#men covered in blood is >>>

[queenofthedork]

Coming back with another cryptid for @gloomiegalaxie-sims Create-A-Cryptid Challenge!

Going missing in Sulani's oceans has become a common occurrence, and while there have been some rare cases where those lost have returned to civilization, they come back an empty shell of their former selves.

[daniartonline]

My boy, sweetest joy I’ve known ;-;

[somnoir]

Down Bad in Distress

Bruce Wayne is kidnapped... A lot. And it's always so weird that only Batman is allowed to save him. That this dumb, charming, but kidnap-able Billionaire doesn't have a bodyguard.

Now, Bruce can simply go "Oh, we've got Batman. No need to worry for that!" But people are fussy nowadays. He underestimates just bow much Gotham loves their disaster of a prince with a golden heart. Even his company employees are begging him to hire a bodyguard. (This is from the many files being sent to his office, obvious recommendations on competent bodyguards)

Cut to the new bodyguard for hire—who was recommended by Alfred of all people (something about him being the disciple of a good old friend of his). The man was large. Fucking huge. Taller than Jason, if one would like to admit (Jason is his 6'4" baby and this fucking fridge if a man looked 6'6").

But he was all soft and warm. Like a golden retriever the size of a bear.

Anyways, Danny was a rather kind man. When he wasn't following Bruce around and playing bodyguard, he was indulging the kids. Entertaining them with the most obscure things and stories from his childhood. Better yet, Danny would be the kids' bodyguard rather than Bruce's whenever they went out.

It was a miracle when they realized that Damian wasn't reacting badly to the man. Very strange since Damian would think it'd be shameful for someone to protect him during the day. But then again, Bruce once saw Danny effortlessly pick up Damian so his son could coax a cat out of a tree. That was most likely the kicker.

Anyways, Danny looked and felt soft.

It wasn't easy for him to settle into the man's ever present presence, but it's been almost four months since Danny's been hired and Bruce doesn't even flinch when the man brightly greets him from the bottom of the stairs.

"Good morning, mr. Wayne!" Danny would say, all teeth and bright eyes in his suit.

"Bruce," he'd correct immediately.

And then Danny would pause, laugh, and— "Good morning, Bruce."

Then his kids would follow and Danny would affectionately greet them all, ask where they plan to go and if they needed Danny to follow.

His bodyguard was like sunshine and warmth incarnate.

But if course, Danny was a bodyguard.

There were instances where Bruce would have to take a second to remind himself that this man that would look down at socialites like he's ready to crush their hands is the same one who once gave him puppy-dog eyes to back up Damian when his son asked to keep the kittens.

That the same man who grabbed someone by the scruff of their collar like they were weightless was the same one who talked about poetry and literature with Jason.

That the man who once hauled Bruce off the ground and walked right out the gala when the smoke alarms blared is the same one who would gently coax Tim off the coach and into a proper bed.

But right now, that's not his concern. No. Bruce is more concerned about the fact that he's gotten kidnapped again.

Everyone was most likely alerted. They were. He could hear Red Robin, Blackbat and Spoiler talking over the comms, checking in on Red Hood and Robin in case things went off.

"B, don't move. These guys are more prepared than the usual ones." Tim's voice filters into the comms, evidently annoyed. "I've got Oracle checking if there are any bombs in the place."

Bruce stayed silent, watching the masked men and women walk around, guns in hand and crates surrounding them. He had been knocked out during a party. The last thing he saw was Danny's eyes—god, it frightened him a bit. How those pretty blues suddenly turned green like Jason's.

Then he was here. Most likely with a concussion.

"B?"

"I'm okay... Be careful..." He murmurs under his breath, hearing his children sigh in relief.

"Good. We've got Red Ho—What the fuck is that?" Barbara immediately cut herself off, her voice strained and pitched with surprise.

"Oracle?"

"Spoiler—Do you have a view on that?" Oracle frantically asked. "Shit—the cameras just went down. Guys?"

"is that—" Stephanie chokes out, "Is that Danny?"

Bruce froze. Danny?

Jason always knew that Danny was kinda off. The first time he met the man, it wasn't his size that Jason immediately noticed. It was how his eyes flashed green when they met his. At first, he felt threatened, ready to attack whatever the fuck thought it was a good idea to infiltrate his family.

But then... Then Danny smiled at him. Offered his hand with a kind greeting. Jason took that hand and... And felt calm. Like the buzz in his head melted away, like the Lazarus was cleansed.

And Danny most likely knew. Because the man was smiling in satisfaction, like he was pleased that Jason suddenly didn't feel starved and angry and hurt.

"I don't know what happened to you kid, but whatever the hell did, it wasn't good for you. Hopefully you'll get better now." Danny whispered softly and then withdrew his hand, tucking it behind his back.

Jason doesn't know what the fuck Danny was but the man was worth keeping around.

Admittedly, he turned to Danny a lot nowadays. Jason can't call Bruce all the time. No. His relationship with Bruce still isn't good enough to warrant Jason to call him constantly.

But Danny? Again, Jason doesn't know what the hell this guy is but whenever Jason was in trouble, he dialed Danny's phone immediately. And he came... Every, single, fucking time. No questions asked, just pick Jason up and patch him up like nothing.

Danny was a good guy. Like sunshine, like golden retrievers. All teeth with some fangs.

And that same guy just snapped a man's neck with his bare hands.

"Hood... Are you seeing this?" Robin asked beside him, equally stunned as they watched their usually kind and sweet bodyguard effortlessly tear through the group of men with his bare hands. There was already blood around. Everywhere, maybe. Some already on Danny.

"He's on a fucking warpath." Jason murmurs. Every bit of admiration he had for Danny just multiplied by a thousand when he watched him grab a gun right out of a guy's hand and slam it into their head. Fucking amazing.

If Bruce doesn't square up and ask this guy on a date, Jason would have to start planning to parent trap them.

Fucking shit, he needed this guy as a dad.

The doors don’t just open—they explode off their hinges, a violent crack echoing through the warehouse. Guns swing up, barrels glinting under harsh light, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the figure in the doorway.

Bruce’s pulse slams against his ribs.

And then Danny walks in, dragging a half-conscious man by the leg, leaving a smeared trail of blood in his wake. He doesn’t even look winded.

Blood stains his usually pristine uniform—smeared across his face, streaked over the white of his shirt, soaking into his knuckles. His tie is gone. His collar is open, a few buttons undone, exposing a sliver of skin beneath the mess. There’s blood on his face, drying in streaks, and his knuckles—his knuckles are raw, dripping, alive. He looks… disheveled. Lethal. Gorgeous.

"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! THAT'S DANNY!" Spoiler screeched, "HE'S BODYING THOSE FUCKERS! RED! RED, ARE YOU FUCKING SEEING THIS?!"

"SOMEONE RECORD THIS! SHIT! SOMEONE RECORD THIS!" Red Robin replied, equally loud and frantic as if trying desperately to find the old camera he used to stalk Bruce many years ago.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t hesitate.

Danny launches the man he was dragging, sending him crashing into the nearest gunman with a sickening thud. Before anyone can react, he moves—crossing the room in impossibly fluid strides, twisting a wrist until a gun clatters to the floor, elbowing another man so hard in the ribs that something audibly cracks. A shot goes off, a wild, panicked attempt—Danny doesn’t even flinch. He snatches the arm holding the gun and bends it the wrong way. The scream is immediate.

Bruce’s breath catches.

Another man rushes Danny with a knife—big mistake. Danny catches his wrist mid-swing, wrenches it to the side with bone-snapping efficiency, then drives the same blade into another attacker’s thigh. The man howls, but Danny is already moving, slamming someone’s face into the nearest table hard enough to leave a smear of red on the wood.

They never stood a chance.

Two minutes. Two damn minutes, and the entire room is a battlefield of unconscious, broken bodies.

And Bruce cannot focus.

Bruce barely registers Jason swearing at him through the comms, telling him to get it together. He can’t.

And then Danny turns to him.

His face is splattered with blood, his chest rising and falling steadily as he steps forward. His hands, bruised and raw, reach out, and Bruce swallows hard.

Danny kneels, gaze flicking to Bruce’s bound wrists, and his touch—gentle, so gentle—works at the ropes with precise care. The knots had been tight, biting into his skin enough to bruise, to draw blood. Danny’s jaw clenches at the sight.

Bruce should say something. Should thank him. Should not be thinking about how unfairly attractive he looks like this—wild, wrecked, utterly devoted.

But he can’t help it.

He’s so gone.

"Mr. Wayne."

On instruct, Bruce corrects him. "Bruce."

And Danny pauses.

The chaos settles—not in the room, where bodies lay crumpled, groaning, and barely conscious—but in him. Just for a second. Just long enough for Bruce to see it.

Blue flickers into green. A warning. A promise.

Bruce doesn’t look away. Can’t. Even as Danny tilts his head, something unhinged curling at the edges of his smile. His chest rises and falls, slow, deliberate, the blood on his face catching the dim light. His knuckles, split and raw, flex at his sides before he exhales a laugh—low, sharp, guttural.

Almost a growl.

And Bruce—God help him—feels something thrill in his spine.

Then Danny takes his wrists. Carefully. Reverently. Those same hands that had snapped bones and silenced screams mere moments ago now hold Bruce’s bruised, bloodied skin like it’s something precious.

Then—cold.

Not warm. Not comforting. Cold lips, pressing soft against each wound, his touch featherlight against the raw skin. Bruce shudders.

Danny pulls back just enough for Bruce to see his lips—stained red with his blood. And he grins, sharp fangs more prominent than ever, his eyes molten with something Bruce can’t name.

"Bruce…"

Danny says it like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a goddamn claim.

Exasperated. Excited. Fond. And something else entirely.

"Try not to get kidnapped again, Bruce… Or I might just end up blowing up Gotham to get you back.

Bruce’s breath stutters.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Bruce is so utterly gone.

(Someone laughs in the background, shadows curling at their feet. Lady Gotham is pleased.)

Part 2 | Masterpost

[heymacy]

That's the first time I've felt anything since, uh.

[duckysprouts]

book jaime lannister is the funniest boy because from birth he’s constructed a grand narrative in his mind that he is the perfect knight to his sister-wife’s perfect maiden, a relationship that exists solely to fuel their mutual narcissism and help him cope with his chronic identity crisis/trauma, only to see a buff girl naked for the first time and come to the subconscious realization that it’s actually HIM who is the maiden to brienne’s knight and proceeds to spend the rest of their trip using preschool tactics of annoying her to death so that she can notice him and sweep him off his feet (it works)

[fr4nkt]

Sketch

[buckyschair]

Thin Walls, Close Calls

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x fem!reader

Summary: Reader has a thing for when Kaz gets unhinged and violent. Kaz overhears reader masturbating and doesn’t realize that she’s thinking of him until later and it eats him alive! And then he gets off to the thought of reader getting off to the thought of him :) 

Content warnings: 18+ minors DNI, masturbation, female reader, canon typical violence (non-graphic), very minor injury, slight perv!Kaz, no use of Y/N, alcohol, POV switches

Word count: ~5k

masterlist

✶ ✶ ✶

The familiar stairwell seemed narrower than ever as Kaz limped up to his room. The Slat was quiet save for his labored breath and quiet curses, most everyone having bedded down hours ago. His leg screamed at him as he ascended painstakingly. 

The pain was not unusual to him. 

What was unusual was the faint light streaming out from under your door. He paused on the landing outside your room, on the level just below his.

Typically, on a night like this after a job, you would be waiting for him in his office, even if he’d made you wait until the wee hours as he had tonight. Thinking now, he couldn’t recall one instance where you hadn’t been lurking impatiently in his space. 

As much as he hated to wake you, the two of you needed to debrief– especially after the night’s events. His gloved hand, poised to knock, froze as he heard the slightest noise. Something about it made him hesitate. 

Kaz was familiar with the sound of nightmares, the sounds of pain. His keen ears picked up on the barest whimper. 

His eyes widened at the sound of your hushed breath. 

The sound may well have been a gunshot for how he fled from it, hurrying up the seemingly endless stairs. 

Inside your small room, you’d been just as frozen. Only once his uneven footfalls faded beyond your door did you resume your motions. 

How embarrassing would it be if your boss had heard you jacking off? And to the thought of him no less. 

It was sick. His heavy step up the rickety stairs was enough to send you catatonic. When you’d heard the heavy thunk of his cane on the old boards, your body had come alive. 

You knew it was twisted, but you couldn’t help it. 

Earlier that night, during a fairly routine job, you’d witnessed something truly spectacular. 

The Crow’s leader was always calculated, always unemotional, and cold as a rule. 

Yet when a rival thug had put a cold barrel against your skull, Kaz had gone eerily still. It was as if the chill had found his own neck instead of yours. All the fight drained out of him for one blink. 

That one blink in your opponent’s eye was all the distraction Kaz needed as he unleashed his full fury on the bastard. The man had never stood a chance. 

Kaz’s wrath had been short lived, but it lingered in your mind as much as the blood had stained under your fingernails. 

He had been utterly unbalanced for a brief moment. Saints knew what set him off, but he hadn’t stopped until his target was beaten to a bloody pulp. 

Even you had struggled to hold back a grimace at the sight, though you’d been unable to hide your wince later at the wounds Kaz had sustained earlier in the fight. After that, it was brief work, and a quick exit. It was an easy job, all things considered. 

Kaz had been frustrated during the escape, you knew he hated to be sloppy. It wasn’t like him to make such a mess. Danger had you on edge, and the brush with death had nearly sent you over. 

Upon returning back to the Slat, he’d left you to your own devices, immediately peeling off again to check in at the club. Normally, you preferred to debrief before you decompressed, but he stole that option from you tonight. 

For you, the whole return journey had been an exercise in restraint as your new fixation emerged. Anyone, anyone but him, please, you’d begged any god that would listen. 

The truth was that you’d always been fascinated by him. It had been true for all the many months since he’d first picked you up for odd jobs, and even more so when he’d offered you a steady gig. 

It all came to a head there, hours ago, when his cane had come away soaked in blood, and you’d looked up to see rage simmering in his blue eyes. Kaz hadn’t spoken, he’d just spat, the saliva tinged pink, and then licked his lips, blurring the bloody handprint swiped along his sharp jaw.

You were unsettled. The feeling thrummed far along your heartstrings, through the cavity in your chest, twisting down your stomach, until it rested in a dull throb at your abdomen.  

His deranged defense had left your body buzzing. 

Long hours had passed, and it never abated. Nor had Kaz returned for your usual post-pugnant meeting. As the hours ticked by, you had elected to do something about it; to take what small relief you could have. 

That buzz lingered even now, as you twisted in your scratchy sheets, sweat slicked and naked with two fingers inelegantly shoved inside of your soaked hole. 

Your thoughts swirled and crested, all around him, lit in violent hues. Images flashed across your bleary vision; his dark hair askew, his bright eyes simmering with rage. From the willful fantasy of your mind, it was easy work to pitch the rage in his eyes a little warmer, to picture it as lust. 

Every grunt and groan the fight had brought out of him was fodder for your dirty picture. Sharp teeth flashed in your mind, set behind pretty split lips. In your imagination, they were always glistening so temptingly, with spit, with blood, with liquor. 

His bitten lips might well have been your own, abused as they were. You whined softly into the cramped room as your slick continued to spill onto your fingers. Desperate for release, your hand picked up its pace.

Kaz had never even touched you, and this is what he did to you. Save for the briefest tap of his cane, you never expected him to make contact with you. 

That didn’t stop you from imagining what rough, thick fingers might be under his gloves, and what despicable things they could do to you. 

When you pictured his cruel mouth attached to your core, you clapped a hand to your mouth to stifle your sudden cry. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, imagining his sharp tongue working you. 

Your release was sudden, snapping in an instant. Waves of pleasure crested over you as you swallowed your sighs.  

Fuck . The things you wished he would do to you. What would he do if he knew you were touching yourself to the thought of him?

You drifted off, soothed by sticky sweet thoughts of the ruthless barrel boss. 

Little did you know, that past your thin door, up the rickety stairs, Kaz was experiencing another bout of derangement. It was his turn to feel unbalanced. He paced back and forth, wearing new grooves in the ancient attic floor. 

All that he had heard was a few breathy noises. 

Surely, you were just in pain. 

Even as he had the thought, he knew it couldn’t be the case. If you’d been injured, you wouldn’t have hidden it from him. That was his tact, not yours. 

No, the reason you were hiding wasn’t pain . 

Kaz gave up on his pacing, and he hissed as he bent to sit at his desk. The ache in his abdomen was painful, the pressure under his breeches unbearable. His stomach flipped with unease at the heat. 

“Fuck,” he commented to the empty air as he flexed his thighs in a fruitless attempt to quell his arousal. 

Kaz tried to think ugly, ugly thoughts. 

To his dismay, all that came to his mind was the look on your face after he’d obliterated an opposing gang member that had threatened you. 

Your wild hair had been a messy halo, and your perfect lips had parted just slightly around a quick inhale. 

But it was the look he’d seen in your eyes that was burned into his retinas; a look that ghosted the backs of his eyelids as they slid closed in the quiet of his office. 

To him, it was an unfamiliar look– one that he had only ever caught in fleeting glimpses between strangers' faces. It held a sentiment that he had never dared to dream of receiving directly. Even as Kaz felt evidence of the same fever hardening at his lower stomach, it was a feeling he didn’t dare to name. 

What was he going to do about you? 

✶ ✶ ✶

“Next time Kaz invites me on a job, there will be mourners and a funeral, his.” 

You slammed down your drink heavily, the glass one gulp lighter. Jesper gasped at your words with equal melodrama. 

The two of you were slacking off, enjoying the slow morning atmosphere of the club you were meant to be keeping an eye on. Jesper had taken one look at your sallow skin and dead eyes when you’d rolled in and knowingly poured you a generous glass of something expensive, cursing Kaz briefly. Despite the early hour, you hadn’t protested. 

You were grateful that the sharpshooter didn’t push you to discuss last night’s job. Instead, he had reserved himself to the familiar territory of bemoaning your boss’ abnormally high intensity, and his even higher expectations for his crew. Half your glass had disappeared with the conversation slouching that way. 

“How could you? After all he’s done for us?”

It was your turn to gape, with more than a dash of insolence. “All he’s done? All he’s done is give me chronic pain, Jesper! He's a sick bastard.”

“Careful, there,” Jes warned, looking around the club in sudden panic. “You know Kaz has super human hearing.” 

Jesper’s words rang in your ears as you choked on your drink. 

He slapped your back, and you played it off like it was just the liquor’s bite. You laughed as you recovered, a shaken wheeze. Surely Jesper was joking? Undeniably, Kaz was highly perceptive, but, as you argued, 

“He’s mortal, Jes. He has the same ears as the rest of us.”

“No,” Jesper drawled dramatically. “First– and I can’t believe you haven’t picked up on this, dear– he's not mortal. Not like the rest of us. And!” He held up a finger in emphasis. “He does have superior hearing. Careful what you whisper around this place, and for the gods’ sakes, careful with what sorts of noises you make at the Slat.”

His expression was as mischievous as the suggestion in his last words. Your jaw dropped at his implication. You certainly hadn’t kept quiet at the Slat, not in any sense, at any time. Especially not last night… 

Before you could question whether he was serious again, you heard the telltale click of a cane. Your heart dropped as it clipped across the floor towards the pair of you. 

“Unhappy to see me?” Kaz quipped as he caught your disgruntled look.

Your expression was wild as you silently gaped at him. Panic threaded your skin with heat. 

“Well, that’s a pity,” he continued blithely. “We’ve got business.” 

His words, for all their show, lacked their usual dark charm. There was a bite to them that left your mouth bitter. 

Shit . Maybe he had heard you cursing him out after all. Still, he appeared his usual self as he ushered you towards the back room. 

Jesper laughed to himself as you stood quickly to follow Kaz to his small office. He’d been wondering what was going on with the two of you, and from the looks of it, not much. The walls at the Slat were thin, he reasoned, it was only fair he clue you in to its sheer privacy. He lost sight of you as you slipped inside Kaz’s office. 

As the heavy door shut behind your back, Kaz didn’t so much as look at you, let alone ask how you were faring after the job. He shrugged his cloak off in one fluid motion before easing into his desk. His attention stayed there as he rifled through some loose papers. 

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“We normally do this sooner,” he explained, sounding indifferent. “You weren’t around when I arrived back last night.” 

There was no accusation in his words. It was never as simple as how are you? with him. It was always like this, roundabout. But still, he was checking in on you, in his strange, indirect manner.

“Oh, no.” You dug a knuckle into the knot between your brows in a futile effort to ease the tension brewing. “I’m not avoiding you, I was just tired.”

“I see.” Kaz looked up from his papers, finally taking in your bedraggled appearance. His next words were almost gentle. “I didn’t wake you clunking around the place?”

“No! No, I was out faster than a pigeon at the poker table, I was so exhausted.”

Of course, you had been wide awake. The unspoken custom of your midnight debriefs had been derailed by your own loose appetites; you’d been too busy pleasuring yourself to the thought of him to follow the procedure. He didn’t need to know that though. 

Kaz merely hummed in acknowledgement. As his eyes remained on your appearance, and you doubted that he was convinced. 

 It was a perfectly believable lie that you could have been asleep by the time he had arrived back. Unlike him, you were not a machine. You bit your lip as you took in his state. The bags under his eyes were evidence of hours of work that had doubtless stretched long into the morning, all while you supposedly had slept soundlessly. 

“Speaking of which, Jesper said you have exceptional hearing.” 

He arched one brow, giving nothing away.  

“Is it true?” you demanded. 

“Now, darling, what kind of criminal would I be if I went around confirming or denying every rumor? Reputation is the best weapon a man can have.” His tone was condescending, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. 

You allowed him his melodrama, which you’d come to realize was the best coping mechanism the man had. 

“Sure, boss,” you sighed. “Well, just let me know if I bother you getting in late, I know sleep doesn’t come easy for you as it is.” 

Kaz nodded, the gesture dismissive. But you saw him swallow thickly. His eyes avoided you, darting intensely around his reports and ledgers. 

If you could hazard a guess, you’d say their aversion was deliberate. You weren’t sure what you were searching for with this line of questioning.

Regardless, hopefully now he would chalk your nerves up to an innocent concern for his well being, nothing else. Nothing like the embarrassing truth: that you were worried you kept him up at night with your moaning sighs.

What followed was the most excruciatingly terse debrief of your career. When it concluded, you nodded to no one in particular and saw yourself out. 

You missed how his head snapped up to watch your retreat, his gaze hungrily devouring your set shoulders, your strong back, your perfect hips. 

His grip on his ledger was lethal as the door clicked shut. He exhaled sharply, and carded a hand through his hair. It would be a miracle if he retained any information from your brief.  

Kaz was fucked. 

You weren’t too loud , he thought. Quite the opposite, in fact. It wasn’t without effort that he paid special attention to catch every faint noise that he possibly could. Last night had caught him off guard, but it was hardly the first time he’d heard you. Despite your best efforts to be quiet, he had gotten into the bad habit of listening for the muffled sounds of your pleasure. 

It was his most treasured vice, his most tortured secret. 

He’d be damned if you silenced yourself.

And damned he was, as the days and weeks went by.

He cursed Jesper for making you self conscious. He had hoped you would forget about it, take the gambler’s words for what they were worth. But, much to his dismay, they had affected you.  

Since that evening, you made sure to keep your infrequent sessions discreet. If you made a sound at all, it was guaranteed to be hushed. 

Kaz was about to lose his mind. He hadn’t caught so much as a sigh out of you for a week straight. 

That served him right, he supposed. Who was he to lust after you? It was your business how you found satisfaction, he had no right to be privy to that sphere of your life. For all his rationality, he couldn’t help the irritation that simmered under his skin, burning under his leather.

A bad mood was nothing new for him, so this shouldn’t have been an issue. 

But, inexplicably, it was beginning to affect his work. 

He was borderline sloppy; numbers transposed in his ledgers, gaps in the dealers’ schedules at the club, and prime opportunities for scores went missed. 

What was wrong with him?

Deep down, he knew the answer. What he didn’t know was what the fuck to do about it.

Frustration born of anger was an icy tool, one he wielded as naturally as his cane. But sexual frustration? Kaz felt like an idiot, lost and exposed in an unfamiliar part of town. 

The man was still brooding on it when he returned to the Slat one evening, more than a week after his last run in with your late night activities. Coincidentally, you were heading out for a late patrol. As he limped up the steps, you turned aside to give him space. Rather than hurrying past as he usually would, Kaz froze. 

“You’re hurt.” The words slipped out before he could think.

Your eyes snapped to him, widening at the panic in his tone. Sure enough, there was an ugly slice on your lower lip. It looked like it had been cleaned up quickly, but nothing could hide the bloody gash.

You dismissed his concern, “Just caught a stray fist. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Kaz was always listening for you, but not just for your pleasure. He needed to know that you were okay, that you were there. His week had been awful without your reassuring presence. Even the obnoxious ritual scrape of your knife sharpening had stopped. 

And he needed your knives to be sharp.

Suddenly he was furious. 

If he couldn’t keep an ear out to check in on you, the least you could do was take care of yourself. And here you were, hurt. You were injured, and he’d had no idea.

“When did this happen?” he demanded. 

In the small space, his anger was choking. You could smell the murk of the street on him, the lingering scent of cigars on his jacket. It made your eyes water, and your mouth worked the air uselessly at his proximity. When had he ever stood so close, outside of a fight?

“Tell me.” His words were quiet, but firm. 

“Two nights ago,” you whispered into the cramped space between you. 

Kaz swore. Two days ago you’d been hurt, and he hadn’t heard so much as a peep about it. Where had it happened? Who had cleaned you up?

Last time you’d gotten a shiner, he’d cleaned you up with shaking hands and thrown up after. He took a sharp breath through his nose, mastering himself once again. 

“Why didn’t I hear of this?”

“I didn’t think it was pertinent–”

“Of course it’s pertinent. Your activities are under my direct purview." 

You scoffed at his harsh tone. You could take care of yourself, he didn’t need to coddle you. “Do I need to tell you next time I get a splinter from the bartop?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “We’ll get it serviced.”

You scoffed again. 

Kaz wasn’t laughing. 

He continued just as ridiculously, and just as sincerely, “I need you in good shape. What would I have done if you’d been taken out, hmm?”

“You would hire someone else,” you answered obviously. 

“Should I?”

You balked. Heat flared in your chest, and not from your proximity. 

“Have you become a liability?” His panic was tipped with venom. 

You knew he didn’t mean the words, but he was unraveling faster than you could hope to grasp him back to reality.

“Now you’re not making sense. What? Because I bleed, I can't be trusted?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, like he wasn’t the one talking senselessly. It was one scratch– “When you bleed, I can’t trust myself .” 

His words left you speechless. A gloved hand ripped through his hair, leaving it at all angles to dance as he shook his head and leaned in to you.

“Who did this to you?”

His words were a rasp, a dark claw at your spine. 

“They don’t matter now, Kaz,” you managed. They’d been taken care of well enough. 

“I don't care. I'll still kill them.”

You were silent, but he continued, “No one fucks with my crew. No one can fuck with you .”

The ferocity in his eyes startled you, as did the utter conviction that grounded his words. They rasped over your psyche like the phantom of a late night fantasy. 

His tall form went utterly still. You could read his moods well, you didn’t miss this one. This stillness was the precision of bone chilling rage. His calculated exterior was torn, his feral nature on display. His lips were curled in an icy snarl, yet all you felt was heat.

If Kaz wasn’t so riveted to your every move, he might have missed it. Almost imperceptibly, your gaze dipped to his lips before darting back up to meet his eyes. 

He blinked to clear his vision and his mouth parted, but– no, your eyes only darted there and back again. 

You may well have just kissed him for how physical the brush of your glance had felt. The slight motion sent his mind reeling backwards, to all those weeks ago when he’d met your eyes over the broken form of the bastard who had dared to hold your life in his hands on that botched job. 

The two instances were twin flames burned into his vision. He’d thought it had been adrenaline, aggression, or maybe even fear. 

Now, an unmistakable shiver ghosted down his aching spine, and he knew you felt it too. 

Lust . 

Your eyes had gone glassy, probably matching his. Your breath came in short pants through your nose. He bet that if he could feel your heart, it would be pulsing as fast as a dice wheel’s spin. 

“I’ll repeat myself.” His eyes were bright as his words were dark. “No one fucks with my crew. Not as long as I have a pulse and one good leg. So, darling, I'm going to need names.”

“Kaz–” you tried to protest, but he interrupted. 

“–Very well, have it your way. I'll have to do some additional digging, but they won’t wind up any less dead.” He saw your eyes dilate at that.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had killed for you, nor would it be the last. 

Seeing what it did to you though? 

He couldn’t help himself. He was a bastard after all. He leaned in, the heat from your reddened ear on his lips while he spoke lowly.

“Take your time, darling. Make a list, make it thorough.”

Your face was flushed when he pulled away, and your breath shallow.

“I can fight my own battles,” you managed. 

“I know you can,” he praised you, suddenly drunk on the image of you gone hazy. “But I like fighting them for you. Plus, I’ve been looking for a hobby.”

His humor snapped you back to yourself, and you blinked out of your daze. You spoke thickly, “Try gardening.” 

“Excellent suggestion.” His mouth twitched as he fought a smile. “A place for the bodies.”

“You’re insufferable,” you scolded.

“You’ll be alright?” For him, the words were exceedingly tender. He knew he didn’t need to worry about you. He would anyway. 

“Fit as a fiddle, boss.”

You gave him your most convincing smile, even through your split lip, it was radiant. 

With a nod, he released you and let you on your way out of the Slat. 

As your form receded, he loosed a long captive breath. It took several moments of stillness, but his lungs slowly remembered how to function. 

For a long moment he stood in the wake of your warmth. With a jolt, he swept up the stairs, his limp hardly registering amidst his bluster.

Kaz stumbled into his room, and his bad leg was shaking uncontrollably. He forced himself to hang up his coat as evenly as possible before falling into his chair. He swore as his top heavy cane slipped from where he leaned it against his desk. A problem for later. 

He had more pressing needs at the moment. 

Saints alive . 

He hadn’t scared you that night. He had turned you on. 

Kaz remembered the soft little sounds he had caught from outside your door later that same evening. Had you been pleasuring yourself to the thought of him? Surely not… but no. The evidence was plain. You’d been aroused by his… something. His unhinged rage?

He steeled himself as the thought materialized in his mind, and then spread through his body. 

He was familiar with an ever present icy chill, but this heat was a novelty. It scalded him, and he almost wished for the brackish waters that he was accustomed to. This seeped just as slowly over him, and it left him just as exposed; as if his nerves were a trigger that could be set off by the barest pressure. 

His breath was ragged, his mind wild. He pressed his palm over his aching crotch, and hissed at the relief. It wasn’t what he needed though. He steeled himself, like he was facing a firing squad. 

With shaking hands, he fumbled to unbutton his pants. He gritted his teeth, steeling himself. Kaz hated undressing; to be so exposed was like torture, but to be constrained at this moment was a worse sentence. 

He shoved a hand down his pants, palming himself roughly over his undershorts. A broken noise fell from his mouth. He bit his lips to keep quiet as he desperately bucked his hips into his own hand. His skin burned, the feeling too tight. 

The lust he’d been shocked to see in your gaze, how would it look in the dim light of his room now? How would your eyes glisten if they beheld him here, undone as he was? 

Pleasure and disgust were locked in a bitter fight under his lungs, all teeth and broken bottles scraping at his nerves. The conflict was only rivaled by his overwhelming arousal. 

He rubbed himself from base to tip, his strokes methodical, like he could calculate his release precisely if he just focused. It was difficult work, with fantasies of you interrupting his attempt at any sort of clinical relief. 

Kaz pictured you in your cramped room, pleasuring yourself to the thought of him. The idea alone had him whimpering. He had seen you in your nightclothes before, usually you wore rough and worn garments to bed. 

But once, he’d spied a lacy nightgown in your laundry. At the time he’d clocked it with suspicion. Were you seeing someone? Who did you wear it for? 

Now, as he pumped himself agonizingly, he imagined you’d bought it with him in mind. That whenever you slipped the soft fabric over your strong, capable form, you were thinking of him. He imagined how it would hug you, exposing your powerful legs and skimming your chest. 

His breaths came in short pants as he fantasized deliriously. He imagined your hands working your core, feather light touches at first, then an abrupt push to explore your dripping center. 

Kaz was reduced to a shaking mess, his hand shoved down his hastily undone pants at the mere idea of your attraction to him. The sound echoed lewdly in the emptiness of his office.

After a few short minutes in that way, the coil in his abdomen had wound unbearably tight. The sensation was not unlike recovering from a gut punch, dull and uncomfortable, occasionally sharp and hot. His whimpering breath was uncontrollable as his strokes quickened. 

He pictured you again, your lips parted softly, your eyes unfocused as you watched him surrender to his darkest demons. He felt the slickness of the blood even now, along with the palpable desire in your gaze. Your desire for him . 

His orgasm tore through him in painful heat, rattling phantom fingers up his spine as he pulsed. His release was sticky and warm, awkward in his pants. 

An abrupt wave of nausea crashed over the gently ebbing waves of pleasure, cutting the hazy aftershock short with a vengeance. He heaved himself up and over to the small washroom, familiar with his body’s dreadful response. 

Even as the bile rose in his throat, Kaz smiled over the toilet bowl. The revulsion was laced with satisfaction, a lingering bliss that cut through the tones of disgust. He chalked it up to the moment of weakness. 

But he couldn’t stop the stupid grin, like he was a drunkard reeling through the streets on an ephemeral high. This high had real substance though, and it wasn’t just the novelty of his bliss: you were into him, just as bad as he was into you. 

The thought was a surprisingly tender comfort as he lost himself to his demons. Kaz shuddered, convulsing as the cold waters of his past breached his current senses. For once though, the effort didn’t feel wasted. After all these years, to finally be brought low for such a worthy cause? He was almost concerned for his reputation. 

Because on his knees at the moment, it didn’t feel like a curse. 

It felt like atonement. 

The bastard could only hope for more moments of agony, in a fair exchange for a flesh so sweet.

-

A/N: I feel like this has probably been done before but it was stuck in my head!! I just love Kaz Brekker so much! And I like him even more when he's feral and covered in blood <3 iykyk

[nekrosmos]

You guys are all nice so you get another small WIP :3c

[rat6ix]

Wait but will ya’ll hear me out …

Will i be burned in the middle of town square for this…idc

[xoxohannas-world]

blondie the man that you are

[mndvx]

BILL SKARSGÅRD as ERIC DRAVEN in THE CROW (2024) dir. Rupert Sanders

[dyinginthearctic]

DAVID WALMSLEY in SLOW HORSES (2022)

[userarmand]

LESTAT DE LIONCOURT Interview with the Vampire • "I Could Not Prevent It"

[mewtillidae]

posting a kremy every single day until new episodes of OUAW are out DAY 64

[rustincohlethegoat]

i just think that norman would have been so hot in scream 1996... like FUCKKKK?? and majority of the cast weren't well known actors either like norman could have totally been in it. ughhhh whatever. that could have been good shit 💔

[vertigoartgore]

1993's X-Men Unlimited Vol.1 #3 cover by cover artist Bill Sienkiewicz.