#it drinks the blood greedily

[comediakaidanovsky]

okay so we all know the “the belt corrupts” theories but have y’all considered that maybe it’s the scarf? mjf isn’t like that, he’s just been exposed to the scarf’s influence for so long that it’s poisoned his mind completely. punk stole the scarf and kept it for like a week, and then his entire life spiraled out of control. even now he hears it whisper to him at night and freaks out and posts shit on insta stories. if mjf wants to break the curse he needs to realize that the scarf doesn’t love him and destroy it. scarf versus career match. all in london main event. total bloodbath

[nanaslutt]

Are the JJK men into their nipples being played with?

incl: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Choso

contains: fem reader, established relationships, multiple positions, dirty talk, nipple play, teasing, hand jobs, overstimulation, masturbation, spanking, unprotected sex, fingering, dry humping, fluff, domesticness, comfort, Choso's is so soft

MDNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

Gojo: Yes. Every part of his body is freakishly sensitive it even shocks Gojo himself at times.

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The first time he discovered he could feel stimulation from his nipples was with you. You were on top of him, riding his cock like no tomorrow, the white-haired man groaning and spitting filth underneath you--when your hands came down to steady yourself on his pecs.

His breath hitched when your hands started rubbing back and forth along his pecs from your grinding, his nipples being stimulated in the process. It was a warm feeling, a feeling that blossomed throughout his whole body, one that traveled up to his brain and made him go dumb. He needed you to touch them more or he was going to lose it.

Gojo knew his nipples were sensitive, but more in an annoying way. He would sometimes notice the irritating feeling when he would pull on a shirt, or when the too-pressurized water stream of the showerhead assaulted the sensitive skin. But this was worlds different from that feeling.

"Fuck, baby- baby, need you to do something for me." He almost whined underneath you, nodding at you when he spoke. You continued bouncing on his cock, relishing in the feeling of his fat tip slamming into your sweet spot as you waited for him to speak. "Need you to play with my nipples baby, just h-how I do for you." He instructed, his tone coming out more desperate when his dick thrust inside you particularly hard, making your body jolt forward, your hands sliding across his chest simultaneously.

"Yeah?" You asked, your eyebrows raising at his surprising words. Gojo was always up for trying something new in bed, and this was a fairly normal request, you were shocked the two of you hadn't tried it before. Especially when you took his hard nipple between his fingers and pinched the little bud, going between rolling it around and circling his areola teasingly, which had Gojo gripping the sheets.

"Ohh fuck- nghhh- mama don't stop, d-don't fucking stop I'm gonna cum-" Gojo said, his face scrunched in overwhelming pleasure as desperate whines and moans spilled from his lips. His body jerked forward every time you pinched the pink buds between your fingers, making you blush at how sensitive your usually domineering boyfriend was from getting his nipples played with.

"You gonna cum from a little nipple play? hmm?" You asked teasingly, bringing one of your hands down to rub your clit in small quick circles, the sight of your boyfriend shaking and jerking against the sheets to arousing to stand. Gojo's jaw was slack as he nodded, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure as he tipped his head back, letting his body move in any way it needed while you gave him this insane pleasure.

The combination of you now grinding on his cock instead of bouncing, how tight you got around his dick when you played with your clit, your dirty words and mean fingers pinching his nipples; which were sure to be sore later; was all too much for Gojo. His hands grabbed your hips in an iron grip, his nails digging into your skin painfully, almost drawing blood, as the first ropes of his hot cum shot inside of you.

"Oh shit mama- so tight- fuck-" He groaned when he felt your high come right after his. Your walls constricted his cock as he came inside of you, your cunt greedily milking him and drinking up all his cum deep inside you. You collapsed on his chest with a sigh, his arms wrapping themselves around your back comfortingly as his dick twitched inside you in the aftershocks of his orgasm.

"Holy fuck." Gojo sighed exasperatedly. "Yeah.." You responded, breathing heavily on top of the large man. It took a while for Gojo to feel like his soul after such an intense orgasm. You were about to sit up and slide his cock out of you so the two of you could clean up and get to sleep, but his dick had other plans. "Toru.. why are you still hard even after cumming so much?" You asked, keeping your head on his heart, scared for his answer. "Started thinkin' about you suckin' on my nipples." He giggled, scratching your back lightly, "Wanna give it a try?"

—

Geto: Absolutely yes. I think he figured it out on his own. He was scrolling through a Twitter porn account and saw a video of a handsome guy jerking off while also playing with his nipples. He thought it looked enticing and Geto was willing to try everything in bed once, so he thought, why not? He was already jerking off, why not spice it up?

When he finished in record time after touching his nipples, he had to bring it up to you immediately. He needed to know how it felt with someone else's hands, so why not his beautiful girlfriend's? And of course, you were more than receptive to his proposition...

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"Fuck- suck harder, a little harder," Geto begged, his face screwed in pleasure. You were lying on the side of his body, your leg thrown over his thighs as you leaned over his chest a bit to lick and suck on his sensitive nipple, your hand rapidly stroking his hard cock as you did so. Geto's grip on your hair was so tight that the tingling sensation on your scalp was becoming more familiar and numb from how long he had been gripping it.

You listened to his words, suckling his stiff nipple harder into your mouth, rolling your tongue around it. Geto took a breath in through his teeth, trying to prevent himself from whimpering. "Fuuuuuuuck." He groaned, his head tipping back against the pillows.

His body jerked when you giggled around the bud, the noise sending vibrations through his chest, making his cock twitch in the process. "God I knew you fucking got me, baby, knew you would make me feel so f-fucking good." He praised, his chin tipped down to watch you suck on his chest, his eyes darting over to your hand soon after to stare at your wrist that rotated and twisted over his sensitive tip.

You moaned in response, acknowledging his words, and making his body jerk forward once more. "Think I'm gonna cum soon b-baby, keep sucking for me." He moaned, quickly pressing his lips together to prevent a pathetic whine that threatened to slip out of his mouth.

Geto brought his other hand down to yours, which was wrapped around your cock, and encased his hand over yours. "Need more... a l-little more." He said, gripping his hand tightly over yours, jerking himself off using your hand. He was squeezing it so tight, your hand was being crushed, you wondered how his iron grip didnt hurt his cock.

You moaned around him when you felt him help you jerk him off. Tightening your leg over his thighs more, you subtly started grinding your cunt on his thigh, trying to give yourself a little relief. Geto felt the ball of his impending orgasm grow tighter when he felt your cunt rub against him, your not so subtly show of your arousal at the situation made him feel dizzy; he wasn't the only one enjoying this.

"Oh fuck, this turning you on baby?" He asked, biting his lip when you nodded and moaned against his nipple, your lips popping off the bud briefly to circle his areola with your tongue. "Shit- gonna fuck you so good after this- gonna- gonna make sure you cum all over my cock for making me feel so good." He groaned, his words getting interrupted by lewd moans as he approached his high.

You felt yourself grow wetter at his words, excited for the promise of getting fucked into the sheets after he finished. "Fuck- It's coming, I'm coming, don't stop don't stop don't-" Geto's grip stayed at the same tightness in his cock, but his ability to jerk himself off was growing weaker as you worked him up to his high. He largely relied on your hand to keep jerking him off as he was tipped off the edge.

"Nghhhh- Fuck- Fuck- Baby ohmygod-" Geto babbled moans of your name, his body jerking, and eyes rolling back in his head while the waves of his orgasm washed over him. You mumbled 'mhm,mhm's' on his sensitive bud, making his orgasm even more intense with the nipple stimulation.

You never let up your fist, white ropes of cum spraying out of his big cock and landing all over your hands, creating lewd squelching noises as you jerked him through the aftershocks of his high. "I fucking love you so much.. hahh.. fuck." Geto moaned, his glossy eyes staring at the ceiling as his body twitched, his breath hitching through the attempts to suck down as much air as he could into his lungs.

You wasted no time popping off his nipple with a cute 'ahhh' sound and sliding your body to sit on top of his. You pulled your panties to the side and lined up his still-hard cock with your unprepped entrance before he could even register what was happening. His hands shot to grab your waist in alarm when you sat down fully on his sensitive cock with no warning, making his body curl in on itself.

"H-hold on gotta give me a second baby, I just came-" You cut him off before he could continue his protests. "Need it now Sugu, can't wait." And with that you placed your hands on his chest and took his swollen nippled between your fingers, pinching the other one simultaneously as you rode his cock, making incoherent please and whines spill from the dark-haired man's lips as he was fucked into overstimulation.

—

Nanami: unfortunately, I don't think he has a lot of feeling in his nipples, but he wouldn't be opposed to you playing with them or sucking on them if you really wanted to. He is in love with you after all, whatever you want, you get.

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You walk into the kitchen with tired eyes, rubbing the sleep from them using the back of your hand. Immediately, the smell of bacon and eggs fills your nose, making you salivate. What makes you salivate even more is the gorgeous view of your husband standing in front of the stove, shirtless.

Angry red scratches litter his pale back from the night before, making you blush. The sun is shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating his hair appear like little strands of gold. You walk up behind Nanami, adorned in only one of his house T-shirts, and wrap your arms around his torso, your hands finding home on his toned midsection.

"Good morning my love, did you sleep alright? I kept you up pretty late last night, sorry about that." Nanami voiced, smiling slightly at his own words. You hum into his back, starting to feel up his body under your hands, feeling in between the indents of his abs, "Slept so good Kento." You purred.

He laughed, briefly looking away from the stove to look down at your hands, groping his body slowly. "Good." He replied, looking back to the stove, and flipping the eggs. "Are you enjoying yourself?" He added when he felt your hands slide up to his pecs, massaging them the way he always did for you.

"Mhmm.. I love your body Kento, you're so strong." You whisper, your face pressed to his back making your words vibrate through his skin. Your words make him blush, he was thankful he was faced away from you or you would've teased him for sure. "I'm glad, It's all you sweetheart." He responded, making you blush in turn.

You bit your lip, nuzzling your head into his back, your hair tickling his skin. An idea popped into your head as you felt up his chest when your fingers briefly brushed over his nipples, so you decided to act on it. With a smirk, you found his nipples with both of your fingers and with a featherlight touch, you started to tease around his nipples, "Even these?" You asked, referring to his earlier statement of his body being yours.

Nanami turned off the heat of the stove, covering the eggs with the lid of the pan before he looked down with a slightly open mouth, watching you play with his nipples. His abs clenched at the unexpected feeling when you pinched them between your fingers--not because it felt good per se... It just felt like you were pinching his skin, not bad just... well he didnt really feel much, to be honest.

He smiled when you continued, clearly wanting a reaction out of him. "Yes, even those." He laughed, his breathing and words still infuriatingly even and calm. "Kento, does this not feel good?" You asked, going back to rubbing your fingers around his arolas, waiting for him to respond.

He took a second to find his words before he responded, you were obviously enjoying yourself so he didnt want to deter you or crush your spirits too much. "It's not that, I just don't really feel much there." He replied, covering your hands with his larger ones, interlacing your fingers with his, and stopping your movements.

"I've tried to touch them myself when I was... ahem, I found out then that I couldn't feel anything there. Which is a bummer, seeing as how you go a bit crazy when I touch yours." He laughed softly. "Must feel good, huh?" You sighed against his back, obvious disappointment in your breathing.

"I'm sorry my love." He said, releasing your hands to turn around and hold you in his embrace, his warm body radiating into your skin, making you relax as you shut your eyes and let his body engulf yours, the man slowly rocking back and forth. "It's okay Kento, just thought you would have some cute reaction." You said. You felt his chest shake against your head, the man giving a soft laugh at your words. "Ughhhh, why does your body hate meee." You sighed dramatically, pouting your bottom lip out.

"I assure you my body doesn't hate you." He said, pulling away he held your cheeks in his hands, his deep eyes looking into yours as he spoke. "Need I remind you how we ended up all over each other for hours last night? Hm?" He said, tilting his head at you and furrowing his eyebrows together.

You blushed deeply at his words. The two of you were shopping for dinner, when a little boy came up behind you, taking on the calf of your pants. The boy had gotten lost in the supermarket, and with a crying face, he had asked you to help him find his mom. The way you knelt down to speak to the child, the way your hand engulfed his little one, the way you held him, Nanami couldn't stop thinking about how good you were with the child. Which led him to pounding you into the sheets as he whispered in your ear how much he wanted to give you his babies.

You looked away from his face, he was right after all. Nanami got aroused whenever you looked in his general direction for christ's sake, how could his body hate you? "O..okay.. I guess I'll let it go this time." You said, still looking away from his face in embarrassment.

Nanami laughed, leaning down he pressed a long kiss to your forehead before pulling away, his hands tucking your straw strands of hair behind your ear. "Let's eat now alright? After breakfast, if you still need a little reminder of how much my body loves you, I'll be happy to show you as well." You were left a blushing mess when Nanami turned around to grab the plates, setting up the food. Maybe you should tease him more if this was going to be the result.

—

Toji: I think his chest is sensitive, but he doesn't like it when you touch his chest for that same reason. He's too sensitive. Toji likes being in charge and of course he wants you to be happy no matter what, but he cannot stand being teased; which is exactly what you would do if you got the chance to touch his nipples.

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Toji always looked so good in his compression shirt. The tight article of clothing makes every single muscle on Toji's large frame stand out too well. You have to stop yourself from drooling every time he wears it.

One day, Toji was working out in the home gym the two of you had built, and you walked in to ask him what he wanted for dinner when you saw him. He was bench-pressing a shocking amount of weight, lying on his back with his legs spread. His bulge was very obvious through his sweats, the sight making your mouth water.

Along with that sight though, as you got closer you could see Toji's nipples were hard through his shirt, the little buds just aching to be sucked on. When you got within Toji's eyesight he turned his head over to you, not stopping his workout as he spoke to you slightly out of breath, "What's up doll, come to workout with me?" He asked, smirking.

"I'd rather just watch you." You said, leaning against the equipment next to him, your eyes shamelessly raking over his body and taking in his impressive frame. He laughed, pausing his set he leaned up, sitting on the edge of the bench, his legs spread. "Cmere pretty." He asked, waiting for you to take your place between his thighs.

He held his hands out when you got close, his large hands wrapping around your waist when you got within range, his strong arms pulling you into his lap. You had no idea how he had barely even broken a sweat, you swear you worked out for thirty seconds and you needed to change shirts.

You wrapped your arms over his shoulders, his hands sliding down to grab your ass as he pulled you into him, making you sit right on top of his crotch--you could feel his bulge right under you, making you feel a new type of need. "Whachu need pretty girl?" Toji asked, raising his eyebrows before he leaned in to kiss your neck, peppering his lips all over your skin.

You sighed at the feeling, your breath picking up while he continued teasing you. You pressed the back of his head into your neck, your other hand still wrapped around his neck. "Mmm, wanted to know what you wanted for d-diner." You whispered, tipping your head back to give him more access. Your breath hitched when he sunk his teeth into your skin, his tongue licking over the spot to soothe the sting afterward.

He pulled back, his lips a bit red and glossy from the assault on your neck. "You." He said with a smirk. You could feel your cunt throbbing from his kisses, and his words and hands groping your ass was not making that any better. "Baby~" You drawled, holding his sweaty face in your hands, his dark eyes staring into yours.

With a sigh and a pat on your ass he shrugged, "I don't care, you pick. As long as you're desert." He winked, making you burst into giggles, he could be so corny sometimes. "Alright baby, up, gotta finish this set then you can sit on me all you want." He said, leaning back down to lay on the bench, his hips thrusting up as he got into position, making his dick press right against your clit.

"Hold on.." You mumbled, leaning your hands on his chest. Toji was about to reach up for the bar when he watched you duck underneath it and lean onto his chest. He thought you were hugging him, but when he felt your fingers flick over his covered nipples, followed by a shock that ran through his entire body and straight to his cock, he froze in place.

You flicked your fingers back and forth over the buds quickly, trying to test his sensitivity there. Toji's face scrunched in pleasure, his jaw muscles bulging under the weight of his teeth as he bit down hard, a shaky moan coming through his nose. You looked up, watching his face contort into pleasure, one of his eyes shut as he grimaced trying to fight off the pleasure when you pinched his left nipple, rolling it between your fingers.

You smiled in surprise, feeling his cock harden underneath you, the two of your crotches pressed firmly against one another. "Didn't know you were sensitive here." You laughed, "Just wanted to fuck around, but you're really reacting to this." Toji's mouth opened when your other hand mimicked your ministrations and pinched his nipple, hard.

The next thing Toji did made both of you freeze in place. Toji let out a loud whimper. Not a groan, not a whine, a high-pitched, loud, whimper. You didnt even know that kind of sound could come out of Toji, the sound immediately making your face flush, his hips jerking into yours at the same time the whimper slipped out.

A blush spread across Toji's face before his eyes shot open, staring into yours. His hands imediately came down to grab your wrists, pulling them away from his chest in an iron grip god himself couldn't get out of. After a brief moment of silence, save for the heavy breathing, you spoke. "Did you just-" Before you could even get your words out you were being grabbed in Toji's strong grip.

The man was standing in an instant, throwing you over his shoulder, your ass poking out next to his face. He walked quickly and angrily towards the exit of the gym that let back into the house, where Toji was about to throw you over the couch in the foyer and fuck the shit out of you. You knew you fucked up with how quiet he was being, not a work from his lips since the whimper.

"Toji-" You started, once again your words immediately being cut off when he landed a heavy smack against your ass, the sting making whine, one of your hands coming to cover your ass so he couldn't hit you again. "Think It's fun to humiliate me like that?" He growled, pulling open the gym door in one swift movement, leaving it open behind him as he stormed through it.

"Toji don't be embarrassed, It just means you felt good- Ahh!" You whined, your hand being swatted out of the way so he could land another harsh smack against the fat of your ass. It was disorienting in the way he threw you off of his shoulder and spun you around, bending you over the back of the couch.

He grabbed your hips in his large hands, and soon after you felt his rock-hard-clothed cock rub against your folds, making you press your legs together. "Don't give me that shit, saw the way you were smilin', fuckin' brat," Toji growled, spanking your ass once more before he yanked your pants midway down your thighs, spreading your cheeks apart so he could get a good look at you.

Toji was glad you were facing away from him, his face was still so red from embarrassing himself in front of you like that, his nipples still buzzing with the feeling of where your fingers once were. "Gonna fuck you till you're crying like a little bitch, and don't say you can't take it because you will." Toji spat down onto your spread ass, the glob of spit rolling down your puckered hole to mix with your wetness, Toji's finger soon coming down to rub the wetness around there, preparing you for what was to come.

You might die from his cock, but the mental recording you had of Toji whimpering from his nipples, was so fucking worth it.

—

Choso: I think they're moderately sensitive, but nothing like Geto or Gojo's. Believe it or not, he wishes they were more sensitive. He has made you cum from playing with your nipples, and dry humping you. You made it look a fucking treat, but no matter how hard he tries, it never feels as good as it looks like yours do.

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"C'mon Cho, close your eyes, you can do it." You whispered, slowly grinding on his clothed dick, his nipples being tweaked between your fingers. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the feeling of your warm panty-clad cunt rubbing along the length of his stiff cock.

You had tried circling around them, sucking them, pinching and rubbing them, and he just wasn't reciprocating any of it, it was making him so frustrated that it was almost hard to enjoy. He held his breath, hearing somewhere that asphyxiation can heighten arousal... and of course, he had no luck.

He groaned, cracking his eyes open he looked up at you with a pout, looking like he was going to cry. "I.. I can't cum like this." He said defiantly, making you cease your actions. His nipples were sore at his point, the hardened buds hot and throbbing now that you had stopped. Choso looked away from you, embarrassed he couldn't even manage to do this when it was so easy for you.

"Choso," You said, placing your hands on his abs, stopping your grinding on top of his still-hard cock. "Choso." You repeated, forcefully turning his head to look at you. He looked over at you with a red face, disappointment obvious on his features. "All bodies are different, I just happen to be more sensitive up there. You're not, and that's okay," you said, caressing his face. Choso leaned into your touch like a cat, sighing heavily.

"It's just frustrating. I want to feel good like you do too." He said, his eyes locking onto yours finally. You smiled, rubbing your thumb across his cheek. "I know, but you can feel good in so many other ways. And we can keep trying." You said softly. "Overtime, the more you play with them, your sensitivity will get more intense, so maybe one day you'll be able to finish from touching your chest alone." You reassure.

That actually did make him feel better, his disappointment slightly fading away at your words--but now he was left with another dilemma plaguing his mind, the atmosphere was a lot different now from having to take a break to console him. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he looked away from your eyes again. "I.. I ruined the moon didnt I?" He asked, feeling childish for getting upset at such a moment at what seemed like such a small thing.

Your giggle brought his eyes back to you as he looked at you curiously. "Choso no! Absolutely not!" You reassured. "If you ever need to take a break for any reason during a moment like this, that's more than okay." He looked down, not seeming totally convinced as he took in your words.

"Don't believe me?" You asked challengingly. Taking your hand you grabbed his, pulling it down to where you sat on top of him. You slid your panties to the side, exposing your cunt to his blushing face. He watched with a slacked jaw as you pressed his fingers against your pussy, making him feel how wet you are. "You feel that?" You asked, holding his wrist to make him rub you back and forth.

He nodded, looking between your eyes and his hand you were using to touch yourself. "Still think you ruined the mood? Hmm?" You ask breathily. Choso takes control over his own hand again, his cock twitching back to life after softening slightly. He rubbed his fingers through your folds, catching the tip of his thick finger on the entrance of your cunt he slowly pressed on it, his finger sliding in with ease.

"Fuckk.." You gasped, feeling the girth of his finger slip inside you. The warmth and tightness of your cunt made him forget all of his doubts and worries in an instant. "You're so wet.." He mumbled, slowly thrusting his finger in and out of you, making sure to curl it upwards, rubbing against your sweet spot.

"All for you Cho, all cos of you." You said, watching his hand work inside of you, his heavy palm rubbing your clit perfectly as he fingered you on top of him. Your hands came down to rub at his boxers, your fingers teasing his clothed tip before you pulled the cloth down, exposing his insanely large and dripping length.

He watched with bated breath as you took him in your hands and stroked him up and down, using his precum to aid the slide. "Want me to show you how much of a mood I'm still in?" You giggled, rubbing his frenulum teasingly. Choso gulped, hard. "I love you." He mumbled, the words spilling from his lips like the most natural thing in the world. Your eyebrows raised in shock before you laughed, pausing your minstrations on his cock.

You leaned down, stroking his dick softly until your lips met his ear, giving him a soft kiss on his neck before you uttered the words, "I love you too."

[peachesofteal]

Light On - single mom/neighbor fic Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, soft smut, praise kink, size kink, breeding kink, daddy kink Simon Riley/female reader

If he could choose a way to die, this would be it.

He would choose to die right in this moment, where you're laying on your back in front of him, legs spread wide, chest heaving with the exertion of your second orgasm, limp and pliable, sweet as sugar. He'd choose to die in this room, with your name on his lips, the feeling of your body against his, your muscles seizing and hips jolting under his touch, the smell of your cunt in his nose, taste of your arousal on his tongue. He'd choose to die from happiness, elation, euphoria, the feelings so strong they feel like they might burst free from his veins and flood this room, spill from his heart like it's exploded.

He's mad for it. Mad for you. Allowed his madness to guide him, take over, control his vocal chords, his limbs. He's like a marionette, strings being plucked by none other but yourself, though you're none the wiser.

"Simon?" You whisper, very quiet, careful. You're nervous, he can tell. You've been nervous since he got you home and sent Johnny on his way, nervous ever since he laid you on your back and stripped you bare, ran his lips over every inch of skin possible, every pretty little lightning bolt, every single part you tried to hide.

"I'm here." He answers, taking your wandering hand with his own, squeezing it for good measure. You're floundering, wondering, eyes wide and a little lost, anxious at the lapse. "Just lookin' at you." He says, fingers stroking across your belly, following them with his mouth. "Don't think I've ever seen something so beautiful." You giggle, and it's soft, like the chiming of bells, the kind of music that angels would make, he thinks.

"Should I-" you turn to roll, like you're going to go facedown, or maybe up onto your hands and knees, and he stills you, forearms coming up to frame your face, thumb stroking along your furrowed brow line.

"No." He shifts your hip, settling you into a better position, and then strokes his cock, nudging it against your entrance. "I want to see your face." He wants to see your face, your eyes, your mouth, more than anything else in this world. Wants to see it everyday, wants to see it crying with bliss when he makes you come around him, wants to see it when he goes to bed and when he wakes in the morning. He wants to see it on a little paper picture, tucked up into his tac vest when he's away, wants to see smiling, giggling, content... happy. Safe. There will be plenty of time for the other stuff, for when he bends you over the couch, bends you over his knee, fucks you in the kitchen, in the shower, on the table. He hovers for a moment, soaking you in, blood thundering in his veins, through his ears, throbbing into his cock, and he's so hard it nearly hurts, but he can't rush this. He has to get it right.

"Simon." You whine, hips flexing, thrusting up so he feels the heat of your body, the wet heaven of your cunt. He grits his teeth.

"Fuck, sweetheart." He grunts, and then pushes, your eyes going wide, matching the round o of your mouth, fingernails tightening into his back, fluttering pussy trying to accommodate the stretch. He's big, bigger than you in many ways, he knows, and when your back arches, legs involuntarily folding, knees lifting, he traps you there, holding them steady so he can look down and watch the way he sinks into your body, cock disappearing inch by inch.

"Ohmygod ohmy- it's too- you're-" you gasp, and he leans down, slicking his tongue against yours, stealing your whimpers and moans, greedily drinking them up.

"I know, I've got you." He thrusts a little deeper, getting closer and closer to his hips being flush with yours. "You can take it." He goes slow, working you open, getting you used to him for as long as he can stand it, watching every little expression that falls across your face, every moment of bliss. "Is that good, sweetheart?" He noses at you, and you nod with a gulp, still holding onto him, arms trembling.

"Y-yeah. So good, so so good." You babble, nearly incoherent, cock drunk, and it feeds the reckless, hungry drive inside of him, encoraging him on, faster, until he's fucking into you with enough power that you're starting to inch up the bed moaning out nonsense vowels.

He gets lost, for a second, thinking about if you didn't have an IUD. Thinking about what it would be like, if he was breeding you, filling you with his come every night until it took, until you were growing his baby, round belly underneath a sweater, cradled in his arms in bed, giving Emmaline a sibling, making you a mama again, with him, for him. It shatters across his brain like the ricochet from a gun shot, white hot light searing inside his eyes, nearly making him come inside you right there until he pulls out with a deep breath, letting the head of his cock rest just inside your body as he collects himself, and then thrusts back in.

"Fuck!" You gasp, a little too loud, and you wince, eyes shocked. He puts his hand over your mouth, kissing your nose between where it pokes out between his thumb and forefinger.

"My good girl." He thrusts, and you moan, licking the salt of his palm. "My good," He's so deep, can feel where you end, where he's pressed against your cervix, and your eyebrows crinkle, tears gathering on your waterline. "sweet, mama. Doin' so good, taking this cock." Your eyes roll, and he drags himself along the silky heat of your walls, before plunging back in. "Is this what you wanted, sweetheart? This what you needed?" The word daddy almost slips, almost falls out like- 'is this what you wanted, for daddy to take care of you? Is this what you needed, for daddy to take you home and take care of this pussy- but he holds it in, reels in back just in time for you to nod as answer to his voiced question, and he pulls his hand away, rubbing his thumb against your bottom lip. "Tell me."

"Yeah, oh- Simon, yes-" you pant, a little squeaky, tear rolling down your cheek. You saying his name like this, with him so full inside you, fills him with fire, roaring heat racing through his muscles, and he grinds his hips against yours, making you groan, bucking against him when he finds your clit and glides his thumb across it, over and over.

"Do you wan' be my good girl?" He asks, pumping harder, pushing you the limit, and you cry out against his hand, nodding frantically, which he rewards with a smile, and another swipe across your clit. "Come for me. Let go sweetheart, I'm right here." He coos, still swirling your swollen bud in a circle, your legs practically steel around him, eyes brimming with tears. He'll take care of you. He'll give you everything. He'll never let you go, he swears, he swears, he swears... he doesn't stop, just keeps going relentlessly, fucking you as deep as he can as you come around his cock, exploding like a bomb, silently screaming into his palm. He's following you over the cliff of your orgasm a second later, nose pressed to your cheek, whispering insanity into your skin, half praying you won't be able to make sense of it. Whispers and vows of love, and protection, of care, promises and secrets, until the two of you are limp against one another, basking in the glow and heat of your bodies.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Just for a second, just to take a deep breath, preparing to pull out, to move on to what's next, cleaning you up, getting you in a bath or a shower, making sure you're comfortable, you're cared for, you're cherished as you ought to be. He closes his eyes, and it's just long enough for him to feel the shaking of your chest under his. Just long enough to hear the sniffle, the hiccup, his eyes opening in confusion, concern, cradling your face between his palms. "Sweetheart? What's wrong, what is it?" Panic stirs in his gut, and when you don't answer, his mouth goes dry, fear dousing him in a cold sweat. "Did I... did I hurt you?" When the only answer is the sound of your sobs, fat tears that stream down your cheeks, his heart cracks wide open in his chest.

Maybe he could very well die in this moment. But not from happiness. From agony.

[rs-hawk]

A vampire boyfriend who isn’t pretty like modern depictions would make you think. He’s hideous because he’s dead. Undead, sure, but dead is dead. You can tell that it took a few days for the venom to kick in because his skin is ashy, and his skin clings to his face in a disturbing way. His eyes are milky and glassy, so he relies on mostly scent. His mouth is the most disturbing thing though. It’s huge. Much too big for a human face. You can’t help but cringe every time he opens it. It’s rows of sharp, spindly, needle-like teeth and it pulls back like a snake’s.

You love him. You loved him in life and you’ll love him in death. His teeth sinking into your soft skin as he holds you down and uses your body the entire time he’s draining you doesn’t change that. He rams into you, leaving bruises from how hard he’s keeping you pinned to the ground. You whine and whimper as he drains you and from how hard he’s holding you, but he doesn’t seem to care. His fat, thick cock slams into you, hitting your cervix with each thrust in. It’s all about his pleasure, but you bite your lip and don’t complain. You’re trying to remind yourself to just be happy he’s still here. Kind of.

Suddenly, he grunts that he’s close. It’s the first time he’s spoken since he died. “D-don’t cum in me,” you say in a panicked voice, terror flooding you. Can you even get pregnant this way? If he’s kind of alive, does that mean his semen is too?

You start struggling and pushing against him, though it’s like a fly pushing a mountain. He bites harder on your neck, making you cry out in pain. Your blood starts trickling down your neck as he greedily drinks, his thrusts becoming more erratic and non-rhythmic as he shoves his fingers down your throat, nearly silencing your screams.

You sob and beg as best as you can for him not to cum in you as he abuses your poor cervix, but he doesn’t care. He crams himself fully inside of you, making you grunt against his fingers, as he cums deeply inside of you. You whimper and sob, thinking it’s over, but no. He starts rocking back into you, pushing the cum deeper inside of you. Before you know it, he’s ramming into you again, his cum slicking his undead cock, making it easier for him to use you how he pleases.

“Gonna breed you. Gonna use you,” he grunts against your throat as he licks the stray blood there.

All you can do is whimper as your Vampire Boyfriend fucks and ruins you.

[daosies]

keep your eyes

you can't help but stare at his lips. he can't help but get fed up.

wanderer ♡ gn!reader

warnings: kissing, wanderer may be ooc

notes: sigh. i miss my man.

"and where do you think you're looking?" wanderer asks, crossing his arms.

you blink, and your gaze quickly returns to the wanderer's, locking on his pupils and unraveling your soul. cornflower irises drink your reflection in greedily, even though puppets don't need to be satiated by such mortal desires. even though puppets aren't guided by thirst or hunger or love.

"what?" you reply, feigning ignorance to the shit-eating smirk on his face and the smug taps of his foot. wanderer steps towards you, the ornaments of his hat swaying with his gait.

"do you think i'm stupid? or are you stupid?" he asks, hardly containing his jeering laughs. "you've been staring at my lips."

he leans in towards you, but there are no breaths escaping his nose, no warmth emanating from his skin.

he leans in towards you, but you can hardly feel his presence, the only proof of his existence being vested within his eyes, which trace over your features wildly, trailing from the wisps of your lashes, to the bridge of your nose, and down to the curl of your lips.

when you look away, he smirks, sure, but his index finger comes up to the bottom of your chin, guiding your gaze back to him.

when wanderer approaches—no, when he perceives you—he eyes you with the intensity of a madman, the hunger of an insatiated mortal. when wanderer perceives you, he does so like a phantom, an absence that drowns you in, the desperation that comes with the unknown.

you are all that is foreign to him.

you make wanderer unlike himself, dismembering his puppet limbs and his screwed-on joints. you piece him back together, tugging at his strings and reinventing them anew, the transparent strands dyed red—oh, the color of love, the color of life and the color of blood—weaving and transfixed to your touch.

when wanderer perceives you, he perceives a heart, a rhythm, a tempo that echoes throughout the cavity of his empty chest, the sound of humanity and the timeless, estoric: thump-thump, thump-thump.

wanderer is not human. but his creator discarded him because she believed he was too human, too flawed, too selfish. but selfishness breeds love, and wanderer is not human, yes, but how can he explain the selfishness—the love—within him otherwise?

wanderer is not human. but his creator discarded him because she believed he was full of humanity, because he was full of love. his creator abandoned him, but you—oh, you—kept him like a treasure.

you reassembled him and you are, undoubtedly, all that he knows.

"tch. and there you go again," wanderer mutters, flicking your forehead. "look at me."

"i am, though?" you retort, taking a step back. wanderer's brows furrow prominently, his arrogant smirk dropping into a frown as he narrows the distance between the two of you.

"liar. do you think i am a fool?"

"yeah," you reply, grinning. "i'm always looking at you."

wanderer conjures a few hexes and curses under his breath, gaze momentarily averting from yours before reaching for the rim of his hat, tugging it down in a futile attempt to conceal his expression.

"you're ridiculous."

"you must love ridiculous people."

"oh, now you're just asking for trouble."

wanderer says nothing once your eyes drift again, tracing the features of his face and settling on the curl of his lips. he huffs.

"you want to kiss me so bad," he remarks arrogantly, tone sounding irritated. "don't you know how stupid it makes you look?"

you don't miss the way his ears bloom a violent shade of red, the way his brows furrow while he tries to suppress the adoration flourishing within his irises.

you don't miss the way wanderer steps towards you, presence known only by the thunderous beat of your heart and the way his face is barely a centimeter away from yours.

much to your chagrin, your eyes flutter shut, and a mocking laugh escapes the wanderer's lips.

"did you think i'd make it easy for you? hah! the arrogance!"

when you open your eyes, lips barely parting in an attempt to protest, wanderer's hand comes to the back of your head, pressing you towards him, the coldness of his touch sending shivers down your spine.

the shade of his hat captures you, the darkness slipping in between your faces and falling everywhere but your lips.

despite his tongue spewing fierce insults regularly, wanderer's touch is tender, marred by love and the softness of a human, the softness of which his creator loathes.

he cradles you with his hands, his lips pressing against yours, chasing after you whenever you part ways.

he's desperate. he's hungry, constantly wanting more and more, like lovers do—oh, like humans do.

when you pull away, breathless, wanderer merely smirks.

"you—" you start, but are quickly interrupted by another hungry, defiant kiss. when wanderer kisses you, his touch becomes both tender and mad, terribly desperate and terribly, terribly lovely.

"you talk too much," he mumbles, waiting for you to regain your breaths. his other palm comes up to the side of your face, the warmth from your skin beginning to permeate into his. "just..."

your gaze meets his, and wanderer falls silent, enamored by the sight.

"just what?" you ask, smiling. wanderer scoffs.

"don't make me say it." he kisses you again.

"wanderer, i was—" you manage to interrupt, only to be silenced by the narrow of his eyes and the thumb that brushes over your cheekbone.

"shut it." his words don't match his adoring tone.

wanderer thinks he could get used to this. just for good measure, however, he kisses you again.

and again.

oh, and one more time. just to be sure.

[ridingthatd]

Can I request reader accidentally peeing on jjk men during sex and how they would react, please 🙏🏽

If you don't want to do this, though, it's ok :)

୨୧˚ ˚୨୧ OVER SIMULATION

୨୧˚ ˚୨୧ chosoxfem!reader, nsfw, heavy smut, kinky asf, choso filthy, squirting

you have never thought that what's happening right now could ever happen.

choso kamo. choso was new to the way his body acted. he was new to all the emotions humans held. he was new to feeling any sort of ways- that he himself couldn't even describe.

choso is a half-human, half-cursed spirit with a body of flesh and blood. choso has always been calm, collective and non-threatening unless it involves his family, whom he has a special bond with and seeks to avenge their deaths.

but something have been messing with his compose, making him confused on what was he feeling. something more like- someone a specific person have been playing with his peaceful mind and body.

at first choso was convinced maybe it was a curse technique , a curse technique that has his body feeling tingles- ready to explode, that has his body burning up like he's bathing in a hot spring, that has his mind foggy- filled with your scent, filled with images of your body, filled with the memories of your ghost touch- so soft, so warm, every touch of yours left a fire trial on him.

but it made him even more confused to know that no- it wasn't a cursed technique . he tried and tried and tried, choso lost count on how many times he tried to avoid the feeling, to push the strong heat, to focus on something else other then you- to focus on his brothers, but he failed.

he couldn't push those feelings away, it was the opposite, he craved them, he wanted more no- he needed more. he needed more of your touchs, he needed more of your scent, he needed more of your body heat on his. he craved it- he craved the way your mouth quirk up, the way the two plumpy glands of yours boucned up each time you giggled, he need to have a feel of them. he needed to have a feel- the swaynes of your hips always caught his dark eyes.

he needed all of you.

choso chuckled darkly to himself, chuckling like a maniac- smirking as he looks at the throbbing fat cock in his huge hands. leaking precum from his red clit, ready to breed the person that's been messing with his soul.

so this is why he's been feeling this way? he wanted to knot you up, his smile widen- "y/n, my y/n you're going to be added to my family" he huffs out firmly, his fat cock twitching at the thought of you all knocked up with his seed, giving him his own little family.

he wants you so bad, he thrust his hips up groaning as cold air hits his burning aching cock, he was so red- so close to exploding.

his cock always been active ready to mate you whenever he's around you- whenever he thinks about you. even though he held a straight firm face but his mind and body were screaming, cock leaking in his pants- demanding your warm pussy. demanding to fill it up with his seeds. demanding to have you right here.

his mind runs around with ways- with fantasies about you, things he can do to you, getting your womb round and nice with his seed while your two soft glands- boobs filled with milk- his milk, he would greedily suck on them drink your milk whenever he wants, suckling on the hard bud while your white liquid gush out of it like a streaming river- a streaming river ready to feed the starved man.

he can make you whine his name, he wants to make you feel good just like you make him feel good, choso wasn't experienced but he wanna learn- learn ways he can make you lose your mind. fuck you, breed you, he wanna stuff you with his cum, he wanna see his cum squirting out of your pussy from being to stuffed, he wanna-

cum squirts out of his fat cock, thighs thrusting in the air, heavy breathing, choso didn't notice the spit running down his mouth.

he looks down at his cock hoping it's down- just to see it up again, fully hard still demanding your tight little pussy.

he whimpers as he touchs the tip- he was so sensitive, frustration tears fills his eyes as he whines out a-

"need to fill you"

you have never thought that what's happening right now could ever happen.

choso kamo. here he was standing in the door way of your dorm. he always had his hair up in a ponytail but this time it was down.

"can you help me please?" he whines out- almost sounded like he was on average of crying.

and you don't blame him as you stare at his huge leaking cock, his tip was so red as the precum trail down to the veins that surrounded his cock. it twitched at the attention you were giving it- your heated eyes on it, lips between your teeth.

choso can't take it anymore as he makes his way towards you, holding his cock in his hand- giving it firm strokes, whimpering in process. "I don't know what to do" you feel his hot breath on the shell of your ears as he mutters out.

"choso i-" you were cut off by his body weight pushing you into your bed, his cock still in his hand Shamesly stroking it as he looks at you- eyes hazy filled with lust, mouth half open as shakily breaths out.

"please y/n" he whines out, his hips thrusting up to meet his hand- oh god, oh god you were for sure gonna regret your next decision.

choso whimpers as you gently yet painfully stroke his fat cock, precum drenching your hand, nothing but wet sounds coming from your hand making contact with his cock fills the room. you slowly circle the red tip, swirling his cum causing choso to shudder and snuggle his face into your neck, feeling his warm breath on you.

"shhh I know, baby I know" you softly whisper as you feel his hot tears trailing down your neck- poor baby it was clearly new for him, the sensation was to much. choso slowly trail his nose down your neck to the cleavage of your boobs breathing in your scent.

from the corner of your eyes you can see him looking at them hungerly, mouth aching watering to lash on your nipple that were poking under your shirt begging for his warm tongue to relief them.

"can I?" choso questions as he slowly push your shirt up, you eagerly nodded to high on pleasure to even think twice. choso admires your plumpy boobs- boobs that were ready to be filled with milk very soon he thought, as soon as he lash on your nipples he let's out a vulnerable, his hips automatically jerks into your hand as you fondle his heavy balls.

your jerks started to become sloppy and fast- his hips matching your pace, whining into your nipples, your sensitive nipples that were filled with his spit- every inch was covered with his spit that left a string connected to his mouth.

"ah- y/n I'm gonna-" he groans out as he takes a nipple he been sucking on with a pop. your hands only go faster, your panties were a pool now, you have never been this turned on your whole life.

"let it all out baby" you softly whisper, giving a last painful tug before he's spilling all his cum on your hands, hips jerking- god it was so hot, it was a lot, he came with shoots, body still jerking- twitching.

you thought this was gonna end, you thought he was going to be exhausted but oh how wrong you were cause choso pins you down on your bed, desperately shoving his tongue into your mouth, wanting your taste.

you let out a moan as you feel his large hands tear your panties without hesitation, he pulls away, you gasp as you feel his warm spit hitting your pussy, drooling on it, completely lost in the wetness of it.

"lemme make you feel good" he hurriedly says, not even letting you answer as he burry his face into your pussy, stroking his face on it smudging all your wetness.

"tell me how can I make you feel good please-fuck please" how can you deny him anything when he's looking at you this way between your legs. hair down, face red, drool leaving his mouth, eyes hazy.

"lick me down here baby" you say guiding his hand into your pussy, groaning at the feeling. choso eyes widen, he whines before his body jerks and he cums on your sheets- he cums just from you saying that.

"fuck I can't- fuck" you gasp as he eagerly burry his nose inside your pussy, sniffing before he dives in, locking his mouth into clit, lapping like a maniac.

"choso slow-" you scream as he shove his thumb into your ass, you look down at him with tears just to see him smiling at you.

"this hole mine to" he whispers before kissing your clit and latching on it again, maintaining eye contact with you as his thumb hit a spot inside of you.

you cry out, body shaking, hes licking you like a beast- his tongue tongue his tongue was inhumane, going from your asshole licking over his thumb that was plugged inside your ass before swirling back to your clit and pussy.

your eyes widen as you feel a huge earge of peeing- you harshly tug on his hair, trying to move, your stomach shrinks once you say the way he grales at you for denying his meal, shoving another finger as a punishment.

"no- I have to- I have to pee" you whine struggling to hold the feeling but your words only seem to make him eat you more aggressively, having him hump the bed so excited at yours words, groaning.

"in my mouth please let it in my mouth" he moans mouth full of your pussy, your bed start creaking at his hard humps, as soon as you feel him adding a 3rd finger in you lose it all.

you squirt out with a scream, hot stream leaving your pussy and spilling on his face- choso whimpers once he feels the hot liquid, opening his mouth wide, drinking in the hot liquid that kept gushing out, your body shakes- you cry ashamed and turned on by what's happening.

your stream kept going- making choso roll his eyes back into his skull and cumming undone for the 3rd time on your bed sheets, locking his mouth into your tiny pee opening just below your clit, drinking in every last drop.

you lay down twitching every once in awhile as chosos hot breath lands on your pussy, you wanted to die from how embarrassed you felt- ashamed that you had peed on non other then choso.

"one more please?" choso whispers into your pussy giving it kitten licks, staring at you.

you were doomed.

[deviouz]

matthew “munch” murdock could spend hours between your legs and it would still never be enough. sometimes he does it for your pleasure, to hear you keen and cry out his name while your deft fingers go to card through his hair to guide him where you needed him the most. when he was feeling nice, he’d entertain your wants, lips and tongue working in tandem as your moans grew breathier and higher in pitch. sometimes he would have to hold your hips down with an arm slung over them, while the other went to shove two fingers knuckle deep into your heat. god, he’d have the smuggest of smirks etched into his features as you gushed around his fingers and let out the most graphic obscenities. he can hear how fast your heart was beating, how you eagerly sucked in breath after breath with every utterance of his name, every plea.

but sometimes matt would return home in a mood, whether it be in a wrinkled four-piece suit with a briefcase in hand, or in the blood-red suit known to strike residents of hell’s kitchen with a fear unlike any other, his tired body covered in an array of cuts and bruises. he won’t be nice when he bullies himself between your thighs, hands forcing your legs apart and fingers digging themselves into your thighs. he won’t let you even touch him. as soon as one of your hands go down to grab at his hair, he’s got it in an iron-tight grip by the wrist as he buries his face deeper into your heat, greedily drinking from your core. he’s not even considering on relenting until you’re damn-near sobbing, until he can taste the salt in the air from your tears and feel the way you tremble beneath him with fruitless hope of reprieve.

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 8]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

warm soup and bile

cw: illness, vomiting, a dash of angst, talk of death, period talk, emotional whiplash

wc: 4.3k

You’re still terribly febrile when you wake up. 

Stiff muscles and joints scream as your eyes flutter open, bleary eyes hardly able to make sense of your surroundings. Faux darkness smothers the room, thick curtains forbidding sunlight from raiding your vision with its unforgiving rays. Sediment builds between your bones where they crack and crumble into dust as you sit up, head protesting the movement with several throbs. A bottle jostles next to you on the mattress. A gift, you’re sure. You try to swallow the cotton-like dryness in your mouth before you greedily uncap it and take a rapacious swig. 

It’s dreadful. Salty, falsely sweet; your lips pucker as your tongue shrivels at the nasty flavor. Sea water would have been more appetizing and refreshing, yet your mouth is so dry you drink until half the bottle is gone. When you’re finished, you cough and it’s wet. Mucus and snot plague your throat, too far back for you to do anything but swallow it — thick, like cough syrup. 

Up your body urges. You’ve been stagnant too long, thick blood pooling in your limbs, weighing them down like lead as you drag yourself out of the bedroom, blanket thrown over your shoulders like a hermit crab. You’re a walking mess — a zombie with half a brain.

Lovely aromatics waft through the house as you descend the stairs, and the kitchen is sweltering when you wander in. A heavy wall of heat emanates from the stove as John works away at a cutting board, sleeves of his plain shirt rolled up his forearms. Carrots, onions, and celery dust the board as a pot of broth boils behind him on the stove. The knife glints in the light, and you will your stomach to settle. He greets you with a polite smile as you approach the kitchen island, hands fumbling with the barstool as you make room for yourself. 

“Mornin’ Chip,” he greets before glancing at his wristwatch. “Or, afternoon.” 

Sniffing, you attempt a smile back at him, but your face feels too swollen for it to come across correctly. “You’re making me feel like a bum.” 

“Well, considering the circumstances, you deserve to have a few days off,” he chuckles warmly. 

John turns, cutting board in hand, dumping the contents into the broth where it quells for a short moment before boiling once again. The sink turns on where smooth water runs over dirty dishes as he works on cleaning up his mess. There’s a slight urge to get up and help, to give something back to the people who housed you for the night, but the very thought alone is enough to make your muscles scream. 

Perhaps, just this one time, you will allow someone to take care of you.

“Riley bought enough chicken broth to feed a damn army, but I figured I’d spruce it up with some veggies. Give it some meat. Unless you fancy plain watered down bone juice,” he teases as he dries his hands. 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say, voice cracking. 

“Of course I did. This is you we’re talkin’ about.” 

Quiet feet tap against the beautiful, dark stained floor as Row enters the kitchen swaddled in a bathrobe and freshly showered. Her eyes light up when she catches sight of you curled over the counter, but there’s still that lingering glint of concern as she approaches with outstretched arms. Before you can protest, she envelops you in her arms, fresh rosewater washing over your stuffed senses in the process. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, holding your head tight against her chest. She’s warm, probably thanks to her shower, and you can’t help but melt into her despite your sickness.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you whine. 

“Well enough to talk back, it seems,” she teases before releasing you. 

Just as John turns the stove off, Row slides onto the stool next to you, elbow playfully bumping against your arm in the process. You bump her back and almost laugh — instead, you cough. 

“Have you taken any medicine?” she questions.

“Row, I just woke up,” you respond with a huff. 

“John?” 

“On it,” he chuckles. 

While the soup cools, John vanishes to retrieve whatever sort of medicine Row is going to force down your throat and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you look at her. She rests her head in her hand with a cheeky smile. She’s glowing, dewy skin illuminated by the bright kitchen light as she assesses you with careful eyes. 

“You seem… happy,” you say in an attempt to get the attention off of you and your ailment. 

Row hums as her feet flutter with girlish glee. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe more excited than anything else.”

“What about?” 

“John surprised me this morning with an early Christmas present. He’s got us tickets for a trip to The Maldives over the holiday,” she says, keeping her voice low as if it’s a secret. 

It’s impossible to hide the way your eyes widen at her words. Sometimes, you forget exactly how… well off John and Row are. Even as a child, Row lived a privileged life due to the status of her father as the Chief of Police. The man was virtually a pseudo politician, and with his dangerous job he had a very generous life insurance policy that was paid out when he died almost twelve years ago. Couple that with John’s establishment in the city, you doubt either of them have known a moment of discomfort since they had gotten married. 

There is no envy in your realization. You’ve known from the very beginning that their type of life isn’t for you — not with your hands dried from sanitizer and body weak because you don’t know how to scream no loud enough.

“Sounds fancy,” you smile. 

“Sounds warm,” Row corrects with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the cold. You should come with us. I’m sure I’ve got room in my bag. Think we can fold you up tight enough?” 

“Thanks, but I’m not a fan of flying,” you giggle through a cough. “Dad took mum and I on a trip to Italy once and I got sick and threw up on the way there. I probably would’ve thrown up on the way back if it wasn’t for me crying the entire time over it.” 

Row’s attempt to stifle her laugh fails miserably as she shakes her head. “I’ll bring you a souvenir then.” 

“Good idea.” 

John returns shortly with cough syrup in hand and he slides it across the island to you like a bartender. It goes down surprisingly easy; too smooth, albeit a tad bitter, you take it like a shot to quickly drown out the menthol burning the back of your nose. Somehow, it seems to clear your mind a little. Or, perhaps you have a proper night's rest to thank for that. 

“Do you have any plans for Christmas this year? And please, don’t say work.” The sweet melody of fresh soup pouring into a bowl accompanies Row’s question as John divides the meal before sliding it in front of you. You give him a quick, appreciative smile before she continues. “I swear, if you say work I’m going to actually force you on this trip.” 

“I’m not working,” you huff, swirling your spoon around your bowl. Thin wisps of steam tickle your chin and nose, melting the stuffiness that resides deep in your sinuses. “Bruce always takes off the days surrounding Christmas. Still gives us holiday pay, too.” 

“Good,” Row hums, though she has yet to be satiated. “Well, since John and I will be gone, maybe you can spend the holiday with Riley instead.” 

As your eyes close in disbelief, you’re able to recall part of your conversation from last night. How you called Row out for her using Simon to keep an eye on you. Ever since that dinner party back in October, she’s been trying to hook you up with the guy, and she has been less than tactful about it. 

Simon isn’t… a bad person. Despite the tattoos, and how he broke Andrei’s nose like he was punching through warm butter, he’s someone you feel surprisingly comfortable around. You’re not sure why. It’s like there’s a lullaby written into his DNA — something to counteract the sheer size and nature of him. Maybe it’s because of the way he took care of you that night; hiding you away in the VIP room when you panicked and blacked out. You woke up not feeling violated or scared, just confused. Or maybe it’s because you’ve felt his heart. How it beats in his chest, steady and strong.

You swallow your embarrassment down with a spoonful of soup. 

“I’m sure he’s got a family of his own. Taking a break from babysitting me would probably be lovely,” you say with unforgiving emphasis. 

For a moment, Row turns her attention to John, who’s already halfway finished with his soup. “Does Riley have any family?” 

John pauses. “In Manchester, yeah.” 

“See?” you point out. “He’ll leave London far behind, and I’ll most likely watch The Grinch on repeat.” 

A pout forms on Row’s lips, but it’s not the playful childishness you’re used to. Legitimate annoyance crosses her features, and you feel something wash over you in a cold mist. You get the feeling this conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to. 

“I just… don’t like the idea of you being alone this time of year,” Row finally concedes. 

You try not to huff. There’s only true concern for you behind her tone, but that doesn’t make it any less smothering. Buying yourself time, you lift the bowl up to your lips with careful hands and drink from the broth as you think of a response that doesn’t make you sound like a child. Or worse: ungrateful. You are appreciative of every kind action that anyone has ever shown you — but the sour taste it leaves on your tongue knowing that you don’t deserve it has become nearly unbearable. 

“I’ll be fine,” you attempt to assure. “I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I’m a kid who’s going to be let down because there’s no tree or presents.” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

Despite the fresh soup in your stomach and the fever ravaging your nerves, everything goes cold. The chill even reaches John, whose attention flickers back and forth between you and his wife, cold eyes attempting to decode the oncoming mess. There’s a twitch in his lip that rustles the facial hair on his lip — he wants to speak, but stays silent as his eyes return to his bowl, completely emptied. His spoon still scrapes the bottom anyway. 

“Row-” you start. 

“You promised me on Halloween you’d be kinder to yourself,” she interrupts. “But look at you. Sick, still trying to work yourself to death… Would you have even asked for help if I hadn’t called last night? You promised me you’d stop punishing yourself but the closer we get to the anniversary of his death, the worse you get.” 

“Hey now,” John attempts to intervene. But this isn’t his fight. 

“I know it’s not easy to- to talk about stuff like that, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me about it. I… I know why you don’t want to talk to me about it. I just wish you’d share this burden with someone. Chip, none of that was your fault, you were just a kid.” 

Metal clinks against pristine china as you drop your spoon in your bowl, head shaking. The antithesis to her statement screeches in your head like nails on chalkboard louder than the ringing in your ears. 

He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you.

She always says you were just a kid. A child. As if that absolves you from the hot sin that burns your skin. You might have been a child then, but it’s been twelve years and you haven’t repented. Perhaps that’s why your ears still ring, and every flash of light seems like it’s reflected off the blade of a knife and-

“Please,” Row begs, “let me help you. Let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

Your feet hit the ground as you slide off the barstool and your vision begins to tunnel. Spots swirl in front of you, a dizzying dance, and you shake your head as you turn away from Row. 

“I can’t,” you breathe. Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you, but you can’t swallow it. It pounds and writhes inside of you, twisting in ways that it shouldn’t as you stumble along the kitchen island. Despite your vision, you take note of the way John mirrors your movements as he follows you from the other side of the counter. He says something, but it doesn’t reach your ears. “I can’t.” 

John’s arm wraps around your front just before your knees collide with the ground. Plastic drags across the wood floor with an aching scratch as he lowers you, and you find your hands gripping the side of the trash just in time for your stomach to lurch. All of John’s hard work goes into the bin, and it burns on the way back up as it mixes with cough syrup and salt. Row slides onto the floor next to you, robe pulled taut as she rubs your back with an anxious hand. 

“Oh my god, Chip. Chip, I-I’m so sorry.” 

“Easy now,” John whispers. 

At first, you think he’s saying it to you. Some form of comfort as you spit the remaining vomit in your mouth into the bin, trying to rid yourself of its rancid taste. When you finally catch your breath and your stomach ceases its unnecessary convulsions, you realize he’s saying it to Row. Hot tears mix with her trembling lip as she stares at you with wide, reddened eyes. Overcome with compunction, she mutters apologies between shaky breaths, hands pawing at your back. 

Once more, your stomach lurches, but you’re able to bite back the bile. You hate seeing her cry. You’d do anything to make her stop. 

But you’ve never been good at comforting anyone. Especially yourself. 

Nothing feels real after that. Not the way John and Row help you back into the guest room to get some more rest. Not the way Row’s stifled sobs echo in the hallway as they leave. It tears you apart in a way nothing else has. You don’t know why you’re like this; so broken that you hurt others on the pieces of you in the process. If you could just talk — share that darkness inside of you — do something… but you can’t. The only thing you’ve ever been good for is running away and escaping by the skin of your teeth. 

Row takes you home later that night after the dust settles, but neither of you talk about the elephant in the room. Its weight sits so heavily on your chest you can hardly breathe. Neither of you mention her father, long since dead and rotted in the ground in a cemetery you can’t bring yourself to visit. She doesn’t ask why you keep everything under tight lock, seemingly throwing away the key. Despite your efforts at hiding, you’re always afraid that you’ll be found out eventually. Someone will come along and sniff out your secrets like a scavenger with carrion. 

For now, you let that flesh rot inside of you and pray that Row can’t smell it as she embraces you in the car. If it weren’t for the center console, you’re certain she would pull you into her lap; cradle you against her chest as if you were a child again. She doesn’t whisper anything more than a farewell to you, but you can feel the apology exuding from her body. You think that’s why, after all these years, you and Row are still as close as you are. Both of you are sorry for something, and neither of you know how to say it. 

Over the next few days, your symptoms improve. You spend most of your days sleeping and resting in bed where you sip on cold medicine like its sugar water. It feels strange doing nothing, and you’re certain your paycheck will feel the effects too, but for once you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Eventually you can breathe unobstructed and you no longer choke every time you try to speak. Your mind clears, but lingering aches still ravage your muscles with vigorous hunger and they only worsen throughout the week. Radiating further than just your legs and stomach, you don’t realize until it’s too late that your period is the one to blame. 

Out of the pan and into the fire, it hits you while you’re at work. You’ve nearly bled through your pants by the time you’re able to make it to the bathroom, and without any proper sanitary items, you’re stuck using cheap toilet paper for the rest of your shift. Clumped up paper, it feels disgusting shoved between your legs, but you were unprepared. Still, nothing rivals the discomfort of the cramps that shred your muscles apart, insides twisting and writhing as it expels unwanted blood and tissue — it hurts more than usual.

Another unintended side effect from Marco’s lovely cold. Your body hardly had time to recover from being sick, and now it’s expending even more energy. Your only saving grace is that you find a handful of pads when you get home. No more tampons. This month your flow is heavier than usual, and you’re bleeding through them too quickly — you’ll run out by tomorrow. It’s a frustrating realization having just gotten home and knowing you’ll have to force yourself back out. 

Tomorrow. You’ll brave the world with blood and endometrium tissue tomorrow, but for now you’re content in bed, curled around a heated rice pack. Its warmth seeps into you but only skin deep. Angry muscles still convulse inside of you, unthwarted by your attempts at satiating its anger. Huffing, you attempt to distract yourself, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, watching videos, anything to forget the pain. 

A message buzzes on your phone, vibration tingling your fingers, and you don’t have to look at the ID to know that it’s Simon. Both of you have the worst sleep schedules due to the hours you work, and with it nearing one in the morning you know it can’t be anyone else. Or, maybe you’ve just grown to know him so well.

How are you feeling? 

Of course he’s checking in. It’s his job, isn’t it? 

better thank you! been living off of the soups and drinks you bought.

It’s a slight lie. The soups are great. That perfect canned stuff that harbors just the right amount of brine, but you can’t stand those electrolyte drinks. Maybe you would be feeling better right now had you just toughed it out and drank them, but you quickly swapped them for regular water instead. They’re currently rotting in the back of your fridge. 

Glad to hear. 

You stare at the message so long you feel your eyes cross and vision blur. Fatigue and pain is finally getting the better of you, and you can feel sleep calling for you, weighing your body down until you feel glued to the bed. It nearly takes you, forces you into the depths of dreams, but you’re jostled awake by another message from Simon:

Going Christmas shopping tomorrow. Wanna join? 

It’s fairly easy to sniff out the fact that this is Row’s doing. You’re certain the guilt is still eating her alive from last week, and neither of you have really messaged one another beyond a hope you’re feeling better. She loves deeply and strangely; you’re not even sure she understands it herself, and still…

sure! i need to do some shopping anyway.

Simon hums when your message pops up on his screen, happy with your answer. It’s frigid in the garage, so much so that he can see his breath. Usually he’s inside by this time, watching a show to put himself to sleep or making a late dinner, but not even that can satiate his insomnia. Instead, he finds himself cleaning his bike, which has grown thick with dust over the last month of him having kept it shoved out of the elements. Somehow, a dirty bike is a bigger eyesore than a dirty car, but he won’t complain too much. At least it gives him something to do while wicked insomnia racks his body. 

I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. 

As he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he thinks of you curled up in bed again. How warm you were against his hand, yet how you couldn’t seem to stop shivering. It was a painful reminder about how you were the day he found you in that alley, hardly able to stand on your own, overcome with terror. He hates that he can’t get that vision of you out of his head, but he hopes you’re telling the truth when you say you’re better than before.

Grunting, he gets back to work on his bike while his mind wanders. He still hasn’t forgotten about Andrei or the work Johnny has been putting in to figure out who the bastard really is. The most headway they’ve been able to gain has been thanks to Kyle, who saw him at some sort of political gala the other week. Shady enough to be found lurking in an alleyway but important enough to be hanging with London’s top 1% is never a good sign. 

Doesn’t matter. There’s not a skull in the world Simon Riley doesn’t know how to crack open. He doesn’t think he can rest until he knows you're safe from whatever monsters are lurking in your shadow. 

When his phone buzzes again, he thinks it’s a text back from you until it doesn’t cease. He quickly wipes his hands until they’re free of cleaner before retrieving his phone once more. The screen flashes brightly, alerting him that his mother is calling. 

“Hello?” he answers. There’s slight worry in his tone as he wanders away from his bike, almost as if he’s getting ready to run on foot all the way to Manchester if his mother so requested it. 

“Ah, I knew you’d be awake. Still working late shifts, I take it?” she asks as if they’re talking over tea. 

“There’s no mornin’ shifts at the club, mum,” he cheekily reminds her. “More concerned ‘bout you bein’ up this late.” 

She chuckles, and it sounds different from when he was a kid. There’s gravel in her voice, vocal chords changing with age, but it still fills him with the same warmth that it always has. 

“Don’t worry about me, love. Got too carried away with the garden documentaries again,” she assures. 

“France again?” Simon asks. 

“Italy this time. Their gardens are beautiful. Much more natural,” she explains. 

Simon hums. “I’ll take you to see ‘em one day.” 

Mrs. Riley laughs at her son, a silly cackle that has a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, my sweet boy, I’d be plenty happy with just a simple visit. Speaking of, you’re still coming home for the holiday, yes? Little Joey’s excited to see his Uncle Simon again.” 

It’s impossible for Simon not to smile at the thought of his nephew. Sweet tyke is about four years old and he can still envision his toothy grin perfectly. His idiot brother was able to do some sort of good in the world after all. 

“Course I am. We’re going Christmas shoppin’ tomorrow. Probably be headed down Christmas Eve, if that works?” he explains. 

“We?” she repeats, the lilt of her words giving away her grin. 

Simon blinks, Freudian slip having gotten the better of him. “A friend, yeah.” 

“What kind of friend?” she prods. 

“Just a friend.” 

There’s no stopping the storm of words brewing up in his mother’s mouth. Even from over the phone he can feel them swell with the curve of her lips and tilt of her head. 

“Well, there is plenty of space in the guest room if this friend of yours wants to join us for the holiday. Just recently moved a queen sized mattress in there, too. I know how hard it was for you to fit on the twin sized bed…”

“Mum,” Simon sighs, cutting his mother off before she can continue. “It’ll just be me.” 

“Oh, alright. Can’t blame a crone for trying,” she chuckles. “But Christmas Eve, perfect. I’ll make sure to have everything set up.” 

The conversation dwindles into small talk before Mrs. Riley eventually gets too tired to continue. Her documentary on European gardens can only entertain her for so long before the night gets the better of her. They wish one another goodnight, with promises of seeing each other soon, before the line goes dead. Though the silence is benign, he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to his mother — yet again — why he never brings any girls home for the holiday.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Simon checks the time only to get distracted by a glowing notification. You had responded to his text while he was on the phone with his mother: 

sounds good! see you tomorrow si (: 

He stares at the message longer than he should. It’s… cute. The shortened use of his name coupled with the smiley face. Usually he’s not a fan of nicknames. His last name, Riley, isn’t something he’s proud to carry, but no one at work seems to want to call him anything else, and he hasn’t been referred to as Ghost in ages. Still, he imagines your voice as he rereads your message, and he has to shake his head before his thoughts devolve into a mess he can’t afford to entertain. 

See you tomorrow, sweetheart.

[ffsg0jo]

tw: suggestive and also pretend everything ended after gojo was unsealed and that everyone's alive !!

you shouldn't be feeling this way. the entire world was in disarray, still recovering from the aftershock of chaos and destruction stomping hand in hand through the streets.

but your husband had changed drastically. since escaping the prison realm, he'd gotten thicker, bulkier, his frame now matching his larger than life ego.

the way his t-shirt deliciously hugged and stretched against his biceps. the baggy, white martial arts pants (which are almost see-through in the sunlight) left so much to the imagination, and god, you couldn't stop imagining what was underneath.

the pretty little bow tying it all together was just calling you, begging you to untie it and sink to your knees, revering him the way he deserved to be. you wanted your husband so badly that you couldn't focus on any of the tasks at hand. major damage control and cleanup were needed, but your mind was only on your husband. it was pathetic, and you felt ashamed, but you needed him, entire world be damned.

it was like a switch flicked in your brain. the 20 days he was locked up, you spent it all in a constant state of panic and worry, fighting to stay alive and to keep your students alive too. and the moment you saw satoru, you were taken aback, rooted to the spot.

there he was, your satoru in all his infinite glory. as he ran and gathered you up in his arms, you couldn't help but slightly whimper at the feeling of his taut muscles pressing against your softer form. he felt so good against your body and finally in your arms.

satoru, well versed in your body language, immediately understood what was going through your head. the same could be said for him, too. he spent hours upon hours alone in the prison realm, his body devoid of your touch, aching for you. not a second went by where he didn't think about your lips pressed against his heated skin and indulging in your soft, silky, warmth.

he could feel the blood rushing south as he heard you whimper. satoru wanted to kiss you so bad, but he knew if he did, he'd end up taking you right here, right now in front of everyone.

he pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, another stamped lovingly onto your hairline. satoru held your face in his palms, forehead pressed against yours. his blue eyes shining with unshed tears, mirroring yours. god, he missed his wife so much. his sweet, sweet girl.

satoru's gaze softened, drinking you in properly now. he sees the bags under your eyes and tear tracks engrained into your cheeks. his soul breaks, as he realises how devastated and hearbroken you must have been.

"i love you so much," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your soft lips. "and i'm not going anywhere, my love. i promise."

you couldn't stop yourself leaning up and capturing satoru's lips in a frenzied kiss, you both groaning at the contact. satoru angled your face closer to his, his nose pressing deliciously into yours. he deepened the kiss, gasping at the way you tugged at his slightly overgrown undercut. you took that as an opportunity to slide your tongue past his lips and lick into his mouth.

he tongue fought against yours, wanting to taste every inch of your mouth. the kiss was becoming way too heated. your body pulled flush against his, his hardening length pressing into your stomach, moans escaping both of your lips. satoru drank all your noises up greedily, savouring them on his tongue.

the sudden loud cough to your right made you both pause, realising where you were. collecting yourselves, you slowly pulled apart, a string of saliva splitting as you moved away from your husband, his hands falling to your waist.

you were both panting and out of breath, but that now that you'd gotten a taste, it wasn't enough. you needed to feel his bare skin on yours. you needed to be completely consumed by him. you needed more.

before turning to face his students' satoru smirked at you. you never thought you'd say this, but you revelled in that stupid smirk of his.

'patience' his darkened, lust-filled eyes conveyed, his hands squeezing your waist, 'we have all night'.

i am taking requests and writing fics for gaza. check the linked post out to find out more !!

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

[cozykali]

Heartbeats (Astarion’s POV)

I downloaded Baldur’s gate 3 and immediately feel for this sexy vampire the moment he tackled me to the ground and held a knife to my neck. I’m in act 2 right now (no spoilers!) and the brainrot is BAD. I’ve read some amazing period sex fics involving Astarion but I wanted to craft one from his perspective. Let me know your thoughts!

Master list can be found here!

Pairing: Astarion x fem Tav/reader

Rating: SMUT! NSFW, 18+, Minors DNI

Words: 4700

TW: (this fic is FLITHY), mentions of death and dying, biting (duh), drinking blood, period sex, blood kink, oral (fem receiving), unprotected P in V, kissing, fingers, stalking, multiple Os, passing out, blood-loss, mentions of past torture/trauma, tension, begging, fluffy ending, ‘who did this to you?’,

Notes: Tav and Astarion have been travelling together for a few weeks. No romance scenes have happened yet, but she allows him to feed on her nearly every night. She hasn’t seen his scars yet. Tav is on her period and it’s making her vampire friend go crazy. Tav has feelings for Astarion but hasn’t acted upon them. This story is told from Astarion’s perspective. Tav can be any race or class you want (probably not durge though).

Bonus: Check out this massive playlist I made inspired by Astarion!

The fading fire crackled softly; its once licking flames now reduced to gentle, glowing embers. A thin line of smoke ascends into the damp air that coats the earth in a delicate layer of cool dew.

Astarion lies beside the fire on his bedroll, flat on his back, with his arms slightly splayed at his sides. Most nights, he is grateful that he doesn’t need sleep like his companions do. He can immerse himself in the peaceful sounds of the night, meditate, slow his breath, and calm his mind without slipping into unconsciousness. This ability had saved his life on more than one occasion.

However, tonight is different. Tonight, he wishes for sleep to claim him. He longs to drift away and escape the torment of the spell unknowingly cast upon him by Tav. He turns his head to gaze through the soft light of the fire in her direction.

Tav is laying on her side facing the fire, her mouth slightly open as she emits soft snores barely audible over the crackling flames. But what troubles Astarion tonight is her scent. It wafts through the acrid smoke of the fire like a gentle breeze through a sail, sweet as usual, but it’s currently mixed with blood and musk.

Astarion has been avoiding Tav for the better part of two days now. Whenever she drew near, he held his breath and averted his gaze. He knew he must keep his distance from her, because the alternative would be ripping her apart, which would not win any favors with the rest of the party.

Tav has also been careful around him. She must know that he can sense her menses. Despite inviting him to feed on her each night for nearly two weeks, tonight she did not proposition him, nor the night before. Last night, his attempt to catch a deer had been futile, leaving Tav as his last meal.

Lying on his bedroll, Astarion stares up at the stars, after a seemingly endless eternity for an immortal being, he hears Tav stir slightly. He glances over at her curiously, hoping she doesn’t notice his gaze. She lets out a quiet groan, clutching her lower stomach before curling into a fetal position, her face contorted in pain. Moments later, she slowly starts to rise.

Tav stumbles to fetch a flask of water, guzzling it down greedily. Astarion envies her ease in quenching her thirst while his own thirst rages inside him. Before long, he senses her absence, her scent growing fainter. He debates whether to leave her to sort herself out, but the primal urge to hunt and stalk his prey cannot be ignored.

Rising slowly, Astarion follows her scent through the trees to a nearby stream. His movements are fluid and silent as he approaches her. Tav is kneeling in front of the water, wringing out a blood-soaked cloth.

"Seems such a waste to wash that delicious blood away, darling," Astarion's voice, silky and smooth as velvet, slices through the night like a dagger. Tav lets out a startled squeal, spinning to face him.

"Astarion!" Her voice cracks with surprise as she stumbles back, but his hand shoots out to steady her, his touch cool against the small of her back as he prevents her from falling into the rocky stream.

His gaze is locked onto Tav's eyes, wide with astonishment, her pupils are dilated so only faint rings of color remain around dark voids. With his keen elven senses, he can hear the rapid thrum of her heart beneath her chest. Releasing her gently, Astarion steps back, his posture graceful and poised.

"Sorry, my dear," he says, softening his tone to one less intimidating. "I was merely ensuring no creatures were stalking you in the night as you wandered off. There are far worse dangers in these woods than bears, you know?"

"You mean like you?" Tav's words are sharp, but Astarion detects the faint quiver of her bottom lip.

"I just prevented you from bashing your skull on those wet rocks, and this is the gratitude I receive?" Astarion scoffs.

"I wouldn't have nearly slipped if you hadn't snuck up on me, asshole," Tav retorts, pushing him in the chest, though his feet remain firmly planted.

"Oh, my, you look adorable when you're angry," Astarion can’t help but smirk at her.

Tav lets out a frustrated grunt, attempting to stomp away, but Astarion catches her arm before she can pass him. Confusion clouds her face as she searches for an explanation for his unusual behavior. The facade of his usual sassy indifference had vanished, replaced by a tumult of desire and longing.

"Are you here to bite me?" Tav's voice trembles, strained as if she’s fighting back a scream. "I thought you were better than that. You promised me you wouldn’t feed on me unless I asked you to."

Astarion reaches out and takes the wet cloth from her hand, the hunger gnawing at him like a demon. Shamelessly, he presses it to his face, inhaling deeply. His vision is blurred, his head swimming in the intoxicating scent of her body that lingers on the fabric.

"Astarion, knock it off! You’re freaking me out," Tav snaps, snatching the cloth back and tossing it into the dirt.

"Tav," he whimpers, hating the desperation in his voice. Slowly, he releases her wrist, turning away to pinch his brows in an attempt to ease the splitting headache caused by her overwhelming scent.

"What in the hells is wrong with you?" Tav's voice remains cold, but concern flickers in her eyes as she speaks. She feels sorry for him.

Astarion straightens his stance, clearing his throat. "I apologize that I disturbed you. I’m not thinking straight," he announces before turning to walk back to camp.

"Wait," Tav said, and he freezes.

"I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. That I haven’t asked you to bite me the past few nights. I know you must know I’m on my period," she admits, her gaze fixed on the ground. "I didn’t know how you felt about it. I can see now that it’s driving you to madness, but I thought ignoring it was the best course of action. It’s embarrassing, really, and I’m having terrible pains in my stomach."

Astarion closes the distance between them in two swift strides.

"It’s hard to see you like this, so crazed with hunger, and I…" Tav's words falter as Astarion gently places his hand under her chin, lifting her face to meet his.

"Shh, Tav, my sweet. You’re going to put me in a second grave," he murmurs.

To his surprise, Tav presses her face into his with a gentle kiss, and Astarion's eyes close as a deep growl rumbles from his chest.

Tav removes her lips, "I’m sorry that was stupid of me to…" but Astarion wraps his arms around her and pulls her closer, pressing her body against his. He kisses her ravenously. His sharp fangs scrape softly on her bottom lip. A sensation of an unraveling overwhelms Astarion as he kisses Tav. It's a mixture of desire, longing, and perhaps even a hint of vulnerability. This feeling is unfamiliar to him, stirring emotions he's long kept buried beneath his cool exterior.

She relaxes in his arms, sinking deeper into his kiss. Her hand reaches up to ruffle his soft white curls while the other slips under his linen shirt, exploring the ridges and lines of his abdomen.

As they momentarily break their kiss, Astarion feels a rush of dizziness. He gently brushes her hair away from her neck and nuzzles into the curve of her shoulder. His tongue traces the faint marks on her skin, remnants of the nightly feedings he's had days prior. Despite the hunger clawing at him, he restrains himself from indulging further.

His hands, trembling with desire, slide down to the hem of Tav's shirt. He breathes against her ear, his voice a husky whisper, "May I?" Without a word, she responds by lifting her arms, granting him permission. In one smooth motion, he pulls the shirt over her head, revealing her skin. Astarion’s hands cup her breasts. The soft sound she emits as his mouth finds her nipple is music to his ears.

"Please, I need to taste you." He pleas between nibbles and licks on her chest. He no longer feels ashamed by his desperation.

"Oh, Astarion." Tav smiles, "You look so pretty when you beg."

“Gods," he groans, then steps back to remove his shirt before kneeling to the ground in front of her, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight. "Tav," his voice is deep and soft, "I beg you." His hands reach out to grab her waist. "Let me taste you." He rests his forehead softly on her bare stomach. She places her hands on his and slides them down, encouraging him to remove her pants. Astarion is nearly trembling with anticipation as he helps her step out of her garments.

"Hold on," she stops him before he rips off her underwear. The bloodied rag that was freshly changed before he found her, was now soiled again with arousal and blood. "Should we find somewhere more comfortable?" She offers him her hand to help him rise back up.

Astarion feels lightheaded for a moment as he returns to his feet. However, as soon as he regains his balance, he scoops Tav up and carries her with remarkable speed to a clearing near the stream, where the ground is more sand than rocks. He lays Tav down on her back. He crawls towards her slowly, until his thigh is pressed firmly against her sex. As he lowers himself to kiss her once more, he gently hooks his other leg under hers and slides it up slowly, allowing her legs to part for him.

"Astarion?" She whispers to him when their kiss breaks, "You can feed on me tonight if you like."

He doesn’t even recognize the deep, feral growl that escapes his throat in response. "I was so hoping you would say that darling."

Astarion kisses his way down Tav’s stomach. She squirms at the feeling of his fangs brushing lightly on her ribs. He catches the waistband of her undergarments between his teeth and slides them down her legs to remove them.

He stops to hover over Tav for a moment now that she’s fully undressed. He savors the look she’s giving him through hooded eyes. Pausing, he appreciates the beauty of her bare skin splayed before him, relishing her scent before he consumes her.

"You’re too good to me, my pretty thing. I don’t deserve this, and I don’t deserve you." Astarion remarks before his head dips between her legs.

Astarion flattens his tongue and licks her once slowly, bottom to top. Tav tastes unbelievable. It still tastes like her blood, metallic and rich, but it’s enhanced with the flavor of her slick arousal, the must of her sweat, the flesh of her womb. If the blood in her veins is his water, his life source, the blood between her legs is like the finest of wines.

The hums and moans that leave Astarion's throat as he devours her are so animalistic, he can hardly hear Tav’s whines. He licks up every drop until she is clean then sticks his tongue deep inside her searching for more. His nose rubs in a side-to-side motion, pressed firmly against her apex, as his tongue explores.

"Oh gods, Astarion!" Tav gasps. He feels a slight sting on his scalp as she grabs a fistful of his silver curls while rocking her hips to match the speed of his tongue.

"I need more," Astarion rasps. His lips close around her bud He slides two slender fingers inside of her and starts pumping them in and out, coaxing out more blood. Her moans fill his ears like a siren’s song, adding to his pleasure. He can feel her insides tightening around his digits.

"Astarion. I…" Tav’s sentence is cut off by a wail of pleasure. He can smell the ecstasy flooding her blood, hear her heart pounding in her chest, and feel her body spasm and quake where he touches her. He doesn’t change the pace of his tongue or hand, dragging out her orgasm until she is panting and spent. He removes his fingers from her to lick them clean like a cat and notices a small trickle of blood leaking out of her.

"You may have just finished, darling, but I am not done yet. Nothing compares to the sound of my name cried from your lips, and I intend to hear it again." Astarion’s face dips back down to clean her folds. The amount of blood he can get from her body is not nearly enough to fill him. He needs to feed soon, a real meal, a pint of blood or more, not just a taste. But it can wait; the taste is too divine to stop.

Astarion hooks his arms under her thighs and flips onto his back, pulling her with him in one smooth motion. He grabs her hips as he forces her to a sitting position on his face, drinking her in. She shrieks and tries to pull away.

"Astarion, I need a minute. It’s too much." He releases his hands and stares up at her face with mid concern while she hovers over him. He tries to imagine how he looks to her right now.

"Can I ask you to be my mirror again, love?" He recalls the evening Tav found him looking at his empty reflection.

She studies him. "Your pretty face is absolutely covered with blood," she states. "Your lips are puffy and swollen. Your skin is thin and pale, paler than usual. Then there are your eyes…" she pauses, "they’re so red right now that they nearly glow in the light of the stars. There is nothing human, or even elf, left in them. They are the eyes of a monster."

Astarion grins wide, displaying his sharp fangs to her, "I am a monster, dear. Now can you please let me get back to consuming my prey?" His tongue extends from his mouth to lap against her swollen sensitive skin.

Tav tilts her head back and moans, exposing the full length of her gorgeous neck. Her back arches as she lowers herself onto his lips. Astarion grumbles in satisfaction when the taste of her dances on his tongue again. He grabs her thighs, in case she decides to pull away again, but instead she lowers onto him more, smothering him. She rocks against him, rubbing herself against his mouth and nose.

His lungs burn slightly, but he doesn’t need to breathe air to survive; it’s just a matter of an unconscious habit from before he turned into a vampire spawn. He needs air in his lungs to be able to speak, and it’s slightly uncomfortable if his lungs go without air for extended periods of time. He represses the memories of torture he had to endure over the centuries, where Cazador would deprive him of air for days just to watch him struggle. Astarion silently scolds himself for focusing on his lungs when his attention should be on the woman on top of him.

Tav bends her back further and places her hand on his waste to steady herself. Her hand brushes against the swollen bulge in his leather pants. His other primal urge is nothing more than an annoyance compared to his crazed lust to feed. But Astarion doesn’t protest when she starts to pet him through his pants as she continues to use his face like a toy. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight.

"Astarion!" His name sounds like a symphony when it exits her body. She collapses forward, cradling his head with her arms. He drinks her in, savoring all his senses. His hands run up and down her bare thighs that seem to burn with heat. She rolls off him and lands in the sandy dirt of the bank, lying flat on her back beside him. They breathe in sync, shallow and hard.

"Tav, I…" Astarion pants, still laying on his back. "I need to feed."

"I know, I told you that you could. It’s not enough, right? Down there I mean. I figured as much. Why didn’t you just go for my neck in the first place? Why starve yourself on tiny mouthfuls when you can just bite me?"

"The taste," he whispers, "It’s addictive. I can’t stop." He swipes a finger between her legs and places the pad of it against his tongue and groans.

"Astarion?" Tav rolls onto her side to gaze into his eyes. She places her hand against the puncture marks on her neck from his fangs. "Bite me."

Astarion rises to his feet. Stars briefly dance across his vision, then fade. He is again reminded of the throbbing of his groin and decides to remove his confining leather pants and exposes himself to her. It seems only fair to be as naked as she is.

Tav’s eyes bulge and her jaw slacks as she stares at him. She props herself up on her elbows and slowly opens her legs to him. The wanting look she gives him is the closest thing he’ll get to a reflection of his own eyes. He waits, tension coiling in his muscles in anticipation as he searches her expression for the words he longs to hear.

"Darling, I am supposed to be the one looking at you like a feast laid before me, but here you are, looking at me like I’m a fresh baked pie. I could practically wipe away your drool." He smirks down at her. His hand lazily strokes his length to tease her.

Tav's lips form the word "Please," her voiceless plea echoing in the quiet night.

"Please what, my pet?" Astarion teases, his voice low and filled with anticipation, as he listens to the rapid rhythm of her heart, quickening like a drumbeat.

"Please. I want you to bite me while you fuck me." Her voice deepens, her eyelids are heavy with lust. Astarion’s stomach flips, and he pounces onto her like a fox catching a mouse.

"Such a filthy little mouth you have." He tuts. While he arranges himself over Tav. It's a familiar position that they have practiced nearly every night since she invited him to feed on her, only this time they are skin to skin. His face lingers over her neck, his breath cools her blazing skin. The tip of his shaft is posed at her entrance. She bucks her hips in response, and he sinks into her partially, then withdrawals.

"You are mine." Astarion whispers into her neck. Pressing his lips to the partially healed wound from his last bite as he enters her again, sinking his entire length into her. Tav cries out in response, but he doesn’t move.

"Astarion, please," She whines. He raises himself onto the palms of his hands to look at her. Her eyes are glossy, tears are forming in the corners.

"Tav, Darling, you look so pretty when you beg." He echoes her earlier words. He wishes he could hold out a little longer to see how far he could tease her until she breaks, but his need to feed is too intense. He starts slowly pumping in and out. Her eyes close and her mouth opens wide in pleasure. She feels amazing, so tight, so soft, so wet with blood and arousal.

Tav places her hands on Astarion’s back and digs her nails in, only to pull away quickly when she feels the bumps of the scars she hasn’t yet seen. She opens her mouth to mention it but he quickly covers it with his blood stained lips. His tongue slips past her lips and moves with the same rhythm of his thrusts. She moans into his mouth as his pace quickens. Then he breaks her kiss to purr into her ear, ‘Do you taste yourself on my lips, beautiful? It’s delicious, isn’t it? You taste divine.’

Tav shivers beneath him and lets out a sob. His lips brush down her neck. Astarion snarls to expose his sharp, elongated canines then grazes them against her throat, ready to strike. His thrusts never stop, slamming into her repeatedly, as he finally sinks his teeth into her neck and sucks her blood.

"Oh fuck, Astarion!" Tav releases a scream and falls apart under him. Shaking and panting while grinding against him. He can taste the electricity of her climax surge through her blood as her heart beats with a steady rhythm, allowing the blood to flow through her veins until it reaches his mouth. Astarion feels a rush stronger than any drug, more enchanting than any spell or potion. Her walls spasm around him, while he slurps against her neck. He sucks her blood with intense force. Pinning her under him. He can’t stop.

After several moments of bliss, he notices she has gone completely still beneath him. It takes all his willpower to unlatch his fangs before he sits up quickly.

"Shit’." A wave of panic washes over Astarion as he inspects Tav. Her skin appears paler, almost gray. Her breaths come slow and shallow, and her heartbeat is faint and stuttering. Without hesitation, he scoops up her limp body and wades into the waist-deep waters of the nearby stream, gently lowering her in. The water feels warm against his skin, though he himself is generally cooler than most creatures. He hopes the temperature doesn’t send her body further into shock.

As he holds her in the water, Astarion's mind races with worst-case scenarios. He imagines having to speak with Withers to revive her, dreading the thought of explaining his actions to the rest of the camp. Tav won’t easily forgive him this time, he fears. He might be cast out or even killed. He curses himself for following her out here in the first place. She was right to avoid him these past few days.

Just as he begins to entertain thoughts of escape, Tav’s soft voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "Star?"

Relief floods through him. "Oh, thank the gods, Tav. I’m truly sorry. I got a little carried away." He holds her tighter against his chest, feeling her shiver against him.

"Cold," Tav manages to say, her voice barely above a whisper. Astarion carries her out of the water and gently sets her down in a patch of soft grass. He hurries to gather their scattered clothes, helping her dress into her pants and shirt. He wraps his own rumpled white shirt around her for extra warmth, then puts on his pants before rinsing the remaining blood from his face in the stream.

Returning to her side, Astarion finds her hugging her legs, the color slowly returning to her face. "Let’s get you back to camp near the fire. I’ll wake Shadowheart to see if she can heal you," he suggests, wrapping his arm around her.

Tav turns to him, her voice airy and soft. "No, I think I'll manage until morning." Astarion kisses her forehead as she embraces him, her hands rubbing slow circles on his back.

"Turn around," Tav demands, and he complies, allowing her to view the intricate scars covering his entire back. She traces them with her fingers. "What happened to you?" Her voice carries a tone of pity, and Astarion swallows a lump in his throat.

"It’s a poem," He explains calmly. "Cazador did it to me. He took his time. I don’t know what it says."

"Oh, Astarion, I’m so sorry," Tav responds with compassion that almost irritates him.

"You’re sorry?" Astarion snaps, turning to face her. "I nearly killed you tonight, and you’re sorry?" He immediately regrets the sharpness of his words. "No, Tav, I’m sorry." Pulling her into him, he collapses to the ground, and she lays her head on his bare chest.

‘Astarion, I…’ Tav starts to speak.

"Hush," he interrupts, holding a finger to her lips. "Listen." He tunes into the sounds of the environment around them—the rustling of tree branches in the breeze, the chirping of insects in the reeds, the rushing of water in the nearby stream. But the sound he wants her to hear isn’t external; it’s coming from within him. After several seconds, she jerks her head up from his chest to meet his eyes.

"Did… did I just hear your heart?" Her voice is filled with astonishment. "You have a heartbeat?" Her brows furrow in confusion as she searches his face for answers. "Is that another side effect of the tadpole? Like how you can walk in the sun?"

Astarion smiles at her. "Yes, you heard my heart beating. No, it’s not from the worm in my head. It’s from you, darling."

"What? How?" Tav’s confusion deepens.

‘Well, when I feed, especially if it’s a big meal, my body must circulate the fresh blood throughout it somehow. And in case you weren’t aware, I’ll give you a little anatomy lesson. I need blood in a certain area of the body to give you a performance like I did back there."

She stares at him in shock "So your heart will kickstart when you're full, or horny?"

"In simple terms, yes dear, and I do feel both of those right now. However, it only beats a couple times a minute, not like a living creature. Have you noticed the color return to my skin, and that my temperature is at least five degrees warmer than usual?"

Tav smiles softly as she lays her head back on his chest in silence, waiting to hear a soft thump again. "I can make your heartbeat," she whispers.

"Well Tav, it seems my heart belongs to you now," Astarion sighs. "I’ve never felt anything like that before. I’m practically drunk on you right now. When I told you were my first bite, I meant it and now I can’t imagine drinking the blood of anyone else. Not like I have many options anyways, no one else is exactly offering me their neck." She smacks him softly, and he lets out a chuckle before his face softens with worry.

"I don’t think it’s safe to do that again, though," He grumbles. "I nearly lost you." Tav looks up at him with sadness in her eyes. "I mean I would happily bed you again," Astarion continues, "and I still wish to feed on you if you allow it, once you're replenished, but I think we should keep dinner and sex separate from now on."

Tav scoots up to kiss his neck. Then rises to her knees and straddles him. Her hair forms a halo around her face as she looks down at him.

"What is Withers there for if we don’t use him once and a while. Plus, we have at least ten revival scrolls in the chest at the camp."

His heart beats again, slightly harder than the last time. "Are you giving me permission to suck you dry? You filthy little pup." His hands grab her rear, and he squeezes. "How did I get so lucky? Getting abducted by mind flayers seems to have been the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"I mean, I've never felt anything like that either. When you were draining me of blood, I let it happen, I didn’t want it to stop. I was in a daze as I slipped away. To be clear, I don’t think the others will approve of paying 200 gold coins to Withers, or wasting revival scrolls that could be used during a fight, every time I come to your bed, but if it happens… I trust you to bring me back. I guess my heart belongs to you now too. Since it pumps the blood through me that keeps you alive and thriving."

Astarion inhales deeply. "Well in that case, darling," his hand reaches up to grab her neck and he pulls her head down so her ear touches his lips "I think you're beating me three-nil in climaxes this evening. And I intend to double your score at the very least, and maybe get a point on the board myself before the sun rises." He glances down and notices a blood stain seeping through her pants onto his. He realizes didn't put her underwear back on nor replace her blood rag when he dressed her earlier. "Also, it looks like you might need a little cleaning up again, my love."

END

[holybibly]

I can't stop thinking about that bunny, so today seems to be all about Sanhwa.

Unholy thoughts of today: Aristocratic blue blood vampires Sanhwa who cannot share you with each other.

Such auctions were nothing new. Ever since the advent of the vampire in the human world, auctions of this kind had been commonplace. There were many reasons for the attendance of an auction, but the main ones were money and sex.

Right now, you were sitting on a velvet pillow watching two divinely beautiful vampires about to gnaw each other's throats to get to you first.

San and Seonghwa were something of royalty in the vampire world, their covens rooted in dark and terrible times, which only strengthened their authority and power among their kind.

When you caught San's burning, sharp gaze early in this evening, you knew that at the end of the night you would find yourself in his bed, with his fangs in your neck and his cock deep in your pussy. And frankly, the prospect was more than attractive to you. Especially when you considered that the vampire was literally radiating 'daddy' energy, and maybe, just maybe, you had a big kink for that.

But within an hour, you were literally writhing under the hypnotic gaze of Seonghwa as he devoured you with his eyes. Your confidence about the end of this night was shaken, especially when his long tongue slowly slid over his sensual, plump lips, making them shiny and wet, just as your cunt had become from this view.

When you were informed that your "lot" had been purchased and you were asked to go to a special room to do the paperwork, you didn't expect to see two vampires on the verge of sinking their fangs into each other's throats or fucking each other. The energy between them was so hot and intense and full of sex that even the auction organisers were uncomfortable.

And so you ended up on your velvet pillow, watching San and Seonghwa circle around you like predators, barely holding back their urge to pounce on you to fuck you senseless and then drink you until they were drunk. Although they could get drunk on more than just your blood, you had heard that vampires could get drunk on pussy very quickly, and as you knew, yours tasted amazing, according to all those boys whose tongues managed to get between your legs.

San was the first to break down, wrapping his hand around your throat and pulling you towards him for a kiss. And damn, he kissed divinely. Powerful, dominant, hot, fuck, he was just a "daddy," and you melted under the skillful movements of his mouth and tongue, already imagining how it would feel all over your body.

But no matter how beautiful San was, nothing could make you forget the presence of the second vampire, especially when two of his long fingers slid into your hole without much effort. You were so damn wet that it was almost embarrassing.

"So damn wet for me." Seonghwa purred velvetily in your ear. And you shuddered, pulling away from San's lips, causing the magnificent vampire to growl and press harder against your throat. Seonghwa's fingertips pressed perfectly against your J-spot, and you arched your spine, thrusting your ass out, increasing the pressure of his fingers on your sweet spot.

"I y-yes, everything is for you." You barely whisper as San tightens his fingers around your throat, effectively cutting off your oxygen supply.

"For us, my queen. For us..." He leans closer to you, his cold breath tickling the sensitive skin on your ear. On the other hand, you feel Seonghwa's lips begin to plant wet, sloppy kisses on your shoulder. "You must never forget that you belong to both of us, my queen. Or daddy will have to punish you to remind you of that. And I can assure you that only I will have the pleasure of it."

As black spots begin to dance in front of your eyes and your body goes limp as if on the verge of losing consciousness, San unclenches his fingers and allows you to breathe. You greedily swallow the air while Seonghwa continues to relentlessly fuck your pussy with his fingers, and this contrast of sensations almost drives you crazy and makes you cum right away.

"Well, well, San, don't be so rude to her; we're not in a hurry, and you have all the time in the world to teach her good behaviour. Now let's fuck her; I'm hungry and not just for her blood.".

[naffeclipse]

Cold Scales

Naga!Moon x Reader. Sickness.

The first sign of your fever hits you with a pulse of heat. You brushed it aside, believing the sun had been beating on you too long, and the jungle warmth was simmering your blood. Sun leads you to the cave come nightfall. The buzz of mosquitoes fills the air with a menacing hum.

Sun has always been warm to you, even when he told you that you are warmer. His melting yellow and golden jewel tone scales, his cornflower blue eyes, wide and endearing, fit alongside the heavy humidity in the afternoons. The small scarlet markings on his throat and hips are metal-red hot, too. He always kept you warm.

Moon is cool. You’re not sure if that’s due to the cold tones of his scales, gray-blue on his belly and along his arms, and deeper into midnight blue along his back and on top of his hood. He hides in the darkness after sunset. His red eyes, even darker still, only flash once it’s too late for his prey. You’ve seen how fast he strikes—before, when you were acting foolish and trying to escape their aid, and after, when you watched him and Sun hunt a meal.

You slip out of Sun’s embrace. His arms fall away, lethargic from the day you both put your energy into scavenging for berries and nuts and small mammals. A soft hiss leaves his lips. You wait a moment to ensure he doesn’t stir, though his coils unconsciously tense, searching for the little human he was holding.

Sun had mentioned you felt warmer than usual, but you convinced him you were only tired and worn out from the hot day. Still, he frowned when you laid down beside him on the cool cave floor.

The fever pulses deep within you. You feel it burn across your forehead with a ripple of sweat. Staggering out of the cave, what strength you have is quickly sapped by whatever attacks your body. You need less heat. You need to be cold and imagine gulping down icy water to soothe the dryness infecting your throat.

A small trail that’s been trampled by your feet and the width of snake tails leads you through the trees. Even in the dark, under the delirium of a fever, you find the edge of the glinting water reflecting the canopy of thick verdant leaves overhead.

You kneel, almost collapsing forward before you manage to catch yourself with both hands splashing into the pebble-bottom stream. The heavy breaths in your chest heave in and out. You sigh and tell yourself you’re being a baby—one little fever, and you’re struggling to concentrate on the water before you.

In the reflection of the stream, you catch two red eyes glowing above you, leaning out of a tree to survey your feeble attempts to quench your burning thirst. A hood of midnight and diamond yellow stars surround the visage. 

“It’s nothing, Moon,” you whisper to the water. Slowly, you cup your hand and carefully bring it to your lips. The crisp coldness douses your heated lips, filling your mouth with a jolt due to the sharp contrast of cold and fire within you. When you swallow, you shiver.

The softest rustle echoes. A few branches quiver, then, you feel his presence behind you, cool as a tree’s shadow. 

A large, blue-gray hand snakes around your forehead. Knuckles press against your temple, and you sigh in relief at his blissful, fresh touch. 

“Fever,” Moon rasps, carrying the end of the word with a soft hiss of disdain, as if saying it with a curse will make it no longer reality.

“I just need a drink.” You cup your hand in the lazy flow of water again. “I’m fine.”

“Too warm,” he says when you greedily gulp another mouthful. 

Water spills cut down the corners of your mouth. He presses closer to you. His thumb smoothly wipes away the drips falling off of your chin, then he shifts. Your mauve shirt with the sleeves cut off allows his frosty arms to offer a barrier against the next wave of heat crashing against you. He’s never felt so cold before—or have you never felt this feverish before?

“It’ll go away.” 

You try to get to your feet but Moon’s hand on your waistline stops you from rising.

“Come here,” he rasps. “Let me see you, orchid.”

You would have given him a look at the pet name, but you don’t have the strength to muster the effort. He eases you back against his chest. His palms slide and cup your shoulders, his sharp fingertips slipping slightly under the frayed edges of your shirt and resting on the end of your collarbone. Is that a shiver from the elicit touch or sickly chills beginning to take hold?

“You’re flushed,” he hisses softly. A slight slip of his tongue, forked at the end, peeks out of his mouth as he leans closer. You moan unwittingly at his cool, flat cheek pressed against your clammy face.

“It was hot today.”

“You’re sick,” he decides.

This time, you groan out of refusal rather than relief. 

“I’m not sick.” You slowly shift, managing to get to your knees to face him. The fever forces your shoulders down. You bow under the exhaustion taking hold. 

Moon hisses in an amusement yet concerned note. His long tail drapes behind him, cutting across the ground like the connections of a constellation. It’s black in this lowlight, but in the day, when he sleepily shows himself, you’ve caught the iridescent indigo and jeweled blue tones of his beautiful scales. 

“If you keep denying it, I will take drastic actions. Do you want that, orchid?” his tone lowers to a menacing threat, all dark cords and hisses, but you’ve learned to tune your senses to his hands and expression. He looks only at you, a slight frown playing along his wide mouth. His eyes are narrowed, displeased with your condition.

“No,” you shake your head, “You and Sun are so dramatic.”

“Says the stubborn flower,” he touches your cheek. You nearly collapse into his palm. The rasp of his laugh stings your pride as much as it soothes your aching chest. 

“I’m not a flower,” you mutter as you feel his arms lower slightly, coaxing your hands over his shoulders. He rises higher on his tail, lifting your feet off the ground without effort, and you slump over his shoulder, little more than a child being carried to bed. Moon hums a low, hypnotic sound (that you’re sure is part of his allure, his power).

“Of course not,” he gives with amused demean.

You work up a growl at your throat that sounds weak even to your own ears. Moon shushes you with a soft stroke of his claws against your spine. The shudder that follows through your body is both cold and hot, and you hate that he silences you so simply, and that you like how he strikes back against your harshness.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs as if calming a tiger. You want to snarl at him again but the brief spark is quickly smothered under an internal infernal cooking your core.

No one agitates you and reassures you as much as Moon.

He glides across the ground to his tree—it’s wide and high, thick with strong boughs and leafy but not too leafy. A perfect tree for a naga. Moon tends to lounge up there when he wants to escape the shadows of the cave you usually make your bed in. You wonder how he intends to hold you through the night up in its verdant limbs, but Moon hooks a hand behind your head and lowers you softly to the cool, moist ground at the base of the trunk.

“Moon?” For a piercing moment, you’re afraid. You refuse to let go of his arm as he draws away. Where is he going?

“Hold still,” he gently hisses.

You let go. You wait for him.

Slowly, his coils gather, curving in loops close to you. He draws himself around you, his long body following. The darkness shimmers. He takes you into his arms once more and guides you to his chest where he fully embraces you. The end of his tail drapes across your waist, sealing you within a deliciously cool embrace of the naga’s scales.

“Shush,” he says when you groan, soaking in his invigorating presence. “Sleep, orchid.”

You almost tell him that you can’t, or that you won’t, but the comfortable weight of his body surrounding you, the chill of his arms against your burning skin, and the soft tuck of his chin upon your sweaty head chases away the last of your resistance. You might have pressed back—saying you don’t need his help, but it’s hard to resist the frost-gentle relief of his presence. It’s hard to be stubborn when he feels so good.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’ll feel better soon.”

The sweet caresses of his cool touch across your forehead eases your ache. Against your will, your eyelids flutter. He hums low, a lullaby you can’t name, and it soothes you gently into a dreamless sleep, comforted by a cool cradle of scales and songs.

[emmcfrxst]

Say Logan has a vampire partner (can be from a mutation or they’re just like that)

Do you think he’d let them feed from him?

blood tw, afab!reader

oh my god yes. he’s always up for it because the act associates two of his favorite things; being useful to his beloved and experiencing pain (in a consensual, safe environment). his healing abilities really make him the perfect feeding partner, because there’s no risk of taking too much blood from him; his blood cells regenerate pretty much as soon as they leave his body, so there’s no room for side effects like lightheadedness (he does get a little light headed while you’re feeding from him, and it’s a feeling he’s become addicted to), nausea or loss of consciousness. he loves doing things for you; any way he can make himself useful is satisfactory to him— especially if it brings him a little pain as a bonus. he’s moaning and groaning the whole time you’re feeding off him, eyes rolling back and hands flexing against your hips, gripping the skin there greedily. it genuinely arouses him to feel your teeth sink into his flesh; the stinging pain makes his hips buck upwards into yours, pushing his growing erection against your clothed cunt, making you moan around a mouthful of blood. the visual is also a big part of his excitement; the sight of you, pupils dilated almost to their full extent with his blood smeared around your swollen lips really gets him going. it affects him so deeply that it’s started to also feel like more than just a basic need for you as well; it’s an act of intimacy, both emotional and sexual, and more often than not you find yourself grinding back down on him, chasing the high of an orgasm, the sweet taste of him on your tongue bringing you closer to ecstasy. it’s important to note that he has come untouched more than once just from you feeding off him; the sweet pleasure mixed with pain making his cock throb in ways nothing else really ever has made it throb before— and he’s not ashamed at all to admit it; he’s absolutely greedy, mouth finding yours for a sloppy, desperate kiss once you’re done, the metallic taste of his blood flooding his senses as he feels the bite mark close itself up, a deep, depraved moan leaving him when your nails dig into the tender flesh as if trying to find traces of the wound that bound the two of you for a few blissful minutes. you always gasp into his mouth and arch against him, body trembling with sensitivity from drinking blood, trying to keep up with the erratic pace of his kisses, rolling your hips against his as you try to find your voice, a raspy “slow down, baby” leaving you— you don’t mean the words at all, simply overwhelmed by all of the sensations crashing down upon you, and he moans again and responds with a frantic, breathless “look so damn good covered in my blood” that has you soaking through your panties, feeling your abdomen clench with pure, unadulterated desire— one that will soon be quenched by the harsh, rapid thrusting of his hips up into yours as you ride him until neither of you can form words anymore, torn clothes scattered around the room.

[yandere-kokeshi]

Hi,I really love everything your write and wondering if you could do 141+Alejandro & Konig got heartbroken as Reader said no to their proposal of marriage then few years later they all realise that the Reader just want to protected them because the enemy was threaten them to kill 141+Alejandro & Konig?

Take your time and don't forget to drink water.

— Yandere TF-141 and König reacting to their darling refusing to marry due to being threatened

Warnings: yandere behavior, talks about death and torture, hints of sex, and kidnapping.

A/N: Aw, thank you <3. Also, I decided to change up your question a bit; I don’t think they’d wait a few years, so I changed it to: ‘When they find out after they’d kidnap the reader’. Hope that makes sense. Enjoy :)!

Captain “Price” John:

He’s confident; something a Captain should be. When buying the ring, he makes sure it’s all customized and liked to your taste – something he admires a lot. It’s a beautiful, classy Koa wood ring; stainless steel with gold specks.

When the time is right, and he’s on his knee, Price would be taken aback at first from your rejection. He’s quick to asking why, but with you dodging any of the questions and watching your nervous body language, he’s soon putting away the ring and distracting you with your favorite take-out.

Reaching his breaking point and taking you away from the public eye, leading him to finding the reason you denied the marriage, Price is… angry. His hands tighten into white fists, his threatening tone asking ideas and clues on if you know it is.

When words slur out of your mouth, he’s telling you to stay clear upstairs. A kiss on your forehead as a promise to be back before 8. Before you know it, you’re awakened by the front door opening and slamming, his recognizable boots storming into the bedroom as he huffs and pants.

John never told what he did, and he didn’t have to. Not with the way his beard was stained with blood, his tactical gear and guns stained with… gore.

Days later, the news began talking about a gorey show; images of those enemies, and classified information on how they were killed due to the inhumane ways of torture. A pang of relief and a slight hint of fear. He was inhumane. But he did it for you, it shows his love and obsession.

—

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

Marriage is big for Ghost. A big commitment. But, something he wants and needs with you. Marriage binds people together, and he would make you officially his. The ring is simple, but gorgeous enough. It’s hand-made, made in thick black gold with Moissanite Celtic jewels; engravings of vines.

The moment he passes the box while eating after a particular romantic act, Simon is holding your hands as he whispers the works – he’s hopeful and nervous; ready to slide the hand-made ring he worked months on onto your promising finger.

But the moment you reject him, he will become quiet. He would just stare at you confused, not wanting to believe that he heard that right. But once the situation settles in, it will get uncomfortable and awkward. Simon will simply nod, before sliding it back into his pocket and finish eating – doing the dishes and heading off for the night, not looking or speaking at you.

Though, the minute he makes you permanently his, figuring out why you denied the engagement ring, Ghost becomes a brutal person.

His eyes are darker. Nothing is in them. He’s demanding, using his Lieutenant voice to ensure you stay here and do as he says while he leaves. A kiss on the lips and your forehead was comforting, but seeing the rifle slung on his back wasn’t.

It had been days since he was gone. And ensuring you were okay, he frequently called you — his nicknames and lovely nicknames were a comfort. Though, the next day he returns, his mask sliding off the minute he sees you; his lips crashing on yours as he greedily picks you up.

Nothing of that day is talked about, but he promises you it’s fine, he took care of it, and you’re safe. Nothing can or will hurt you as long as he breathes against your lips.

—

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

Soap always dreamed of marriage, especially when you came into the picture. Days and months, if not years, going into the thought of the ring. He makes sure the ring is the most extravagant; silver and rose gold, an oval cut mixed with mossy green and pearly white. It has a crown, mixed with smaller jewelry all around the gemstone.

When he got on his knee and saw your nervous look, a shy shake of the head, his heart stopped. Johnny is in absolute denial, not even wanting to think that you just don’t like him. He blamed it on everything else. You probably didn’t feel well that day, maybe he did something wrong, someone else confused you now in your life. Due to his delusions, he didn’t fight against his darker thoughts, believing that it was all just for you and making you help to realize your feelings.

He didn’t get it. Why didn’t you want him? Though, he’s persistent. Leading him to kidnap you in the name of ‘talking things out’. Which, also, leads to him finding out the truth.

At first, he stared at you: a small ‘what?’ whispering out before his blue eyes going deeper in the waves, abruptly asking when it happened; bringing you into a bear hug as he promises he’ll take care of it and you.

The next day, Johnny is acting too excited and calmly — making you the biggest plate of breakfast, ensuring he doesn’t want any as he’s going to run some important errands for the team.

You don’t think of it, but something nitpicks your skin. You go on the day, doing chores and finally ending the night into a foamy, bubbly hot bath; alongside with your headphones and garlic bread. Though, you didn’t see Johnny coming in, wiping his face with a white towel, which is smeared with blood.

He jumps in, surprising you with a sexy gift, he says it’s deserved. And you directly ignore the stained blood; a naive thought coming in. Johnny promises over his life, that he’ll protect you — regardless of what happens, he loves you.

—

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

Marriage was something he didn’t know he could have – sure, he’s thought of it. But the preparation was longing, the tiredness of needing to see your reaction to the perfect bought ring made him smile cheekily. He wanted this to be perfect, just like you.

The ring he’d picked out was simple, but something you’d admire. It’s a thick, multiplied silver ring accompanied by a raw sapphire diamond, smaller stones beside the middle one. He made sure it’s a bit tight, only enough, so you can never take it off.

Once finding a romantic spot, breaking down to one knee with a flustered smile; the famous words of romantic promises being spilled out. But the moment you rejected him, it was all very awkward. Gaz, is heartbroken, but is overplaying his heartbreak; ensuring you that it’s fine whilst keeping a fake smile on.

Ensuring he’s okay, the outside seems fine but the inside? He’s calmly planning a plan – bringing you home gagged and locked in his home, forever.

His reaction to finding out why you rejected him, his face, is contorted into anger. An ugly feeling and look. Seconds later, his shoes were on and so was his mask. Just like any lover, he would do anything for you.

He gladly cleans himself up before coming home, his gentle smile and reassuring hug engulfing you. The next few days, he’s hovering and overbearing – his kisses and hugs too tight and rarely off of you.

From now on, he makes sure to keep intact with you – your freedom stripped away even further. He didn’t want you to see the TV talking about the cruel murder case that involved with all types of issues.

—

Alejandro “Colonel” Vargas:

He’s the most optimistic about marriage — he loves you. Has dreamed of it ever since he met you. The scenario’s coming in like ocean waves are peaceful to him; the big and special photos of you and him dancing at the ceremony, dancing at the picked song for the wedding makes his heart full.

He makes sure to take a long amount of time picking out the ring, something special. He decides to pick a glamorous, cubic-zirconia Heart. Made out of silver-copper, the gem is iridescent opal and shaped like a heart. Much like Gaz, he made sure the band had thorns — a promise of never taking it off.

Alejandro takes the planning seriously. He makes sure to pick a beautiful area, taking you out to an expensive dinner beforehand, before getting on his knee; his gentle smile and lovely eyes so wide. But, when you said no, his smile and excitement died down.

His face says it all: intense and scary. He’s mad, and immediately confronting you with a heartbroken look; Alejandro is asking why, why did you deny me? Don’t you love me? Did I do something?

This ends up with him remotely kidnapping you. But, when you wake up, he promises to take care of you — which ends up with him finding out the reason you rejected him in the first place.

Ultimately, his reaction is anger. His eyes widen, and his eyebrows furrowed; he asks you clues, giving him ideas on who it is. And when you did, he’s leaving — grabbing his boots, gear, and a promise of being back as soon as he can; a mission needs to be finished.

Alejandro comes back a few days later, arms filled with expensive gifts. His smile is welcoming, his eyes filled with love, and a bunch of kisses delivered with specialty. His whispers in your ear is a clear sign of perfection, nobody will hurt you.

—

König:

He’s excited. König’s been dreaming of this day, his mind replaying fake scenarios of him holding you after marriage. Your naked and sweaty bodies pressing against one another is the brink of his life.

Getting to the ring was hard. Not only did he want it simple and cute, but overbearing and telling you that he loves you. He picked on a silver ring, the band coppered and the gem a garnet. Beautiful designs imprinted in it.

He picked somewhere quiet, a date secluded for you and him; an area full of beautiful flowers and security, and a land of where he can take off his mask. Furthermore, he’s devastated when you shake your head. König doesn’t understand why you would reject him, and his mind begins stumbling with what he probably could have done better, leading him to have a good few days of snapping and rude behavior.

The kidnapping of you was easy. But finding out why you denied was hard — he was fumming. A pissed-off soldier. Even though he’s boiled, he takes care of you first, ensuring you are safe and loved on, and no he won’t leave. Not tonight. But tomorrow he will. He’ll take care of everything, just like he had in the past.

König makes sure you know he loves you and he isn’t mad. But he is to the enemy. He asks help, from a few friends and the team. He leaves with an excuse, and leaves stained kisses all over your neck; a promise of him coming back.

He called you often, reminding you that he loves you, and he will be home as soon as he can. Work is hard and okay. But, this problem will be fixed as soon as possible.

The minute he comes home, his attitude is more open; he’s clingy, unbearable, and always following you around. He’s never letting you out of his sight, König is your personalized guard dog — a constant reminder of who he is.

—

My Masterlist :)

© yandere-kokeshi 2023 — Do not copy, modify, edit, repost, or use my works for ASMR readings, tiktoks, or other content.

[author-morgan]

Title: A Dove and a Hound Rating: T Pairing: Sandor Clegane x fem!Reader Summary: A little dove with broken wings must save her wounded Hound. Or in which Sandor Clegane finds something sweeter than killing. Word count: ~3.7k Warnings: Injury/blood and typical Westerosi shenanigans.

ARYA STARK LOOKS at the bleak landscape around where they had made camp for the night in the northern Riverlands—almost in the Vale. It’s all craggy with sharp boulders and high patches of land, and hardly any trees. The names roll off her tongue as they do every night. The Mountain, The Hound, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant...she doesn’t make it to the next name after hearing the scraping of boots on rock nearby. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Syrio Forel’s words are burnt into her memory. 

"What’re you going on about now, girl?" The rasp of the Hound's voice makes her jump, and she curses him, looking up at the night sky, watching for shadows when she hears the soft noise again.

“We’re being watched,” she tells him, turning on her bedroll to face the Hound, her hand resting on the hilt of Needle.

His laugh cuts through the air—a rough sound that hurts her ears in a strange way. A man like the Hound should never laugh. "Here, in the middle of fucking nowhere?" His scarred face looks all the more hideous with the light of the fire licking at his skin. "Finish your little list, girl, then go the fuck to sleep." Arya frowns and looks around again at the land but sees nothing but boulders and empty plains, but she knows someone is out there. 

Sandor Clegane won’t admit it, but the Stark girl’s warning is the reason he stays up for over half the night. Then, when he’s certain Arya is asleep, he rises from his bedroll and unsheathes his sword, setting off to search between boulders and in the shadows cast by their dwindling campfire. But there’s nothing there. The Hound moves to return to his bedroll, but that’s when he hears quiet cursing and soft crying. And then he finds a woman huddled between two rocks, trying to nurse an injured leg. 

You see the hulking shadow approach too late to muffle your grunts and groans of pain. “Come any closer and I’ll put a fucking arrow through your eye!” You shout. But Sandor Clegane can see the bow in your hand is broken, even if you try to hold the two wooden pieces together to make it seem whole. Then he sees the broken arrow shaft sticking out of your swollen calf, too—the reason for your caterwauling. 

“With a broken bow and the only arrow you got stuck in your leg?” The Hound asks, laughing. “Pay a couple of hundred silver stags to see that done.” Sandor drives his sword into the dirt and awkwardly kneels near you, looking over the wound. He can feel your eyes on him, gaze nigh burning. But the soft white light of the moon softens the sight of his half-burned face. He looks familiar. Like you’ve seen him in passing somewhere—or maybe on the parchments nailed outside taverns noting bounties and the enemies of the Crown. 

You swallow the knot in your throat and look up at him—you might not be able to place who he is, but you know he’s dangerous, a killer. “Well, go on,” you snap, tears stinging in your eyes. “Kill me and get it over with.”

The Hound recoils as though stung by the words—he knows he’s put a lot of people in the ground, but for some damn reason, he can’t stomach the thought of landing the mercy blow now. You close your eyes and wait—no longer fearing death or pain. But the cold bite of steel never comes. Instead, Sandor Clegane lifts you into his burly arms and heads back toward the dying campfire.

Arya’s surprised when the Hound returns and lets you down to rest against the boulder nearest the fire. The girl’s quick on her feet, bringing a half-filled skin of water, and you greedily drink. "Think I'll end up losing it?" You ask the girl—wiping your mouth with a torn sleeve—a glint of humor shining through as you pat your thigh, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots down to your calf and makes your toes curl. 

“If you’ve gone this long” —Sandor crouches down and looks closer at your injury— “it’ll take more than an arrow to kill you,” he says. It earns him a dry and humorless laugh with a surprising grimness. Given enough time, he thinks he could come to enjoy the company, but right now, he and Arya Stark are already pressed for time, luck, and coin. Neither of them needs the liability of an injured woman—another mouth to feed—on the path to the Eyrie. Be best to leave her come the morning, he thinks, but now that he’s brought you back here, he knows the Stark girl won’t let that happen.

“May I have your name, good ser?” You finally ask—it only seemed proper to know the name of your white knight.  

Sandor Clegane looks at you, and the firelight paints the tangled and twisted mass of scars on his face red—pocking the flesh with craters and cracks. “Not a fucking knight,” he bites back.

And then you can piece everything together—his brute size, the burned half of his face, the posters scattered around the Riverlands. The rumors people whispered are true then, you think. Joffrey’s dog tucked tail and ran while the Blackwater burned. “You’re The Hound.” He grunts. You glance at the girl staring down at you with wide ice-grey eyes. If he’s the Hound then... “You’re Arya Stark.” The girl nods.

The silence that grows between the three of you is heavy and tense. You shift and grimace again. Then your gaze flits back over to the Hound. “Well, are you going to help me get this arrow out my fucking leg or not?” You ask, not understanding why he hauled you back here if he didn’t mean to do something about your current state. “'Cause if you aren’t, I’d sooner you cut the damn thing off or put me out of my misery.”

Sandor moves to you after that and cuts away the fabric of your britches from the arrow, then calls Arya over to set his dagger in the flames—unwilling to go closer. She does as he says, pushing the blade into the hot coals, but then Arya Stark leaps to her feet when she sees Sandor’s hand grip the shaft of the arrow—like he means to tear it from flesh. She knocks his hand away then pushes back on his shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off balance from where he sits on his haunches. 

“We can’t just pull it out!” She tells the Hound like it should be obvious. But he’s not the one who grew up with a maester in Winterfell or spent time reading any books.  

“Then how you gone get it out, girl?” He asks, gruff and impatient. You glance between the odd pair, wondering how they haven’t killed one another by now. Arya crouches down and prods the swollen and bloody flesh, then without warning, she grips the arrow shaft and breaks off the fletching. Seven hells, you think, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep a wail of pain at bay, I am going to lose my leg. 

“Push it through,” Arya says, remembering the time she watched Maester Luwin remove an arrow from a hunter's shoulder. The Hound grunts and draws a second, smaller dagger, starting to whittle away at the splintered end of the broken arrow shaft. 

Arya goes to fetch more water and brings back a cloth with her before settling down to watch with wide, curious eyes. Blood starts to seep down your calf around the entry and exit of the arrow shaft from being handled so roughly. Satisfied with his woodwork, the Hound steadies your leg against his trunk and starts to pull on the iron-forged arrowhead. 

You grit your teeth together, fingers digging into the soft earth below, as he begins to ease the wooden shaft through gently and quickly as he can. Arya watches your face twist in pain, but somehow, you don’t cry out. It feels like an eternity. Sandor sets the arrow aside and takes the waterskin from the Stark girl, dumping the cool water over your leg to wash away the blood—there’s a cool but welcome sting.

Sandor tosses the empty skin back to Arya. "More water, girl,” he rasps. 

“Bring wine too,” you insist, and the Hound howls with laughter.

“Seven hells,” Arya remarks. You’re just like him. The girl heads off, then comes back with more water and looks at the open wound on your leg with a scrunched-up nose. 

“Needs to be sealed with fire,” Sandor says, sitting back on his haunches, that’s why he already had Arya put a dagger into the flames. They don’t have salves and ointments and teas and brews to keep infection at bay, and despite his fear and hatred of the fire, he knows it’s the best way to clean and seal a wound like this.

“I’ll do it,” Arya offers. Her hands are steady, and the fire and heat don’t bother her like it does the Hound. He nods, and the girl goes to fetch the hot knife. They give you a strip of leather to bite down on, and then the Hound looks away when the girl presses the flat of the blade against your flesh—you do scream then. He knows that pain—that scream—and the putrid scent of burning flesh that jumps into the air. Black dots and white stars dance around in your vision. It hurts worse the second time. But you fight through it. 

Your gaze settles on Arya after a while, struggling to stay awake. “Where are you taking her?” You ask, eyes flitting to Sandor Clegane. The two are an odd traveling party that much is certain—a Hound and a wolf—made even stranger by your sudden arrival. 

“The Vale,” he tells you, “she has an aunt there.” You hadn’t expected a man with his reputation to do something so kind, not even if heavy coin purses were offered as rewards. A hush falls over you, but then the Hound rises and picks up a threadbare blanket from his bedroll. He drapes it over your shoulders, not ungently. “Best get some rest,” he says. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

THE DAYS ARE both quick and slow to pass, and soon, you’ve lost track of the time since meeting Arya Stark and the Hound—it could have been a few weeks or maybe months. But since that fateful night, your wounds have healed cleanly, and the only reminders of them are a fading scar and the limp in your stride after long days or over strenuous terrain. You remember the first time you insisted on walking instead of riding Stranger—a great black, unruly destrier. When you slowed, Sandor Clegane slung you over his shoulder like a sack of flour before depositing you back on the horse and complaining about the slow pace. Arya Stark was particularly amused by it all. 

Disappointment is all that awaits you all at the Bloody Gate of the Vale. Lysa Arryn is dead, and her young son and named protector, Petyr Baelish, will not accept visitors—not even one of Lysa’s own kin. So at the point of arrowheads and tips of steel blades, the Hound turns back, and you and Arya follow, trekking through the Vale and back to the Riverlands, unsure of what to do and where to go. Arya says they should go north, to the Wall—she has a brother in the Night’s Watch—or across the Narrow Sea.

There’s a small village not far, and you take a handful of silver stags and copper stars in hopes of replenishing your stock of ointments and bandages—especially with the now festering wound on Sandor’s neck, a nasty bite from a rogue—and maybe a decent bottle of wine or ale too. But by the time the sun is beginning to set and you return to Sandor and Arya, they’re not to be found. 

The campsite is empty. The fire still burning. The bedrolls laid out for the coming evening. You look around the craggy landscape, feeling panic seize your heart and stomach—mind racing. “Arya!” You shout, but there is no response from the girl. “Sandor!” And again, there is nothing but silence.

If not for the fading evening sun glinting off tarnished pieces of silver armor, you think you might not have found him. You stumble over to him, kneeling at his side, fearing the worst. But his chest still rises and falls, and he starts when you touch his cheek, hand wrapping around your wrist, leaving a thick smearing of blood. 

There’s something in your eyes, not pity, but he’s not seen that look before —almost doesn’t want to think of what it could be, could mean. Sandor’s grip goes slack, and he grimaces, each breath a ragged rasp. You look over his mangled shoulder, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the muscle-deep cuts on his palm, and his lame leg. These wounds are beyond your skills, and there are not like to be any travelers on this path for days.

The Hound tugs free a dagger from his belt and places it in your hand. "Go on,” he rasps, nodding toward the knife, resigned to his new fate. “Get on with it." The Stark girl wouldn’t put him out of his misery for the hatred she still bore toward him, but maybe you would. 

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening, but frozen in place—unwilling and unable to move. "I can't," you breathe, fervidly shaking your head. I won’t. He curses you when you drive the blade into the hard earth and not his heart. Sandor Clegane saved you from certain death, and now you’ve a chance to return the favor.

You wet a strip of cloth and dab it over his bloodied face until he turns his head to look at you. "If you think I'm some wounded pup you can redeem, you're stupider than I thought, woman,” he snarls like an aggrieved dog. 

But you don’t pay any mind to his hateful words. “Be still,” you chide, gently, going to collect the pack of supplies from Stranger’s saddle. The Dornish strongwine eases the pain, and he lets you clean the rest of the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities —his broken leg, though. You aren’t sure what to do, but you know if something isn’t done soon, Sandor Clegane won’t be using that leg again in this lifetime. You lose track of how many times you have to wander down to the nearby stream. All you know is the limp in your step has come back. By nightfall, the wine and pain claim him, and you’ve said your prayers to the Seven, asking them to spare your poor wounded Hound.

There’s a dim lantern on the dark horizon, steadily drawing nearer and brighter, and then you can hear the rattling of a cart and the braying of a mule. You rise from your post and go to intercept the rickety cart thumping along the winding trail. The mule comes to a halt—the path forward blocked. 

The driver has a kind face, rounded from smiles and wrinkled with wisdom, and eyes that are deep and thoughtful but speak of the horrors of the world. “A lady and her knight,” he muses, sparing a glance at the makeshift medicinal supplies illuminated by faint firelight and the state of the brutish man sleeping—half-dead more like.

“Can you help us?” You ask. “Please.” And the broken plea strikes something deep down in the man’s heart.  

He thinks on it for a moment. “Aye,” the man says, “I can try.” If he couldn’t, the others on the Quiet Isle could—especially the Elder Brother. His dusty brown robes dust across the rocky ground as he goes to the Hound’s side. It takes all your strength combined to lift Sandor Clegane into the cart—even with the weight of his armor gone. Then you clamber to the front of the cart next to Sandor, letting his head rest in your lap, and with a snap of the reins, the mule walks on again, heading south along the bumpy road—it would be a long night.

Weary and exhausted, you look between the Hound and the driver. “Who are you?” 

“You can call me Ray,” the kindly man says. “I’ll take you both to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother can help.” You’ve heard tales of the isle—where men go to atone for their sins and take vows of silence. Some even say those who reside in the Bay of Crabs live in a world unlike the one ravished by war and pain. Brother Ray can see the growing trepidation on your expression. It’s nigh common knowledge women are not allowed to dwell on the Quiet Isle. “Won’t force you and your knight to be parted,” he tells you. 

“He’s not a knight,” you murmur, eyes trailing from the road ahead to Sandor, knowing he doesn’t like being called a knight—and for good reason. 

“No, but it seems he’s your knight,” Ray says with a chuckle, sparing a wayward glance back at you and the Hound. You flush at the thought and turn your gaze to Sandor, his head resting on your thigh.

A FEW MONTHS pass and Sandor is as well as he’ll ever be. The damage done to his leg makes him limp after long distances or strenuous tasks, but no one would be able to say such injuries made the Hound a feeble man. Even now, you’ve never seen a man split firewood with so much power and anger. Sometimes, you wonder if he hates you for not ending it when he pleaded for the blade’s mercy. But on the day when the brothers let you see him again, he wore a fleeting smile, soft and weak—the first time you’d seen such a sight. 

Storms roll in for the night, and lightning flashes through the window—thunder rattling your featherbed. You pull the covers tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, praying for sleep to come. It feels childish to be afeared of a storm, but it’s a reminder of the night the Lannister men destroyed your home and family and put an arrow in your leg. Rousing from the uneasy rest, you pull on your dressing robe and wrap the wool and linen blanket around your shoulders before setting off in search of company. 

His bed is empty, and you frown. Disheartened, you turn back only to bump into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. No man his size had a right to move around so quietly. “What are you doing awake, little dove?” Sandor asks, and you’re unable to meet his gaze with your flushed cheeks as you search for a valid answer. “Can’t sleep?” He surmises, and grateful he spake first, you nod sheepishly. The hand that wraps around your wrist is warm and calloused, yet his touch is light—as though you’re some bird with a broken wing. But wordless, you climb onto the bed next to Sandor, still huddled under your blanket, but not alone, and even with the storm raging outside, within these walls with him, you’re safe. 

The morning light breaks through the small window—only glowing embers remain in the hearth, not enough to chase away the chill in the air. You wake to find yourself alone, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through your heart. Making your way back to your chambers, you change into a plane shift and stride from the cottage to find him—the wet grass tickling the soles of your feet as you head down a winding path toward the water’s edge.

Sandor is sitting down on the rocky shore of the island, his dusty brown cloak fluttering in the wind. You go to him and sit on the weathered rock next to him. The morning is cool, and the spray of waves breaking against rocks in the bay kisses your cheeks. Wordlessly, the Hound pulls his cloak free and drapes it around your shoulders. In comfortable silence, you pull the coarse material tight and rest your head against his arm, looking out over the water and the clear blue sky—as though the Old Gods had not unleashed their wrath upon the land last night.

After a long while, Sandor rises, knowing it’ll be time to head to the Sept and see what tasks the Brothers need help with today. You’re quick to follow after him, but before he can start up the rocky path again, you brush your hand against his with all the timidness of a mouse, daring to have a lingering touch as you gather the nerve to ask something that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach, in the darkest parts of your mind and the deepest parts of your heart. You take both his hands—rough and twice the size of your own—and look up at the Hound. "Sandor,” you breathe, his name like a birdsong in your voice, “will you kiss me?"

He laughs—thinking you are playing him for a fool. No sane woman would ever wish to have his touch or his kiss. “With this ruined mouth?” He mocks. But the next jape dies on the tip of his tongue when you fist your hand into his woolen tunic, hauling him down with all your strength to just the right height where if you stand on the tips of your toes, you can kiss him. And you do. Sandor is surprised at first, but his hard exterior fades, and then a strong arm curls around your middle, hoisting you up and then off the ground entirely. You pull back for only a quick second and smile for him.

“Little dove,” he rasps when you move your hands to hold his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks—one marred by the flame—and down into his thick, wiry beard. He half expects to find a shred of fear or disgust in your eyes, but there isn’t any. There never had been. You kiss him again, softer and sweeter this time, and he returns it in full. 

Reluctant to part, he places you back on the ground but is quick to pull you into his side and hold you close in the golden hour of the morning. And for the first time since he can remember, Sandor Clegane has a handful of happy memories, and perhaps, in the end, he's found something even sweeter than killing.

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[moonstruckme]

Steve Harrington!! We love him!!

I’d love to request established relationship fem!reader passing out. I just know Steve would be so loving and caring🫶🏼

Thanks for requesting babe! He is so loving and caring...in his own way <3

cw: reader passes out, mention of skipping meals

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

“Hey, hey!” Steve taps your face frantically, tone accusatory as if you’ll wake up if you know you’re in trouble. “Y/n, come on.” 

You’ve been working in the garden all afternoon. After weeks of complaining about the pests that had been eating your tomatoes, you’d finally found a free day to plant marigolds to keep them away. Steve thought he’d win Boyfriend of the Year by making a pitcher of lemonade for you, but when he’d called you and you’d turned around, you no sooner stood up than you went back down. 

“Babe, hey.” Your eyes move behind your eyelids, and he looses a breath, patting your cheek a couple more times until they peel open. 

You look frighteningly out of it, eyes squinty and unfocussed as they move over your surroundings before settling on Steve. 

“What?” you ask, like he’s woken you up for no good reason. 

“You okay?” He shuffles closer to you on the ground. He feels heart-twistingly guilty about not being quick enough to catch you, but thankfully you’d crumpled to the side, onto the soft grass, so he’s hoping you haven’t hurt yourself too badly. Still, he can’t move you until he knows for sure. At his question, you only blink sluggishly. “Hey,” he tries again, urgent. “Does anything hurt?” 

“I don’t…” Your face scrunches confusedly. “I don’t think so.” 

“Okay, okay.” That’s good enough for Steve. He slides a careful hand under your head, feeling for blood or bumps. When he doesn’t find any, he brings it into his lap, grabbing the cup he’d set on the ground after running to you. “Here, have—have some lemonade.”

Miraculously, there’s still some liquid that hasn’t sloshed out. Your first sip is tentative, but you drink greedily after that, a thin rivulet missing the corner of your mouth and running down your cheek. Steve swipes it away before it can drip off your chin, bringing his hand to your forehead to cover your eyes from the sun.

“Jesus, babe, are you trying to kill me? What happened?” 

“M’not sure.” Your voice comes out a bit clearer as you lower the cup, eyes blinking open further now that you’re not squinting against the light. “I just got really hot, all of a sudden. Did I pass out?” 

“Yeah.” Steve tries to position his head so it’s blocking the sun, using his hand to brush dirt and grass from the side of your face. “You fell pretty hard, honey.”

“Sorry.” 

A funny little laugh startles out of him. “Yeah, you fucking should be.” Steve shakes his head, squishing your cheek meanly with his thumb, both of you sticky with sugar and soil. “You scared the shit out of me, idiot. Are you sure you’re not hurting anywhere?” 

You frown. “My head sort of hurts.” 

Steve’s blood runs cold. “Yeah?” he asks, already probing at the side that had hit the ground with panicky, perhaps less-than-gentle fingers. 

“Mm, but just, like, a headache,” you say, discomfort evident in your tone. “It’s not bad.” 

Steve finds that to be of little consolation. “C’mon, let’s go inside,” he says, helping you sit up before wrapping an arm under your shoulders to support you as you walk. You seem perfectly capable, now, almost back to normal if a little disoriented, but he’s not taking any chances. 

He sets you onto the couch and you all but dissolve into the cushions, pressing your face to the cool pillow while he goes to get more lemonade from the kitchen. He detours to grab some painkillers too. (Those might be a bad idea if whatever’s going on with you turns out to be serious, but he can’t think past making you feel better right now. If painkillers do that, fuck everything else.) You take them both gratefully, sitting up again to gulp down the contents of the cup. Steve presses the back of his hand to your sweaty forehead. It doesn't seem hot enough outside for heatstroke, but you never know. Thankfully, you seem normal, though you lean into his cool touch with an adorable little sigh. 

“I’m gonna make you something to eat,” he tells you, taking your cup for a refill. “PB and J sound okay?” 

“Yes, please.” Your voice follows him into the kitchen, and he relaxes a bit at the far more familiar sound of it, less waver in your tone. Maybe the drink and air conditioning are doing you good. “Sorry, Stevie, I don’t know what happened.” 

“Have you been drinking water?” he asks, getting a plate down from your cabinets and setting the bread on it.

“Yeah,” you sound confused. A bit defensive, too. “I brought a water bottle out with me, I’ve been drinking from it the whole time.” 

That’s true, Steve had seen it sitting upright in the grass next to you. “Maybe one water bottle wasn’t enough,” he suggests. “You were out there for a while.” 

“It’s not that hot out,” you argue, but you sound unsure. 

He huffs though he doesn’t disagree, slathering the jelly side of your sandwich thicker, the way you like it. “What’d you have for lunch?” 

There’s a pause. “A banana.” 

“No, you had that for breakfast. I was there.” He finishes with your sandwich, putting his supplies back where they came from. “I meant what’d you have for lunch?” 

You’re quiet, and when Steve turns the corner with your PB&J, you’re already looking over at him, your expression sheepish. 

His next exhale is huffy with exasperation. “Oh, you asshole,” he says, even as relief floods through him. At least this, he knows what to do about. “You are trying to kill me!” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot!” Your voice pitches as he stalks closer, almost laughing when he dumps your plate unceremoniously in your lap. “I really just forgot, Stevie, I would never try to kill you.” 

“You’re just trying to make me go gray in my prime, is that it?” He shakes his head, but your smile has always been contagious, and his lips start to curve against his will. “Just eat your sandwich.” 

You take a bite obediently, humming in satisfaction. “This is really good, baby. Thank you.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ll bet it is.” 

“Steve?”

He grunts. 

“Could I have a kiss, please?” 

He looks over, and you’re giving him the eyes. Those sweet, never-did-nothing-to-nobody, beautiful eyes. And, well, he’s hopeless for them. 

“Yeah, fine.” He leans over, still careful as he sets a hand on your face to tilt you towards him. You taste of sweetness, lemonade and strawberry jam and your cherry chapstick. Steve samples it once, twice, three times, before drawing back. “I’m gonna cut you up some fruit, okay?” he says softly, thumb sweeping across your cheek. “Stay put.”

“You’re such a mom,” you tease as he starts back towards the kitchen. 

“Keep talking like that,” he threatens, “and I’ll cut off kisses completely.”