida.

A névoa de prazer que tomou conta da cabeça do garoto de cachos era insana, seu corpo parecia ter vontade própria e sua mente parecia derretida para pensar em qualquer coisa que não fosse Louis. Seu sangue. Seu cheiro. Seus cabelos no meio dos seus dedos. A mão controladora e forte ao redor do seu pau. Harry afundou mais no colo do mesmo e grudou a boca com vontade sobre a ferida quase cicatrizada. Seu baixo ventre se contraindo. Ele queria poder deixar a marca de sua boca no pescoço de Louis, um roxo, uma marca de mordida, qualquer coisa que dissesse a porra do mundo que Louis era dele. Que a conexão doentia que sentia quando estava com a boca cheia do sangue alheio era algo só dele.

Sua língua passou uma última vez sobre onde um dia houvera um corte e seus quadris arquearam, seu orgasmo sendo praticamente arrancado de si enquanto seus dentes cravavam numa mordida e sua boca se abriu para deixar um gemido digno de atriz porno, arqueando o corpo e cabeça pra trás em seguida quando os movimentos de Louis não pararam em seu pau sensível.

Harry certamente teria caído da cama se não fosse o outro braço do vampiro lhe prendendo a seu colo, seu coração ainda acelerado tentando processar que a mão em seu pau ultrassensível havia o deixado. Seus olhos que antes estavam fechados, se abrindo e se adaptando a luz com certa dificuldade, o fazendo gemer ao ver Louis colher com a própria língua o gozo de seus dedos que estavam sujos.

Sua boca se abriu em um gemido mudo e seu pau pulsou outra vez quando o vampiro colocou a mão agora limpa sobre sua colcha. Uma imensidão negra o encarou e ele se contorceu, colocando a mão ao redor do rosto de Louis e fazendo com que o mesmo ficasse com a boca mais próxima da dele. As presas do vampiro completamente a mostra.

- Você é uma vadia insaciável mesmo.

Um sorriso brincou no canto dos lábios de Harry e ele fez em seguida o que queria a séculos, juntou a própria boca a de Louis e sentiu as presas do vampiro machucando seus lábios inferiores, e a língua dele deslizando junto a sua. Seu controle durou até aí, quando Louis realmente o beijou com vontade, sem se importar no sangue escorrendo dos lábios de Harry, ou nas feridas suas presas estavam deixando, devorando Harry de dentro pra fora como a muito tempos o menor queria que ele fizesse Harry só conseguiu gemer.

Eles só se separaram quando Harry estava realmente quase morrendo por oxigênio, e a visão que Louis teve foi infernal. O garoto no seu colo estava com os lábios inchados, a respiração descompassada e as pupilas totalmente dilatadas.

Louis iria acabar com ele. Foda-se se Harry morresse no processo ele tinha implorado por aquilo desde quando se entendia por gente. Louis não era um mocinho para negar as próprias vontades eternamente.

Harry notou o exato momento onde a sede e o desejo falaram mais alto que a consciência de Louis, foi quando seu olhar voltou ao antigo azul por segundos antes de suas visão se tornar completamente preta, como a de um caçador que está atrás de uma presa.

A boca de Louis voltou a tomar a sua, só que dessa vez devagar, colhendo cada gota de sangue que escorria de onde as presas raspavam, saboreando o líquido que lhe dava tontura de tanto desejo. Ele só parou quando sentiu sua boca melada e as feridas completamente curadas.

Harry reclamou de suas roupas em algum momento, e ele fez questão de tirar todas as peças e rasgar a camiseta que o menino usava em segundos antes de puxa-lo novamente para o seu colo. Deus, ele não sabia o que lhe corroía mais naquele momento, a sede de sangue ou a vontade de só se enfiar dentro de Harry até que o mesmo estivesse chorando sem conseguir pronunciar o próprio nome.

Aparentemente Harry sabia decidir por ele quando olhando para os olhos de Louis ele apenas inclinou o pescoço e o deixou a mostra. Louis cravou as unhas na bunda do mais novo, se inclinou para o pescoço e deixou um beijo demorado lá, deixando as presas roçarem na pele branca de Harry.

Ele podia sentir a pulsação desesperada do coração de Harry e a veia pulsando sobre sua língua, e o gemido de descontentamento que saiu da garganta de Harry. Era engraçado ver como sua presa chorava por antecipação.

- Louis… por que porra…

Harry não teve tempo de terminar a frase. Quando sentiu sua pele sendo rasgada e Louis sugando seu sangue, ele gritou praticamente em prazer puro, se tomar o sangue de Louis trazia um sentimento prazeroso e de conexão, ser mordido por ele era assustadoramente tudo isso ampliado. Parecia que Harry estava a beira de um orgasmo o tempo todo e que cada pensamento e desejo de Louis passavam por seu corpo. O pau duro roçando em sua bunda parecia seu próprio pau em desespero, a sede de sangue parecia sua e a sensação da boca preenchida com o seu sangue que trazia satisfação parecia sua. Se Louis estivesse sentindo tudo aquilo, Harry entendia perfeitamente agora a parte do não conseguir parar.

Ele não pararia no lugar de Louis.

Como se tivesse ouvido seus pensamentos Louis gemeu, as presas ainda fincadas em Harry e a boca cheia de sangue, deixaram escorrer algumas gotas que foram direto para o peito e pau de Harry.

Deus, o estado de frenesi que Harry tinha entrado fazia com que ele quisesse ficar lá pra sempre, foi só quando a sua visão turvou e ele sentiu os braços perderem a força que ele saiu de lá. Ele estava mole e seus olhos fechados demais, algum líquido quente foi posto em sua boca e ele demorou segundos para voltar que se deu conta em como seu corpo ainda pulsava em tesão.

- Eu quase te mato mas a primeira coisa que você pensa é que está com tesão.

- O que significa que eu estou muito bem vivo.

Louis deu uma pequena risadinha de escárnio pra ele, seus olhos estavam azuis agora e seu pau duro como uma pedra.

- Por que você não usa essa boca pra algo melhor além de me infernizar?

Harry sorriu com a fala. Com seus sentidos completamente de volta ele saiu de cima de Louis, e ajoelhou do lado cama.

- Como você quiser… como eles te chamam mesmo príncipe ou majestade?

Louis desceu um tapa ardido na cara do ser petulante a sua frente e ficou feliz quando viu uma lágrima escorrer.

- Abra bem esse caralho de boca que você tem Harry. Eu não dou a mínima se você engasgar, chorar ou espernear, eu vou foder essa marra pra fora de você e só parar quando eu quiser.

Harry mal terminou de abrir a boca e Louis já tinha o pau enfiado na mesma, forçando a garganta do cacheado a se acostumar, seus olhos ardiam e lacrimejavam, o tratamento duro de Louis como se Harry fosse só mais uma puta barata esquina fazia seu pau escorrer mas ele felizmente aguentaria tudo que o vampiro quisesse.

Sua mandíbula doía quando Harry engasgou e o que Louis fez em seguida quase lhe fez gozar. A mão forte em seu cabelo tinha tirado o pau da boca de Harry por apenas alguns segundos e encarava o menino quando enfiou novamente, só que dessa vez os dedos de Louis não permaneceram em sua cabeça mas sim desceram e prenderam a respiração de Harry segurando seu nariz. No desespero de tentar respirar, Louis enfiou seu pau ainda mais fundo na garganta alheia e manteve a cabeça do menino ali até que ele estivesse tão desesperado por oxigênio que batesse em sua perna.

- Você pediu pelo meu pau como uma verdadeira prostituta durante anos Harry. Então quando eu enfiar ele na sua boca outra vez, eu quero sentir o volume na sua garganta e não você desesperado por ar.

A fala de Louis mal havia terminado quando Harry abriu a boca novamente, num desafio mudo a si próprio, o vampiro escorregou o pau para dentro da cavidade e com a ponta dos dedos sentiu a protuberância que se formava na garganta de Harry. Apertou sobre a pele e sentiu seu baixo ventre contrair enquanto Harry tentava engolir todo o gozo sem engasgar ou sufocar. Quando Louis puxou o pau pra fora e o cacheado observou que nem uma gota de porra havia ficado fora de si ele se sentiu orgulhoso.

Ele mal havia recuperado o ar quando Louis o jogou de quatro na cama, separando as bandas de sua bunda e dedilhando sobre seu cuzinho virgem. Harry gritou com vontade quando sentiu a língua do outro rodear sua entrada. Seus braços estavam tremendo e tudo o que ele mais queria era Louis dentro de si, ele estava pedindo por favor e nem sabia para que exatamente.

Louis não teve um pingo de dó de Harry quando enfiou dois dedos de uma vez, apenas molhados com sua própria saliva. Sabia que Harry nunca tinha dado para ninguém mas isso não significava que o garoto não era uma puta.

Louis lhe faria pagar por todas as vezes onde aquele merdinha havia se cortado com um plug e tomado o sangue de Louis para gozar em seguida.

A adaga que tinha sido jogada no canto do quarto chamou a atenção de Louis, e o mesmo abriu um corte generoso na palma da mão quando a pegou, colocando a mão que jorrava sangue na boca de Harry. Os dedos que ainda estavam dentro do garoto se curvaram e passaram a macetar sobre a próstata do mesmo.

Harry estava entre o paraíso e o inferno, seu orgasmo vindo de uma maneira desesperadora e sua cabeça envolta num misto de Louis, sangue e seu cuzinho sendo maltratado pelas mãos alheias. Ele não sabia no que focar ou o que fazer, se gemia e deixava o sangue de Louis escorrer, se continuava só se contorcendo desesperado ou se gritava para parar.

A segunda vez que gozou foi bem mais forte que a primeira e por alguns minutos ele realmente achou que fosse desmaiar, a mão de Louis em sua boca saiu e ele pode buscar mais ar. Sentia seu corpo destruído e sem forças para fazer qualquer outra coisa que não fosse gemer. E quando os dedos em sua entrada socaram sobre sua próstata um última vez ele se contorceu fugindo do toque. A mão em seu baixo ventre o parou no meio do caminho com uma força assustadora e ele abriu os olhos para olhar para Louis.

O vampiro apenas sorriu para ele antes de puxar os dedos pra fora de uma vez. Harry engasgou com a ação e gemeu se sentindo vazio, seu cuzinho piscava por atenção e para que fosse preenchido novamente. Louis observou a cena e se abaixou para que estivesse rente a orelha de Harry.

- Eu vou socar meu pau tão fundo em você que vai ser a única coisa que seu corpo vai sentir por horas, e quando eu gozar, eu vou assistir minha porra cair gota por gota para fora do seu corpo enquanto você se contrai desesperado para guardar tudo dentro de si. Porque você vai estar acabado Harry. Aberto como uma puta. E aí eu vou beber seu sangue até te sentir mole nas minhas mãos e incapaz de se mexer.

Harry gemeu alto com isso, ele amava como Louis tinha deixado de o tratar como uma boneca de porcelana para o tratar como um brinquedo particular.

- Sim, por favor, por favor.

Foram as palavras que sua mente foi capaz de raciocinar e falar, ele sentiu Louis puxando seu corpo e o deixando de quatro na cama. Harry não tinha forças para manter seus braços retos, então caiu de cotovelos sobre a cama e empinou a bunda num convite descarado. Ele podia estar sem forças mas tudo que mais queria no momento era o pau de Louis dentro de si.

O vampiro observou a cena sentindo suas presas se pronunciarem sobre sua boca, era bizarra a devoção e sede que ele tinha sobre aquele garoto, e ver o mesmo se expondo daquela maneira mexeu com algo primal dentro de si. Ele estalou um tapa sobre a bunda de Harry que fez com que o mesmo fosse para frente na cama. A marca de seus cinco dedos agora estampava a bunda alheia, e sua sede ao ver isso só aumentou. Ele abaixou o rosto e deu um beijo no local onde sua mão havia marcado e logo em seguida cravou os dentes sobre a pele que se rompeu facilmente. Em algum lugar em sua mente ele lembra de ter ouvido Harry gritar um xingamento mas ele não se importou. Assim que o sangue chegou em sua boca ele se separou.

- Eu vou te foder com o seu próprio sangue Harry.

A imagem a sua frente era esplêndida, a pele marcando, os dedos do tapa, os dois furinhos que vertiam sangue da mordida e Harry tremendo. A única coisa que melhorou ainda mais a cena foi pegar em seu próprio pau e o arrastar lentamente pelos furos da mordida, o sangue de Harry manchando sua pele enquanto pré-gozo saia da cabeça de seu pau para grudar em Harry.

Louis poderia ficar eternamente naquilo. Seu pau cada vez mais molhado pelo sangue de Harry enquanto estava duro pra caralho, e a bunda que se estendia a sua frente como um banquete. Por uma última vez ele passou a glande já manchada de vermelho sobre um dos furos de suas presas e gemeu. Por mais que quisesse ficar naquela brincadeira sadica para sempre os gemidos manhosos e desesperados de Harry lhe despertavam para o cuzinho virgem e desesperado que ele iria arregaçar.

Segurando em seu pau, ele enfiou a glande devagar e gemeu. O sangue deixava tudo mais escorregadio e paredes internas do garoto que lhe apertavam enquanto ele enfiava o restante o faziam ver estrelas. Harry estava uma bagunça de gemidos e choro pedindo por mais abaixo de si e ele mesmo não sabia por quanto tempo manteria o controle. Estocando num ritmo forte Louis se perdeu no próprio prazer.

Ele nunca tinha ficado com tanto tesão em alguém, suas estocadas selvagens agora faziam Harry gritar e quando sentiu que o próprio orgasmo estava chegando ele manteve um ritmo ainda maior, puxando Harry da cama e o colando a seu corpo para que tivesse acesso ao pescoço do menino.

Harry mal aguentava o próprio corpo, e só estava com as costas coladas ao peito de Louis porque o vampiro estava literalmente lhe segurando, sua cabeça estava tonta e sua visão nublada pelo prazer, ele ia gozar novamente e nem sabia como isso era possível, mas seu pau e mente só imploravam para Louis ir mais rápido, forte e fundo. Sua próstata estava sendo impiedosamente surrada e de sua boca só saíam grunhidos incompreendidos. Sua mão foi em direção ao próprio pau para arrancar de si mais um orgasmo mais Louis foi mais rápido e a segurou. Ele implorou um misto de por favor enquanto lágrimas caíam e quando estava para abrir a boca mais uma vez ele sentiu seu pescoço sendo mordido. Isso lhe mandou por uma espiral de prazer que quase o fez desmaiar, e seu pau ultrassensível gozou como se fosse a primeira vez aquele dia. Ele nunca tinha sentido tanto prazer.

Sua entrada sensível sentiu quando Louis gozou fundo dentro dele, e mais uma vez Harry achou que fosse desmaiar de tanto prazer. A boca do vampiro sugando seu sangue tornava tudo mais sensível. Ele sentia cada parte do corpo formigar de prazer e deleite, e soltou um gemido alto e choroso quando sentiu Louis tirar o pau de dentro de si. Ele estava tão aberto, queria apertar as pernas mas não conseguia se mexer, a boca de Louis estava grudada ainda sugando seu sangue e ele sentiu porra escorrer por suas coxas. Sua boca soltou um murmurinho de lamentação e em seguida os dedos de Louis estavam lá, pegando o próprio gozo e enfiando novamente dentro do cuzinho de Harry para se manter lá dentro.

Harry gritou quando sentiu o vampiro fazendo isso e suas pernas que já estavam trêmulas, ficaram moles, ele sentiu Louis cravando os dentes mais fundo em si e sua cabeça ficou leve, os dedos do vampiro mais uma vez entrando dentro de si, um prazer surreal se apossando do seu corpo e um orgasmo que Harry não previu vindo com tudo. Fazendo tudo ao seu redor girar. Os dedos de Louis saíram de dentro de si e quando Harry sentiu prazerosamente Louis sugar seu pescoço, uma escuridão encontrou ele de volta.

••••••••••••••

Louis observou a cena ao seu redor. Os lençóis manchados de sangue, o quarto bagunçado, a adaga no canto da cama, as roupas destruídas que outrora Harry usava e o corpo sem vida em cima da cama. Ele não sabia o que fazer exatamente mas ele sabia que quando tudo aquilo começou, ele devia ter parado. O garoto gelado e morto por sua causa. Ele não sabia por onde começar arrumar tudo.

Ia dar um trabalho do caralho explicar para o seu clã como ele tinha transformado um humano que ia ter uma ligação com ele para a eternidade e ser rei das trevas ao seu lado aos dezoito anos.

[sincerelylancelot]

Charles spends the evening after the driver's dinner lying on his bed in Abu Dhabi, staring at the ceiling. Or: on the eve of the 24' Abu Dhabi race weekend Max announces he's going to be a father, Charles struggles to cope.

Charles Leclerc / Max Verstappen, explicit, 10k

Tags: canon compliant, hurt/comfort, ambiguous/open ending, no beta reader we die like Ferraris constructors hope, infidelity

(find the fic here)

[taintandviolent]

sin creeps in ; Nosferatu x Reader

summary: You're plagued by heinous nightmares of a mysterious monster, but you can't help but feel drawn to he who plagues you.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.5K | female reader, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of death, making out, smut, unprotected sex, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering)????.

a/n: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! this is just.... listen, I'm not even going to try to justisfy myself. rack up yet another hear me out moment for me. you either understand or you don't. shorter than I wanted it to be, but I needed to get this out and sate my hunger. banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You awake with a strangled gasp, your hands flying to your throat as your breath gradually returns. The nightmares had roused you, as they had every night, but this time, something lingered. Your room was frigid; the gauzy curtains fluttered in front of the open window like misplaced ghosts, allowing the chill of the night to penetrate your quarters. Everything looks terrifying at night; familiar shapes are transformed into horrible spectres, and your very room feels unknown. Unsafe. 

He is here. For the first time in several nights, you weren’t dreaming – he has come for you.

“I know that you are here with me,” you bravely whisper into the emptiness of your own bedroom. The wind whistled, a familiar sound, but something growled – growled in a language you didn’t speak, but understood. The voice was low, gravelly, and heavily accented. 

Hurriedly, you kick the sheets from your legs. The moonlight pales your skin, washing you in its blanch, bluish tone. Gripping your gown with both hands, you gather it up your thighs, exposing them to the cold. The chill of the wind hits your center, and you hiss through your teeth. Your head drops to your chest, and so does your gaze, watching patiently. At the edge of your bed, a large, slender shadow manifests. Him. 

You dare not look up. The feeling of his presence petrifies you, but also arouses you – letting a slick warmth pool deeply between your legs. 

The shadows continue to creep further up your bed, until they reach your feet, which twitch in response. Up, up, up… along your shins. Your skin prickles, and you shiver, doing your best to remain calm. Though he doesn’t touch you, you feel him. You feel every pass of his large hand as it makes its way up your body. His shadow glides over your hip, to your stomach and finally between your plump breasts, coming to a stop over your beating heart. It thumps away like a rabbit’s heart underneath the blackness of his form, and you hear a ragged, strained groan.

Then, with no warning, it moves down, leaving a cold, lifeless chill in its path like a gust of winter wind. You pant, desperately clinging to what breath you have. All at once, the shadow envelopes the soft, warm mound between your legs and your hands fall to the bed, bracing yourself. You have felt his ghostly touches for countless nights, tasting your body as a lover would, but each time your body climbed the peak, the sensations disappeared.  He comes to you in dreams, always leaving you unsatisfied. Your chest heaves in the night, cold droplets of sweat peppering your decollete and breasts. Your hands claw the sheets while you dream, but never reach euphoria.

Tonight, there are new sensations. The phantom wisp of his middle finger runs along the length of your slit. Grazing it. Somehow, you feel his finger part your wet folds, toying with your most sensitive areas. The nonexistent pads of his fingers sweep back and forth over your swelling clit, bringing a spasmodic twitch from each of your muscles. Wanting. Craving. While the sensation lacks the familiar warmth of a living man, it is bountiful with pleasurable feelings – your body responds embarrassingly; your shoulders shudder violently. 

He inhales, a deeply hollow sound. “You desire this… thine own body craves it….” 

The accent seems to fill his entire mouth, rumbling in his throat as he speaks slowly, drawing out each word like an incantation. You let out a plaintive moan, throwing your head back against the pillows, the down feathers crackling underneath you. As though he’s still pleasuring you, your hips writhe back and forth, practically convulsing with need. The shadow of his hand is gone from your body, replaced by the looming darkness of his physical form. After a moment of trepidation, you finally lift your head, and stare into the dark, terrifying eyes that watch you. 

You swallow hard. “I do.” 

A moment passes before you continue. “Take me as you will, for I am yours.” You consent again, desperate to convey your own insatiable hunger, your unimaginable need. 

Another intake of breath from him – it almost sounds labored, painful. His footsteps are dreadful as he moves around to the side of your bed. He’s tall, his form stretching towards the ceilings and towering over you, consuming your atmosphere as he had in your nightmares. His silhouette is large; enhanced by the countless furs he has on.

Weightlessly, his lithe, ghastly fingers reach for you and make contact with your form. They are cold, and the icy feeling of them penetrate the thin fabric of your nightgown. He moves gradually, but hungrily, feeling the curves of your body beneath the cotton. As he moves southward, his fingers skim over the peak of your breast, a nail catching on the swollen nipple. It hurts, but your chest jerks forward still, craving more of his touch. 

Pulling a breathy moan from deep within your throat, his long, sharp nails rake across the tender flesh of your thigh. It’s bathed in the silvery moonlight, which casts horrible, elongated shadows of his fingers down towards your center. He scrapes downward, his middle finger digging into the flesh enough to leave a reddened streak behind, but not so much to break the skin.

“P-please…” you mewl, looking up into his horrifying visage. The sight of him fills you with dread and disgust, but like a single drop of blood in water, it’s tainted with something else, something else that has been lingering in your system for days. 

He’s above you now, though you don’t remember seeing him move atop of you. Still, he’s there. The bed creaks as you push yourself into the mattress, whimpering underneath him. He lowers himself down onto you, the brush of his mustache tickles your face as he lingers above you. A second passes and his waiting mouth envelops yours. He tastes damp and cold, faintly of ash and earth. His tongue slips out and it too is cold, slipping wetly along your own and along your bottom lip. His kiss is dreadful, but possessive, and he inhales each time you exhale, as though he’s trying to suck the very warmth out of you. No man has kissed you the way Count Orlok kisses you, and the chill of the room disappears, snuffed out by the fire that rages in your lower abdomen. 

Your tongues collide with each other; you tasting his lifelessness, and him tasting your utterly intoxicating, vibrant liveliness. For a moment, the two of you stay intertwined at the mouth until he separates himself, smearing his mouth over the warmth of your neck. He hovers, pausing over your pulse. It thrums under his lips, and his hips urge into yours, indicating his hunger.

There is a shuffle, a rustling of clothing. You try to lift your head up to gaze between your bodies, but his hand holds you fast, pressing you against the pillow. The size of his hand is staggering; his palm underneath your chin, while the fingertips extend past your hairline, into the strands. You shudder again and whisper his name. He inhales as though he plans to speak, but doesn’t. 

The front of your nightgown falls apart, revealing your chest to him. With one hand covetously clutching your breast, his mouth opens between your breasts, the slithery coolness of his tongue gliding down along the length of your sternum. As the teeth puncture your flesh, your hands make fists on either side of your body, pulling the sheets into the confines of your palms. He enters you, in more ways than one, and you feel the steady tug of his mouth as he sucks the blood from your veins. Warmth pools in the cave of your stomach.

The fingers of his other hand crawl up your shoulder, and like a quill in ink, he dips the pads of his fingers into the hollow of your chest, coating them in your crimson essence. He smears the blood along your decollete, along the hem of your nightgown, tugging it harshly over your shoulder. The blood coats you in a flash of warmth, and then chill as it meets the cold air. 

His hips rut against yours as he drinks, the pulse of your blood matching the thrust of his hips. An ache starts in your neck, a slow pulling sensation that has your eyelids fluttering. He moves within you, his length penetrating as deeply as his sharpened teeth have. Your release is found amongst blood and groans and that same language which you understand, but do not speak. His tongue scrubs at your soft skin, lapping up the blood as it comes… as you do. 

The darkness is ever-looming, and as your aching cunt ebbs its throbbing, it settles down upon you. You let yourself fall backwards into the abyss, freely. It takes you, wrapping its arms around your tiny frame which is dwarfed by his stature. His mouth breaks free of your bloodied skin with a slick pop.  Into the softness of your skin, you hear him growl, ‘Mine.’ The feeling vibrates against your neck, and your lids flutter shut.

[smittenwithlouis]

One Last Time

Main Pairing: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson Rating: Explicit Status: Complete Word Count: 24k Summary: “I mean it, Harry, this is the last time,” Louis breathes out as Harry kisses down his neck.

“Sure,” Harry mumbles into his heated skin.

The action makes Louis shudder. He hates how good it feels. He knows he should be revolted. Disgusted. But god does it feel so damn good.

Or: Louis is a werewolf, and Harry is a vampire. They’re supposed to hate each other, but they’re too busy fucking to care.

Written for the @bottomlouisficfest 🐺🦇

[d1s1ntegrated]

dabi and hawks fighting over reader🫣

luv ur workss!!!!😩😩😩💗💗💗

🎀•—•—•—•🎀

YEEEASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS IM FROTHINGGGG

much to be desired

dabi vs hawks x reader <3

crossposted to my ao3!

cw: dirty talk, unprotected, threesome - F/M/M, sadomasochism, multiple positions, doggy, missionary, oral, rough, biting, dacryphilia, light somnophilia, why choose?mutual pining, backshots, slight breeding kink if u squint, dabi has a pain kink, wing play, wing kink, hawks has really sensitive wings, dabi has a lotttt of piercings, minor cuckolding, pet names, hair pulling, slight choking, really descriptive smut lol, no use of y/n, blank name space instead, fem!afab!reader, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

wc: ~4300 words

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you didn't think the boys were ever actually fighting. their dynamic was just like that. as their roommate, you witnessed a lot of fights and bickering that could be comparable to an old married couple, but you never made anything of it. after all, at the end of the day, the two were inseparable- with you squished between them, of course. at all times.

but when you came home late at night, slightly tipsy from the bar, and stumbled into kiego's arms...touya just about lost it.

"c'mere, ________. come here baby, lemme take care of you" keigo's soft voice whispers in your ear as you cling to him, smelling the expensive cologne on his chest.

"yo, keeg, i got 'er." touya's rough hand grabs at your shoulder and keigo smacks his hand away.

"nuh uh, crispy, go smoke a cigarette or something" the winged man snaps at touya as he slips your jacket off your arms.

"tch, you dont know what the hell you're doing anyways." touya extends his hand back out to you, and you grasp it gently. he leads you away from keigo, who trails behind the both of you like a predator on prey. he sits on the armchair across from you, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hands as touya takes your hair down, smoothing out the tangles. keigo rolls his eyes and huffs as he sits next to you, handing you a water bottle.

"how much did you drink, angel?" keigo asks, rubbing your face with a loose feather. touya reaches out and yanks the feather away before you can even answer, flicking it back to keigo. you shake your head and shrug. you didn't really have a lot, and it's already slightly wearing off, but saké has one hell of a kick to it. not to mention the walk home took a toll on you.

"not a lot. just enough..." you smile, and touya chuckles.

"that's my girl" he says, and keigo chokes back a laugh.

"somethin' funny, chicken?" touya leans back, crossing a leg. he taps the arm of the couch impatiently as keigo shakes his head.

"well, i mean, it's laughable that you're calling her yours," the blonde smirks in his seat, fiddling with one of his own feathers. his face remains unbothered as he continues, "as if her standards are that low".

the black haired man scoffs. he stands with a sickly smile, jabbing a finger in keigo's direction. "if i'm the low standard, you must be real shit, huh?" he spins to face you, as you rub the heat on your cheeks away with the palms of your hands. "_______, who would you pick?" he asks, raising a brow.

you furrow your brows for a moment. "in regards to what, exactly?". you can't lie, this whole conversation was confusing enough, but pair it with sakura-flavored liquor and two men who both suck at communicating...it sounds like he's asking you to decipher hieroglyphics right now.

"i dunno. just pick. me," he gestures to himself with a dramatic flair, "or him". he hides his face from keigo with one hand and shoves a finger to his mouth. the childlike motion makes you laugh, and shake your head.

"if i'm supposed to be mediating this pissing contest, count me out boys." you raise your hands in defeat and stand from your seat, still swaying a bit. "i'm gonna go lay down" you purse your lips into a thin smile and the two men watch as you trail off to your room. they immediately snap back, staring daggers into each other before kiego springs up and they both run for your door. you hear the cacophony of feet outside your door, but just sigh. the handle jiggles for a moment as you undress, ignoring the light knocking and mumbling from the other side.

"stupid boys", you shake your head as you change into comfier clothes. this wasn't the first time you'd been caught in the middle of their little spats, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. however, all you needed right now was some goddamned peace and quiet.

you open the curtains, letting the city lights glimmer in through the windows. you fling yourself on the bed, grateful for the silence. a few minutes pass as you stare at the ceiling, the question still tumbling around in your head. in what world would you want to choose? you loved the boys equally, you essentially labelled them a package deal for you. also, in what world would they care anyways? to your knowledge, they considered you just another bro anyways. sure, they called you things like baby and angel and pretty girl, but that was par for the course with two male roommates. of course they learned how to braid your hair and they bought you refills of your makeup or skincare when it ran out, or your favorite snacks on your period. of course touya always invited you outside for a smoke, and always lit it for you. why wouldn't keigo always tag you with a feather when you went out, for safety reasons? they loved you, but certainly not, no, never in that way. right? they cared as much as most men would care, right?

your silence was abruptly ended by the sound of knocking, again. you stand from the bed, groaning slightly as you unlock the door. it pushes open swiftly as touya enters, his tall stature shadowing you as he grabs you, warm hands cupping your face. before you can ask why, or what he's doing, he leans down and kisses you feverishly. your mind slips as his lips crush yours, the cool metal of his piercings brushing against your soft mouth. you exhale heavily as you taste him, smoke and salt enveloping you. his hands trail down the curve of your spine to grab your ass, squeezing it as he nips at your bottom lip with sharp teeth.

your brain sputters as you try to understand what he's doing, but you lose to the greater thought of how badly you wanted him. it had crossed your mind-you wondered how the boys tasted, how they felt to kiss, how badly they'd stretch you out if you let them-but it was all just silly intrusive thoughts. late at night, when you felt lonely, you'd imagine crawling into bed with one or both of them, letting them have their way with you. the thought would comfort you to sleep, but you never imagined any part of it coming to fruition. now, with touyas hands running rampantly all over your body, it feels dreamlike.

you sink into his touch further, letting him push you back onto your bed as his tongue begs for intrusion. it slips in, and you slide yours past his lips, feeling his piercing tickling the inside of your mouth. you moan into the kiss, feeling him smile at the sound.

as you wrap your arms around him, you feel a soft tickle against the back of your hand. you grasp at it, feeling it crush slightly between your fingers, and you break the kiss. still speechless, you look behind touya to see keigo standing there, propped in the doorway. the sight of him shocks you-its not that you forgot about him, but you weren't expecting to see him looming against the doorframe, watching with a narrow gaze.

you realize then what you had grasped, and hastily release it as he summons it back, grabbing it with a lazy hand.

"i guess this is your way of answering the question, eh?" his voice is lower then usual, almost like he's trying to smother his annoyance. but it still rings true in your ear, and you shake your head.

touya doesn't shift his position, but stares at you with half-lidded eyes as you speak. as if on cue, keigo chuckles and closes the door behind him, locking it quietly.

"you know, touya, if you wanted her so bad, you should've said something earlier." his words bite as he approaches the bed, throwing his shirt to the floor effortlessly before crawling right up next to the both of you. touya snickers as keigo snakes a hand between you, tracing your silhouette with his soft fingers. you don't protest his touch, and he recognizes that, as he shoves touya slightly to press a warm, gentle kiss to your already-swollen lips. you immediately shiver as you realize what's happening, and you let the feeling tangle your mind.

keigo is different than touya. he's softer, slower, sweeter. his lips taste like coffee and honey, and as his scruff tickles your chin, you melt. to have one of them, you begin thinking, would be blasphemous. because the mix of the two feels like something even heaven couldn't replicate.

he pulls away from the kiss and strokes your face as he turns to touya, who's watching intensely from above the both of you.

"how about we give our angel a better way to choose, hm?" keigo nudges the scarred man with a smile, "let her experience it first, let us both show her the best so she can decide".

touya grins at the proposition, tilting his head back a bit at the thought. "it's her choice" he looks back down at you, that same grin splayed wide on his sharp face. "what do you say, pretty girl?"

your eyes widen as you take in the thought. without further contemplation, you nod, allowing the men to finally have you. your heart swells, unable to comprehend your own joy as they both let their hands free on your body, groping and grabbing wherever they can. they kiss and nip at you like starving dogs, taking a side of you each before they both grab at the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head with ease. touya depravedly goes for your pants, tearing them off you without warning as keigo now cups one of your breasts, pinching a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. you moan out at the sensation, your eyes glossing over with pure lust. he takes a feather and motions as it drags up your side, sending a shiver from deep inside to course through you.

touya doesn't worry about your underwear as he greedily yanks the fabric to the side, dipping his head between your thights. he licks a thick stripe up to your clit, the cold air clashing with your already-soaked folds. he groans as his tongue sinks into you, the piercing rubbing up against the bundle of nerves just enough to get you to suck in a gasp. his nails dig into your thigh, his fingers heating up on the soft flesh as he squeezes. you grit your teeth as the pain and pleasure mix, feeling the skin under his hands swell with heat. keigo shifts up, grabbing your face and cradling you as touya devours you, his tongue working rapid movements around your clit. he kisses you again, a bit more crazed this time, his wings puffed straight behind him as his tongue collides with yours. he moans gently as you bite his lip, unable to hide your upcoming orgasm. he chuckles into your mouth before you pull him in deeper, your other hand grasping at touya's thick black hair, shoving his face even deeper into you. you cry out, wrapping your hand into keigo's wings as you get closer and closer, the waves washing over you. he whimpers out, shuddering as your fingers tangle with the crimson fluff, unable to control his impulses.

"right there, angel" his golden eyes roll back slightly, long thick lashes fluttering. you tighten your grasp, and he moans loudly. from below, touya chuckles as his tongue laps up at you as you're sent over the edge. you freeze for a moment before your body shatters, your eyes squeezing shut as your thighs tighten around touya's face. you moan a string of obscenities as the flood rushes through your burning body. your cries only entice the two men further, as they both smile at you. touya pulls up for a breath, then turns to keigo.

"you want a taste, birdie?" he smiles, his lips glistening with your essence as your juices drip off his chin. keigo dutifully nods, and touya stands up to allow for the swap. he strips his bottoms off, including the boxers. you soak in the sight of his scarred body, piercings littering his pretty skin alongside the staples. tracing down the white hair from his navel, his cock stands proudly. metal adornments go up his shaft to his delicate red tip, gleaming under city lights. keigo even raises his brows before replicating touya's actions, his tongue dipping into you immediately. your hips buck up at the stimulation, your body already sensitive from the both of them.

touya comes back to the bed, but instead of laying beside you, he sits directly on your chest, muscular thighs warming your ears.

"be a good girl for me, open your mouth" he commands with a low tone, and your jaw slackens. you draw your tongue out as his hand works up and down his length for a few strokes. he slides it in slowly, and you wrap your lips around it gratefully, letting your tongue form around the girthy shape. you trace the little metal beads with it as he thrusts gently into your mouth, groaning as he watches you take the full length with a gag. "that's it," he says with a hiss, "take my cock."

you lick and suck around it, feeling him shake as he perches on you. he moans loudly as you cry, the gagging sending hot tears to stream down your face. he laughs lowly and continues to thrust into you before whispering, "use your teeth, baby, i know you wanna". you sob as your mouth finally relaxes a bit, your teeth grazing against the delicate flesh. he takes a thumb and wipes the tears from your face, licking it off with a crazed moan. his cock leaks down your throat, and you can feel from his incessant twitching that he's close. you let your jaw clamp just a bit tighter, his piercings rubbing against your bottom molars.

keigo sends you over the edge again with fat, lazy licks alternating with snake-like flitting against your clit. his fingers grab your hips as he presses himself further into you as you rut against his sweet mouth, moaning in sync with you as he grinds down into the mattress, edging himself on your pleasure. touya feels your mouth loosen a bit as you orgasm again, and looks down at you with a sadistic smile. he shoves his cock all the way in again, choking you again with the size as keigo licks you clean, sending overstimulated crackles through your legs.

touya leans back as keigo lifts his head, and grabs the blonde by the nape of his neck. his face is slicked, and he's panting. as touya pulls him closer, he smiles, licking a canine before he's yanked into a very sloppy and aggressive kiss. your body seizes at the sight, the two men grasping and groping at each other the same way they did to you just moments ago. touya's cock jumps as keigo moans, and the two pull away with a thick string of saliva mixed with your fluids.

"i was just about to cum in her pretty mouth" the pierced man says, annoyance coating his words.

"this ain't about you" keigo says unbothered as he slides off the bed, his wings puffed as he fully undresses. his tan skin glows under the low lights of the room, his muscles rippling with the contrast. your eyes focus on his equally impressive cock- it's clean shaven, only slightly lengthier than touya's, with a soft pink tip. your eyes dart between his and touya's, unable to hide your excitement as he re-approaches the bed. touya slides off your chest without a word, and the two men kneel by your feet.

"heads or tails, baby?" keigo coos at you, and you tilt your head. he shakes his head, waving a finger. "nuh-uh, just pick" his voice teases, heavy with craving. "dont overcomplicate it".

"uhm, i dont...heads, i guess?" you stumble over your words, and he nods. he moves and lays against the headboard next to you, spreading his legs a bit. touya notices your confusion and extends his hand to you, pulling you into an upright position.

he kisses your neck lazily before whispering in your ear. "turn around". it isn't an offer, rather an instruction, so you nod and turn to face keigo. touya grabs your waist and shifts you between the hero's legs, then pushes your upper back so you fold.

"tch, hands and knees, pretty girl." he smacks your ass as you move into the position, your back arching sleazily. he hums in approval and teases your entrance with his leaking cock, and you feel the fluids mixing. you instinctively press yourself back, trying to already take it before he stops you. he leans over you, his body warming yours as he wraps a hand around your throat.

"don't be so eager, slut. and be nice to keigo, too" he spits as his grip tightens, then releasing as you dip your head down to meet keigo's cock. the winged man looks down, stroking your chin as he wraps his fingers around the base of his shaft, extending the length even further as he presses down. the tip brushes against your pouty lips, and you open your mouth, drool already spilling out before you lower your head down. you moan around the size as it twitches, and touya slaps your ass with a cupped hand, the sound reverberating around the room. he pushes into you slowly, the sheer size of it causing you to buckle as it stretches your painfully-tight hole. he growls as you adjust to him.

he starts with slow, deep strokes as your mouth works on keigo. the both of them moan and huff with pleasure, and touya picks up the pace. his thrusts force kiego further down your throat, the same tears beginning to sprout from your eyes again as the pain and euphoria battle inside of you. with a moan, keigo throws his head back and laces his fingers into your hair, keeping it away from your face as your drool drips down his throbbing cock. you swallow as his precum slides down your tongue. his wings, previously pressed against the headboard, wrap around him as he shakes. you resist the urge to reach out and grab one of them, knowing it'll throw you off balance.

as keigo reaches his orgasm, touya thrusts into you rapidly, roughly. he snakes his own hand into your hair as keigo's grip loosens, and he yanks your head back forcefully as you and kiego both near orgasm.

"wanna fill you so badly, i love how good you're taking our cocks baby" he draws out, shoving your head back town to keigo, who's shaking and panting, near begging to finish. as you take him back in your mouth, he begins to fill your mouth with sticky strings of cum. his moans are loud and breathy as he calls out your name, his eyes squeezing shut and his legs tightening. he thrusts into your mouth from below, and you force yourself to swallow it all before it begins to leak from your lips. his wings jut out, the feathers ridged, some shooting loose as he rides out his orgasm. as you clench around touya, he smacks your ass and reaches around to press and flat finger to your clit, rubbing it as you squeam and shatter around his cock. bliss overtakes the three of you, touya roughly slamming into you with a clapping noise before he rapidly pulls out, and you feel as he shoots thick white ropes all over your ass and back, a string of curses coming out in the form of moaning alongside it.

your body collapses, drenched in overstimulation as you cry out. even after three orgasms, you still crave more. your mind is still broken, the only thought being the image of the two boys using you. you feel waves of darkness washing over you, the heat and endorphins flooding your vision as it all goes dark.

you awaken on your back, your head still spinning. you blink up, trying to let the light slowly seep back into your sight. to your left, touya lays lazily, a scarred hand slowly stroking his cock as he watches you. for a moment, you can't see kiego, but then you feel him as he slowly, gently slips the tip of his cock inside of you. from above, he watches you wake, a sly smile painting his face. you stir under him, still cloudy as he pumps inside of you. he leans down, kissing your cheeks and neck, your pussy ultimately clenching around his length. you feel a deep, throbbing ache in side of you, causing you to hiss in pain. he tuts at you quietly before kissing you languidly, sighing as he tastes himself on your lips.

he breaks the kiss, his motions speeding up, and touya leans down to take his place.

"welcome back," he teases, licking up the side of your neck. his charcoal hair tickles your face as he sucks on your throat, just below your ear. you gasp quietly, unable to produce a sound louder. kiego slides his hand between the both of you and toys with your poor clit again with a thumb, his cock rubbing right against your spot. as much as your body wants to protest it, it's already close again as he abuses the bundle of nerves. you pull keigo in closer, lacing your shaky fingers between the base of his crimson wings. he cries out as you both work each other up, with touya swapping between the both of you with sanguine kisses and bites. a few to your neck, nipple, or face, and then a few to kiego's side, arm, and ear.

you feel your fourth orgasm rush over you as kiego fucks you, his hips rutting into you achingly. touya fists at his cock desperately as he watches, his breathing matching everyone else's as you spasm, clenching tightly around keigo's thick cock.

"fuck, angel, my god, you're so tight," he pounds into your spent hole even harder, his hands gripping the bedding. you weaken under him, your body going loose as he relentlessly tortures you with his length. his citrine eyes lock with yours, a primal glaze washed over them. his core tightens and he slams himself against your cervix repeatedly, worsening the bruise on it. "touya was nice enough to leave you nice and fuckin' clean for me" he breathes out, his voice much deeper and aggressive compared to his usual bubbly tone. your eyes widen in both fear and anticipation as his nails dig into your shoulders. touya's own moans grow louder next to you as he finishes again, splaying the sheets with pearlescent cum. keigo watches as the cum leaks out of the scarred man and it sends him over the edge. he shoves himself as deep as he can, dragging his sharp nails down your arms as he fills you, and you feel the heat rush into you furiously as he cries out with a low guttural groan. his wings shoot back out, more feathers exploding off of him, making a mess of the room as he makes a mess of you. your body quivers as he pulls out, panting, and your legs immediately snap shut in pain. there's a deep throbbing inside of you, but you cant help but still feel exuberant.

both boys sigh and collapse on the bed next to you. touya wipes a strand of hair from your face as kiego kisses your cheek gently, none of you having the energy to speak. you all lay there for a few seconds before keigo gets up and leaves, returning with a wet cloth and a towel a few seconds later.

touya sits up and helps to wipe you and himself off, and kiego does the same. they lock eyes for a moment, and touya speaks.

"d'ya have an answer, pretty girl?" he asks you gently, still cleaning you up. you shake your head and close your eyes, not bothering to filter your response.

"both".

your indifference causes them to both pause and laugh.

"both?" keigo raises a brow, and hands you a water bottle.

you take a sip and nod. "mhm."

"you heard her, drumstick," touya starts with a breathy chuckle, "why make her choose?" he shrugs and raises his hands, taking the water bottle from you after.

keigo slips into bed with the both of you, a shit-eating grin plastering his golden features. he reaches and drapes an arm over you, holding you close. "i guess we can't ask you to make a decision now, hm?" he tucks himself into you a bit, the scent of sweat and his cologne swirling around your senses.

touya nods and rubs his thumb along your bottom lip before kissing you. "no, we wont make you choose right now" he confirms, settling in on the other side, hand resting on your thigh. he pulls the covers over all of you and sighs, his eyes closing softly as he sinks into exhaustion.

you finally crash from the second-wind, and yawn before coming to rest between the two, humming contentedly at the revelation of your deepest fantasies. you smile at the consensus- you can have the both of them. your mind eases as your own eyes flutter shut, enjoying the warmth and comfort of the two.

"we'll try again tomorrow" touya mumbles with a smirk.

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thank u for the ask! enjoy <3

also this was poorly proofread, i apologize for any typos!

[almostfoxglove]

ONE NIGHT EARLY

a secret santa surprise for @talaok ! ✨ as part of @pedrostories' #pedrostoriesgift24 event ✨

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.2k | CW: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, brief reference to canon-typical violence / danger / the end of the world, but you're safe.

SUMMARY: You vow to find out where Joel hides his Christmas gifts while he's away on patrol.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

It has to be here somewhere.

In the three years since you moved in with Joel—hell, even in the two years before that—you have never found your Christmas present before the day. The man’s determined, sworn to his secrecy. Takes great pride in catching you snooping around, digging, scurryin’, as he once muttered under his breath, shaking his head with that charm and smirk you can’t help but fall for. Every year, you swear you’ll find it, and Joel just crosses his arms with a shrug, cheek dimpled and eyes dark with affection, and tells you good luck, darlin’, confident you won’t.

This year, though. This year will be different because for the whole week leading up to Christmas, Joel is away with Tommy on patrol and you have the house to yourself. Seven days of freedom to pry and stick your nose where it probably doesn’t belong.

It takes you two days to tear the house apart. Every dish yanked from his cupboard, every shirt and worn pair of jeans thrown from the closet, every pocket turned out—you flip the mattress and unbundle his socks and rip the covers off all the couch cushions and find fuck all. One old, oxidized penny. Dust bunnies, dryer lint, wood shavings. Spent matches, a bullet case. A fossilized receipt robbed of its printed contents.

You spend two more going through everything again. The place is a dump; when Ellie swings by to borrow his guitar she lifts one eyebrow at you from the doorway, weary of the tornado you’ve left scattered across the first floor. Says, “Good to know four days is all it takes for you to lose your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit,” you say, one hand waving dismissively as you climb the stairs. 

Quick on your heels she mutters, “Whatever you say, grandma,” just loud enough for you to hear. 

When she’s gone, you take a deep breath. The living room is a slaughter, more disastrous than the aftermath of any raiders or weather event. Couch cushions stand mountainous and stripped naked, the carpet’s rolled up against one wall, all the charcoal and half-spent logs have been scraped from the fireplace onto the floor. You’ll admit that might not have been strictly necessary, but you’ve looked everywhere, checked everything, and uncovered zilch. No gifts. And at the very least, Joel has—with his handsome, freckled, silvered face proud and smiling—conceded that his hiding spot is in the house. Doesn’t stash nothing at Tommy’s or in Ellie’s garage. It’s here. Somewhere. Driving you up the goddamn wall.

It’s not like you even know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know when you see it—of this you are sure.

Room by room, you reassemble the house, shuffling all the knick-knacks you’ve each cautiously assembled in this bizarre second chance at a life into their proper positions. His carvings are your favorites, and you rehome them on their shelves with care. You slide the few photographs each of you has into line on the mantle, behind the string lights. It ain’t the same as the world that for nearly thirty years has been dead and gone, but now and then you get flickers of that long-absent comfort. The day the Christmas lights go up in Jackson. The snowmen built by your neighbor’s kids in the street. Jars of homemade strawberry jam. 

Ellie and Joel playing guitar, his deep timbre humming along to her clumsy chords. 

The tight squeeze of your chest when his boots croak the porch and you know he’s finally home. 

The softness of his face first thing in the morning, scarred and weathered, kind. All the long tresses of his graying hair slumped out of place.

As you restore the house’s comfort and clutter over the shrinking days of his absence, you recheck and recheck and recheck and continue to come up empty. At night in the black veil of your shared bedroom, you sleep on his side of the bed with your face crushed in his pillow, breathing him in. 

On the 24th, you wake prepared to wave the white flag when he returns in the evening. You’re going to pout about it, but you’ll give in. Surrender to the superiority of his stupid, squirrelling mind, and admit once and for all that he’s bested you. You have no fucking clue where he hides his gifts. He wins. But you sulk as the day bleeds by, and more than once catch yourself affixed with a frown as you trudge through the crunch of Jackson’s snow-packed streets. As you groom the horses due for the next patrol shift and eat your dinner in the mess hall across from folks you’re only half listening to as they regale you with tales of their day, too distracted by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the emptiness of your hands.

Greedy, that’s what you’re being. Wanting all of him for yourself. You just miss him. You hate when patrol stretches this long, leaving you alone with your cloying worry.

After the sun has set and bowls have emptied, Jackson goes blue. All the snow piled to frame the gravel roads glitters with fresh frost and ice. On your way back to the house, you watch your shadow slide and flicker as you pass beneath the warmth of streetlamps. Someone down the road has a window open, letting the notes of their piano ribbon through the air. 

Even with all the lights and the chatter that tonight could bring fresh snow to the valley, you can’t help but feel a hollowness that you’ve only managed to shake when Joel’s around and the two of you are alone. It’s not all the time, but it happens—a magic you’d believed impossible before you stumbled across this Eden half-dead and were brought inside. Impossible until you met him, and everything latched into place. 

You’ve loved before. Almost got married once, in the world that’s gone. But there’s no comparing how it felt to fall slowly, clumsily into Joel. 

You’re not sure when he’s due to return tonight. Hopefully soon.

Shedding layers as you tread into the hollow house, you light a weakling’s fire in the hearth you know he’ll tease you for, then ascend to your bedroom to change, flicking the light on upstairs so he knows, whenever he gets back, that you’re home. Waiting for him, empty-handed but no less relieved. But as you cross the gold-lit bedroom, a floorboard near the foot of the bed wheezes strangely. This whole house croaks and groans just like everything in Jackson—that sure ain’t new—but this sound is different. You’re not sure you’ve heard it before. Not sure you’ve ever stepped in this exact place.

A grin slips sharp across your face at the smell of victory. You kick back the corner of the rug to bring your heel down hard against the board beneath it, and pop. Up comes the plank, perfect as a seesaw, revealing the black cavern beneath. 

In the shadowed hideaway, a small box lies in the dark beneath the floor.

There it is.

But all the world beyond this room, this box, disappears the moment you set it in your palm.

You don’t hear the porch steps’ announcement, nor the turn of the latch. You don’t hear the squealing door or how the heavy footsteps soften as he removes his boots to leave outside. Not even your name, often intoxicating on his tongue, reaches you in the bedroom—nor when he repeats it on the stairs. 

You’re too busy staring at what you’ve found after all you’re searching.

Then Joel’s in the doorway behind you, and you wake from what you’ve just now begun to believe must be some strange dream.

“Stubborn,” comes his voice, and at the sound you smack the box against your chest to hide it as you whirl around, still on your knees. Stupid you know. Useless. He can see the rug peeled back and the hole cut out of the floor, slender as a piano key. He knows you’ve won.

Broad in the door’s wooden frame, pink-cheeked and snug in his leather coat, Joel stands with the frosting of fresh snow clinging to his hair. He’s been growing it out, to your great pleasure, letting all his silver and curls go free. “I didn’t—” you start to say, but the words thin out and crumble. Your head’s not on quite straight, your heart not yet settled. Eyes still nickel round with shock.

You hadn’t considered how he might react if you succeeded. Maybe he’ll be mad. Take it back. 

But as you stare up at him, all bambi, Joel shakes his head and one snow-dotted curl slips out from the shell of his ear. As he rights it, his scarred hand rising, you see the dirt under his nails in the warm light. The stain on the knee of his jeans. You see too his lips, plush and touched by winter’s aridity, as they twitch in one corner, curling into his cheek. Curling up. Smiling as his eyes hold yours, not mad. Not shy. He’s been inside long enough now that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the color in his cheeks might even be a blush. 

“Are you mad?” you ask, your voice soft enough to call a whisper.

He shakes his head again, steps over the threshold, and amber light from the lamp falls over him like Midas, turning him from man to gold. One step more and his mouth pulls wider, cuts that wink in his cheek you can’t help but stare at. “Course not,” he says gently. “Knew you were lookin’. Y’can have it one night early.”

It probably doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re surprised to discover you’re hoping as you swallow hard, blinking some of the shock from your eyes. He’s here; you ought to get up and hug him—welcome him home, your person here, safe and whole—but you’re too scared to move. Terrified that any flinch will make the box and its contents disappear. 

“Is this for me?”

Wry, he rolls his eyes. “Think you know it is.”

“I feel bad,” you say. “I got you a shirt.”

He’s generous enough to chuckle, and the low, earthy sound of it strikes flames along the column of your neck. “Could use a new shirt,” he says, smirking a little. “This one needs a wash.”

“Shut up,” you chide, but the words come out weak. He’s not allowed to joke right now because if you laugh, you might start to cry.

“Darlin’,” he says too softly. That’s the tone that makes honey of your insides, cruel in the gentle way it asks you to let him in.

Though your vision starts to puddle, you wrestle the feeling back. “S’pretty.”

The slightest nod. Then he unzips his coat to lay over the armchair in the corner of the room and you watch him, pinned to the floor despite the ache in your knees. “Was hopin’ you’d think so,” he admits with his back to you, the blades and muscles in his shoulders and back sliding gracefully beneath his flannel like waves on a lake. Antithetical to the thunder of your heart, Joel moves with a patience you can’t quite believe. In no rush at all, like you’re not holding what you’re holding in your shaking hands. Like some little band of metal doesn’t mean what it did before the world bit the dust and fell away.

The question sits like an icicle on your tongue, slowly melting, pooling behind your teeth. 

Joel lumbers back, the soreness of his body just barely visible in his bow-legged stride, to sit on the edge of the bed just behind you. The mattress squeaks. One hand cards through his hair. Slow is his next breath. Steady. But on the exhale, you swear you hear the tiniest shake, a tiny tremble. 

Realization strikes down at you like lightning: electric and tingling, zipping skull to spine to fingertips, blinding and white. He’s nervous. 

Which means the ring in your hand isn’t just a ring.

Lamblike, you force yourself to your feet and the mattress mouses as you sink against his side. Igneous is his body against yours—such a familiar warmth. Rigid and walled to all but a few. Open to you, in moments like these, when he lets you glimpse the whole of him in his eyes and you swear you might be capable of reading the thoughts straight from his mind. Joel nudges his arm harder to yours, and you see the question coming before it slips from his tongue. You see it brewing in the gilt of his eyes just as clearly as you hear your own answer ricochet in your head. 

You don’t cut him off, jump to yes. Instead you lower your hands from their hold against your chest at last, letting the box sit in your lap, open to his regard. Evening lamplight makes ice of the clear stone set squarely on its ring, and the heat of his breath kisses your cheek as he leans in to mumble,

“Y’gonna make me get down on one knee?”

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

NOTE: I am officially moving away from tag lists as they've gotten lengthy (thank you for that <3) so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

[glystenangel]

bookworm🐛📚

Dom!Toji x Afab!Reader (Oneshot)

tags: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, dom/sub dynamic, toji actually works but irrelevant, outrageous levels of horny, raw sex, penetrative sex, anal, use of vibrators, dirty talk, praise, swearing, multiple orgasms, gettin hit from the backkk, slight edging, aftercare, idk what else

summary: you read smut and toji makes it happen

~ 2.7k words

thanks for reading and enjoy<3

_________________

Waiting for Toji to come home is always a chore.

Luckily, you have some light reading to keep you preoccupied, the most recent addition to your smut collection. Every page flip only turns you on more and more. As you peek over the covers to check the time, you’re certain that you’ll be hopelessly desperate before Toji even makes it home.

He’s twenty minutes late so far, though you know that even if it took him another hour you would forgive him as long as he gave you a thorough enough fucking. You had been living together for a few months already, and when he had initially learned about your literary taste, he demanded you read every sinful line out loud as he mercilessly ate you out. Not only that, but he had made it a point to stop whenever you tripped over any of the words or unwittingly trailed off. The memory pulses your thighs together, and you curse at having remembered the way Toji’s tongue swiped at your tear streaks after.

Memories begin to cloud your mind, only for sudden footsteps in the entryway to put you back on high alert.

“Babydoll, I’m back.” The rich sound of Toji’s voice curls in from the cracked open front door, and the baritone of it instantly makes your heart race.

You spring up from the couch, abandoning your book on the coffee table and rushing to his side with a happy exclamation.

“You’re home.” You wrap your arms around him, and he automatically leans down to gather you in his embrace. The way his gourmand cologne fills your lungs makes you sigh, and you can’t help but pepper eager kisses along his cheekbones in your lusty state. 

“Oh whoa, miss me that much?” His hands cup downwards, and his fingertips knowingly stroke at the wet spot between your thighs.

“What’s up with you? Read something dirty again?”

He tsks at you, but hauls you into his lap as he moves to sit on the couch. 

You nod, and he starts kissing at your neck, the familiar sensation of the scar on the outer corner of his mouth brushing against your throat and causing your breath to hitch.

“Okay, okay. Enough.” He laughs as he pulls away, and when he meets your eyes you already know what he is going to ask you.

“Well? How’d you want it? Show me.”

You lean back and pick up the book from the coffee table, distractedly leafing through the pages as he begins to grope at your body. You’re so sensitive from reading wanton filth that you arch into every heady squeeze and firm pinch.

You hold up the pages for him to see, and he takes them from you, attentively raking his eyes over the text and images. He keeps one hand on your ass, absentmindedly fondling the tender flesh as he reads.

“Doggy style? Can’t say we haven’t tried that one before. A couple of vibrators, okay…And then from the side, but a little more complicated…hm, alright.” 

He loosely holds the book up to the light, then turns it sideways to get a closer look. His thumb digs into the folds of the spine, thoughtful hums leaving him as his eyes study the pages with care. After a moment, his knee starts to bounce, and the agitated motion has your stomach tightening in anticipation.

Toji tosses the book aside once he finishes flipping through a couple more pages and gives you a conspiratory look, “No wonder you’re so excited. How’d you find something so lewd, huh?”

His hands mold around your waist, pushing you further down onto his tented crotch and grinding his hips upwards to stimulate your needy cunt until you’re desperately squirming in his lap.

He bites at your ear, teeth grazing the shell and warm breath gliding along the rising goosebumps on your skin.

“You have a filthier mind than I do. That turns me on so much.”

You yelp when he stands up to carry you to your shared bedroom, still rubbing his clothed hardon against the steadily growing damp stain between your legs. He sets you down, patting your head as a brief signal to wait as he rummages the bedside drawers for all of your sex toys before grabbing a handful and unbiasedly throwing them next to you.

“Alright, where were we?” He leans his palms on your thighs, a mischievous edge to his low tone.

“You were saying you like it dirty.” You place your hands on his chest.

“Is that right?” He doesn’t even wait for your answer, your tongue already reaching for his as he finishes his ask. As you swallow each other’s moans, he pins you down onto the bed and easily tugs off your clothes until you’re trembling with excitement in your soaked underwear.

“Did you wait until I got home or did you touch yourself already? Because last time I caught you…Well, you know how that went, don’t you?” He slowly peels off his shirt and unbuckles his pants, the imprint of his massive cock and its straining against the zipper already making you drool.

“No, you’re the only one who makes me cum Toji. I only want you to.” You vigorously shake your head, grabbing at his well defined sides so that he’ll release his boner faster.

“Oh? So good, maybe I’ll reward you for that. Though I think either way you’ll take whatever I give you, right?”  He finally unsheaths his weighty dick, palming at it with a hand before ripping off your panties.

You let out a gasp when he places it on top of your pussy, digging your nails into his arms as he cages you with his body and starts sliding the girth up and down your sticky entrance. Your slickness leaves strands of precum along every inch of the veiny length, and he reels his hips back to prod the tip against your slippery folds. You stay still, knowing to be patient or he’ll tease you for another hour. 

Toji lifts your chin with an approving smirk, “So fucking cute.”

Then, he flips you over and arranges you to match your smutty reading, with your leaky hole and tight ass lifted in the air. You squeeze your legs together for some temporary gratification, only to throw your head back at Toji pushing his cockhead between your thighs. The fleshy rod of skin gets wrapped in earnest, getting you more and more hungry for his cock inside of you.

In contrast to your desperate whimpers, you can hear Toji calmly humming before the electric buzz of a vibrator pierces the air.

“Alright.” He chuckles, and you involuntarily flinch as he prods the tip of the vibrator against the puckered hole of your ass.

“Come here, don’t run. Doesn’t it feel good?” He swirls it around, the slick lube and the click of buttons on the device making your mind fuzz as he pushes it deeper, “Is it too much?”

You shake your head, rubbing your cheek against the sheets with mindless fervor.

You know this is just the start, and you didn’t have enough tolerance for delayed gratification today.

“Good.” He maneuvers the rest of the vibrator inside of you little by little, letting you suck at the rubber until it plugs your butt with whine inducing shivers.

Toji slides his cock against your folds once more, letting the head kiss at your puffed up clit.

“Goddamn. So wet already.” He grunts, taking his hands off of you.

At the loss of contact, you wriggle your hips in his face with obvious vocal displeasure.

“One sec, princess.” You hear the click of a second vibrator being switched on, and you brace yourself as Toji strategically places it underneath you.

The heavy weight of his hands return to your body, and he slowly guides you downwards. The expected vibrations still cause tingles of pleasure to erupt from your core, and you bounce your hips to hear the sticky sounds of your mess being splattered between your thighs from the vibrator’s rapid movement against your clit.

“Oh, oh…” You weakly whine out the syllable over and over, rolling your hips into every sensation.

“Good?”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you blindly squeeze at the sheets to concentrate on Toji’s question, “Mhm, s-so good.” 

“I’ll just hold you then, we can feel good together like this. I promise.” He whispers, bending down and planting soft kisses along your spine.

Toji then grabs a fistful of your hair and the grip of his fingertips along your scalp makes your eyelashes flutter. A thoughtful hm leaves him, and you feel the curl of his smile against your back when he places another kiss to the skin there. Then, he carefully feeds his cock into your drenched entrance. 

The full feeling unfurls in your stomach, complemented by the vibrators’ administrations and Toji’s hands roaming your pliant curves. Once his hips are completely pressed against your ass, a gasp mixed with relief and contentment escapes you.

“I’m really sorry I kept you waiting, doll.” Toji lifts your hips slightly, and you minutely shake your head in protest at the distance created by the movement, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you now.”

He pushes forward again and the searing stretch has you moaning immediately, but you only get noisier when Toji starts quickly thrusting every greedy inch in and out of your leaking slit.  

Every wet smack is echoed by your intensifying mewls as you tighten around him and squirm against the vibrations. Sticky, slick sensations flood your pussy and leave a mess of webbed precum around his cock whenever he draws his hips back.

Toji’s exhilarated grunts don’t help either, especially when he begins to talk you through your heightened arousal.

“It’s exciting, huh? Feels better than reading, doesn’t it? Better than you imagined?”

He grins, tugging your hair in his palm until your tear soaked eyes stop rolling long enough to look at him,  “Eyes here, babydoll. Look at me.”

“I love it when you look at me. I love it, I love it.” He pants, licking his lips and fucking you harder into oblivion, “Love watching you break under me. Gonna break and breed you.”

Your knees wobble beneath the tense arch of your back, but you barely notice as Toji drops your hair and curls his fingers into the bend of skin between your hips and thighs, “Fuck, you’re tightening up. Feels damn good with the vibrations, fuck.”

The swollen head of his dick prods into your womb, and you let out a gasp when it makes you involuntarily buck your hips farther up against Toji’s sweat sheened abs.

The smooth muscle of your pussy squeezes around him, forcing you to see white as he plows deeper inside of you. You can feel his balls squish against your ass, the heavy feel of them making you ache for his cum.

“You feel that? I’m fucking into your cervix. God, I can feel it sucking at the tip of my cock. Can’t wait to fill you up. Gonna fuck you and fill you until you’re cum-dumb.” He swears, fingertips indenting your flesh with need.

“Dirty girl, is this what you like? Being fucked like this?” Toji spanks your ass, and then fiddles with the end of the vibrator still sticking out of it.

He pulls it out and then drives it back in, languidly and then more quickly, “So damn greedy. I like it.”

Toji handles the vibrator with primal delight, harshly gunning it into your ass while maintaining the feverish pump of his cock. You can feel the squish of every sensitive little nerve inside of you, and how good Toji is at fucking each one.

Little fragments of words and exclamations of pleasure manage to escape you, but you know that you’re hardly making any sense. 

You just want to cum.

You repeat the desire over and over in your head, gleefully sucking at Toji’s hardness with your pussy until you’re dripping onto the sheets. 

He gets deeper and faster, expertly dragging his cock through your syrupy walls and hitting every blissfully mind melting spot. 

Your whole body seizes underneath him, and you cry out from the sting of ecstasy flooding your body, the shudders rippling from your center, and from the fact that Toji continues fucking your cunt open.

“Cumming already? Aw, that’s too bad. Cum again. Come on, cum for me again, want it all over my cock. That’s right, oh yeah.”

The consistent gush of fluid keeps you shaking in his hold, and Toji grinds into you with satisfaction.

“You keep cumming-ng.You’re squirting everywhere, must be so happy huh? It’s fun for you, huh? Such a cute slut for me.”

Another excited wail, and more cum bubbles out of your tight hole, seeping around the sides of Toji’s eager cock.

“Perfect, keep slobbering on my cock with your wet little pussy, gonna stuff it all back in.” He’s breathless in his speech, the raspy sounds wrapping around your brain and making you dizzy, “Here, open up. Good.”

The next few groans that fall from his lips are so desperate and hot that your vision blurs, “The best pussy. God, you turn me on. Ugh, I’m losing my mind. Gonna cum.”

His chest is against your back, and every pound of his cock makes the bed rattle beneath you from the force.

He sweeps your hair aside so his lips can brush against the shell of your ear, “Wanna have my babies? Hm? Want my cum inside?” 

“Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes! Toji!” You scream, and a dark, breathless laugh clings to his throat.

“Yeah? So cute.” He kisses your neck, and then hits the ceiling of your pussy with a strained whine.

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” Toji rams into you harder, more impatiently, “I’m- Cumming, fuck!”

The warm, wet rush of his cum fills you to the brim, and you can feel the delicious splatter of it across the plush of your ass and down your thighs.

He pulls you up against his front and starts avidly pumping again, moans spilling out from the feeling of him mixing your cum together in your womb. The continuous buzz of the vibrator and Toji’s enthused bite marks make your shoulders bristle with chills.

“That’s it, that’s- Shit, I’m gonna cum again.” Toji squeezes your perked tits in his warm hands, “But- So are you, right? Cum with me.”

He bounces you off of his hips, harshly pistoning into you and plugging your pussy so nicely and tightly that you can’t deny him anymore.

“Gonna bring you new books. I want to make you cum every goddamn day. Fill you up until your pussy can’t take anymore and you stop whining for cum. You’d love that, wouldn’t you babydoll?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Yeah? Give me a kiss then.” You can hear the mischievous smirk in his voice, and then on your lips as you climax on his cock again.

He surrenders into the kiss you tug him down for, making satisfied hums into your mouth and slowing his hips to a stop.

Melting into the embrace, you relax into the sheets together and remain wrapped around one other. Toji’s harsh breaths tickle the back of your neck, and the bliss of your orgasm thuds dully within you until Toji briefly rises to clean you up and set aside the vibrators.

When he finishes, he gently nestles you back into his arms and circles every purpling bruise on your body with a reverent sweep of his thumb, “You’re so good.”

He affectionately moves to kiss your shoulder and then hugs you closer, “You sleepy yet? Or…”

The subtle heat of his palms as they glide across your skin have you leaning into every touch.

“No…not sleepy.” You hoarsely mumble.

More from Toji was always exactly what you wanted.

You lift your head, “You’re not sleepy, right Toji?”

The beckoning tone of your voice comes out sweet and seductive. 

Toji licks at the scar on his lip, disguising his growing excitement with an innocent press of his lips to the back of your ear.

“Another round it is. I saw a couple of scenes I liked too…you don’t mind, right?”

_________________

End Notes:

inspired by lady k and the sick man in case u didn't notice lol happy valentine's day yall! :)<3