whorediaries-09

[whorediaries-09]

you ain't ready for your day shift;

pairing- alt!will graham x intern!fem!reader warning(s)- descriptions of murder, mentions of suicide, blood. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- i got this idea from an instagram reel. i'll tag the creator when i remember their username.

headlock; janitor.ai janitor.ai request form

his forehead rested on the cool bathroom tile. he could still smell the faint coppery scent of blood on his hands. he could still feel it. seeping through the cracks of his fingers, blood. he'd gotten a little careless, lately. wearing no gloves. because he'd wanted to feel it. wanted to feel the last moments of the bastard that had been running around in your head for the past few weeks.

the water was cold, sliding down his back, washing off blood and grime. he could remember the knife sliding into his victim's back. carving out wings from the flesh. he remembered putting the fishing hooks into the flesh, hanging the bleeding body up like a morsel. like the vision of his victim. buddish's believes, of being righteous. transforming his victim's into angels, because he believed that he was doing god's work. purifying.

his hand slid down his torso. it hurt. his hand wasn't enough. it never would be enough, not until he'd had you. safe, tucked away into his arms. not until your head was empty, besides the thought of him running around in your brain like a mantra. not until the life in your arms dimmed down as he made you kneel down in front of him, looking up at him like he was all that was right in the world.

he gritted his teeth, hand fisting around his cock. precum leaked from the tip. the musk of his arousal hung in the their, as he slid his hand up and down. nice and slow. thinking about you. how it would feel like, to have your mouth around his cock. his hands fisting your hair, as he pushed your mouth down to the base of his shaft. he'd watch as the tears spilled from your lips. he'd watch the drool slid down your body. he'd watch you buck your hips, trying to attain some sort of friction to calm your own arousal.

up and down. his core stirred. his stomach tightened. he felt his balls, hot and heavy clench as his imagination drove him to the brink of insanity. he imagined your garbled groans. he imagined you hitting his thigh, trying to push him away. he imagined your throat muscles constricting around the tip of his cock as he abused it. violated it.

'y-yes...fuck...god,' he whimpered. his legs shook, chest heaved. he pressed his front further against the bathroom tile, fucking his fist with more fervor.

*-

you were naive. for a fbi intern, quite naive. or perhaps, just unaware. it was quite the pleasure, watching you sleep. knowing that in a few hours, you'd be woken up by your phone, crawford on the line, barking at you to drive to farm where he's hung budish's body.

he watched your chest rise and fall, labored breathes leaving your lips. you breathed quiet when you slept. the sheets tucked underneath your chin.

his hands itched. itched for the feeling of your skin. itched to touch and feel and explore. every scar, every mole and every damn spot on your body. like a map, he wanted to read you. remember you, thoroughly, by heart, like a poem.

he moved across your bedroom, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet on the floor. he was protecting you, he thought. protecting you from anybody who might be out for you. protecting you from anybody who might want to harm you. he was being your guardian angel.

he sat down on the stool that sat adjacent to your dresser. his eyes darted around the neatly kept items. nail clippers, the fbi badge, bottles of perfumes and body mists, moisturizer, sunscreen, body lotion, lip balms, brushes, and combs. his reflection stared back at him from the polished mirror.

moving across the bedroom, he sat down on your study table. it was messy, with papers sprawled all across the wooden desk. diaries full of notes and theories. pens scattered across, their refills exhausted. all of them written in a hurried scribble. all of them about him. about the 'copycat killer'. all of them about the murders he committed. all your thoughts about him.

your mind wanted to leave. that's why you wrote so much down. but it never ended. it never would. you would only think about him. he'd make sure of it. he'd make sure that you'd suffocate on the thoughts of him. he'd make sure you would. and if it hurt to breathe, he'd open the windows.

but he'd never let you go. nights would pass quicker than the days would. you'd show up to work in the same clothes, never ready for your day shift. he'd make sure you were drained, exhausted, thinking about him. thinking about him, but never knowing him.

he'd do anything to consume your thoughts. he'd cross every line to invade your brain. he was willing to do anything and everything to stay in your brain.

because you belonged to him.

*-

abel gideon's body hung from a rope. in the same abandoned observatory where jack had received the phone call from. the one where the team had found miriam lass' severed arm. the card next to it which said 'what do you see?'

you stood closer to him than usual. camera clicking away the stature of gideon's body.

'i don't think it was suicide, agent graham,' you spoke, quiet. as if telling him a secret. he watched the others search. of course it wasn't, he thought. i killed him.

'no? why'd you think so?' he questioned. always the stance of your mentor and guide. he liked it. he liked how you listened to his theories. he liked how your attention never wavered when he spoke, as if you were grasping onto every word he was speaking. as if he was the pinnacle of knowledge for you. as if you admired him.

'because...it..look, gideon just killed a goddamn nurse so he could escape. why would he hang himself up? why would he free himself to die?'

'maybe this is what freedom was for him. death. maybe that's his design.' you scribbled on your diary, your attention spoiled. you weren't listening to him. you weren't thinking about him. you were thinking about gideon, even though he'd killed him for you to think about him. not gideon. he gritted his teeth. he didn't like it. his fingers clenched in his trouser pockets.

'i don't think gideon was that philosophical. mad, yes. but not...this. my understanding of gideon isn't this.'

why were you trying to understand him? did you not understand? you were supposed to be thinking about him. not gideon. or anybody else.

*-

he remembers a time when he was your professor. he remembers teaching you, grading your essays. you'd always been quiet. unassuming. thousands of thoughts behind your brain. always curious, always sharp.

and this feels familiar. it feels familiar, as he scrolls down the word document which you'd typed out about each of the serial killer who you were supposed to catch. but somehow, each of them ended up dead. either murdered or suicide. he types things you never wrote. as if leading you on, but putting you astray. encouraging your mental turmoil. suffocating you with the thoughts of him and his murders. every crime he'd committed, for you. for you to think about him.

and he doesn't care when he hears your bedroom door unlock. he doesn't care you'll freak out or you'll discover who he is, beneath the mask of a skilled profiler. because he needs you to understand him. he needs you to understand that you belong to him. he needs you to understand that you shouldn't be thinking about anybody but him. he needs you to know that you shouldn't be confused about elliot buddish or abel gideon. he needs you to know that you shouldn't be entertaining the idea of a 'vigilante killer'. because it's him, and it always have been. and it always will be.

this is his design.

so, when you stand at your doorway, jaw open, momentarily frozen in place, he stares back. stares back as if it was normal for him to be at your house. like this house was his. like you were his. like you lived together. like this was a happy house.

he watches your expression change. he's read them long enough to know what you're thinking. he's read you long enough to know what you'd do.

'w-what- are y-you-?' you stammer. he hears your heartbeat. thump thump thump against your ribcage. with each passing second. the room grows hot. your nerves fill with adrenaline. your feet itch and shake, begging to run. but it's like you're frozen in place.

'you're alright. i'm not gonna hurt you,' he promises. his voice, soothing, like he's trying to soothe a frightened child. like he's trying to lure a stray dog.

'w-wh-what?'

it's like you gain consciousness. your feet move across the corridor, as you try to run from him. your hands clasp at the front door, but he's already on top of you, tackling your front to the ground. pressing a gun on your forehead.

'don't,' he warns. your body slacks on the cold hard floor, tears retching out of your body. sobs cutting through the air. your cheeks staining with the salt in your eyes as you feel his knees press harder against your sides.

'shh...shh..' he presses the barrel harder, 'don't cry, darlin'...i'm doing this for your own good...'

********************************

i'm not going to use my regular taglist since this is a different fandom i'm writing about. but if you do want to be tagged for my upcoming fics for this fandom, let me know in my inbox:) i'll also be accepting requests! please do read my guidelines before sending them in though :).

a/n- part two anybody?

********************************

[whorediaries-09]

come on, violate me;

pairing- will graham x journalist!fem!reader warning(s)- violence, grotesque descriptions, blood. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- this will probably be a have a few follow up fics, but that depends on the response this fic gets. let's see :D

headlock;

"take my tongue and lead it southbound,"

rest assured, will graham's quaint fishing shed in the middle of nowhere in wolftrap, is unassuming. for the most part, anyways. anybody would've looked past it. wouldn't have have looked twice at it. but you weren't 'anybody'.

rightfully obnoxious and nosy. well-known journalist of the highest selling crime tabloid. and god forbid you'd let this sweet, sweet chance go. fbi special agent turned murderer; crawford's favourite agent, none the less- that would sell like hot cakes.

rummaging through your purse, you take out a bobby pin. the bite of the winter air sweeps across your face. picking the lock, you push open the door to his shed.

plastic curtains hanging everywhere. a strong smell hits your nostrils, decomposing, fishy, and fruity, all combined into a horrid scent. the kind which almost made you want to gag.

drawing the plastic curtains, you step further in. the sight makes your stomach drop. bones.

while you didn't know much about bones, not enough to tell the kind by just looking, it was clear the bones didn't belong to something or someone that existed in the present. something or someone that existed in the past. the arrangement wasn't proportionate. ribs too small to belong to the skull.

removing the cover of your camera lens, you angled it to take pictures of the bones hanging from the ceiling with the heavy metal chains. from every angle. titles for your upcoming articles already revolving in your head. heart fluttering with anticipation. adrenaline too high. after months of nobody believing your theories of will graham being a killer, here you were. solid evidence to prove your theory right.

then, you spot it. unassuming, a mockery of innocence, on the ground. a chest freezer. one would assume meant to kept fish or meat. anything which possessed flesh. which could rot.

the bobby pin slides into the lock of the freezer. picking it apart. you lift up the lid, with ease. it hits you. the stench, combined with the cold air. wrapped in little plastic bags. pieces of meat, at a first, fleeting glance.

your camera clicks again. pictures of the sliced, carved meat, clean from the bone to be published on your articles. you mess with the placement, curious. obnoxious.

the sight makes your blood run cold. your heart thump against your ribcage, begging to be let go. brain freeze for a moment. stomach lurching up. all the years you'd been journaling the worst and the worst of crimes, but you never had seen something like this.

you pick it up. it's the lower half of a jaw. a human jaw. teeth, tongue, and all included. it makes you want to gag. shakily, you close the lid of the freezer.

behind the plastic curtains, he stands. curls arranged neatly. a wool, gray coat over his figure, a black scarf tucked tightly into it, wrapped around his neck. hastily you, pull out the gun from your purse. he moves behind the plastic curtain, closing the door. blocking the exit. he never comes close to you. he keeps moving behind the curtains.

'there is a very good explanation for all of this,' he says. his voice his calm. never wavering. as if he's not afraid of what you've seen. as if it doesn't matter to him that you're pointing a gun at him.

'i don't want to hear,' you reply, hands shaky, voice breathy. unlike his. your fear is palpable, and so is his predatory stance and movements. he taunts you, moving around, behind those curtains. as if you're his prey. but you refuse to be.

'not just a little bit curious?' he asks. it's almost innocent. taunting. as if he's sorry for you. as if he pities you. for your curiosity. for which you're here, in this situation. at his mercy, even though you've got the pictures and the gun.

'get away from the door,' he obliges. he draws the curtains, standing in front of you. mocking you.

'can't let you go,' he says, using your name. tasting the word on his tongue, as if it belongs to him. 'until you've heard what i have to say,' he moves closer. your breathing gets shakier, your hands trembling in fright. there's not a flicker of emotion behind his eyes. cold, lifeless. cruel. you move backwards, your gun shaking pathetically in your hands.

'i know you're scared,' he inches closer. as if he's trying to soothe you. as if he's trying to soothe his prey before attacking. the meat would taste acidic. bitter, about being dead. you move backwards, keeping a safe distance from him. 'you only have to be scared a moment longer.' he promises. he hands out a gloved palm. his voice lowers. demanding. not soothing anymore. but a demand.

'give me the gun,'

your finger pull the trigger. he ducks, rolling over the chest freezer, hiding behind it. you take the chance, and not losing a breath, you run towards the door. but he's quicker. he gets up from behind the freezer, pinning your front to a shelf, banging your head against it. a crack echoes, your nose breaking in the process. blood, warm and thick trickles out into your mouth. your fingers shoot mindlessly, hopelessly, that one bullet would hit him.

he tries to grab your hand with the gun which you continue moving, trying to escape his grasp. your free hand slips into your pocket, pulling out a pepper spray. you spray it in his eyes, his grip loosening for a moment, and you escape from his grasp, walking towards the door, the exit from this hellhole. his hand lifts, and he grips your hair tightly, refusing to let go. a scream rips from your throat, as you try to move away, ripping strands and locks of your hair as you push open the shed door.

you run towards your car, with crawford on the line. waiting for him to pick up, you get in the car. you turn the keys around, but the stupid ignition won't start in the cold.

your window shatters. he's already there, baton in hand, shattering your window, arms underneath yours, pulling you out from the car. as one would do to a ragdoll, dragging you across the snow. your screams echo in the silence of the woods. falling into the ears of a man known for his empathy.

*-

when you wake up, your body's senseless, almost. you can't see. you can't hear. you can't taste. you can't smell. but you can feel. the coarse material of rope digging into your wrists and ankles. the rope around your neck, binding you tightly to whatever you'd been sat on. the cold metal ball of a gag inside your mouth. the silk of a blindfold on your eyes. the sensations of something hot and sticky flowing down your skin. the burn, the tear of your skin. the lack of clothes apart from your undergarments. the biting chill of the cold winter.

'i had to take away your clothes. too much dna. too much evidence. i don't care if you mind,'

in the silence, his voice echoes. a harsh rumble from his chest. you could imagine the stoicism on his face. even while he mocked you. perhaps, he was too far gone to take pleasure from this. from seeing you helpless. all those months of rapid tormenting theories that echoed into his brain.

'it's cruel,' he continues, moving behind you. 'i didn't want to humiliate like this,' his hands make quick work of the gag around your mouth, pulling it out. he unties your blindfold. you blink rapidly, adjusting to the sudden capability to see. you're stuck right there, in his shed. the bones hanging in the air, a cruel mockery of your curiosity. his hands fall on your shoulders. fingers digging into your skin. 'are you going to cry, hm?' he asks.

you swallow painfully. your tongue's dry. throat parched from the lack of water. the rope around your neck tightens, as you try to move your head.

'no, don't. nice and easy for me,' his hands push into your flesh. thumbs digging into the tense knots on your shoulder. his breathe, not and heavy on your cold skin with every word he speaks, as he continues massaging your shoulders. his touch is tender, almost. too tender to be of a man who's a cruel, cold hearted killer. too gentle to be of a predator's.

'i trust you're not foolish enough to try and do anything stupid,' he says, almost a warning. he unties your bindings, freeing your limbs and neck. you wince- whimper, the noise a pathetic and painful sound from your throat. your eyes well up with tears, at the sheer humiliation of it all.

your skin burns with it. it ripples with fury, rage and the lack of pity. your nails dig painfully into your thighs, as your heart hammers against your ribcage. your head spins. your body falls slump against the cold, hard ground as you sob. the sound harsh, unflinching and ringing from your throat.

********************************

a/n- i'm honestly stuck between making this a yandere!will fic or a normal will fic. suggestions are welcome!

i'm not going to use my regular taglist since this is a different fandom i'm writing about. but if you do want to be tagged for my upcoming fics for this fandom, let me know in my inbox:) i'll also be accepting requests! please do read my guidelines before sending them in though :).

********************************

[whorediaries-09]

💞💞thank you hon!!

put my lips to something;

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- fluff, suggestive content, mentions of the war. a/n- do i have an economics exam tomorrow? yes. will i still write this? yes.

the diner;

the last bit of the banana is flicked off the ceramic plate. she stands on her tiny tiptoes, running the plate under the cool water. she says- no, insists that she doesn't need a stool. she's five now, she says. tall enough.

you're leaning over the refrigerator, sipping slowly, the last warm bits of the sickly sweet coffee she'd so convincingly prepared for you. she's stubborn. like her dad, you think, smiling to yourself.

the water splashes on her frock. she grimaces, the cold seeping through her delicate, soft skin. she wipes her hands on the kitchen towel, setting the washed plate in the racks, letting it dry. she pads slowly towards you. you take the last sip of the coffee, watching as her lips form a pout. her gray eyes look into you, the request unspoken.

it's easy, really.

put a star sticker on next to the list of chores designated to her. which isn't much. wash the dishes, eat your fruit, don't pick your nose, and don't say any bad words. she'd accomplished two of them, at least.

'your soaked, baby,' you say. your nails dig into the thin paper, pulling the sticker off. she pouts even more. gives you a puppy eyed look.

'i know mama,' she says. her arms wrap around your waist, silently begging you to pick her up. you'll relent, because how do you not? the water from her clothes seep into yours too. you carry her to her bedroom.

'let's get you changed, yeah?' she nods, sleepily. nuzzles her face in the crook of your neck. you soothingly pat her back. there are no monsters under her bed, you tell her. and you won't let any get under her bed either. that, you tell yourself.

'not even in my closet?' she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. you look into her wardrobe, selecting a soft blue frock.

'not even in your closet,' you confirm, handing her the frock. she smiles sleepily, changing her clothes. she tucks herself into bed. she's five, she says. she doesn't need your help to pull a blanket over her body. she can read a bedtime story by herself too, she insists.

'want me to put out the lamp then, baby?' she doesn't answer, snuggling further into the pillow under her head. your clothes stick to your body too. you'll change your clothes too.

*-

you're pulling up your shorts. his faded t-shirt's next. before the fabric can fall over your waist, the door clicks open. the tobacco comes next, followed by musk. a hint of cologne too. his cold fingers splay over your waist, index trailing the stretchmarks over the skin. a hint that you'd carried a life. a life you'd made. with him.

'hey, sweetheart,' he says. the t-shirt falls over his hand. his chin follows next, resting atop your shoulder. you smile, resting your head against his.

'hey, you,' you feel his breathe, hot against your warm skin. he sighs, pulling you close. the world's raging outside. you'll indulge in this moment of quiet. even when you don't say anything. even when he doesn't say anything.

'want me to draw you a bath?' you ask. his fingertips trail higher, over your sternum. it rests along the underside of your breast. he sighs louder, taking in your scent.

'will you join?' he asks. tilts his head. from the periphery of your eye, you see him give the puppy dog eyed look. he knows you've already taken a shower. you don't need it.

'please,' he whispers. barely audible. so soft, rasped in your ears. your hand trails underneath your-his shirt, and your hold his hand. wedding rings clash against each other.

'yes,' you relent, because, how do you not?

*-

he sits in the bath, his abnormally long legs a tight fit in the tub. you sit against his chest. he's got his arms wrapped tightly around your torso, as if he's afraid you'll leave.

there's slow sips of wine that follow pursuit. hot kisses trailed against the skin of your neck. quiet gasps leaving your lips. whispers of 'i love you's'. promises of 'forever'.

and it's all true. you know that. he knows that.

'nova say anything about me?' he asks, questioning about his daughter.

'yes. she kept asking me why you were so late.' a kiss follows on the juncture on your neck and shoulder. a thumb, running circles on your inner thigh.

'you're upset,' he says. it's not an inquiry. a plain statement. an observation.

'not upset. i know what it's like to be out there. i'm scared for you,' he sighs. breathe hot against your skin. stubble running against your neck. hot, open mouthed kisses. hand on your thigh trailing higher and higher. resting just above where you need him. the water splashes around your bodies, as another shared sip of wine follows.

'i know, darling,' he whispers. his canine grazing against your throbbing pulse. your head falls back, resting on his shoulder. it's addicting, the feeling of his lips on your skin. how he makes you feel. the flutters of butterflies in your stomach. the gooseflesh on your skin. the heat between your legs.

'i'm just afraid you won't come home alive.' you confess. you hear his breathe hitch. his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent. his hands all over your hot skin. water splashing around as you settle more on his chest.

'i'll always come home alive. to you. to nova. to us.' he promises. he squeezes your waist, other hand rubbing tight, slow circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. he's got your body mesmerized. he's mapped it out in his mind. every curve, every dimple, every mole, every scar, every stretchmark. he knows it like the back of his hand.

'make me believe it, sirius,' you gasp out, stomach clenching at his ministrations. it's not much of a command than a request. but he gets the hint anyway. he pulls you closer-if that was possible. places his lips on your neck, sucking slowly. bruising you so gently.

'as you wish, my love,'

****************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

additional tags - @wintrsoul @areaderinlove @bluebelleblossoms @azure-drag0ness @alittlebitofanora @sleepy-skye  @scrumptioussongpainter

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox.)

****************************************

[whorediaries-09]

haha ikr, i loved writing her!

put my lips to something;

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- fluff, suggestive content, mentions of the war. a/n- do i have an economics exam tomorrow? yes. will i still write this? yes.

the diner;

the last bit of the banana is flicked off the ceramic plate. she stands on her tiny tiptoes, running the plate under the cool water. she says- no, insists that she doesn't need a stool. she's five now, she says. tall enough.

you're leaning over the refrigerator, sipping slowly, the last warm bits of the sickly sweet coffee she'd so convincingly prepared for you. she's stubborn. like her dad, you think, smiling to yourself.

the water splashes on her frock. she grimaces, the cold seeping through her delicate, soft skin. she wipes her hands on the kitchen towel, setting the washed plate in the racks, letting it dry. she pads slowly towards you. you take the last sip of the coffee, watching as her lips form a pout. her gray eyes look into you, the request unspoken.

it's easy, really.

put a star sticker on next to the list of chores designated to her. which isn't much. wash the dishes, eat your fruit, don't pick your nose, and don't say any bad words. she'd accomplished two of them, at least.

'your soaked, baby,' you say. your nails dig into the thin paper, pulling the sticker off. she pouts even more. gives you a puppy eyed look.

'i know mama,' she says. her arms wrap around your waist, silently begging you to pick her up. you'll relent, because how do you not? the water from her clothes seep into yours too. you carry her to her bedroom.

'let's get you changed, yeah?' she nods, sleepily. nuzzles her face in the crook of your neck. you soothingly pat her back. there are no monsters under her bed, you tell her. and you won't let any get under her bed either. that, you tell yourself.

'not even in my closet?' she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. you look into her wardrobe, selecting a soft blue frock.

'not even in your closet,' you confirm, handing her the frock. she smiles sleepily, changing her clothes. she tucks herself into bed. she's five, she says. she doesn't need your help to pull a blanket over her body. she can read a bedtime story by herself too, she insists.

'want me to put out the lamp then, baby?' she doesn't answer, snuggling further into the pillow under her head. your clothes stick to your body too. you'll change your clothes too.

*-

you're pulling up your shorts. his faded t-shirt's next. before the fabric can fall over your waist, the door clicks open. the tobacco comes next, followed by musk. a hint of cologne too. his cold fingers splay over your waist, index trailing the stretchmarks over the skin. a hint that you'd carried a life. a life you'd made. with him.

'hey, sweetheart,' he says. the t-shirt falls over his hand. his chin follows next, resting atop your shoulder. you smile, resting your head against his.

'hey, you,' you feel his breathe, hot against your warm skin. he sighs, pulling you close. the world's raging outside. you'll indulge in this moment of quiet. even when you don't say anything. even when he doesn't say anything.

'want me to draw you a bath?' you ask. his fingertips trail higher, over your sternum. it rests along the underside of your breast. he sighs louder, taking in your scent.

'will you join?' he asks. tilts his head. from the periphery of your eye, you see him give the puppy dog eyed look. he knows you've already taken a shower. you don't need it.

'please,' he whispers. barely audible. so soft, rasped in your ears. your hand trails underneath your-his shirt, and your hold his hand. wedding rings clash against each other.

'yes,' you relent, because, how do you not?

*-

he sits in the bath, his abnormally long legs a tight fit in the tub. you sit against his chest. he's got his arms wrapped tightly around your torso, as if he's afraid you'll leave.

there's slow sips of wine that follow pursuit. hot kisses trailed against the skin of your neck. quiet gasps leaving your lips. whispers of 'i love you's'. promises of 'forever'.

and it's all true. you know that. he knows that.

'nova say anything about me?' he asks, questioning about his daughter.

'yes. she kept asking me why you were so late.' a kiss follows on the juncture on your neck and shoulder. a thumb, running circles on your inner thigh.

'you're upset,' he says. it's not an inquiry. a plain statement. an observation.

'not upset. i know what it's like to be out there. i'm scared for you,' he sighs. breathe hot against your skin. stubble running against your neck. hot, open mouthed kisses. hand on your thigh trailing higher and higher. resting just above where you need him. the water splashes around your bodies, as another shared sip of wine follows.

'i know, darling,' he whispers. his canine grazing against your throbbing pulse. your head falls back, resting on his shoulder. it's addicting, the feeling of his lips on your skin. how he makes you feel. the flutters of butterflies in your stomach. the gooseflesh on your skin. the heat between your legs.

'i'm just afraid you won't come home alive.' you confess. you hear his breathe hitch. his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent. his hands all over your hot skin. water splashing around as you settle more on his chest.

'i'll always come home alive. to you. to nova. to us.' he promises. he squeezes your waist, other hand rubbing tight, slow circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. he's got your body mesmerized. he's mapped it out in his mind. every curve, every dimple, every mole, every scar, every stretchmark. he knows it like the back of his hand.

'make me believe it, sirius,' you gasp out, stomach clenching at his ministrations. it's not much of a command than a request. but he gets the hint anyway. he pulls you closer-if that was possible. places his lips on your neck, sucking slowly. bruising you so gently.

'as you wish, my love,'

****************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

additional tags - @wintrsoul @areaderinlove @bluebelleblossoms @azure-drag0ness @alittlebitofanora @sleepy-skye  @scrumptioussongpainter

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox.)

****************************************

[whorediaries-09]

put my lips to something;

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- fluff, suggestive content, mentions of the war. a/n- do i have an economics exam tomorrow? yes. will i still write this? yes.

the diner;

the last bit of the banana is flicked off the ceramic plate. she stands on her tiny tiptoes, running the plate under the cool water. she says- no, insists that she doesn't need a stool. she's five now, she says. tall enough.

you're leaning over the refrigerator, sipping slowly, the last warm bits of the sickly sweet coffee she'd so convincingly prepared for you. she's stubborn. like her dad, you think, smiling to yourself.

the water splashes on her frock. she grimaces, the cold seeping through her delicate, soft skin. she wipes her hands on the kitchen towel, setting the washed plate in the racks, letting it dry. she pads slowly towards you. you take the last sip of the coffee, watching as her lips form a pout. her gray eyes look into you, the request unspoken.

it's easy, really.

put a star sticker on next to the list of chores designated to her. which isn't much. wash the dishes, eat your fruit, don't pick your nose, and don't say any bad words. she'd accomplished two of them, at least.

'your soaked, baby,' you say. your nails dig into the thin paper, pulling the sticker off. she pouts even more. gives you a puppy eyed look.

'i know mama,' she says. her arms wrap around your waist, silently begging you to pick her up. you'll relent, because how do you not? the water from her clothes seep into yours too. you carry her to her bedroom.

'let's get you changed, yeah?' she nods, sleepily. nuzzles her face in the crook of your neck. you soothingly pat her back. there are no monsters under her bed, you tell her. and you won't let any get under her bed either. that, you tell yourself.

'not even in my closet?' she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. you look into her wardrobe, selecting a soft blue frock.

'not even in your closet,' you confirm, handing her the frock. she smiles sleepily, changing her clothes. she tucks herself into bed. she's five, she says. she doesn't need your help to pull a blanket over her body. she can read a bedtime story by herself too, she insists.

'want me to put out the lamp then, baby?' she doesn't answer, snuggling further into the pillow under her head. your clothes stick to your body too. you'll change your clothes too.

*-

you're pulling up your shorts. his faded t-shirt's next. before the fabric can fall over your waist, the door clicks open. the tobacco comes next, followed by musk. a hint of cologne too. his cold fingers splay over your waist, index trailing the stretchmarks over the skin. a hint that you'd carried a life. a life you'd made. with him.

'hey, sweetheart,' he says. the t-shirt falls over his hand. his chin follows next, resting atop your shoulder. you smile, resting your head against his.

'hey, you,' you feel his breathe, hot against your warm skin. he sighs, pulling you close. the world's raging outside. you'll indulge in this moment of quiet. even when you don't say anything. even when he doesn't say anything.

'want me to draw you a bath?' you ask. his fingertips trail higher, over your sternum. it rests along the underside of your breast. he sighs louder, taking in your scent.

'will you join?' he asks. tilts his head. from the periphery of your eye, you see him give the puppy dog eyed look. he knows you've already taken a shower. you don't need it.

'please,' he whispers. barely audible. so soft, rasped in your ears. your hand trails underneath your-his shirt, and your hold his hand. wedding rings clash against each other.

'yes,' you relent, because, how do you not?

*-

he sits in the bath, his abnormally long legs a tight fit in the tub. you sit against his chest. he's got his arms wrapped tightly around your torso, as if he's afraid you'll leave.

there's slow sips of wine that follow pursuit. hot kisses trailed against the skin of your neck. quiet gasps leaving your lips. whispers of 'i love you's'. promises of 'forever'.

and it's all true. you know that. he knows that.

'nova say anything about me?' he asks, questioning about his daughter.

'yes. she kept asking me why you were so late.' a kiss follows on the juncture on your neck and shoulder. a thumb, running circles on your inner thigh.

'you're upset,' he says. it's not an inquiry. a plain statement. an observation.

'not upset. i know what it's like to be out there. i'm scared for you,' he sighs. breathe hot against your skin. stubble running against your neck. hot, open mouthed kisses. hand on your thigh trailing higher and higher. resting just above where you need him. the water splashes around your bodies, as another shared sip of wine follows.

'i know, darling,' he whispers. his canine grazing against your throbbing pulse. your head falls back, resting on his shoulder. it's addicting, the feeling of his lips on your skin. how he makes you feel. the flutters of butterflies in your stomach. the gooseflesh on your skin. the heat between your legs.

'i'm just afraid you won't come home alive.' you confess. you hear his breathe hitch. his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent. his hands all over your hot skin. water splashing around as you settle more on his chest.

'i'll always come home alive. to you. to nova. to us.' he promises. he squeezes your waist, other hand rubbing tight, slow circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. he's got your body mesmerized. he's mapped it out in his mind. every curve, every dimple, every mole, every scar, every stretchmark. he knows it like the back of his hand.

'make me believe it, sirius,' you gasp out, stomach clenching at his ministrations. it's not much of a command than a request. but he gets the hint anyway. he pulls you closer-if that was possible. places his lips on your neck, sucking slowly. bruising you so gently.

'as you wish, my love,'

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taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

additional tags - @wintrsoul @areaderinlove @bluebelleblossoms @azure-drag0ness @alittlebitofanora @sleepy-skye  @scrumptioussongpainter

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[whorediaries-09]

how do we feel about a domestic stupidly silly fluffy fic with husband!sirius?

[whorediaries-09]

thank you so much for the tag @wintrsoul!!

this is scarily accurate, aye!

no pressure tags: @kimorna @burntoutyouth @nottswitch @wh0re-for-w0lfstar and anyone who wants to play!

I have a little belated valentines tag chain for anyone who wants to play!

link to quiz here

open tag!!

@suugarbabe @unstablereader @sensationalstardust @jemssafespace @nightsmarish @ailoda @iamgonnagetyouback @honeycaksy

[whorediaries-09]

thinking about sweet sweet aftercare with sirius after he's fucked you boneless and stupid. all pretty and pliant in his arms <3

[whorediaries-09]

you don't what you've got;

pairing- priest!sirius black x virgin!reader warning(s)- dark themes, 18+ content, corruption. a/n- this is probably way too intense than anything i've written on this blog-and that is saying something. also i'm projecting teehee, so this is entirely self indulgent. this might just be my favorite thing that i've written.

the diner

sirius thinks you're a demon. you have to be. he thinks you're corrupting his church. you were walking sin. a sin that corrupted him. a sin that suffocates him.

no, you weren't a demon. no. you were divinity. and he was your devout. you were so pure. so innocent. you were something beyond human. you were an angel.

he was tempted to slash your wings. he wanted you to fall. he wanted you to be his. to

you came in the form of a church-goer. shy 'hellos and goodbyes' followed the journey of his lustful sin. he always had had problems with self-control. he was aware of his true nature, that he wasn't close to purity as much as he should be.

your temptation worked on him. but he was strong. he had to be. no matter how much your temptation may allure him, he had to stay strong. stay on his ground. he had to keep himself focused. he couldn't submit to seduction. even if he thought you were tailored so perfectly for him. just for him.

well, he lied. to himself. and to the holy spirits he prayed to.

he couldn't help himself. not when you started coming up to him more and more. a part of him wondered if you really were an angel. if you really were as innocent as you appeared to be. perhaps you could hear his thoughts. perhaps you knew what he did behind close doors. perhaps you could hear him whispering to himself, his mind an array of unholy thoughts and depictions of your body.

the apologies to god never stopped. he prayed to god, to deject you from his life. but now, it was all fruitless. he had always known it would be fruitless.

because it wasn't god he worshiped anymore. it was you. it always had been you. you, his fallen angel, sprawled across his sacerdotal chambers. in his bed.

father black whimpers between your thighs. your nectar ambrosia, sweet and bitter across the spasming muscle of his tongue. he closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of how good he made you feel. of how good he devoured you. of how good he pleased you.

your fingers intertwine in his hair, tugging him closer. he opens his eyes. he sees you. for the first time. no, weren't a demon. no, you were a gift from god, sent from the very corners of heaven. god had sent you to him. with the tears in your lashes, the arch of your back, the swell of your kiss bitten lips. in this moment, you were his angel. an angel that god had crafted out for him. god had slashed your pure white wings, and now you lay, your back bloody with the loss of your innocence.

god had sent him an angel. his angel.

'are you feeling good, my child?' he pleads, voice a vibrato of ecstasy. 'am i doing good?' he slipped his middle finger in your welcoming heat. he pressed a kiss on your hip, burying his face between your thighs again, lips wrapping around your clit.

thank you, lord.

'yes, father. you're doing so good. please don't stop,' you manage to breathe out as he slowly pumps his finger. his heart swells at your reassurance. he hadn't done this since high-school. but his memories had retained. he'd thought about doing this to you more times than he'd like to admit.

he shuddered at the raw plea in your voice. it was music to his ears. a symphony of sin vibrating in his very core. he feels himself strain against the stark black robes.

'shh, i've got you, angel,' he muses, tongue darting out, sharply, slowly, licking against your slit. if he was to die for you, if he was to suffer his deathless death, he'd suffer it with you. he'd spend his entire life being devoted to his little angel, worshiping, like a dog at the shrine of his sins and lies.

your body undulates under his touch. he was drunk, on the taste of your essence, so sweet, so pure. he slowly worked the second finger in your hole, followed by a third. scissoring you open for him. tongue flicking over your swollen clit, sucking it between his lips, he says,

'i won't stop, my little angel. not until you've found release. not until you've cherished the deathless death that you've presented me with.'

he increases his pace, pumping in and out with rhythmed ease. your breathe hitches, stomach tingling with the beauty of shame, with the lust of desire, and the salvation that threatens to consume you. your muscles clench around his fingers.

'let go my angel,' he soothes, slowly increasing his efforts. your body was as taut as a bow-string, ready to snap at any moment. 'that's it, beauty. let me taste your salvation,' he encourages. his tongue lashes wilder, fingers pump faster. for this is what he'd wanted. what he'd dreamed of in long, dark nights. to have you, his fallen angel writhe underneath him. your pleasure, his prayer.

'father, my stomach feels tingly,' you say, breathless, body aching with impending release. your belly flutters, clenched as your climax approached. the sensation sent a bolt of pure, unadulterated arousal through him, his cock so painfully tight against his robes.

'that's how sin feels like, my beauty, my angel,' he reassures. his voice is low, almost like a growl, desire punctuated in every syllable that slips from his tongue.

'it'll tingle you. burn you. consume you. till that's the only thing that you know, till that's the only feeling you're drowning in.'

a fourth finger slipped inside your impossibly tight, hot, sopping cunt, stretching you wider, filling you better. his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit, stimulation relentless. your walls fluttered beautifully around his fingers, rippled and quaked. your body tensed, ready to snap any moment.

'don't fight it, my child,' he urged. it was more of a threat than an advice. 'embrace it. embrace the sin. let it take you, devour you, ruin you for anything but ungodly lust. cum for me, my beauty, my angel.'

with his words, his fingers curled just right, stroking that sweet spongy spot within you. at the same time, his lips wrapped around your sensitive, swollen clit. he sucked hard, his tongue flicking mercilessly against the bud.

and then, with a ragged scream of pure ecstasy, you came. your cunt clamping around his fingers like a warm, velvety vice, fluttering and rippling, your body quaking with the intensity of it all. your body bowed off the bed, bad arched like a cat as you winced, your moans borderline pornographic. wave after wave of rapture crashed over you.

father black works you through it, fingers pumping, tongue laving, drawing out your climax until you collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and spent. he resurfaces from between your thighs, his chin and lips glistening with your essence. he crawled up your body, his piercing gaze never leaving yours.

he could fell his heart beat in his ears, at your sight. wrecked, yet so radiant. cheeks flushed, eyes glazed in post-orgasmic haze. slowly, reverently, he leans closer, raven hair tickling your cheeks. he captures your lips in a hot, searing kiss. he pours all his pent up desire into it.

'shh, my angel,' he says, trailing hot open mouthed kisses across your jaw, 'i've got you. i've got you so good. i've got you so perfectly,' you take in a deep breathe, trying to calm down your racing heart. in this moment, as the moonlight strokes his sharp, porcelain features, you're utterly his. his angel.

his fallen angel.

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taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

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A/N- I WILL WRITE A PART TWO IF THIS DOES WELL OR IF I FEEL HORNY IN GENERAL. I NEED SOME THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS.

[whorediaries-09]

Your media consumption is your responsibility. If you need someone to hand hold you while reading fanfiction to tell you whats right and wrong then you're not mature of enough to be here.

[whorediaries-09]

priest sirius black, i'm gonna write you one day. and then i won't ever go back.

[whorediaries-09]

desire you;

pairing- coach!james potter x reader warning(s)- hurt/comfort, suggestive content. a/n- no holy thoughts just james manhandling. also reader is of age nobody come at me 👺👺

the diner

it's unusually quiet in the dressing room. maybe it's the sourness of an almost victory. almost. your hand hovers over the lump that's forming on your right shoulder. a rough swing from a beater. a miss of the grasp of the snitch. you had been so close to ending the match.

you bite your lip. your heart's heavy. disappointment weighs down on your chest like a stubborn coffee stain. burying your face in your hands, you sigh. the sound echoes in the empty dressing room. your friends and teammates have all left, leaving you alone with your thoughts. the ugly thoughts that make you question your ability in the game. the ugly thoughts that make you insecure. the ugly thoughts that scream at you, tell you you're not worthy of being the captain of the quidditch team.

your jaw clenches.

'fuck,' you whisper. you don't know whether it's anger or hurt you feel. maybe it's disappointment. maybe it's grief. or perhaps, it's insecurity. insecurity from your own damned self, that makes you question your own capabilities.

your name echoes on the walls, drawing your attention to the coach. he hovers by the door. the towel that rests on his shoulder is damp. it imitates your inner turmoil. for a moment, you think it mocks you. or maybe james put it on his shoulder deliberately. to remind you of your failure. you furrow your brow, angry.

'yes?' you ask, your tone soft, yet unkind. it wasn't your fault. he walks closer into the room, eyes wandering over your defeated form. he kneels down in front of you.

'are you okay?' he says. for a moment you think he's feigning this concern. you think he's here to scream at you, tell you how incapable you are. maybe even kick you out of the team.

'no,' you answer, honestly. his hand hovers on your clothed knee. he's staring at you, silently begging you to look into his honeyed gaze. you don't. you're ashamed. of disappointing him and yourself. you don't allow him to comfort you. you scoot away from the touch.

he doesn't budge.

'you took a pretty bad hit,' he begins, his voice usually soft, 'can i see?' you consider his question for a moment. it's not really a question. the way he'd posed it left no room or arguments or options. it's more of a command. you'll comply.

'yes,' you say. he stands up, walking closer to where you're sitting.

'stand up,' he quietly says. you comply, again.

his hand hover over the collar of your shirt. he's watching you. observing the wet-patch that's formed on the fabric of your clothes from the dampness of your freshly washed hair.

'you did good,' he says, slowly shifting the collar of your shirt. his eyes hover over the lump on your right shoulder.

'you don't have to lie to me, mr. potter,' you whisper. he pulls his lower lip back, rough fingers pressing slowly down on your shoulder.

'just james is fine. we're off our professional fields. for now, anyways.'

'it's rude,'

'if you think so. call me whatever you want.' he steps closer. you watch his broad frame loom over you. he's backing you up, slowly, deliberately against one of the shower cubicles.

'did you go to madam pomphrey?' he asks, rubbing gentle circles on the lump, as if trying to soothe the pain. you bite your lip, trying to hold back a wince.

'no,' you admit. truthfully, but bashfully. he hums, stepping closer. you've got your back against the door of the cubicle now. he's too close. too close for your relationship to remain professional. the pressure of his circles on your lump increases. it's as if he's trying to gauge out a reaction from you. make you wince.

'why not, hm?' he asks. he pushes his knee between your thighs. your eyes widen.

'mr. potter?-'

'shh. just let me take care of you.'

the way he says it makes you weak in the damn knees. his hand travel lower, stopping at your bottom. he lifts you up, like a sack of potatoes. you squeal at the suddenness of it all. his lips curl, a hint of a smirk on his face. your legs wrap around his waist, your back pressed against the shower cubicle.

'it's going to hurt, you know?' he says, slowly unbuttoning your shirt, 'if you don't get it checked up by pomphrey, that is,'

something about the way he says it makes you wonder if he really meant that statement about your lump. you bite your lip, bashful, none the less.

'yes,' you say, 'i'm sorry,'

his lips trail down your neck, breathing you in. he hums softly, the action so soft, it makes you weak. his hands grip the unbuttoned shirt, and he pulls it off.

'you should take more care of yourself, doll,'

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taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

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[whorediaries-09]

they don't last enough;

pairing- sirius black x shy!reader warnings- hurt/comfort. a/n- hello hello! i'm not dead guys just a bit busy, sorry xx.

the diner

sirius thinks it's a rash decision. harry would say it was, anyways. but, his heart aches. he couldn't just leave you out in the middle of a blizzard. even though, essentially, you're just a stranger.

and he wasn't the only man who was making the rash decisions tonight. you had hopped into his car too, with a promise of heat and a charger. he promised a good, cozy bed, for the night.

the car ride back to his cabin is cruelly slow and silent. sirius doesn't like the silence. not when his heart thumps into his ears. but he doesn't say much either. while uncharacteristic of him to stay quiet, he thinks he'll oblige. shyness is etched all over your face. the way you bite your lower lip, the way you fiddle with the zippers of your cartoonishly buff puffer jacket, the way your brows are furrowed, and the way your shoulders are tight.

he doesn't want to bother you. he thinks of making a joke, but thinks against it, letting your stay in your comfort zone. he halts his car, parking it into his garage. you hop out, standing in the middle of his garden. your yellow jacket a startling sign against the pearl white snow around you.

he stifles a snicker. you look like a warning sign, he thinks. he jingles with the keys, walking closer to you, but not enough to intrude your personal space. his voice is quiet, a raspy purr,

'you gonna come inside, love?' he asks, the nickname rolling off his tongue so casually, it almost makes your breathe hitch. almost. you nod, before speaking up. it's more of a whisper, he thinks.

'yes,' you begin, 'i'll come inside.' he smiles, before running his fingers through his shoulder length black hair, brushing off snowflakes. he walks towards the front door of a cabin, a gesture for you to follow him.

you quietly tread through the ankle deep snow behind him. he's very kind, you think. you were essentially just a stranger, after all. it almost makes you think if he's a serial killer, or worse, a rapist. but you don't dwell on those thoughts. you can't. not when you see a genuine warmth behind his gray eyes. not when you see a genuine kindness in his gestures.

he fiddles with the key for a moment before unlocking his door open. he walks inside, dropping his keys in a chipped bowl which stands by the door. he's got no hooks for keys, you notice. he flops down on the couch, untying his shoe laces. his hair falls in front of his face, hiding the porcelain skin on his cheeks. it's stupid, and unfair, you think, how his skin appears so perfect even when the winter's winds are being so cruel. distastefully, you bite your lip. your tongue darts over it, feeling the chapped skin beneath it.

'you're gonna just stand there, love?' he asks, taking off his second shoe. his hair still covers his face, and even though you can't see him, you can hear the smile in his voice. it makes your stomach wrestle and churn.

'no, i-uhm-' you mumble, sheepishly. your throat feels like it's on fire, like it always does, when making conversations with others. he waves a hand, dismissively. he pats the space next to him,

'i don't bite, love,' he begins, 'come here.'

normally, you would've found the idea of a stranger asking you to sit beside them downright repulsive, but right now, you listen to him. the blankets on the couch look cozy enough. maybe you'd crash on this stranger's couch for the night. the snowstorm wasn't stopping anytime soon, anyways.

you sit down on the other edge of the couch. you shuffle with your own boots, pulling them out, before folding your legs. you hide your toes between the folds your thighs and calves create, sighing contently at the warmth of your own body.

'thank you,' you say. you scold yourself for not saying it earlier. you didn't want this man to think you were taking advantage of his hospitable nature.

'it's okay,' he says, 'i'm sure you would've done the same.'

you nod, silently hoping he won't make more conversation with you.

'what made you drive so recklessly in the snow anyway?' he asks. it wasn't a question you were caught off guard by. you were...expecting it almost. in fact, you had been thinking of a thousand different lies you could've come up with to answer this question. but now, your throat felt hot. constricted.

your eyes drift to the fire that burns in the fireplace. he's covering you up with a blanket. it smells of cinnamon and tobacco. it's a weird smell, but not completely repulsive. in fact, it's comforting, in it's own weird way.

you stare at your fingers. you can feel his stare on your form, gray, curious eyes waiting for a response. the fire crackles the wood, the flames consuming it. it reflects on the thin band of gold around your ring finger.

ironic, you think.

'i was trying to escape confrontation,' you say. it's a quiet whisper. anyone who wasn't waiting for you to speak would've missed it.

sirius raises an eyebrow.

'confrontation?' he asks. your tongue darts out, wetting your chapped lip.

'yes,' you respond, quietly. you clasp your fingers around your ring finger, fiddling with the band around it. 'my..uh, fiancé was-is cheating on me. i didn't want to confront him about it. not now, not ever, if that's possible.'

you're breathless, a little, by the time you stop speaking. your eyes reflect unshed tears. sirius thinks it's cruel, to put it shortly. he watches you fiddling with the ring. he wants to clasp his hands around yours. comfort you, soothe you. tell you lies that'll give you momentary relief from the hurt you feel.

'i'm sorry,' he says, finally. a little sheepish, he continues, 'what's your name?'

you smile, despite yourself. for the first time since you've met him, your gaze finds his.

it almost makes his breathe hitch. he thinks it's beautiful, in a cruel, fucked up way. the tears in your eyes. the flush in your cheeks. the tousle of your hair. the way your tongue and teeth constantly fidget with your lower lip.

it's ridiculous, he thinks. ridiculous because he finds you beautiful like this. bared out to him. open to him. begging to be patched up by him.

quietly, you offer him your name. he nods, though his mind is a little messy with the potential scenarios he could explore, with you. but he's not ruthless. with a slight curl of his lips, he says.

'i'm sirius black.'

'like the star?'

'exactly like the star,' he confirms. you nod. the name suits him, you think to yourself. his eyes shine like stars.

the silence that follows is marred by the snowstorm that howls outside, the fire burning under the mantle. the quiet sounds of your synchronized breaths. it's not awkward. at least, neither of you think it is.

'so-you, uh, how did you find out?' he asks, testing the waters. unconsciously, he scoots closer, afraid you'd break.

'lace underwear in my car,' you answer, bluntly. he grits his teeth. a single tear rolls down your right cheek. he grimaces internally at the sight. he can sense the pain behind your eyes, but a conflicting thought urges him. he thinks you look pretty when you cry. maybe he'll let you cry.

the thought, albeit tempting, is cruel.

his eyes follow your left cheek, and another tear follows pursuit. unconsciously, he drags his thumb on your skin, a numbing action to ground you, to soothe you.

he watches your throat hitch, breathing turn ragged at the unexpected touch. but it's only momentary. you lean onto his touch. it's rough, the pad of his thumb. it's calloused, the palm of his hand, which cups your cheek.

'you're okay,' he whispers. it's a lie, but neither of you acknowledge it. but it's a balm to your soul which burns to weep. yet you find yourself asking.

'am i?'

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taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

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[whorediaries-09]

in your eyes;

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- angst, death. a/n- contrary to popular belief, i'm very much alive and breathing. also i hate this i just need some ideas 🙏

the diner.

it's difficult to not hold you. even though he knows you're here to hurt him. even though he knows you're here to hurt him, his godson, his friends. betrayal grips his brain, but his heart can't help but shatter.

it's clear as day, the mark on your forearm. burning charcoal black. the snakes looking him in the eye, as if mocking him. he hates it. you've been gone for too long, and now you can't be what you were.

he knew.

'do you know when you'll be coming back?'

you hadn't answer. he should've know. and now, you weren't coming back. and he'd lost you. if he were to survive, he'd have to kill you. that was the only way he could survive.

you and him, were after all, too close to the stars.

he thinks of making you bleed. he remembers snape's curse. the one that slashes your body, makes your bleed. there's little to no chance of survival. he clings on to the hope. he hopes your tears aren't crocodile tears. he hopes you're bleeding with pain, with so much pain that you forget everything that happened when you didn't come back to him.

your scream his raw, pungent and sharp. you're dirty, he realizes. he can't love you anymore. he couldn't die for you, not when he had so many others to save.

'just kill me, sirius.' you say. it's a whisper. it's vulnerable. it's what he's missed. it's what he wants. he feels his broken heart pieces pierce into his body.

'i can't,' he admits. you raise your wand. it's either him or you. it has to be you, even you know it. but he doesn't want to accept it.

'i don't know how long i can stay off the curse, sirius. please just kill me.'

it's as if you adore him even when his hands are around your neck.

'just let me hold you, for the last time.'

you're crying. he hates to see you cry.

'no, you can't. please kill me. for harry?'

he slashes his wand in the air. it happens too slow. he sees the life leave your eyes. he sees you freeze. he sees your heartbeat stop. he sees you fall on the ground, cold.

you won't ever come back.

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taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

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[whorediaries-09]

tell me why u follow me on anon

i am so baffled why y'all follow my shit blog. explain please.

[whorediaries-09]

still adore you;

pairing- will graham x reader warning(s)- blood, hurt/comfort, substances. a/n- this is me hard-launching my new found will graham obsession. part two if ya'll want teehee.

the diner.

'you're incapable of making alright decisions,' mr. graham said, losing the usual sense of calm in his voice. you could see his face turn red, through you weren't sure whether it was because of the cold air outside or because he was angry. either ways, it didn't bother you. who was he, judging your decision making skills?

'i think i'm capable of making pretty alright decisions, mr. graham,' you replied, tone sharp, making it clear that you didn't want any further of his opinions. though it bugged you, in the back of your mind, that he was right, you didn't want to acknowledge that little voice. he was usually right about situations like these.

this was a truly a dangerous game you were playing. stepping out of your professionalism, to be a vigilante, to be a pawn for 'the online murderer', as they'd named him. you'd finally tracked him down, and knew exactly where he resided. you may have used unethical methods to locate him, which even went against your own morals; tracking him down had been the main goal for you and your colleagues for quite a few months now.

'i don't even know why i'm trying to change your mind,' he huffed, walking into the office, his pace faster than it was, leaving you behind, your feet drowned in the cold snow that gathered around your boots.

it now seemed like a bad decision to tell him your plans. if there was anything anyone knew about will graham, it was the fact that he'd do anything-even if it required him his own life-to try and save the life of others. you didn't want him to ruin your plan. you had it planned out, and you knew that it would be only be successful without hindrance. a little slip of plan, and you would die.

it was quite the risk, but you were ready to take it. if it meant saving the lives of others, you were ready to take action, be a pawn in the path of death.

*-

you took a deep breath, trying to calm down your nerves. for the last time, you checked the green screen behind you, making sure it was alright. you were about to log into a call with the notorious killer, who was wanted dead or alive. preferably alive. that's exactly what you were going to do.

swallowing, you moved the curser on your screen, editing the background behind you before logging into the meeting. the circle on the screen turned a few times before you saw the man you had been searching for.

'hey, darling,' he said, waving at you. you felt your stomach churn. he was quite the handsome man, though not your type. he had sharp features, perfectly styled blonde hair. his eyes were a deep shade of gray. if you didn't know the cruelty behind this facade, you'd probably found and fallen into the appeal of the man.

the first step had been checked out from your plan. the second step was going to be a bit tricky, but you knew he'd fall into the trap.

'hello,' you said, hoping you acted out your part. this wasn't the first time you'd been used as a lure - a femme fatale per se - for your team. you were pretty good at what you did. but all the time you had proper guards watching over you. this time you didn't. it was a solo mission.

'shy are you?' he asked, distracting him from your thoughts. you giggled, the sound unnatural to your ears.

'a bit, i guess,' you admitted. you smiled shyly. the eat of fear on your cheeks passed as a sweet blush.

'you're such a cutie aren't you?' he asked, clicking his tongue. 'i'd love to see you in person.' he tilted his head, watching your background now.

'i must ask, why have you edited that background of yours?'

'it's because...well i'm a bit messy. don't want my first date to think i'm a freak,'

'first date? you're telling me this is the first time you've been on a date?' you smiled, shyly. you tuck your hair behind your ear.

'yes, it is. the men think i'm too shy. they like someone experienced i guess. the women think i'm too repulsive. god i really feel like an attention seeker now,' you watched the man's eyes turn cold. you watched his pupils dilate.

bingo. he'd been lured.

'you've grabbed my attention now, little one,' the nickname almost made you want to gag. but you let your forced smile stay plastered on your face. he grabbed a cigarette from his desk. he placed it between his pink lips, and lit it up.

'so, where do you live?' fuck. you weren't expecting him to be so direct.

'why do you ask?' he smirked. he blew out a puff from his mouth.

'i wanna know who i'm talking to. felt like an ice breaker. it's okay if you don't want to say. what do you do for a living?'

'i work as a barista. i'm working on a novel, currently,'

'oh yeah? that's sounds cool. read a bit to me,' he said. it was more of a demand than a request.

'nope,' you giggled, hopefully, playfully, 'no spoilers,' he took the last draw from the cigarette. he leaned in close to the camera, letting you see his background more clearly. you had been simultaneously screen recording. this would've helped you track him down and complete the fourth and the last step of your plan.

'tell me where you live, little one. you've got me entranced. i don't want no woman with experience. you'd do. i'd teach you so much, you'll practically be begging me to stop teaching you so much.'

he pushed the cigarette into his ashtray, watching you intensely, as if studying you.

'but i won't stop. you'd like that, won't you?'

your plan needed some modifications, it seemed.

'yeah,' you whispered, licking your lips. you tried your best to make your eyes look glossy, and pretend to be drawn in by his disgusting words.

*-

'you're growing up too fast,' beverly teased you, plopping on your bed. you and her had been two peas in a pod, since you'd met each other. no one saw the other without the other. most of what you'd revealed to 'the online murderer' was false. but one thing was true, you'd never been on a date. you were pretty inexperienced in that field. the times you had been the lure for the menacing masterminds weren't dates as such. but this one was.

the situation was so tense, it made you want to throw up with the intense hormones that churned within you.

'shut up,' you said, trying not to spill out your feelings and the secrets you'd hidden from her. you didn't even know why you'd talked about your plan to will graham, with whom you were barely acquainted with. maybe you'd wanted the proper judgement, even though you'd known it was dangerous.

'no i won't. i'm so proud of you,' she said, pulling at the hem of your skin tight burgundy dress. you put on your luxurious fur coat, pulling it close to your body, to keep it warm. stilettos weren't the best option for the kind of 'date' you were going to, but she'd insisted on them.

'do i look okay?' you asked.

'you look like a total bombsh- wait someone's calling.' she took out her phone from her leather jacket. you read the saved number as 'will graham' in a quick flash before she put it to her ear to listen.

'yes will? katz this side.' you couldn't hear what will had said to her on the other side of the phone, but you could see the annoyance grow on her face.

'what do you mean, will? i think she's responsible enough to take care of herself. just because you-'

the line ended with a huge beep that echoed.

'what's he say? you asked, suspicious.

'nothing. he's being a jealous prick, that's all. go enjoy your date,'

with that, you were pushed outside of your house, into the cold bitter wind.

*-

you'd never expected to be stranded here. in the middle of what seemed nowhere. with the noises around you blurred. the world too serene to be true. this wasn't supposed to be like this. you weren't supposed to be lured.

but you were enough in the senses to know that you were supposed to get away. to escape. you ran however fast your cold, sore feet took you. to where, you didn't know. you weren't going to die like this, you were sure. you didn't want to die like this. like a stupid vigilante.

the world was dark. all you could hear was the dark fear that creeped under your skin. that crawled into your stomach, and poured into your heart. you shook with the putrid feeling. it was hot hatred and rage. it was mere stupidity.

you couldn't die like this, trapped into a world of fear. trapped where you knew nothing but fear. you had to escape. but the pain. it followed you.

it flowed down your back, hot, thick and crimson. it was stuck in your mouth. it tasted like iron, warm on your tongue.

then came the collapse. the collapse where, you didn't know. but the grip you recognized. it was hot and strong. unfamiliar but so familiar. the electric blue in his eyes like the ocean, you saw the waves in them. the curls on his head messy, like the situation you were in.

'w-will?' you whispered. there was no recognition of your own voice in your brain. he nodded, pulling you closer.

'please stay with me,' he said, his hand shaking as he spoke into the phone. he pulled off his jacket, and tied it tight around your cold feet.

'stay away,' he said, to whom you didn't know. you flinched at the anger in his voice. but you crawled closer, the scent of his cheap aftershave comforting.

*-

you'd lost track of time when you'd woken up. you didn't know how long it had been since you'd passed out. there was white light all around you, almost blinding you when you'd opened your eyes.

you turned your head to your left. the similar messy mop of curls laid his head beside you. his warm hand was on beside yours, barely touching. how long had it been? it couldn't have been too long. you were still dazed, however. you moved your hand, to touch his.

he raised his head with a quick jerk. before he could open his mouth, you clutched onto his hand.

'i'm sorry,' you whispered. 'i should've listened to you,'

'you did what you thought was right. you always do,'

'i can be a bit stubborn,'

he nodded, smiling. you watched a single drop of tear escape his eye. he wiped it with his shirt cuff.

'i-i don't know what i'd done if you'd been killed in my arms. i was too late to bombard your date,'

your date. right. you didn't remember what had happened to him.

'i know you wanted him unwounded. as good as a horse. but he's in one of the hospital rooms right now. i shot him,'

'oh.'

for what felt like the first time, he looked into your eyes. it wasn't the first time however. they were there in what you believed to be your last moments. they held you close to their warmth, the light against the stark dark fear.

'are you okay mr. graham?' you asked. the both of you had escaped. you were scarred. but was he scarred too? you had to know.

'don't-don't call me that. why do you call me that? will you ever only call me by my name when you're in the verge of dying?'

he took your hand in his, pulling it close to his forehead. softly, he rested it on the back of your palm. the tears ran down his face, falling onto the white bedsheet. there was a dull ache in your heart. you wanted to wipe them off. you didn't know why he was hurt. but it hurt you to see him in hurt.

'i only ever realized how much you mean to me when you were in my arms, dying. begging for me take away your pain. only when i'd gotten your blood on my hand did i know how much your presence affects me.'

you stared at him, confused. what was he trying to say.

'don't speak in such riddles, will. she's pretty oblivious when it comes to these things,' the familiar sound of your friend echoed in your ear. you turned around your head to see beverly standing by the door, bunch of books in her hand. she walked into the room, keeping them by your table.

'it's the middle of winter, there are no flowers i could get you. hopefully you'll like them. i'll just leave them here,' she said. her hand stroked over your hair.

'and will,' she continued, now that she had his attention, 'jimmy and brian are betting on this confession. 5 dollars are at risk,'

will chuckled. it warmed your heart. beverly walked out the door, leaving you and will together, alone.

'let me take you out on your proper first date? please?'

before you could've said anything, you heard brian's gleeful laughter and the tossing of coins into a wallet.

*****************************************************

i'm not going to use my regular taglist since this is a different fandom i'm writing about. but if you do want to be tagged for my upcoming fics for this fandom, let me know in my inbox:) i'll also be accepting requests! please do read my guidelines before sending them in though :).

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[whorediaries-09]

hey hun! how bout a #9 choking and maybe some #6 degradation with the one and only barty crouch jr? im a simp for that man and a sucker for your writing!!!

hell ya, babe.

twisted pleasure;

pairing- landlord!barty crouch jr x reader warning(s)- 18+ content, substances. a/n- the obsession is so strong guys?!

prompt- choking + degradation.

the diner. kinkotober masterlist. kinkotober rules.

the wooden staircase in the corridor creeps into your room. they creak with the heavy steps which you recognize to be your landlord's. cold fear grips you. it's been almost a week after the due date of the month. you still hadn't paid your rent. and you knew he was extremely particular about the dates.

'open the door!' his voice boomed first, then came the obnoxious loud knock. you rushed into your room, trying to put on proper clothes. you were fresh out the shower. in nothing but a faux silk nightdress. you weren't expecting anyone.

especially not him.

'i'm coming!' you scream, but it's covered by the overpowered sound of the door bursting open. barty enters the apartment, and you see him getting overwhelmed by the smell of pot in the living room.

'you filthy bitch!' he says, charging towards you. you back towards the wall, the anger in his voice booming. it's so obvious. and yet you feel more of your oxytocin in your blood rather than just adrenaline. maybe it's because of how insanely attractive he looks with his hair scattered all around his face. or his pupils which are full of spite focused on you.

'i'm sorry,' you manage to whisper out, at least pretending to be scared. you didn't want him to know you were getting turned on. 'i got fired last week. they closed the place-'

'you got the time and money to pay for pot but you ain't got time to pay me my rent? i'll call the fucking cops on you if you don't pay up right now!'

'i'm so sorry, mr. crouch,'

before anymore words were spoken, his hand was around your throat.

'sorry? i gotta pay my bills you know? you fucking whore! you'll pay up, or i'll do unimaginable things to do. bet you would like that wouldn't ya? silly little thing.'

he huffed, his mouth so close to your nose. his hand, touch so hot on your skin. unconsciously, you bucked your hips towards his crotch.

'oh look at the dumb slut. she likes it when i degrade her. don't you?' he mocked you, increasing the pressure of his thumbs on your arteries.

'god, i'll do anything if you will give me a few more days,' you manage to gurgle out. he smiles, running his tongue over his teeth.

'you bitch. i'll make you do anything i want, if that's what it takes me to get you to pay the fuck up.' and it's hell broken loose. he's tearing your nightdress down, exposing your chest to his hungry gaze. he spits between the valley of your breasts, pushing your head further into the wall-if that was even possible. with this other hand, he teases your clit.

'look at you, whore. no panties. and so wet for me, already. you like this huh?'

you stand speechless, letting his rough fingers scissor you open.

'look at you, so turned on for your landlord's cock. ever touched yourself thinking about me, slut?'

it happens so fast, as if in a flash. he's pulling his pants down, wrapping his legs around your waist.

'fuck,' you whimper. he pushes himself into you. it's a fast, burning yet delicious stretch and it makes you lose the strength of your knees. you bite your lip as his hips ruts into yours, profanities and his name falling off your lips like a chant. he's breathing heavy into your ears, cutting off the oxygen flow to your brain.

'dumb, cumslut, for my cock,' your walls pulsate around him at his words, and he smirks. he takes out his phone from his shirt pocket, and opens his camera.

'i'll film us. touch your dumb little cunt when you need me. then call me, i'll fuck you even better than those little fingers of yours can.'

he's relentless, scandalous while he abuses your pussy. your eyes roll backwards with each thrust, his cock hitting your spot perfectly. it's a rhythm and a roll of his hips, along with the force of his hand against your neck that makes you loose your decency and you're begging for him.

'barty, please,' he muffles his growl against your hair, destroying in the name of exploring your guts, and you're letting out breathy moans with the furious orgasm that coils within you.

'beg, beg for my cock,' whore, he croons, and your back scratches against wall he holds you against.

'please, please-barty-shit...' you moan. you feel dizzy, and your orgasm so on the edge consumes you from within and you babble incoherent words. he laughs, and there's a cruel mirth behind his voice.

your pussy walls, flutter around his cock, and he pounds into you, rocks into you and with each thrust, your slickness welcomes him, and it consumes you and him both. your clit rubs deliciously on his torso and simultaneously, his cock hits your sweet spot. your throat rips out a fetishized moan and you're breaking apart on his cock, while he's chasing his own release. your orgasm clutches his cock so tight, he resents the force on your own throat, and menacingly you wonder how he's not suffocated you to death yet.

'st-stop-' you beg, but he doesn't acknowledge you. he's chasing his own release, and the way you grip him drives him into a high of insanity.

'oh? is this too much for this poor cunt?' he mocks-and before the either of you know it, he's painting the walls of your abused cunt with his cum. it's filthy, his cum dripping onto the floor of his apartment from your used hole. you unwrap your shaking legs from his waist, and he lets go off your throat. you cough and splutter, taking in heavy breaths as he makes you kneel on the floor. he sits beside you, holding your hair while you struggle with your breathes.