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houseofaegon · 1 month ago

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Blood and Ashes ✩ Ben Mears

Pairings: Ben Mears x Vampire!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n, ben mears x fem!reader, gothic and dark themes, heavy sensual tension, blood drinking (consensual), vampire seduction, praise kink, biting, obsession, possessive behavior, domination, rough sex, wall sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, mutual surrender, dirty talk, fangs!!!!, feral!ben, blood play/kink.

Summary: Jesuralem's Lot is dead. But something still breathes in the bones of the Marsten House. Ben returns not to save, but to submit—to her. She is the last vampire left—and she’s starving. What she wants isn’t a meal. It’s him. Mind, body, soul. Forever.

Author's Note: this fic???? absolutely ruined me. i love you lewis pullman you're everything to me!!!! i would let him destroy me!!!!

Jerusalem's Lot had never been kind. Not to you. Not to anyone. And now? It was a graveyard masquerading as a small town—its silence oppressive, its shadows swollen with secrets. Wind slithered through the streets like whispered curse, carrying with it the scent of rotting burnt corpses, rain-soaked wood, and something dangerous. The houses, once quaint and beautiful sagged like broken things. Empty. Haunted. Trees clawed at the night sky. The Marsten House, standing like a vulture on its hill, watched it all.

Ben Mears returned not as a savior, but as a man still haunted by the events of the night before. Hunted. A helpless sheep walking right into the wolf's den. He climbed the hill not because he wanted to—but because some part of him needed to. Drawn. Pulled.

Like a pirate enchanted by a siren's call.

The door groaned as Ben Mears pushed it open, and the darkness inside breathed out to greet him—warm, perfumed, heavy with the scent of something not quite dead.

He stepped inside.

The air was thick. Candles flickered, some burned low, others tall and fresh. Who the hell had lit them? Who kept them alive?

He moved through the hall. The walls dressed in peeling wallpaper the color of dried blood. A crystal chandelier hung above the foyer, crusted in dust, but beneath the dust the crystals still caught the candlelight, glinting like a thousand frozen tears. Cobwebs clung to it like veils.

A golden goblet sat on a marble pedestal, so clean and pristine—it looked like it didn't belong there. He lifted it slowly, heart thudding in his chest. The liquid inside shimmered dark red. He brought it to his nose.

Not wine.

Blood.

His stomach lurched.

"Ben Mears."

The voice curled around his spine. Low. Feminine. Dark velvet soaked in sin.

He turned.

She stood at the edge of the staircase. Bare foot on old wood, gown clinging to her like a second skin. The fabric shimmered red and black, like blood and shadows. Her skin was pale, untouched by time, framed by ink-black hair cascading down her back in waves. Her eyes—a deep, gleaming crimson, unholy.

She looked like something that had been once worshipped and now feared.

Ben couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

"You found your way back I see," she said, stepping into the candlelight. It kissed her face, casting shadows that made her look carved from sin. "Curiosity? Guilt? Or maybe something darker?"

He managed a whisper. “Who are you?”

Her smile was slow. Cruel. Beautiful. Big white fangs shimmered under the light.

“They used to call me whore,” she said. “Before I even knew what it meant. Before I’d even been kissed. Just a girl with too much beauty and not enough shame for their liking.”

She circled him slowly, voice a dark song.

“They said I seduced the minister's son. That I danced naked in the woods. That I’d made a pact with the Devil.”

She laughed. A dark, low, raspy rumble on her chest that made his skin prickle.

Her eyes burned red. "I hadn't. Not then, at least."

He swallowed. "What happened?"

"I wanted this town to burn. When Barlow came, I went to him. Walked through the dark with bare feet and said, take me. I wanted to watch them all suffer. I wanted to watch them scream."

"You let him bite you."

"I begged him to." She was behind him now, breath ghosting his neck. "He thought he'd make his perfect bride. But he made something else."

Her cold fingers slid along his arm, nails scratching his skin. He flinched.

“I was too dark inside. Too much rage. Not enough soul left to lose.” She circled to face him again, eyes wide, shining blood-red. “I didn’t die. I became.”

She lifted the goblet and drank.

"Your blood smells so good," she whispered, licking her blood-stained lips slowly with a satisfying moan. "Like guilt and want and loneliness."

Ben backed away. "You're not human."

“No,” she agreed. “But not a monster either.”

She stepped closer. “You’ve been dreaming of me. Every night. You see a woman in the dark, in silk, with fangs, and you wake up hard and aching and ashamed.”

He froze.

She touched his chest. "You hate this place. Just like I did. I can feel it. I can hear your thoughts. That's why you came back. You want to be ruined."

Her lips brushed his cheek, then his ear.

"I can ruin you, Ben. I can help you. Sweetly. Slowly."

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Why?” she asked, fangs flashing. “You’re dying to be tasted.”

Her tongue flicked across his throat and he gasped. She moaned softly, intoxicated.

“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you want it.”

He did.

God help him, he did.

Ben stepped back, boots creaking against the wood. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Wild. Desperate. But his eyes wouldn't leave her.

She stood with the goblet in hand, blood on her lips. The candlelight adored her, casting her in gold and flickering shadow. Every inch of her was hauntingly beautiful. Sacred. Profane. Unholy. Her beauty seduced him.

She stepped forward, slowly, hips swaing, her gown clinging to the curve of her thighs, the dip of her waist. She moved like sin incarnate—like something not meant for daylight. He backed up until his shoulders hit the crumbling wall. She didn't touch him. Not yet. Just stood close enough that her scent filled his lungs—blood, roses, sin.

"I can hear your thoughts, you know," she purred. "They're loud."

He shook his head. "Get out of my head."

"I'm not in it." Her voice dipped, teasing. "You invited me."

Her hand hovered near his chest.

"Your heart is begging. I can feel it," she whispered.

Ben’s mouth was dry. “You’re playing with me.”

“Yes.” Her grin curled. “Do you want me to stop?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Her scent was madenning. Her beauty enchanting. A curse. A drug. A poison. And God he would be lying if he said he wasn't addicted. His muscles coiled. His body betrayed him, leaning into her shadow.

She leaned in, lips grazing his temple. "I know what you want, Ben. I can feel it. Taste it. It's delicious," she purred. "You dream of hands like mine. Mouths like mine. You want to fall."

She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. Did nothing to push her away. Her fingers were cold and strong, pale. She brought his hand to her face and pressesed it to her cheek slowly.

"I'm not afraid of you," he said, lying.

She turned her head, pressed her lips to his palm. "Then you're a fool."

He gasped as she kissed his wrist, her fangs brushing against his skin. Against his pulse. Not biting. Not yet.

"Tell me to stop," she whispered.

He stared at her, lips parted.

"Tell me," she repeated, lower now, hungrier.

But he didn't. He couldn't. She was too close, too warm, too real. His body shook, overwhelmed by her scent, her voice, her beauty. She was everything forbidden, everything he'd never dared to admit he wanted. And she knew it.

She stepped back just enough to let him breathe—but not enough to break the spell.

“You came looking for monsters,” she said, slowly circling him again. “But what if the thing you find... is yourself?”

She stopped behind him and pressed her body against his back, mouth at his ear again.

“You ache, Ben. Let me take it.”

His eyes fluttered shut. Her hands slid under his shirt, nails trailing over his ribs, slow, almost reverent.

“Don’t—” he breathed.

“But you want me to.”

Silence.

“Yes,” he said finally. Voice hoarse, broken. “God help me, yes.”

“He won’t.” She smiled against his throat. "God's not here, Ben. Only me."

She breathed out, a moan half pleasure, half hunger let her lips. Her arms snaked around his waist, holding him like a lover—possessive, starving. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear.

"You don't know what you've given," she purred. "But I will take it. Every inch of you."

Ben turned to face her, trembling, his hands cupping her face like he might wake up from a dream and lose her. She looked up at him through dark lashes, her smile low and feral, baring just the tips of her fangs. Her pupils dilated as she watched him, drinking in the flush of his skin, the raw pulse in his throat, the smell of his blood.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice breaking. “God, you’re—”

She kissed him.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

Her mouth devoured his—needy, commanding, insatiable. Her tongue swept into him like fire, like blood, like everything he’d ever feared and secretly craved. He groaned into her mouth, hands diving into her hair, tangling, pulling. Her body crushed to his, soft curves pressed against muscle and desperation.

The kiss deepened—filthy, raw, and desperate. She tore his shirt open with a sound that wasn’t entirely human—a low growl of satisfaction rumbling from her throat. Buttons flew, skittering across the floor. Her hands dragged across his chest, nails leaving thin, red trails that stung and made him groan. She moaned at the sight of him.

“God, look at you,” she whispered. “So fucking beautiful. All mine to have. All mine to taste.”

Ben's breath hitched, his chest heaving under her touch. Her words made his blood burn. Her mouth followed her hands, hot kisses pressed into his pecs, his ribs, the scar above his heart. He shivered. Moaned.

“You’re not afraid,” she said again, unbuckling his belt with one hand, eyes locked to his.

“I should be,” he said, voice hoarse.

“But you’re not,” she smiled, dark and victorious. “You’re hungry.”

She shoved his pants down, and he kicked off his boots, stepping free with a raw, desperate grace. He stood before her now—bare, vulnerable, and utterly wrecked by desire and want.

Then it was his turn.

He reached for her, slowly, and took one thin strap of her gown between his fingers. Slid it down her shoulder. Then the other. His hands were trembling. Not with fear. With deisre.

The gown slipped from her, pooling at her feet. She stood bare in the candlelight, and Ben stared, stunned, unable to speak.

"God, you're..." he couldn't even finish the thought.

"Say it," she purred, licking the shell of his ear.

"I want you," he breathed. "I want all of you."

"Then take me."

He lifted her like she weighed nothing. She gasped, arms and legs wrapping around him like vines. He pushed her against the wall, candles flickering wild, shadows dancing around them.

Her back hit the wall with a loud thud, and she laughed. Dark. Breathless. Delighted.

"That's it," she moaned. "Just like that. Use me. I'm yours."

Ben's mouth was on her throat, kissing, bitting. She arched into him. Her nails dragged down his back, claiming him.

"You're mine now," she whispered, head falling back, her red eyes blazing. "Mine to take. Mine to break. Mine to rebuild. Mine to love."

His hands gripped her hips, lifting, pressing, thrusting. She gasped, her voice breaking into a cry that echoed through the ruined halls of the Marsten House.

Ben buried his face in her neck, breath ragged, teeth grazing her skin. Every inch of her burned into him—her scent, her voice, the way her body welcomed his like it had been waiting centuries.

“Please,” he gasped against her throat. “Do it. Bite me.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, eyes blown wide with desire, lips trembling. Her grin was wicked, dripping hunger.

“You want it?” she purred. “You want me to sink my fangs into you, mark you, ruin you?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Ruin me. I want it. I want you.”

She moaned at his desperation, rolling her hips into him as his body pressed harder against hers. “You’re such a good boy for me, Ben. So fucking perfect. Look at you. So beautiful. So wrecked. Just for me."

He groaned, her hands gripped her ass, lifting her higher, pressing harder against hers. "God, you feel like heaven and hell."

She kissed him again—biting his lower lip, drawing blood. He gasped, and she licked it away.

“You don’t belong to yourself anymore,” she whispered against his mouth. “You’re mine. My pretty little thing. My blood. My boy. Mine.”

“Yes,” he groaned. “Yours. I’m yours.”

She kissed down his throat, her voice a growl now, primal and dark. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Beg for it.”

“Bite me. Please. Mark me. Fucking take me.”

Her fangs slid into his neck. Ben cried out, but he wasn't in pain. He let out a growl so exquisite it made her moan, deep, guttural, blood slipping into her mouth like the first taste of sin. She moaned around his blood, drunk on him, her fingers digging into his back as he thrust into her in one fluid, desperate motion.

She gasped, her head snapping back against the wall, red eyes rolling half-shut. Blood dripped from her lips, down her chin, slick and warm between their bodies.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “Ben—God—yes.”

His tongue darted out, licking the trail of blood from her chin. He groaned at the taste of his own blood—copper, sweetness, sin. His mouth moved up to hers, messy and hungry, their kiss smeared with blood and breathless devotion.

He rocked into her, harder now, his hips slamming against hers. She cried out, fingers clawing down his back, marking him.

“Yours,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m fucking yours.”

“Say it louder,” she demanded, panting.

“YOURS.”

Her laugh was ragged, breathless, head falling back again as he slammed into her again, again, and again. “That’s it. Good fucking boy. Ruin me.”

“You’re perfect,” he gasped. “You’re so perfect, fuck—so tight, so wet, so fucking mine.”

“Ben,” she moaned, clinging to him. “You’re filling me so good. You feel so good.”

He didn’t slow. Couldn’t. Every thrust was a prayer, a promise, a confession, a goddamn surrender. Harder, deeper, more desperate. Her body met his with the same hunger, the same rhythm, the same unholy need.

Her head snapped back, eyes rolling, mouth open in a helpless cry. Her moans came faster, louder, broken into pieces by his unrelenting rhythm.

“You like that?” he growled, gripping her hips, pounding into her like he could fuck her into the wall. “You like how I ruin you?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes, Ben—”

“I want you to come for me,” he snarled, voice low and vicious in her ear. “Come on me, come with me—let them hear it.”

Her nails raked his back, leaving streaks. “Fuck, Ben, don’t stop, I’m—”

He slammed into her, over and over, watching her unravel. "You're mine now. Mine."

She moaned. "You taste so fucking good. I can’t—I need—”

“Then take more,” he growled.

Her fangs sank into his neck again. He cried out, a sound of agony and release. Her body clenched, spasmed around him, her climax hitting her like a storm. She shook in his arms, drowning in him, groaning into his neck as she tasted his sweet blood.

“I want to taste you,” he gasped. “All of you. I want your blood.”

She grinned as she bit into her wrist with no hesitation, blood slowly dripping. She held it out, offering it to him.

Ben latched onto her wrist with a groan. The taste of her hitting him like lightning, smoke, sex, darkness, so fucking sweet. Her blood was thick, intoxicating, divine.

His eyes rolled back. His moan shattered in his throat. His climax tore through him like wildfire.

They came together, loud and broken.

Her back arched violently against him, a scream ripping from her throat. His grip tightened, his growls muffled against her wrist. His entire world narrowed to this—blood, sweat, sex, her.

Ben slumped against her, trembling, breathless, blood on his lips.

She held him, her own chest heaving, eyes burning with something deeper than lust.

Possesion.

He was hers now. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Entirely hers.

And she was his.

She never thought she'd crave someone like this—never thought she’d need anyone. But his blood? His scent? His voice?

She was addicted. Obsessed.

He was hers, and she wasn't letting go.

“Mine,” she whispered, voice low, dangerous. “Forever.”

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michimichim · 3 months ago

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Truth or Dare • Giselle (aespa)

spring nights are made for risky decisions—at least that’s what your girl, Giselle, seems to think. between the jacuzzi steam and vodka shots, you’re (willingly) trapped in her games: alluring smiles, cherry gloss, and hands that promise a good time.

contains: g!p female reader, semi-public shenanigans, breeding kink, alcohol use

The kitchen is mostly quiet now, except for the lazy thump of a playlist no one’s really listening to anymore. You’re squinting at a bottle of something clear and suspicious (tequila? Drain cleaner?) when the breeze drags in the smell of wet grass and something floral through the screen door.

The counter’s a graveyard of party debris: Solo cups with lipstick smudges, a bowl of ice that’s now a bowl of disappointment, crumbled chips everywhere.

You grab a glass that’s “clean” if you don’t look close, dump in sweaty ice, and pour. First sip? Regret in liquid form - It hits like a car crash. You grimace, stab a sad-looking lime carcass with a butter knife (‘cause all the spoons vanished hours ago), and squeeze it in.

Stir with the knife. Chug.

“Fuck my life,” you rasp.

No ragrets.

This isn’t how you’d usually spend a Thursday night. You’d rather be elbow-deep in that dog-eared copy of HunterxHunter you’ve read six times - but spring air does stupid things to a person. Like agreeing to a party because Giselle whispered ‘come on, it’ll be fun’ against your neck, teeth tugging your earlobe like you weren’t mid-rant about Hisoka’s… whatever Hisoka’s deal is. Traitorous, weak-willed creature, you.

And yet - Giselle’s mouth on you, her nails digging into your thigh as she hissed “stop being a hermit,”- got you here, choking down a drink that tastes like battery acid and fucked decisions.

You reach for a napkin, elbow knocking the bottle. It sloshes, drenching your hoodie sleeve. “Goddamnit—”

That’s when a laugh seeps through the room, bright, venomous, the kind that makes necks snap.

“-literally ate shit in the bushes,” Giselle’s saying, voice dripping mock sympathy. You briefly glance up. She’s strolling in with Ning glued to her side, both giggling. She’s holding her phone up like a compact, swiping gloss over her lips before puckering them into a ‘O’.

Ning swipes a half-empty bottle of Prosecco off the counter, swigs straight from the neck.

“Cried over his Jordans,” Giselle adds, snapping her phone shut. “Like they weren’t fake anyway. Cringe.”

Ning laughs and slides the bottle back on the counter, “Please. His entire personality was a StockX receipt.” She flicks her hair back, black and poker-straight, like she’s auditioning for a shampoo ad. Giselle titters, satisfied, like this was the reaction she’d been farming for.

And you’re back to scrubbing your sleeve with a wad of paper towels (Spoiler: it’s a lost cause). The fabric reeks of freezer-burnt vodka. You ditch the towels.

The room’s down to its last few people - most having either left or passed out. Winter’s girlfriend’s on the couch, blowing o’s at the ceiling like it’s her part-time job. Someone’s little brother’s spread-eagle snoring beside her. Outside, a couple is eating each other’s faces on the patio, laughter smothered; some girl’s sobbing in the hallway and you think you heard the rest of the girls somewhere outside as well.

You’re about to give up and peel off the hoodie when arms slide around your waist. Warmth presses against your back. Vanilla.

“Miss me?” Giselle’s breath ghosts your neck. Her nails dig playfully into your hipbones.

You don’t turn. “You’re mean,” you mutter, but it’s half-hearted.

She laughs, low, and rests her chin on your shoulder. “Ning started it.” Lie. You glance over, Ningning’s already wandered off, texting furiously on her phone.

You suppress an eye roll. Giselle can truly a bitch at times. But whatever, you’re into it.

Giselle spins you around, teeth sinking into her bottom lip the way you’ve told her a hundred times drives you insane... “We’re hitting the jacuzzi,” she whispers, thumb swiping the wet cuff of your sleeve. “You in?”

Somewhere outside, a sprinkler hisses and a shriek-laugh erupts.

Your gaze drags from her lips to her eyes. Bad idea, that’s usually when you fold. When you look at those glinting lips, cherry-slick. You swallow and drag your eyes upward to her brown, glittering, half-lidded gaze. Amused. Like she’s already tallying her score in a game you didn’t know you were losing, nor playing.

That’s when you notice: she’s swapped her hoodie for a black bikini. That black bikini. The one with the whisper-thin strings you’ve traced with your teeth. The one she’d worn for your birthday, when she’d “accidentally” spilled her drink down your shirt (her signature move, all batting lashes and stifled laughter, like either of you believed it wasn’t planned).

Like she wasn’t already steering you toward the pool shed, her fingers hooked beneath the hem of your shirt, smirk in place.

You’d let her corner you there, of course. Let her press you against the chlorine-sticky shelves, her mouth silencing your half-hearted protest about someone seeing, someone hearing. You always fold. Even now, your dick almost hardens at the memory at how reckless it was, how reckless she is, and how little either of you cared.

The bikini clings to her like it was handcrafted for her body, the triangles tight on her like they’re paid to, barely hiding her hard nips. But it’s the bottom half that really does you, like the way the fabric narrows at her hips, thinning to almost nothing at the back. It’s all engineered to wreck you, and she knows it.

You know exactly how it fits (or barely fits) disappearing between the soft curve of her ass like it belongs there. She likes that part, too. The way that tiny strip vanishes between her cheeks, and how’d you pull the thong back taut between her ass cheeks, causing the little triangle in the front to ride up against her pretty cunt -

The friction had made her wetter than you’ve ever seen her.

It’s your unspoken game - hers, really. You’d spent twenty minutes tracing every cursed string with your tongue while she hissed “hurry the fuck up” through gritted teeth and giggles, her nails leaving indents in your shoulders. You’d been feral that day. All teeth and trembling fingers, her thighs vise-gripping your head as you teased her clit through the cloth, that no-one’s-gonna-hear-us smirk of hers dissolving into sighs.

“You’re obsessed,” she’d moaned, voice cracking as you dragged it out (not minutes, not an hour, but until your knees burned and the pool party’s chatter faded into static.) You ditched, fucked three times in your shitty Corolla’s backseat, and she’d tossed you that hoodie after, smug. Premeditated, every second.

And now? Here she is, reusing the same thirst trap.

You see the trap.

You walk into it anyway.

Your flaccid dick gives a twitch, pulse hammering where her nails dig into your hip. Fuck.

You want her to keep touching you like that. You want to kneel. You want to –

“Jacuzzi,” she repeats, tilting her head, ruddy hair catching the light. Her smirk widens. She knows you’re getting hard. She can feel it, pressed against you. Knows you’re replaying how she’d moan obscenities in your ear, how her legs shook when you’d pulled her back against you, fingers still working her clit before you came inside her. “Again,” she’d demanded, and you’d obey, because you’d burn cities to hear her like that.

You blink. “Yeah, sure.”

Fuck. What’d you just agree to? No, no, no, you didn’t mean to–

But it’s too late, judging by Giselle’s quirked lips. Her hand slips beneath your hoodie, manicured nails scraping your skin. “Good,” she murmurs, slowly skimming her fingers down your navel, moving with every rise and fall of your breath.

“Who’s gunna be with us?”

Giselle slides her hands back around your hips. Your pants are baggy, low-rise, and she has no trouble dipping inside the back of them to grab your ass, looking right into your eyes as she does it. “The girls,” she replies light-heartedly, as if she isn’t kneading your flesh like she’s testing fruit at the market.

You swallow.

Okay, two outcomes here:

You go, and it’s 40 minutes of them dissecting their celeb drama you couldn’t remember even if the WiFi depended on it.

Or, you go, and they roast you both raw because Giselle’s a PDA menace and you’re, well, you. The kind of disaster sapphic who’s lowkey obsessed with her girl’s attention but would literally die if anyone clocked it.

“Don’t look so scared,” she laughs, “Give me a hug.”

“I’m not,” you huff, but still loop an arm around her waist, tugging her body against you. Casual. Real casual. The hug is all PG-13 angles (your hand splayed safe above her bikini ties, her cheek smushed to your shoulder).

But Giselle doesn’t really do casual. Her hips tilt, pressing your thigh between hers, and her sigh is pure theater, hot and throaty against your ear. “Fuck, babygirl,” she murmurs, “Semi-hard already?”

Her fingers skate up your spine, and you stiffen, pulse rabbiting in your throat. Winter’s girl on the couch coughs out a smoke ring that wobbles toward the ceiling. Don’t look down. Don’t—

Too late. Giselle’s leg shifts, and now the seam of your pants grinds against her inner thigh. She hums, low and approving. “Knew you’d cave.” Her lips brush your jaw. “Always do.”

The accusation stings because it’s true. You’ve let her corner you anywhere, bar bathrooms, the back row of a Scream marathon – anywhere her hands could slip under your clothes, her teeth could find your neck. It’s a problem. A glaring problem, according to your best friend/roommate, who once walked in on Giselle riding you in the living room at 3 a.m. (She still sends you Band-Aid coupons as “trauma tax.”)

Giselle’s hands start moving to the front of your pants when Winter’s girlfriend drawls from the couch, smoke curling lazily from her lips. “Get a room,” she says, not looking away from her vape clouds. “Or Venmo me fifty bucks. I’ll watch.”

You freeze, but Giselle just snorts, pressing closer. Her thigh shifts against you, pressing against your dick, and you nearly choke on your own breath. “Don’t be jealous, bookie,” she shoots back, sing-song. “Your girl’s out back trying to French the neighbor’s dog.”

Winter’s girlfriend flips her off before dismissing the both of you. Thank God the couch faces away from you.

Giselle’s hand slips back up, fingertips grazing and toying with you, tracing the outline of your dick and twirling over the engorged head until a wet spot forms. You want to rut into the touch, then hide your face in mortification because fuck, what if Ning walks in? Worse, what if Karina walks in?

What if they see you cornered, weak and pathetic, Giselle palming you through your boxers. And oh fuck, does it feel just perfect there. Just like with her lips, her hand is everything. She slips beneath your waistband before you can process what’s happening, grabbing at your cock.

“Can’t wait to fuck you,” Giselle purrs, thumb pressing just shy of cruel against the tip. You choke back a noise, shoulders tensing as your eyes dart to the living room. Winter’s girlfriend is still entirely distracted, oblivious. The snoring kid twitches.

“Gis—”

“Shhh.” Her lips brush the shell of your ear, sticky with gloss. “Focus,” she murmurs, “Fuck my hand.”

Giselle’s fist closes around your dick, and your back arches, stuttering. You’re slick to the base, twitching, hips jolting forward in helpless, hungry thrusts—fucking into her fist like it’s the only thing worth living for. Her grip’s not just tight, it’s filthy—knuckles wet, fingers gliding through the mess you’re leaking, stroking you with the kind of shameless hunger that makes your stomach flip.

Your brain short-circuits. “Fuck—” you hiss.

Moans break in your throat, breathy and guttural, heat crawling up your spine like it’s trying to burn through your skin. Everything’s hypersensitive; the wet suck of your skin, the muted bass thudding through the walls, the sharp, shallow breaths she lets out against your ear. Her mouth curls, smug, like she knows what she’s doing to you.

“Gi, Fuck,” is the only thing you’re capable of muttering, thrusting harder into her hand with zero hesitation, chasing the wet drag of her fist like it’s the only thing left in your world.

She’s working you like she owns it, like she’s jerking off her favorite toy, and every squelch of her palm around your cock feels obscene—wet, sticky.

Her thumb presses down over the tip, catching the pre-cum and smearing it like she’s painting with it. You jerk at the touch, leaking hotter, messier, your whole cock glossy with it now.

She pumps you harder, slick squelching between every stroke, cock drooling into her hand, “Just like that.” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “So fucking big in my hand. Can feel you throbbing, baby, fuck.”

Your knees nearly buckle, lower belly tingling. That is until Karina’s laugh slices in from the patio—sharp, loud, close—and your stomach drops.

“Giselle—” you grit out, hand clamping over hers. She stills, brow arched. “Karina’s right there.”

“So?” Her free hand skates up your breast, thumb catching your nipple through your hoodie. You bite your tongue. “She’s busy filming Ning’s TikTok. Look.” She nods toward the sliding door, where Karina’s silhouette leans against the glass, phone flashlight aimed at Ning’s. “Distracted.”

Distracted now. But Karina’s got predator instincts—catches every side-eye, every whisper. Last month, she called you out for “eye-fucking Giselle’s ass” when you had come to watch their dance practice. You still haven’t recovered.

Giselle’s grip tightens, her nails grazing your dick. “C’mon,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours. “You want me to stop?”

Yes. No. You’re sweating through your hoodie. Her thumb circles your slit, and your knees nearly buckle. “Fuck me,” you whisper.

“That, I’d love to do.” She nips back at your jaw, her other hand sliding down to guiding your palm to grope her ass. “Grab. Harder.”

You do, hands smoothing to her hips, a bit rougher now, then sliding down to palm her ass—so soft, encasing that teasing little thong. Your fingers slip beneath the cloth, groping the bare muscle, digging in like you want to mold it to the shape of you. You squeeze, knead, pull her cheeks apart just to feel the way she twitches for it. She lets out a moan, kinda loud, shameless, calculated, just to make your nerves spike, watch you panic.

“Quit -” you plead, but she’s already rolling her hips, grinding against your thigh, her hand working you in lazier strokes. The kitchen feels like a fishbowl, every smothered laugh from the patio, every creak of floorboards, ten time louder. You’re hyper-aware of the half-open pantry door, the flicker of the LEDs above the sink, the smack of Giselle’s glossed lips as she kisses your throat.

“Relax,” she breathes, all false innocence. “We’re just hugging.”

“You’re—fuck—you’re gonna get us caught—”

“Mmm, and?” Her tongue flicks your earlobe. “Think Karina’d make a PowerPoint? ‘Slideshow of Your Lesbian Meltdown’?”

You choke back a laugh, nerves fraying. “Stop—”

“Or what?” Her strokes quicken, thumb pressing that sweet spot beneath your head. “You’ll cum? Right here? In my hand while Ning’s debating the best angle for her fucking reel?”

Your fingers dig further into her ass, torn between shoving her off and yanking her closer. The room tilts. Distantly, you hear Ning crow, “A hundred bucks says the neighbor calls the cops again!” and Karina’s sharp retort: “You’re paying when he does.”

Giselle’s watching your face, pupils blown, her own breath hitching. She loves this. The risk, the filth of it all, the way your teeth cut into your lip to stay quiet. You’re close, so fucking close, and she knows it. Leans in, her voice a hot, fucked whisper: “Cum. I wanna watch you cum for me.”

You’re gonna kill her. You’re gonna kiss her. The patio door screeches.

“Aeri! Manager’s blowing up–” Karina’s voice.

You freeze. Giselle doesn’t. Her hand pumps once, twice - cruel - and you spill over her fingers with a silent gasp, vision whiting out. Giselle feels it filling her palm, clinging, trailing between her fingers, so much, obscenely. Her sweet girlfriend, she loves your cock so much. Wants it for herself all the time.

She then yanks her hand free, wiping it on your hoodie under the guise of adjusting it just as Karina strides in. “The fuck are you two—?”

“Hugging,” Giselle chirps, all sugar, slumping against you with dramatic sighs and puppy-dog eyes, her cheek squished to your shoulder. “Y/N’s goldfish, Steve, just died.” Your knees are jelly. Your soul is exiting your body.

Karina’s gaze narrows, flicking between your pathetic face and Giselle’s too-innocent smile.

“Bullshit and gross,” she says finally, tossing Giselle’s phone on the counter. “Save the improv for the Harper’s Bazaar shoot. Soo-man wants you rehearsing the poses. And to confirm the Vogue interview.”

“Ugh, fine. Tell him I’ll wear the stupid feather dress.” Giselle flips her hair, her foot nudging yours under the counter, silently telling you to stay put. “But only if they let me pick the music.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m not your secretary.” Karina turns to leave, then pauses, before deciding on simply leaving, muttering about “fucking nymphos.”

You slump against the counter, half-dead. Giselle’s smirk blooms as she spins back to you, thumb swiping the sweat from your temple. “Steve would’ve loved you,” she purrs, biting her lip to stifle a laugh.

“You’re deranged,” you whisper, knees still liquid, fumbling to adjust your jeans.

She kisses you before you can finish, all teeth and cherry gloss, her hand slipping into your back pocket. “Deranged enough to get you coffee after this shoot tomorrow?”

You stare at her.

“That’s a yes,” she decides, already texting the manager, her free hand toying with the damp edge of your hoodie. “Wear the gray sweatpants.”

Jesus.

Giselle disentangles herself, but not before pinching your ass and dragging her nails across your waistband like a warning. She snatches the vodka off the counter with a victorious flick of her wrist.

“Jacuzzi. Ten minutes. Clean up and don’t make me come back and drag your ass there myself,” she tosses over her shoulder, hair swaying with every smug step.

Then she’s gone, hips swinging, like she didn’t just ruin your life in the kitchen and call it foreplay.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The jacuzzi steam clings to your skin. You’re perched on the edge, legs submerged, toes brushing someone’s shin under the froth – probably Ning’s. Giselle’s palm skims your calf absently, her thumb pressing circles into the dip behind your knee while she argues with Karina about lyrics. Her touch is proprietary, grounding, even as your head swims with the vodka, blur of your fourth shot.

The girls are all half-submerged, flushed and vibing. Momo’s hair fans out in the water like ink. Winter’s girlfriend blows vape clouds - who’s surprised?- that curl into the night. Ning’s arms balance on your knee as she leans in, voice conspiratorial: “…and then he texted ‘wyd’ at, like, 3 a.m. Again. As if I’m his fucking booty call—”

You snort. “Block him.”

“But his dog—”

“The dog’s an accomplice. Block them, both.”

Ning cackles, sloshing water as she throws her head back.

The game you’ve been playing (Classic truth or dare) has been chaos: dares to swap bikini tops (Momo’s still in Winter’s neon green one), truths about body counts (Karina’s “I don’t kiss and tell” was bullshit, and everyone knew it). But now the heat and shots have dulled the stakes. Conversations fray. Winter’s girlfriend scrolls her phone, the blue glow sharp on her smirk.

Until—

“Okay, fuck this.” She flicks her vape. “Let’s revive the game. Y/N.” Her glasses catch the light as she turns. “Truth or dare. Final round.”

The water stills. Giselle’s hand pauses.

You grin, loose and lazy. “Dare. Obviously.”

Winter’s girlfriend leans forward, droplets sliding down her collarbone. “Kiss. Two people. In this circle. Right now.”

A beat.

The jets hum.

You count the silence. One. Two. Three.

Giselle’s fingers tense.

Everyone’s looking at you.

“Daaaaaamn,” Momo drawls, fanning herself.

Then chaos unfolds around you:

“Bold—”

“Woop, woop, bitch!”

Your tongue feels thick. “I … what?”

Giselle’s nails dig into your calf. Winter’s girlfriend swirls her drink. “Kiss someone here who’s not Giselle. Or… admit you’re whipped.”

The word hangs. Whipped. Like it’s a crime. Like wanting your girlfriend, only her, is pathetic. Fuck her.

Giselle’s laugh cuts through the chaos. “Cute.” She shifts, water sloshing, and tugs you in the water. The heat sears up your ribs, and you pivot toward her. Her eyes narrow, a challenge. Try it. “Go ahead, baby. Kiss Ning. She’s been eyeing you all night.”

Ning chokes on her drink. “The fuck I have—”

“Do it,” Giselle whispers, lips grazing your pulse point.

Karina watches, bored but alert. Winter’s staring at the stars, cheeks flushed, bless her heart. Momo’s filming.

And Ning’s right there, cheeks equally flushed, lips parted in a oh-shit grin. It’s easy. Safe.

You turn to her, “Fuck it,” you mutter. “Can I?”

At her nod, you lean in for a clumsy, wet smudge of a kiss. She tastes like coconut lip balm, her laugh soft and surprised against your mouth. You giggle too, pulling back as her hand flutters to your wrist.

Winter’s girlfriend clap like it’s her personal soap opera.

You turn to Giselle, heart hammering. “Happy?”

Her smile’s all too sweet…“Ecstatic.” And then she doesn’t miss a beat. She twists in the water, straddling your lap in one fluid motion. The sudden weight of her ass flush against your thighs, the heat hotter where she grinds down.

Your brain flatlines twice again tonight.

Her hands find your face, palms warm, thumbs brushing your bottom lip before her mouth is plush onto yours, tongue swiping the ghost of Ning’s chapstick off your lips, prying past your teeth. “Mine,” she whispers, low enough that only you hear it.

Cheers erupt around you (Momo whooping, someone gasping “Oh my God”—) but Giselle doesn’t let up. She licks into you again, wetter, hungrier, hand sliding up to grab your jaw, holding you in place like she’s fucking starving. The water churns. You forget how to breathe.

Winter throws a towel at your heads. “Get a room, you two!”

When she pulls back, her thumb smears your lower lip again, wiping the gloss smeared across your chin “Two,” she announces, loud enough to cut through the catcalls. Her voice drips honeyed venom. “Done.”

Someone whistles. Even Karina cracks a smirk.

Winter’s girlfriend salutes with her vape. “Solid B-plus. Minus points for predictability.”

Giselle waves her away, but her grip stays tight on your thigh under the water. Ning’s still laughing.

Someone from the sideline mutters, “Jesus, get a room.”

“We have a room,” Giselle retorts, then leaning into your ear. “That we’ll use later, right?”

You choke on your spit and grab a shot. Fuck, yeah.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The bathroom mirror is cold against your palms. Giselle’s perched on the counter, legs hooked around your hips. You’d meant to shower, to rinse off the chlorine and sweat, but she’d cornered you the second the door clicked shut, fingers twisting in your waistband before you could even peel off your bra.

“Lift me,” she’d said, not asked, chin jerking toward the marble. Now her nails dig into your shoulders as you grind against her, her sandals dangle from her toes, tapping a restless rhythm against the cabinets beneath.

“You’re still wearing those stupid boxers,” she murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You’re still avoiding the shower,” you counter, breath hitching as she rolls her hips.

She laughs, low and throaty. The mirror’s fogged behind her, streaked where her head tipped back. “You want to get clean before getting dirty again?” Her hand slips between you, thumb brushing the soaked cotton of your underwear. “You sure ‘bout that?”

The faucet drips. Voices buzz in the hallway, muffled through the door. Giselle doesn’t care. She never cares about shit like this.

You press your hips in slow, dragging thrusts, your cock thick and swollen, forcing the fat bulge right against the soaked crotch of her thong. The fabric barely holds you back, stretched tight as it wedges between her slick folds. Every push spreads her pussy open around the pressure of your cock, grinding hard into her clit through the thin barrier, and she whimpers, all wet and needy, hips twitching to meet yours like she needs that friction just as bad.

Every drag pulls wetter, breathier moans from her—half-muffled between your mouths, like she can’t decide whether to kiss you or just moan straight into your tongue. Your own are going shaky, turning into soft, broken moans that get swallowed. It’s messy, all tongue, but neither of you cares—it’s more about staying connected, about not pulling away from each other’s bodies.

“You’re gonna fuck me like a good girl, hmm?” she whispers into your mouth, voice thick, teasing, ruined. Her cheek then brushes yours, lips planting fluttering kisses along your jaw. “I’m so wet,” she adds, like she’s confessing it, like she loves how fucked and a little desperate she sounds. Her mouth trails soft kisses across your face that makes your stomach knot tight.

You let out a breathless giggle, half-dizzy, and fumble a hand between your bodies, yanking at your boxers with shaking fingers. The waistband slips down past your hips and your cock springs free, slapping hot and wet against your stomach with a slick smack. The sudden kiss of cool air makes you twitch, painfully sensitive.

You’re leaking, thick and steady, a string of pre-cum smearing across the skin of her thigh. You’re flushed, fevered, dragging in a ragged breath as you lean forward and shove her panties aside with one rough tug.

And then you’re right there, your cock slotting between Giselle’s drenched pink folds like it belongs there, the heat of her pussy wrapping around you even without pushing in. She gasps, thighs tensing when your fingers hook behind her knees and push them up, spreading her open as your cock grinds along the soaked seam of her cunt, every pass catching on her swollen clit, slick and shameless.

She wasn’t exaggerating, she’s really fucking drenched.

“You’re, fuck, you’re so wet -”

“Obviously.” Giselle rolls her hips, forcing your dick to slide higher, catching her swollen clit. Her breath hitches. “Been dripping since the kitchen. Since you came in my hand like a fucking—”

You don’t give her the space to finish, and grind over her clit again and again, your cock sliding messily through the slick heat of her folds—soaked, swollen, and parting perfectly around you. Each thrust is frantic, soaked to the point of obscenity, the sound of it loud and wet and constant, like your bodies can’t help but make a mess of each other. Every push of your hips catches her clit just right, dragging the thick underside of your cock over it until Giselle’s moaning into your mouth, open and raw, her legs twitching like she can’t hold still.

She’s spread wide for you, thong stretched to the side, pussy lips puffed and glistening, flushed dark with arousal. You lean down heavier, slurring incoherent shit, hips stuttering, can’t even manage a proper thrust without needing to shove in, grind forward, like your cock refuses to part from her for more than a second.

You drop your grip from her knees and plant your hands on the edge of the sink, bracing hard. Her legs fold up high and lock around your shoulders, heels digging into your back, forcing you deeper into the grind. The porcelain creaks behind her, something scraping loudly against the wall, but all you can focus on is the feel of her cunt, so, so hot and sticky, your cock slipping and catching against her clit with every frantic push.

“Gonna cum just like this?” Giselle taunts, breath hot. “Rubbing on me like a teen? Pathetic—”

“Fuck—stop—”

“Make me.”

You’re so slick now it feels like you’re drenched in her, your cock dripping from the sheer mess you’ve both made. Giselle grabs you harder, nails scraping down your arms, her legs quivering where they’re hooked around you. Despite the teasing, she’s shaking, breath stuttering, and you can feel the way her clit’s gone puffy and sore from the constant attention—but you don’t stop. This is your revenge.

Then her mouth is on yours again.

Not aggressive. Not teasing. Just… Sure. Certain. Hers.

You answer without thought, lips parting on a whine. Your tongues slide together, wet and needy, curling and tasting and pulling, your breath catching in your throat as your heart hammers like it’s trying to punch through your ribs. You kiss her back like you're starving for it, sloppy and unashamed, the sound of it bouncing raw and echoing off tiles.

And then, no warning, no easing. Your hips shove forward and your cock sinks into Giselle, hot and thick and stretching her open in one slick, devastating push.

She moans- a sound torn straight from her chest, half-shock, half-relief, cracking wide open into something wrecked and perfect as your hips start pounding into her, relentless from the start. Her walls grip you, tight and soaked, the glide almost too easy from how wet she already is.

Her nails dig into your arms, hard and sudden. “Wait—wait,” she gasps, voice shredded but firm. You freeze, cock buried deep, twitching inside her as your pulse slams through your ears. Panic spikes. Did you hurt her? but then she looks up with that up-to-no-good smile and bites her lip, “Turn me around,” nodding toward the mirror. “I wanna watch.”

Your brain stalls. What?

She presses gently at your chest, not pleading, commanding. “Behind. I want to see you fuck me.”

The demand clicks. The memory slams into you, her sprawled across your bed weeks ago, scrolling your camera roll, pausing on a blurry mirror selfie she took of the two of you. “Hmm,” she’d bit her lip, tossing your phone aside. “You ever fuck someone in front of a mirror?” she’d asked, casual as if discussing the weather. “Like… watching yourself fuck? Kinda vain, but,” She’d shrugged and smiled, running a hand through her red strands, toe tracing your calf. “Can we try one day?”

You’d choked on your apple juice. She’d just laughed.

You blink back to the present. Giselle’s already wriggling off the counter, flushed and impatient, and you move fast, hands at her waist, easing her down, sliding out. Your cock leaves her soaked, a thick string of cum and slick still connecting you together.

“C’mon,” she breathes, turning smoothly, planting her palms flat on the counter. The mirror frames everything: her lips bitten red, her cheeks blotched with heat, lip gloss smeared across her mouth, “Fuck me.”

You swallow, hands trembling as you grip her hips. Her thong’s a soaked scrap, shoved aside. The bikini top’s strings dangle loose down her back. “Arch back, please,” you instruct, dragging a finger up the hem of her bikini top. Her nipple pebbles under your thumb as you graze it. So responsive it makes your cock twitch.

She does as asked, palms sliding up the mirror as she arches her back hard, ass tilting up for you. The bikini top’s strings dig into her skin, triangles straining. You hook two fingers under the damp fabric, yanking it up until her tits spill free, nipples hard and flushed. “Y/N—” she moans, but it’s swallowed when you pinch one roughly, rolling the bud between your fingers as you line yourself up.

The strings of her bikini top dig into her back, the triangles straining uselessly over her chest. You hook two fingers under the fabric and yank. Her tits spill out, heavy and flushed, nipples stiff and aching for your mouth. “Y/N-” she gasps, but it’s swallowed by a moan when you twist one nipple, rolling the bud between your fingers just as your cock presses back to her cunt.

“Look,” you coax, nodding toward the mirror. “Look at what I do to you.”

And then you drive into her in one brutal thrust.

The mirror rattles. Giselle’s mouth falls open in a silent scream before a strangled moan tears free. Your hands claw at her hips, dragging her back onto you as you pound into her, relentless. Her tits sway with every slap of skin against skin, your cock pistoning deep into her soaked heat as the counter groans beneath her.

“God,” she chokes out, half-laugh, half-desperate cry. “Yes—yes.”

You look up. Your reflection is wrecked: jaw tight, eyes blown wide, hips jerking like you’re possessed. Her mouth is slack, breath fogging the mirror, but her glazed eyes doesn’t leave her own reflection. You look down to watch the way your cock disappears inside her, glistening with slick, the obscene stretch of it, the way her body gives around you.

“Harder,” she breathes, not to you, but to her own reflection, eyes wild. “Harder, fuck!”

You slam into her deeper, harder, and she jolts forward, palms sliding on the mirror as your cock splits her apart, slides deep into the clutch of her muscle, dragging every sound out of her like you’re wringing her dry. Her legs are spread, shaking, skin flushed everywhere you touch her, chest pressed to the mirror, ass pushed high.

You moan, guttural and close to cumming. She moans back, eyes locked on the mirror like she’s watching a dream come true.

Giselle’s barely got her toes on the ground anymore. Every thrust from you has her lifting off her feet, teetering, dangling, your cock punching up into her so deep she has no hope of holding herself steady. Her body gives, legs quivering, cunt greedy and wide open, swallowing you like it’s desperate to keep you, like it knows you’re about to flood her and doesn’t want to miss a drop.

She’s dripping. You hear it, feel it, the way your cock slicks through her over and over again, every vein dragging along her cunt walls, every pull-out thick with strings of precum. Her thighs are a mess. So are yours. Every time your hips meet hers, it sounds like something’s breaking.

“Fuck, so tight,” you groan, breathless, a broken record. And you repeat it, over and over, a mantra made for her cunt alone.

The bathroom echoes with it: the slap of skin-on-skin, your groans, her cries, the wet, sticky drag every time you pull out just enough to slam back in. It’s loud. And Winter’s room is right next door.

You don’t stop.

Wouldn’t even if Winter banged on the wall and begged.

“More,” Giselle pants, and it doesn’t even sound like a request. It’s a command.

“More of my dick, Gi? You want it to split you open?” Your voice is ragged, trembling with the way her cunt drags on you. “Hmm? Gaping for me, taking every inch.”

“Fuck, yes.”

You grab her by the hair and shove her face against the mirror, fog blooming across the glass from her ragged breath. Her cheeks flush darker. Her lips are parted. And her toes? No longer touching the floor. Every time you ram into her, her feet lift higher, curling—like she’s being hoisted by the sheer power of your cock alone, like her body’s forgotten gravity in favor of getting fucked open.

“I'm gonna cum,” Giselle gasps, voice wrecked and raw. “Gonna cum. Gonna fucking cum so hard on your dick, fuck, harder! Cum in me!”

Your brain shorts out.

“In you?” you rasp, your whole body thrumming. You shove in harder, deeper, until her body’s flush against the counter, hips slamming into porcelain. “You want me to breed you, huh? Fuck a baby into this tight little cunt?” Your voice breaks, low and filthy. “Fill you up, ruin you for anyone else. Knock you up right here against the mirror so you watch yourself take every fucking drop—"

Her cunt clenches so hard around your cock it nearly sends you to your knees.

You grip her hair harder, drag her face up to see what she looks like fucked out. Her reflection streaked with fog, eyes glazed, drool clinging to her lip. Her body shakes.

“I’m gonna fucking cum in you, Gi,” you hiss through your teeth, like it’s being ripped from your core. You grind into her with sluggish, longer thrusts, the tip of your cock pressing into the spot that has her seeing stars. “You’re gonna take it? Promise you’re gonna take every last drop, and you’re gonna cum when I do, yeah? Cum when I fill you up-"

“Oh-yes!” she squeals, voice shattering on a moan when you hit that spot just right. Her back arches, cunt choking your cock, and you feel everything, down to her body twitching as she teeters on the edge.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” You can’t even get the words out before they melt in your throat. That thought, her dripping full of you, leaking down her thighs, maybe taking, maybe really taking is what breaks you.

Her pussy clamps around you and she cums, shuddering and wailing, legs quaking on either side of your body as her orgasm floods over you. You go right with her, muttering something, cock slamming in deep, your hips locking as your body jerks uncontrollably. You spill into her with everything you’ve got, moan ragged and cracked, hot, thick, endless. You gasp, twitching through the aftershocks as her cunt milks you for every fucking drop.

She wants it. The idea of breeding her, of your cum spilling back out of her used hole and soaking the floor, it shatters you.

You collapse forward, breath heaving, forehead against her spine. Still buried deep. Still twitching inside her.

“Oh,” you whisper. “I could die right here.”

Giselle hums, delirious, and giggles into the fogged-up mirror: “Wow.”

You stay draped over her, skin slick, bodies still fused. Her thighs twitch, cunt still clenching weakly around your softening cock. You don’t move. Can’t.

She’s trembling underneath you, breath ragged, until finally, finally, she draws in a fuller breath and turns her head just enough to kiss you. It’s slow, a little shaky, and when her lips part against yours, you hum, maybe even whine, a soft, broken sound, one last lazy grind of your cock inside her making both your bodies jolt. You’re overstimmed and exhausted, but you kiss her back. She sucks at your tongue, licking deep and slow, until you go fully soft and slip out, your cum following in a slow, lazy trickle down her thighs.

You both hiss at the loss.

Your lips trail kisses along her shoulder, warm and gentle now. “Fuck,” you whisper against her skin. “I loved that. You. That.”

It’s true. Every dizzy, filthy second of it.

She smiles at that. Except it’s...off. Just a little strained at the edges. But you’re still buzzing, floating, caught in the haze, so you don’t think much of it.

You shower together. Wash off the mess. Her body presses against yours under the water like she doesn’t want distance, like she’s still hungry for you even now, but when you soap up her back, she doesn’t quite lean into it the way she usually does. Still, you rinse, dry off, curl into bed like everything’s fine.

And it kind of is. Mostly.

She pulls you against her chest, and you go willingly, cheek pressed to her breast, her skin warm and soft. One hand runs slow nails across the nape of your neck. It’s comforting. You could fall asleep just like this. You probably will.

Until she says—

“Did you mean it?”

You hum. Eyes still closed. “Mean what?”

Her hand pauses. “When you said you loved me.”

Your brain stutters. You blink your eyes open, more awake now. Her chest doesn’t rise the same way. She’s stopped breathing quite so evenly.

“I...wait, when?”

“During sex.” Her voice is quiet. But not small. It’s pointed. “When you were—inside me. You said, ‘fuck, I love you.’”

Oh.

She must feel your body shift, the way you go still, because she scoffs, a little bitter. “You don’t even remember.”

“No,” you say quickly, “no, I just …” You sit up halfway, heart pounding suddenly, “I didn’t realize I said it out loud.”

“So you do remember.”

“I …” You frown, searching through the haze. Everything had gone so fast. All sensation and no pause. But that moment—her cunt clenching around you, cumming, the overwhelming everything of her—it’s there. The feeling. The words. They were real.

“I don’t remember saying it,” you admit, voice soft. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She turns her face toward yours, “You mean that?”

You don’t hesitate now. “Yes. Gi. I fucking mean it.”

She doesn’t answer right away. But the silence this time feels fuller, thicker, like something swelling between you instead of falling apart.

Then her lips press to yours again. Softer. She kisses you like she believes you. And maybe for the first time, she really does because she confesses those three little words back and adds: “And so did Steve, rest in peace little guy.”

Before you’re groaning, smothering her face with a pillow and she’s cackling at you.

frannie's note: it's been a while since i wrote fics with cute endings, lol! hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing this ... (p.s. the two angels who've won the challenge and guessed the prompt right will be summoned and revealed soon :p <3)

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#giselle smut #giselle x reader #aeri uchinaga smut #aeri uchinaga x reader #aespa smut #girl group x female reader #girl group smut #gxg smut #gg smut #sub kpop #kpop smut

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honeyryewhiskey · 6 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

— dean accidentally opens the box of a familiar, and you're not exactly thrilled to have been bound to a hunter. — not much for warnings, gross witchy scenery? 3k words

The hunt should have been over the second Dean sent a bullet through the witch’s heart. That should have been the final act, clean and simple. But Sam—of course—was adamant about raiding her lair for books to add to the their archives.

Dean could handle hunting a witch just fine—gross as hell, but manageable. A coven? Sure, stomach-churning, but he’d get it done. A witch’s lair, though? That was where he drew a hard line.

The house itself had looked deceptively normal, an old Victorian tucked amongst a dense forest of willow trees. As the witch’s body turned to ash in the backyard, Dean followed Sam into the basement. Cool, damp stone walls seemed to absorb every bit of light, the beam from their flashlights swallowed by shadowed corners as though the darkness itself were alive.

Dean lingered near the stone steps as Sam meandered around, not nearly as phased by the chaotic graveyard of horrors stored on every rotting wooden shelf.

The space was small, unease creeping up Dean’s spine as he stood between the shelves and tables that buckled under the weight of dozens of glass jars. Each filled with murky liquids or splintered bones, some crammed with grotesque chunks of something—hair, teeth, both. A viscous, questionable goo dripped from the edges of the shelf near his head, pooling onto the cold stone floor. In the corner, an ominous object shrouded in swirling fog pulsed faintly, as if it were breathing.

Every fiber of Dean’s being recoiled in protest.

His grimace deepened as his eyes flicked between the copious amount of jars, trying to find the least disgusting focal point. But the cauldron on his left was impossible to ignore, its grotesque contents bubbling and hissing as steam curled into the air. The smell of rotting flesh wafted through the air, sharp and cloying with each pop, hiss, pop. It burned his nose enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Dean squinted at the rancid brew, his brows drawing together in disgust. “Is that—blood?” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, hell no.” He thought he saw something floating in it—a hand, maybe. Pointing his flashlight at the pot, a small pale patch of skin gleamed in the light. Definitely a hand.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising bile, when Sam’s voice rang out like a gunshot, sharp and urgent.

“What the—Dean!”

The urgency in Sam’s tone trigged every sensitive nerve, turning over into adrenaline that surged through Dean’s veins. His body moved on instinct, rounding the corner with his ivory Colt raised, his heart pounding in his ears.

“What?” he barked, his voice sharp with a dreadful medley of fear and irritation. Clearing his throat, he tried again, steadier but no less on edge. “What is it?”

He skidded to a stop, the sight before him turning his stomach anew. Sam stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, staring at an altar of what Dean could only recognize as archaic dark magic.

The altar dominated the room, massive and ominous. Carved from dark, weathered stone, it looked ancient, as though it had been forged centuries ago in a time best left forgotten. Symbols and figures sprawled across its surface and the surrounding walls, their etched edges worn smooth by the passage of time. The carvings seemed alive in the flickering light of dozens of candles arranged in a deliberate circle around the altar’s platform. The golden glow casts eerie, dancing shadows that seem to twist and shift like living things.

At the center of the altar sat a sleek, coffin-shaped box, the soft brown wood a stark contrast to the horrors of the stone above. A massive steel lock secured it, its design intricate, almost ceremonial, and clearly ancient. From the edges of the box, faint tendrils of white mist curled outward, drifting like restless spirits.

Dean’s gaze narrowed as he approached the box, his instincts prickling. A glass window gave view to the inside, something like a face looked back at Dean, obscured by the swirling mist. But as he leaned closer, he could just make out the curves of a woman’s face. He couldn’t if he was looking at something dead or alive, the haze and stillness disorienting any semblance of life.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, a silent plea in his worried eyes as his chin jerked toward the box sitting ominously in the middle of the room. Faint glints of magic pulsed a glowing green in the veins of the woodwork, as if the box itself contained more life than the body inside. Dean couldn’t ignore the slight hum emitting from the cursed thing, oppressive and low like a growling predator—bowed and ready to lurch.

Dean turned to him, incredulous, his expression a mix of defiance and disgust. “I’m not touching that thing.” He straightens his back, but can’t help glancing back. The humming invaded his senses, seeping into his ear drums and beckoning his attention.

Sam’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he shot Dean a look. “We have to check if she’s alive.”

Dean crossed his arms, glancing between Sam and the coffin. “Okay, great. You do it then.”

“Oh, come on—” Sam started, exasperated.

“No. Absolutely not. You do it,” Dean cut him off, taking a step back for emphasis.

Sam rolled his eyes, his shoulders tensing with irritation as he mimnicked Dean’s retreat, but the advantage of his longer stride puts far more distance between him and the entity. “You’re closer.”

Dean scoffs, “I’m also smart enough to not mess with whatever that is,” Dean shot back, jabbing a finger toward the box.

The tension hung thick in the stale, musty air of the room. Their argument devolving into a silent battle of glares and clenched jaws, the kind of stubborn standoff only brothers could maintain. The faint sound of something dripping—water or something far worse—echoed from the shadows, an eerie rhythm pattering to their exchange.

Finally, Sam huffed and threw his hands up, his patience wearing thin. “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

Dean groaned loudly, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. He rubbed a hand down his face as if physically preparing himself for what was to come. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, but Sam’s determined look left no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, Dean tucked his colt behind his back, exchanging it for a fist in one hand, the other opened flat beneath it. His lips curled in a reluctant grimace. “Fine, let’s do this.”

They counted together, the rhythm of their voices tense and clipped between the echos of dripping water and magic’s hum. On the third count, Dean groaned, his shoulders sagging as Sam’s paper crushed his rock.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered, punctuating his frustration with a string of colorful curses. Sam smirked faintly as he handed over his sawed off shotgun, clearly enjoying his victory a little too much. Dean snatched the weapon with a scowl.

“She better not bite me,” Dean grumbled under his breath, rolling his neck as if psyching himself up. He flexed his fingers around the gun, shaking out his hands before turning his full attention to the box.

The object loomed in the dim light, taunting him. The faint metallic tang of old blood mixed with the musty smell of decay hanging heavy in the air. Dean’s lip curled in distaste as he stepped closer, shotgun poised.

With a muttered curse, he raised the weapon and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the rusted lock. The sharp crack echoed off the stone walls like a gunshot, the steel clasp clattering to the floor with an ominous finality.

The lid creaked open with an almost deliberate slowness, releasing a thick plume of white fog that hissed as it spilled out, curling unnaturally across the floor. The fog carried a potent floral scent, one that would be sweet had it not come billowing out with an offensive invasion of every sense. It clings to their throats, earthy and rich on their tongues. Both brothers cough and sputter, trying to expel the heady fragrance.

Dean swatted futilely at the cloud as he shoved Sam’s gun back into his brother’s grasp, his face twisted in irritation. The air felt suffocating now, thick and almost alive as it pressed against their skin.

“Fucking witches,” Dean grumbles, gagging on the fog’s assault.

“Check for a pulse,” Sam said, his voice muffled by the sleeve pressed to his face as floral notes lingered stubbornly in the air.

Dean shot him a withering glare, his jaw tightening. “What do you think I’m doing, sightseeing?” he snapped. His nose wrinkled as he steeled himself, reluctantly extending two fingers toward the ridgid figure.

The carved wooden edge bit into his arm as he reached inside, his fingers brushing against skin that was far too warm for someone who looked so deathly still. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before pressing his fingers to the wrist, his touch tentative against the unnerving softness.

A single thud of a pulse reverberated beneath his fingertips, firm and slow. Then, without warning, a sharp, electric jolt shot up his arm, stinging like a live wire.

“Son of a—” Dean hissed, yanking his arm back as if burned. He stumbled a step, cradling the assaulted limb against his chest. His glare darted toward the box as if it had personally insulted him.

The altar around them seemed to shudder in response, emitting a deep, reverberating hum that thrummed through the room like a living heartbeat. The vibration rattled the shelves and sent a few jars tumbling, their contents splattering across the stone floor in a sickly mess.

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, his eyes wide as he leaned in. “Dean, look—her wrist.”

Dean’s gaze snapped back to the figure, narrowing as he focused on the exposed wrist. A faint marron glow illuminated the dim space, drawing his attention to the intricate mark now etching itself into skin. It twisted and spiraled inwards like a labyrinth, a perfect circle of maze-like lines leading to the hexagram at its center.

“What the hell…” Dean muttered, his voice low and uneasy. The symbol pulsed faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light, each flicker sending a fresh wave of unease crawling up his spine until the glow simmered into an angry red scar.

“Wait—” Sam’s voice cuts sharply through the tense air. His hand shoots out to grab Dean’s wrist, drawing a startled groan as Dean instinctively jerks back, cradling his arm to his chest.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean snaps, his glare fierce.

“Uh, Dean…” Sam’s voice wavers as he nods toward his brother’s wrist.

Dean follows his gaze, his irritation draining into a nauseous unease. On the inside of his wrist, a faint red symbol begins to glow. The intricate maze-like lines twisting in the same fashion as before.The pulsing light feels alive, like claws sinking deeper into his skin, its rhythm uncomfortably in sync with something else.

You.

A soft, languid yawn escapes your lips, and both men startle, their weapons drawn in unison as your body shifts against the confines of the box. You twist and turn, your spine stretching almost unnaturally as you work the slumber from your body. Your eyes blink open slowly, heavy with drowsiness. The room is dim as you sit up, but even in the low light, you can see the tension etched into the brother’s postures.

Flexing your fingers with a deep, patient breath, you glance between them, taking in the guns pointed at you without a flicker of fear. Your gaze drifts lower, catching sight of the faint glow on Dean’s wrist. Your expression hardens, any hint of lethargy vanishing.

“You killed my witch,” you say flatly, your tone devoid of warmth, cutting straight through the silence.

Dean’s jaw tightens as his grip on the weapon steadies, his green eyes narrowing. “Don’t move,” he orders, his voice devoid of care.

Your lips curl into a smirk—a slow, mocking thing that dances at the corners of your mouth. You rise to your feet slowly, stretching your neck with the causal grace of a predator. Your movements are smooth, deliberate as your eyes dig into his.

“What are you?” Sam asks, his voice tight but undoubtedly curious, his brow furrowed in cautious concern.

You tilt your head, your gaze flicking to him briefly before settling back on Dean. “What am I?” you echo, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, but the slit of your stare drowns your smile in mockery. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before binding my soul to his.”

Dean’s frown deepens, his confusion plain, but his voice sharpens like a blade. “What did you just say?” Dean demands, his voice low and sharp, a dangerous edge that matches the glint of the gun in his hand.

Sam’s face drains of color as he lowers his weapon, a soft, horrified “Oh, God,” slipping past his lips.

Your eyes flash, an unnatural luminous green light flaring briefly before fading back into something more human. You sigh, exasperated, as if their ignorance is almost too much to bear. “I am not going to spell it out for you,” you spat, each word cut with your impatient disdain. You cross your arms, turning your focus to inspect your nails, waiting for the brothers to put two glaringly obvious puzzle pieces together.

Dean’s eyes narrow, his scowl deepening, but before he can snap back at you, Sam’s voice cuts through the tension, cautious yet tinged with realization. “Dean, uh… I think she’s a familiar.”

Dean’s frown deepens, you can physically see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he tucks the colt back into his waistband as his head snaps toward Sam. “A what?”

Sam’s gaze flickers nervously between you and Dean. “A familiar. Y’know—like a witch’s magical companion.”

The disgust on Dean’s face is immediate and unfiltered, his lip curling as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re saying she’s some kind of… pet?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed into slits, the sharp retort escaping your lips before you can stop it. “I am not a pet, you Neanderthal.” Your voice is as tough as steel, every syllable cutting through the room with precision.

Dean’s brows lift, his dismissive smirk only adding fuel to the fire. “Oh, relax,” he shoots back, waving you off like an annoying stray hissing pathetically at his feet. “Sammy, tell me you can fix this.”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam stammers, clearly out of his depth. His eyes dart between you and Dean like he’s watching the beginning curls and clashes of a cat fight. “I’d have to—”

“Research!” Dean interrupts, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Because that’s always the answer.” His voice is practically vibrating with frustration as he pivots back to you, green eyes narrowing again. “Alright, familiar-lady, let’s go.”

You tilt your chin up, tightening your hold on yourself with an air of defiance, your posture radiating every pulse of your obstinacy. “No.” The single word is crisp, final, and as razor-edged as the glare you toss over your shoulder before turning away entirely.

Dean exhales slowly, the sound heavy with a barely contained vexation. His jaw tightens like cement setting on top of earth. As he speaks again, his octave drops, dangerous, each word laced with displeased command. “Let’s go. Now.”

The words hit like a shove, heavy and unavoidable. The edges of his piercing tone dig into your throat like iron spikes anger pooling from your glowering eyes with pure venom. Teeth clenched, you step out of the box reluctantly, your movements stiff with rebellion as you stalk towards the door.

Dean watches your retreat, the muscles in his jaw tensing and popping as if he’s trying to bite back every curse in the book. His stare snaps to Sam, eyes fierce with confusion and frustration. “What the hell just happened?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line as he pats Dean’s shoulder. His expression teeters between unease and a forced attempt at reassurance. “I think you just gave your first command,” he tries apprehensively.

Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so messed up,” he mutters, his boots already thudding heavily as he starts after you.

Sam trails behind him, casting a wary glance at your retreating figure before leaning in toward Dean. “Yeah,” he interjects under his breath, his voice edged with genuine concern. “And for the record? I don’t think she likes being told what to do.”

Dean shoots him a withering scowl, his bitterness simmering just below the surface like a fire ready to ignite. “Yeah, ya think, Einstein,” he grumbles, quickening his pace.

Sam lingers for a moment, his brow furrowed as he watches you stride ahead, your defiant posture radiating silent fury. He sighs, falling into step beside his brother, his voice quieter this time. “Dean… if we can’t figure this out—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean cuts him off, but there’s a crack in his armor. His shoulders are rigid, his steps heavy, every muscle in his body coiled tight with anger.

They walk in silence for a beat, the question hanging between them like the dark thundering skies of a brewing storm. Both brothers, lost in their own thoughts, feel the weight of the situation pressing down—a bond they don’t understand, but know enough to see the problem without an easy fix.

Sam finally breaks the quiet, his voice tinged with reluctant worry. “How do we even start breaking the bond without… you know…?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his lips set in a grim line as his gaze flicks toward you ascending the basement’s stone stairs. “I don’t know, Sammy,” he mutters, his voice low, almost defeated. “But we’re gonna figure it out. We have to.”

Ahead of them, your darkly dressed silhouette looks almost ghostly against the light of day. And as they follow, both brothers are haunted by the same question: how do you undo a bond like this without killing the human who holds it?

hiii this series will be very dark whimsy fun, derived from the story of hecate and her familiars

tagging ( i always forget to do this ) my mooties but lmk if u wanna be added <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @ultravi0lence14 @deansbeer

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow

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TW: cussing, angry early seasons Daryl, angst, explosions, mass extinction, nationwide destruction, descriptions of walkers (Zombies)

Part 3

Dead Weight - Part 4

The sun hangs low and angry, beating down on the cracked Georgia highway like it has a grudge.

The vehicles crawled along the highway, a sad procession of vehicles weaving through the graveyard of abandoned cars.

Dale's RV led the way, followed by Carol's Cherokee, with Shane, Andrea and yourself bringing up the rear in the Hyundai.

You'd switched and been riding with Shane for most of the journey, enjoying his stories about his days as a deputy, but when the Hyundai started making strange noises, he'd suggested you switch back to Daryl's blue pickup.

"Don't let that redneck give you any trouble," Shane had said loudly as he transferred your pack to Daryl's truck, deliberately making eye contact with the hunter.

"His bark's worse than his bite. Ain't that right, Dixon?"

Daryl had just spat on the ground. "Better than ridin' with a cop with a God complex."

You were riding shotgun in Daryl's blue pickup truck, the crossbow resting between you on the bench seat.

Neither of you mentioned your breakdown, nor the way his body had shielded you during the explosion that had rocked and then destroyed the CDC.

But something had shifted—the hostility replaced by a threadbare understanding.

"Ain't never seen a traffic jam this bad, even 'fore the world went to shit," Daryl muttered, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

You gazed out at the eerie tableau—cars with doors flung open, personal belongings scattered across the asphalt like confetti after a parade no one survived.

There was no home for you to return to. The thought still hit you in waves.

Daryl pulled up behind Dale's RV, which had come to a halt, steam hissing from under its hood.

"Damn," Daryl growled. "Looks like we ain't goin' nowhere for a bit."

You pull your arms in close as you step out of the vehicle, the asphalt shimmering like liquid beneath your boots. Your clothes still carry the faint, fading comfort of CDC soap and hot water, now clinging with sweat.

Rick was already organizing a scavenger party. "We need to gather what we can find," he announced. "Food, medicine, fuel. Anything useful."

The group dispersed among the cars.

Shane wrenches the hood of the RV open with far more force than necessary. “Goddamn piece of junk,” he mutters. “This whole convoy’s a joke.”

He and Dale worked on the RV's radiator hose while T-Dog began siphoning fuel.

Lori, Carol, and the children searched nearby vehicles for food and clothing.

Glen kept watch from atop the RV, rifle in hand.

You methodically worked your way through several cars with the others, collecting a surprising bounty of supplies—half a dozen bottles of water, some antibiotics, a first aid kit, and a box of protein bars that made Daryl grunt in what you assumed meant approval.

You turn slightly as Daryl walked by—silent, eyes narrowed, crossbow slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t even look at you, but his presence pulls the air tight.

He moves like a man who doesn’t trust stillness.

You watch him quietly, not sure if you should speak—but before you can, Shane’s voice cuts through the heat like a blade.

“Hey, Redneck! Maybe you can come poke this overheated piece of shit with a stick or some backwoods bullshit, huh?”

Daryl halts mid-stride.

Slowly—dangerously—he turns back toward Shane, his mouth curling up just enough to show his teeth.

"Say that again.”

There’s venom in his voice, but not loud. Just enough to make the silence heavier.

Shane shrugs, defensive. “You heard me. Thought this was your kinda thing—hunting, tracking, making shit outta pine cones. Don’t get all twitchy, man.”

Daryl doesn’t speak—but you see his nostrils flare. His jaw ticks. And his eyes—ice blue and burning—sweep over Shane from head to toe, before he turns and continues through the cars.

You’re hunched beside an old Chrysler, digging through the backseat with your upper body half inside. The sun glares off twisted metal, and the heat radiates off the asphalt in dizzy waves.

Your fingers close around a can of peaches. It’s warm, probably foul, but food is food.

Then—a sharp sound behind you. A boot scraping gravel. You whirl, heart leaping into your throat.

A figure barrels around the edge of the car.

You let out a yelp, stumbling back hard enough to knock into the open door.

But it’s not a walker.

It’s Daryl.

He storms into your space without a word, grabbing your arm hard enough to make you flinch.

"What the—!?” you start, panicked.

He doesn’t stop moving.

His voice is low, furious.

“Keep your damn voice down, woman. We gotta move.”

You try to plant your feet. “What is it—? Where are the others ? Where’s Shane?”

That question stops him.

His grip loosens just a bit—but his face darkens. His jaw tightens, lips pulling back in a sneer.

“Figures,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “S’a damn herd comin’ straight for us and you’re askin’ for the cop.”

He practically growls the last word.

You blink, confused by the tone. “I just—I thought you where—”

“Don’t matter what you thought.”

He jerks his head toward the vehicles.

“Under the damn car. Now.”

You hesitate. His fingers flex around your arm—then he sees it.

The rising panic behind your eyes, the hesitation, the way your breath starts to hitch in your throat. And even though his face stays hard, something flickers behind his eyes.

He looks past you.

Across the shattered highway, the group has vanished—at first it seems like they’re just gone.

But then you see them—Rick and Glen and Lori—all underneath cars, faces strained and pale as they press themselves against greasy underbellies and blistering metal.

Then you hear them.

The moans swell like a storm surge, accompanied by the thud of dragging feet and the wet smacks of ruined flesh slapping against asphalt.

They’re coming fast—closer than you thought, already too close.

You freeze.

Daryl’s expression changes—not to panic, not to sympathy, but something colder.

Frustration.

He doesn’t have time for this.

"Move, dumbass city girl” he snaps—as he grabs you by the waist.

He hauls you bodily under the car, your shoulder scraping the chassis, the gravel biting into you. The heat is suffocating, the shadows suddenly thick and cloying.

He follows in a practiced motion, his crossbow scraping slightly as he slides in beside you.

"You wanna get chomped, keep makin’ noise,” he hisses, face inches from yours. “Otherwise shut the hell up.”

You nod, wide-eyed, breath ragged.

Outside, a walker stumbles between cars—just feet from yours. The rasp of its breath is audible now, the sound of decay and hunger and endless groaning need.

Under the car, the world is reduced to shadow and sound.

The smell of rust, old oil, and dirt fills your nostrils. Gravel digs into your back. Your breathing is too fast, too loud—you know it is, but you can’t stop.

The dead are everywhere.

From your place beneath the car, you can barely breathe. You lie flat on your back, dirt clinging to your skin, but none of it registers.

All you can see—just inches beyond the bumper—are legs.

Rotting, dragging, stuttering legs.

Some are missing shoes.

Others are bone from the knee down.

The sound is the worst part—wet groaning, like someone trying to breathe through fluid.

The herd flows past like a slow, choking tide.

You could hear soft whimpers from other hiding spots—Carol or Lori trying to keep the children quiet.

Somewhere to your right, T-Dog must have been hiding too, though you couldn't see him from your position.

You’re frozen, caught between instinct and terror. Each second stretches like a wire, tight and unbearable.

A walker stops. Right outside the car.

It’s close enough now that you can smell it—blood and mildew and rot, a stomach-turning stench that clings to your throat.

A sound escapes. Just a squeak—a breath half-caught in your throat.

Daryl’s hand pins you so fast you don’t even see it coming.

The other clamps over your mouth, fingers rough, palm calloused and hot. His body is nearly flush with yours now—close enough that you can feel the vibration of his low whisper right beside your ear.

"Shhh!”

Your eyes go wide, panic swelling into a silent sob. Your whole body trembles under his grip.

You try to breathe—but his hand is there, your nose pressed into the space between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, your ribs tight with terror.

He doesn’t scold. But you feel it—all that tense, bottled-up survival mode radiating off him like fire. He’s wound tighter than a trap.

His thumb shifts slightly along your cheekbone, not unkind. It's grounding. Like he knows how close you are to falling apart.

"You’re alright,” he murmurs, breath hot against your temple. “Just keep still. Don’t move. I got you.”

His palm is rough, calloused, wide enough to muffle your entire jaw. His fingers press harder against your cheek, holding you firm.

His other arm braces against the underside of the car above, boxing you in.

Your wide, tear-filled eyes stay to his. He’s right there, inches away—face shadowed, blue eyes sharp and wild.

You nod, frantically. But the panic is still there, shaking your chest.

Daryl’s brow furrows.

“Just… keep your eyes on me.” he mutters, voice softer now, though still strained.

He shifts slightly, letting more of his body shield yours. The cramped space forces you close—but you barely notice. You’re looking straight into his eyes like they’re the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

Outside, one of the walkers drops to its knees—sniffing, dragging fingers across the ground right near the bumper.

You go rigid.

Daryl doesn’t look away from you. He nods once, slow, calm—trying to get you to match his breathing. One of his fingers taps a subtle rhythm against your cheek. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

You mimic him, lips trembling beneath his hand.

The walker groans. Shuffles.

Then… moves on.

Several long, breathless minutes pass before the last of the footsteps fade. The horde begins to drift back toward the trees.

Only then does Daryl slowly lift his hand away from your mouth.

You draw in a shaky breath. He watches you closely. Not in pity—but like he’s assessing whether you're gonna bolt or break.

You don’t.

You blink, still rattled, still inches from him. “I thought—I thought I was gonna—”

“Yeah. Thought so too.”

The smallest twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Just a flicker of dry amusement before he shuffles out from under the car, muttering something about "damn tourists."

Before he disappears, you hear it. Barely audible. Tossed over his shoulder like an afterthought.

“Ain’t just the cop who’ll keep ya alive.”

You exhaled slowly, allowing yourself to believe your group might have escaped detection.

The group is reeling.

Bodies are scraped, tempers frayed, and the stink of death still clings to the inside of your nose.

You’re sitting on the ground back agasint the car you where just under, knees drawn tight to your chest, hands still trembling.

Your hair clings to your damp temples.

Shane jogs over, voice sharp but not unkind.

"You alright? Any bites? Cuts?”

You manage a nod, your voice a whisper. “Just… bruises.”

Glenn follows, more concerned. He crouches in front of you, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re shaking. Did one of them grab you?”

You shake your head. “I—I was just scared. Daryl—He pulled me under the car…”

They both glance in the direction Daryl stomped off minutes ago—head low, muttering something to himself about “damn idiots.”

Shane scoffs.

"Yeah, that one’s a real charmer.”

You tilt your head, confused. “He… he saved me.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “He acts like he’s better than the rest of us ‘cause he's some methed out redneck that can track a squirrel from a mile off. He’s just some hick with a temper.”

You blink, a frown forming. “So hunting's bad now?”

Glenn bites back a laugh, and Shane just stares at you like you’ve asked whether the sky is wet. Before either can answer—

“SOPHIA!”

Carol’s scream cleaves through the noise like a blade. Everyone whirls around. In the near-distance, a flash of movement—small, fast, frantic.

You see the little girl crawling out from her hiding place—directly into the path of two stragglers from the herd. The walkers immediately changed course, lurching toward the child.

"Sophia, run!" Rick shouted, already sprinting toward her.

The girl bolted toward the woods, the walkers in pursuit, with Rick close behind them. Carol trying to follow, but Lori held her back.

"He'll get her," Lori insisted, struggling to restrain Carol's thrashing form. "He'll bring her back!"

Carol shrieks again, clawing at the air like she might reach her daughter through sheer desperation.

“No—no, not her—please—SOPHIA!”

For a second, everyone else hesitates. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like betrayal.

Not Daryl.

He's already moving—shoulder-checking past T-Dog, not waiting for orders, bow in hand.

“Got 'er!”

You catch the blur of his body vaulting the guardrail, feet slamming into the dirt. His voice is hoarse, ragged, angry—not just at the walkers, but maybe at all of you for freezing.

“Y’all just stand there? She’s a damn kid!”

He disappears into the treeline.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You barely know the girl—just remember her shy smiles, the way she’d watched you tell stories with quiet awe. You stare at the woods, fists clenched tight.

You whisper, “Please bring her back.”

Glen puts a hand on your shoulder but says nothing. Shane curses under his breath, pacing. Carol drops to her knees, sobbing into her hands. The others gather like broken pieces—useless, waiting.

But you watch the trees.

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the-californicationist · 6 months ago

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Cali Cali bo-bali banana fana fo-fali me my mo mali! Cali!

I'm three Budweisers in and got an itch for alpha Price with a sudden need to breed (yay! Surprise rut!), and there's his sweet smelling omega neighbor who he's been keeping at arm's length because he's a professional dammit and has complete control of his urges, thank you very much.

Honestly, I just wanna see Mr. "I'm Married to My Job" lose it and show back up on base abashed and mated, and also ridiculously proud of his lil omega's claiming bite, because "she turned into a wildcat, lads. I couldn't stop her." *wink-wink*

Or not. I'm happy with any smutty Price fic you bestow on us, really. I'm just being weirdly specific because— alcohol = horny thots. 🍺😏🥴🫠

Drunken hugs 🫂 from Random Thot

RTG!! You are the most amazing person, and every time I see your pfp on AO3 or tumblr, I just get all gooey inside. Thank you for the ask! I wrote (and fully deleted) this fic three times because I wanted to get it right. I just pray that I could deliver. <3 <3 Hope this is what you were hoping for!!

MDNI/NSFW -- TW: damsel in distress, ABO dynamics, knotting, fuck-or-die scenarios, CNC, fluids, PIV sex, female OC

Glory, Glory

It was his last beer of the night, and he was ripping it apart. Curling, soggy shards of the torn label were stuck under his thumbnail, darkening the translucent edge and making it look dirty. They littered the sticky, lacquered bartop like ugly snow, falling in a tiny, chaotic mess. His hands were more than just dirty, the captain thought to himself as he used his wide thumb to itch at the glue-covered glass, rolling little, paper shards away from the smooth surface to reveal the amber liquid swirling within. The captain’s hands; they were covered in blood. Not innocent blood, but blood all the same. They’d never be clean again.

But, that was the job, and he was good at it. His hands were a direct reflection of his hard work. Killing evil bastards kept the world safe. Some poor sob in a factory could clean out the glue-painting machine that pasted these fuckin’ labels on all of these bloody beer bottles because of one unshakable truth: John Price was good at killing evil bastards.

Unfortunately, the killing would need to wait until after the mandated leave window closed again. His argument with Kate still grated inside of his head. He could almost hear her harsh, Yank accent in his ears.

“What do you want me to tell payroll, John? You can’t be here. You’ve got too many days. Go home. See your mom.”

“I see her plenty, Katie. Let me run that ops gig with Keller. C’mon. I’ll do overwatch,” he tried his best to weasel his way back into a bit of active duty.

“You’d be the world’s most expensive overwatch. Hell no. Here’s your ticket,” she shoved an envelope in his hands, “...and your money,” another envelope, “Go the fuck home, Captain. That’s an order.”

An order. More like a toothless threat.

But, alas, here he was, staring at a freshly shaved, buzzcut version of himself in a filthy pub mirror, undressing bottles left and right.

“Another, mate?” The barkeep pointed to his almost-empty drink, making a slight grimace at the paper graveyard that was sprinkled across his bar.

“No,” John sighed, pulling out a few notes from his wallet, “I’m off.”

“Happy Christmas,” the barkeep took the bills and didn’t bother to look up again, setting himself to sweeping the torn strips off of the surface, preparing for the next paying customer.

“You, too,” John muttered, tugging his black wool beanie over his ears before braving the classic cold, wet, and windy Liverpudlian night.

He didn’t live far. John’s mum had kept up his loft down by the docks, but it certainly didn’t feel like home. Home wasn’t real. Not anymore. As he walked along the Mersey’s edge, he peered into the black water, wondering if he’d ever truly go home again.

All of a sudden, he heard a shrill scream. Every sense that had been dulled by his lager was now as sharp as a blade and set on its edge. Again, a high-pitched shout pealed through the night air, beckoning him back to his heroism. That keening was the sound of some evil that needed stamping out, and he was hungry for it.

He sprinted through the warehouse district, chasing the noise of scuffling, ducking behind alleys and abandoned garages, looking for the source. Finally, there was a flash of red that caught his eye, so he ran towards it, his mind making sense of the scene in front of him.

Voices were jumbled and mashed up together, barely registering in his mind.

“Out here in a fuckin’ heat. Dumb bitch! C’mere.”

“She’s got a knife!”

“C’mere, you little slag. Get –”

In the middle of three huge, stinking Alphas, a tiny Omega was struggling, arm outstretched, brandishing her knife at them to keep them at bay. John came up behind the biggest one, some bald fuck with a dirty coat, and dropped him, cracking his spine in two places with well-placed fists, and breaking his jaw on his way down to the ground, leaving him groaning on the concrete.

One of his mates, a older man with thick, black eyebrows, lunged at Price, a look of indignant surprise on his face. The Omega screamed, her red coat yanked back over her face by the third man, her knife clattering to her feet. Price focused on Mister Eyebrows, dodging a lazy haymaker before popping him twice in the nose, drawing out his blood and knocking out at least two of his front teeth. Then, John grabbed him by the collar, pulling his jaw into his raised knee and listening to the satisfying splash as he fell into a murky puddle.

Finally, he set his sights on the last Alpha of the pack whose ropey arm was looped across the Omega’s neck, choking the air from her lungs. He growled at Price, his scent turning to rancid fear,

“Stay back! She’s mine, you big bastard.”

The captain had nothing to say. With a practiced ease, he side-stepped her assailant, breaking the elbow that controlled her throat, making him release her immediately. The evil bastard stumbled back, hand outstretched, bargaining for his life,

“Wait, wait. I’ll share her with you, how’s that? I’ll even let you have first go!”

A deafening howl came out of his mouth as Price’s boot heel made contact with his kneecap, forcing it to snap at a terrible angle. John’s hand shot out and grabbed the man by the hair on the crown of his head, tugging cruelly at his scalp. Without mercy, John slammed his face into a nearby bollard, and the howling stopped.

It was quiet again aside from the Omega’s trembling breaths. She had recovered the knife and was now pointing it towards John with shaking hands and wide, determined eyes.

“You alright, love?” Price asked, holding his hands up in a sign of peace, edging towards her in gentle, predictable steps.

“Y-yeah… Stay! Stay right there,” her voice was bright and clear, and he could hear her strength laced through her words. He stopped in his tracks, respecting her wishes.

“What are you doin’ all the way out here, darlin’?”

“They dragged me over here from Baltic Fleet,” she straightened up, getting her bearings, wiping the blood from a small cut in her cheek, “Fuckin’ bastards. Thank you, by the way.”

“Jus’ doin’ my job,” Price shrugged, waiting for her to lower the knife even further before he continued his approach.

“Police?” She asked, a little confused.

“Not exactly,” Price smiled, offering a hand out to her, “John Price, Captain of His Majesty’s RAF service.”

“Oh,” she studied him for a moment, and then her eyes fell to the hand, ready to bite but deciding to shake it instead.

When he touched her skin, Price felt her fever. Shocked, he tightened his grip, not meaning to startle her but too surprised by her temperature to ignore it.

“Christ, love. You’re burnin’ up.”

As quick as a flash, she yanked her hand out of his grasp and retreated back towards the wall of the warehouse behind her, scooting her way towards the corner to get out of his range, ready to bolt. She didn’t respond, but John watched as she wiped her brow, dotted with sweat and covered in concern.

“Hey,” he moved forward again protectively, “You can’t be out here alone. Not like this. At least let me walk with you. I’ll stay ten paces behind. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said with more strength in her voice than what she was ready to produce.

“You’re not. You’re in a bloody heat. When did it start?” He watched as her knees began to tremble, and against her obvious wishes, he helped her sit on the warehouse deck, letting her keep the knife so she could feel safe.

“Yesterday…” She closed her eyes, trying to shake it off, “It’s… I’m fine. It’s never this bad.”

Now that he was close to her, Price was smothered by the scent of her body. The Omegan glands in her neck smelled like thick, wild honey, and her heat was mixing with her aroma, turning an already sweet smell into a lucious, decadent gourmand, pulling him in like quicksand.

“C’mon,” he helped her up, “Where’s your place? I’ll get you close.”

The clang of her knife made him glance up to see her eyes closed and her mouth slack. She was out, too weak to withstand the fever and the physical exertion.

Price felt his body react to her need. He was filled with rage, white and hot, at her situation. Those goddamn monsters were trying to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. She should be home in her nest, being taken care of by her Alpha, covered in soothing oils and cool compresses, her needy little cunt stuffed full of his knot, staving off these symptoms and enduring them for her. Instead, she’d been hunted, chased, made to fight for her dignity out here in the middle of the docks. Something else inside Price’s chest curled around his anger.

Possession.

He tried to shake it off, knowing it came from being unmarked, but it had been so many years as a lone Alpha that he knew how to control it. Or, at least he thought he did.

Now, though, he found himself pulling at the neck of her coat as he held her in his arms, invading her privacy to check for a bite. He felt the shame wash over him as he covered her skin back up. He had no business searching for a mating bite. She was not his Omega, and he was not her Alpha.

After a few minutes out in the chilled wind, he made it to his apartment. Thankfully, it was late enough that his neighbors weren’t outside to witness what looked like a literal kidnapping, and he shuffled her inside without much trouble. Price lay her down on his long, leather sofa, careful to rest her head on the soft arm. He went to the kitchen to retrieve a cold rag and pressed it to her forehead, hoping to hold back the fever for as long as he could.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Wake up,” he whispered, trying to gently shed her coat and sweater, peeling her layers off to bring her temperature down to a more manageable level.

She moaned, her eyes wrenching shut even tighter, her face twisted in pain,

“My head…” She sighed, desperate for some relief.

“I know, love. C’mon,” John propped her up a bit, moving the rag so that the coldest parts would be against her skin, “What’s your name? I can find an address. Do you have your purse?”

“They… took it? I don’t… I dunno…” She muttered, obviously having a hard time stringing her thoughts together, “I don’t feel so good.”

This was not ideal. Price knew what came next. A high fever, exhaustion, fatigue, nausea, increased heart rate, and then…

“Alpha?” Her eyes were open, glassy and dark, the pupils fully blown, looking up at him with an outpouring of unfathomable need. Her scent rolled off of her in mind-altering waves, shoving Price’s carefully-built walls out of the way and sending shocks of desire straight to his heart and his fat, growing cock.

“No, baby. I’m not your Alpha. Who is he? Can you give me a name?” John asked, checking her coat pockets in a rushed panic. He was running out of time.

“Alpha, please… I need… Help me, please,” her shaking hands reached under his jacket and shirt, her knuckles rubbing against his furry belly, her strong fingers digging around for his belt buckle, getting right to the point.

Price felt the room flex around him, and he tried to breathe in air that wasn’t saturated by her vanilla spice, searching in the deepest recesses of his mind for some semblance of his self control.

“Easy, love. I can’t m–mmngh!” Her mouth slotted over his as he tried to protest, stopping his heart and his words at the same time.

She was heaven. Her smell was making his skin tingle all over his body, down his arms and up his legs, rushing to his central, sacral core. And her taste was even better. His little cinnamon roll, so sweet and warm, burning for him like a flame, hot and ready to scar him for life.

“Mngh… Love, mmm… Wait…” Price held her back, using more force than he thought he should need, surprised by her sudden power.

“John…” He met her eyes and found a particular clarity within them. She was coming out of her haze. But, it wouldn’t last. This was his final chance to keep her from doing something she would regret.

“Darlin’, I can’t. I’m not your Alpha.”

“You smell like you are,” she mewled, rubbing her wounded cheek across his engorged neck gland, spreading his scent all over herself.

“I can’t,” he moved away from her, trying to hold her in his arms for comfort rather than to bask in her expressive heat, “My work… I can’t leave you here, pretty girl.”

She sobbed out, trying to hold back from writhing against his body, doing everything she could not to make it harder for him to turn her down. Her eyes were rimmed red and pink from exhaustion, and she was staring down at her own hands, vibrating with tremors, slurring her words,

“Just lock me in the bath. I’ll run cold water. I’ll be fine…”

Something ancient and feral snarled in Price’s mind.

No.

“No,” he said, involuntarily, the voice in his head escaping from his throat.

“Please… I can’t stop myself… I want your knot, Alpha. Lock me up before I do something to you… Something you don’t want…” She could barely put two words together. Every thought was a struggle. He was losing her again.

He grabbed her and held her to his chest, clutching her like water in his palm, using all his strength to keep her with him,

“I want you, love. I want… Fuck, I need you.”

All of a sudden, the energy around their bodies stilled. That cracking, sparking electricity that bound them together was roiling just beyond John’s consciousness, ready to surge. But, he stayed perfectly still, waiting to see what she did next. She locked eyes with him and leaned in close, as if she would kiss him. But, she didn’t. She dipped her head down until she found his Alphic gland, swollen and bruised purple from him holding back his lust, nuzzling at it with the tip of her nose, rooting against him, testing his patience, checking to see if his temperament was true. Then, when he let her sniff him in his most potent spot, when she knew his soul was as pure as his scent, that he was true, she sucked his flesh between her lips, drawing his musk onto her tongue.

She’d accepted him. He reeled from it, unable to hold back a groan, his cock jerking against his zipper, thrashing to escape, flooding with hot blood and threatening to fill his knot before he’d even had a chance to taste her.

John pulled her mouth off of him and stared at her eyes again, in awe of her beauty, his mind swirling and yet perfectly sharp, begging her darkly,

“Give me your neck, Omega.”

The ritual had begun, and as she swept her hair away from her shoulder, pulling it around her back, she bent for him, arching her head down in a submissive bow, revealing her Omegan mating line. It looked like a keloid scar, the raised skin swollen and painful, like a pounding vein that ran from below her earlobe down to the top of her shoulder, full of her hormones and thick with her magic. One bite, and he would be in her thrall, pliant to her every whim, beholden to her needs until her heat had run its course.

Price had never given his bite to anyone. It had been easy to abstain. In fact, in his youth, he had a hard time understanding his mates’ commitments to their Omegas, scoffing at their lack of duty to their stations, doubting their commitment, and - moreover - doubting their loyalty. He remained a captain through and through, and he’d never made room for anyone or anything else. But, here he was, his teeth aching in his jaw, bigger and sharper than they should’ve been, his every sense heightened and taking her in like a drug, compelling him to punch through her delicate flesh and suck her nectar deep into his belly.

The feeling of her skin against his lips was enough to send a chill through his body. He was cooling from the inside out, and his body needed her heat. She was forcing a rut to take hold in him, and he could feel himself changing for her. Then, he bit down as hard as he could, breaking the thin seal of her mating line with ease, feeling the searing mixture of her oil and her blood filling his mouth and throat like a ripe plum, wet and sweet, and promising pleasure if he chose to swallow her.

He drank from her for as long as he dared, taking her in long, slurping gulps, letting her essence coat his throat, feeling the hot fluid burn inside of his chest and down into his stomach where it pooled and lingered, warming him up from the inside out.

“Alpha…” She moaned, raising her hand to cup his cheek as he sucked her life into himself, rubbing her thumb so softly over his shut eyelashes that he barely felt it.

John pulled away from her, his eyes fluttering open, her bright orange blood iridescent with her mating oil, making the red cells burn bright like a fresh-cracked yolk, gleaming, trapped between his teeth like gold. He watched it drip down her chest, staining her clothes, and he began to tear them off of her. She let him, limp and mute as he peeled her open, making her naked and pulling her into his arms.

He carried her into his bedroom, kicking open the door and busting the bolt through the strike, splintering the wood and not giving a shit about the damage. John lay her in the middle of the mattress and set to surrounding her with whatever softness he could find; his shirts, his blankets, even his scarves. Anything warm and comfortable was added to the nest, giving her as much support as he could before standing back to admire his work.

She eyed him from her recumbent throne, commanding him with her gaze. John stripped off his shirt for her, raking it up his back and over his shoulders, feeling as if he was moving his body for her and only for her. All of his motions, even his ragged breaths, were only escaping from his lungs because she wanted them to. His buckle clattered apart, and he popped open the button of his jeans, lowering the zipper in a sharp, metallic rip.

Once free, his heavy prick flagged, leaping forward and pulsating for her, proudly showing her his gleaming head. He was drooling an unrelenting stream of iridescent precome, his balls tight and full of Alphic oil, ready to coat her warm insides with his shining sex.

John climbed onto the bed, his face focused on her wet mound, admiring the plumpness of her, imagining her - in every delicious way - like a tender peach. He crawled to her, his mouth still stained neon orange from her gland, and he smeared her wet quim all over his lips and tongue. He wasn’t licking her so much as he was wearing her like warpaint, moving his nose and cheeks through her to ensure he was soaked in her heady slick, his body making wild, unbridled choices purely on instinct.

“Yes, baby, please…” Her voice went straight through him like a bullet, tightening his cockhead to an uncomfortable degree, and it jerked against the mattress in protest. Her hands were in his hair, scratching through his scalp, encouraging him to sink his tongue deep inside of her hole.

John obeyed, helpless to her desire, his mind wiping clean and being rewritten by her will. He was swimming in her scent, drenched in her slick, and gasping against her pussy, his eyes fixated on her form as it writhed above him. When she met his eyes, she bit the inside of her lip, crying out for him, rewarding him for his prostrated fealty. Then, she began to rock her hips against his jaw, fucking herself on his face, and he let her use him to her heart’s content, staying strong and sure, allowing his body to be used, objectified and glorified by it.

When she began to come, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He followed his tongue inside of her with two of his thick fingers, pressing against her walls, pushing her over the edge. She bolted upright, wrapping her thighs around his face, smothering him with her body, trapping him breathless between her legs. Her whole being trembled for him. He could feel the shimmer of her very soul, rattling and writhing with her siren-like keening. And just when he started to see spots in his vision, needing air just a little less than he needed to please her, she lay open for him, blooming outward like a flower, releasing him from a limbo he longed to return to, oozing with a stream of rainbow-tinted come, the Omegan oil within her womb escaping to advertise its promises to her mate.

Without knowing why, John found himself lapping it up from her pulsing hole like a hound, swallowing mouthful after mouthful and grunting with each pass of his broad tongue.

“John, I need... Please, put your knot inside me. I’ll be good…” She begged, tears shining at the corners of her eyes from her come-drunk bliss, her hands plucking at her nipples and trying to soothe herself down from her high.

“My pretty girl wants this knot, yeah?” John grinned devilishly, dipping his finger into her over and over and licking it clean like she was a jar of endless honey, “Wants me to breed this gorgeous cunt…”

At that comment, she spread her legs even wider for him, opening up for him like a blossom for the sun, ready to take whatever he had to give her. It was mesmerizing for John to see her like this. Everything about her was filled with intoxication and need. He was just a vessel for her pleasure, pouring himself into her to make her full again. Dizzy and drunk with adoration, he notched his girth at her entrance, struggling to fit even his cockhead within her.

“Fuck… so bloody warm…”

Her body was burning him with every millimeter he sank into her, the heat of her tight sex in such high contrast with his cool rut. It felt like he was swimming in a roiling pot of sugary caramel, clinging and cloying and sticking to every part of him, and yet it was not enough. He needed more. His hips thrust forward, savage yet steady, reaching deep inside of her like an anchor, rushing to settle himself within her darkness.

The way his Omega cried out this time was different, and it snapped him to her attention, his mind immediately sensing a new need.

“Love, tell me what you need.” He purred, his mouth kissing her lips and her neck, lapping at the now-healing wound his own fangs had made, talking to her between long licks of his tongue, “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“You’re so big. I’ve never…” She sounded ashamed.

Price slowed to a creeping pace, focused fully on her face,

“Never had a knot before?”

She shook her head, her eyes full of worry. John wrapped her up in his arms, dragging himself out of her slowly before filling her up again as carefully as he could.

“Tha’s alright, baby. You’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Feels like I’m burning alive,” she sighed, her brow furrowing with distress, “John, I need… I don’t know how…”

“Look at me, alright?” He helped her focus her eyes on his, “Don’t… Just stay with me, right here. You’re gonna come for me, and then… I’ll give you what you need.”

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice so small.

Price set himself on a path with a purpose. He used his hand to rub small, rhythmic circles beside the rigid body of her clit, coaxing her pussy to drop even more slick around him, using every ounce of willpower he had left not to let his knot slip inside of her prematurely. His thrusts were jerky and restrained, but he felt her begin to rock back and forth with his hand’s movements, bringing her closer and closer to her glowing joy.

“Good girl,” he praised her, watching her as she began to fall apart around him, “Tha’s my good little Omega. Come for your Alpha just like that. Just… mmf-fuck! Like that! Holy fuck.”

The feeling of her slick pussy clenching and twisting around his cock’s tugid body was enough to make him see stars. He felt almost sick with pleasure, his whole core lighting up like a roaring fire, spitting and aching to bury himself within her.

At the end of her crescendo, he felt himself let go of the chain, and he rutted his knot inside of her, humping himself forward ruthlessly, his body contorting itself to fit her needs. His knot sealed him within her, and although he was not yet orgasming, he was filling her with his come, the creamy flow of it spilling out of his tip, filling her hole and coating his prick from inside of its hungry little sheath.

“Your come… I can feel it inside of me. Oh, my God,” she sighed with some sort of relief, her eyes rolling inside of her head, her arms losing their strength, and her back arching towards him, lifting up as if she would float right into Heaven.

And just like that, her fever began to abate. With his knot stuffed inside of her, locking his seed within her hole, his Alphic oils could soothe her heat, bringing her back to the realm of consciousness and delivering her from her wild state.

“John,” she lay back, her hand pressed to his cheek.

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he bent forward on his elbows and kissed her mouth, chastely at first, and then languidly, exploring her taste. When he did finally pull away, she was awake and alert, sated and happy. He smiled down at her,

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, wiping her hair back from her face.

“Hey,” she smiled back at him, wrapping her ankles around his back for comfort, not knowing that it was just enough to set his cock on edge again, his Alphic instinct rejoicing at the feeling of being trapped by his mate.

“You alright?” John asked, a tinge of worry at the edge of his voice.

“I am now, thanks to you,” she sighed, tucking herself in beneath him, rubbing her hands along his ribs and the soft fur of his back and arms, feeling every bit of him as if she was seeing him with her touch, “You saved me, Alpha.”

“Aye,” he nudged her jaw with his nose, asking her wordlessly to give him the vulnerable softness of her neck. She obliged, and he spoke to her between sucking kisses, “All mine. My Omega. Innit that right, baby?”

She was practically lambent beneath the scrutiny of his possession, rolling in it like a wave in the sand, captured by it and surrendering to the riptide of his unbreakable grip. She nodded, humming her ascent, her expression turning a little rueful right at the end of his kisses. The sorrowful timbre of her voice broke his heart,

“I’m grateful. But, I know this isn’t what you wanted, and I’m so sor–”

“No,” he kissed her words away, feeling his length throb inside of her, urging him to kiss her again, “No, love.”

“I won’t bite you,” she promised, her gaze still full of apology, “You won’t be stuck with me.”

“Bite me, Omega,” he bent his head and buried his face in her shoulder, giving her his gland in total surrender, “Go on. I’m yours.”

“John…” She hesitated, but he could feel her body flood her hole, excited beyond measure at the thought of binding him to her as her mated Alpha.

“Go on,” he commanded in his smoky growl, holding her tighter and bracing for the ecstasy of her teeth.

He felt her lips first, and his balls tightened, ready to fling him into a messy orgasm as soon as he felt his gland shatter in her mouth. Her Omegan teeth wouldn’t break the skin, but he knew she was strong enough to crack the shell around his swollen node. The anticipation of her bite was wrecking his mind, and he was gasping for breath by the time he felt her jaw set itself against him.

“Baby, please…” He whined in her ear, his hips thrusting in short, jerking thrusts, unable to move much with his knot still trapped up inside of her, holding his gushing come in her hole, pushing it into her womb from the sheer volume of it.

Her teeth connected, and he could hear his unbroken shell give way beneath her strength, the hormones inside of it rushing through his system like wildfire, burning through his veins and making him scream for her. At the same time, John felt his core throw him into a raw orgasm, his whole body trembling above her, wringing himself from the inside out.

“Alpha,” she sighed, licking his neck to comfort him, “My Alpha…”

“Yours, baby. All yours.”

— — — — —

The new trainees filed out of the gym, sweaty, bloody, and eager to be out of the captain’s sight. Price had run them ragged, forcing them to spar with practice weapons, pitting them against each other in a strained, exhausting competition. Ghost and Soap sat with Gaz as they eyed their commander, their eyes glued to the fresh bite mark on his neck, shocked into a silent stupor.

“I cannae believe it. Mated? To which lassie?” Soap asked, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think he’d ever take a mate,” Gaz marvelled.

“I thought he was savin’ himself for marriage,” Ghost quipped, earning himself a scuff from Soap.

Price made his way across the mat, pulling his sweaty shirt off his back to trade it for a clean one. The red welts and nail-marks across his shoulders and down his belly made Gaz let out a low whistle. But, his commander’s glare stopped him mid-note.

“Wha’s that, Garrick?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just… admirin’ your battle scars,” Gaz smiled, wishing his two teammates would stop snickering so loudly.

“Looks like a hell’uva fight, Cap,” Ghost added, looking everywhere but into Price’s icy eyes.

“Wha’s her name?” Soap asked outright, skipping over the double entendres and going right for the point.

Their captain sighed, zipped up his gym bag, and stood in front of his three officers, glaring down at them with a look that was on the border of dead-seriousness,

“If I told you that, lads, I’d have to kill you.”

369 notes · View notes

ameliathornromance · 8 months ago

Text

“(Y/N),” A short, but sharp wrap hit the lid of your coffin, earning a groan from you. “Suns gone down, it’s safe for you to come out now.”

You let out another groan, rolling over in the cramped space of your coffin and onto your stomach, “Noo.”

“C’mon, love, patrol will only take an hour. That’s a second in your immortal lifespan.”

With a sigh, you opened your eyes and creaked open the lid of your coffin and gave your Orc Boyfriend a bleary eyed glare. “You say that,” You pushed open the lid fully and sat up right, “but it can feel like an eternity.”

“Even with me?” Your Orc gave you a feigned look of hurt.

“That’s not what I meant! You’re putting words in my mouth.” You said grumpily.

Your boyfriend chuckled at your expression before he reached to a table behind himself, snatched up a copper flask and handed it to you.

Taking it from him, you took a swig of its contents, the cold irony liquid going down your gullet swiftly and smoothly.

He stood and stretched his arms above his head as if he was just waking up himself. “I’m going to go and grab a weapon. Don’t take too long getting changed.”

The two of you are quite the odd couple, aren’t you? It’s not every day that you see an Orc, big and brutish, together with a hauntingly elegant vampire.

When you two had first met, he was instantly taken by your disturbingly dark beauty, the way that you seemed to glide over to your victims and tell them a gorgeous tapestry of lies, before tearing it to shreds in the wake of your hunger for that sweet life blood that coursed through your victims veins.

He often wondered why you were hunting at this grotty little Tavern he frequented, you appearance was just so… out of place amongst the withered regulars, tired from the days work.

He had watched you for a few days, noticed a pattern of your victims – mostly people who were disrespectful to those around the bar staff and, if the opportunity presented itself, a monster hunter or two who were foolish enough to walk straight into your territory.

Once he felt sure that you wouldn’t take him for a target, he approached you.

It was like a spark had gone off the moment the pair of you got to chatting.

As he got to know you, he was surprised by how normal you were as a person. He had expected you to look down on him and all the other filthy mortals that surrounded you. But you didn’t act like that at all. He was also shocked to learn that you don’t sleep in a giant mansion or in a crypt in a graveyard like he had expected. “That’s a really funny stereotype.” You had told him when he brought it up to you. “I mean, it makes my life a lot easier, because it means that people don’t see me coming.” You’d laughed. “It just sucks that I have to return to a morgue every day. Just because I’m undead doesn’t mean I want to sleep next to corpses every night.”

You had wrinkled your nose, “and don’t even get me started on trying to lie in the exact same position that the coroners leave you in, it’s a nightmare. And I have to change morgues every week to make sure no one catches onto why my corpse hasn’t been buried yet.”

The moment he’d heard that, your Orc knew that you had to come and live at the encampment with him. Sleeping next to dead bodies? And having to move every week? At least when the encampment moves itself every few months.

When your boyfriend first turned up to the encampment, with you in tow, a lot of the Orcs freaked out. You found it funny that these giant creatures, born walls of muscle and ready to fight as soon as they could crawl, could be so easily frightened by something like you.

“You’re all being dramatic!” Your Orc Boyfriend had told them all, as the Orcs all crowded at the other side of the encampment as you sipped on a copper mug full of red liquid. “Look at her, she’s not going to hurt you!”

When you had smiled at them and waved – trying to be reassuring, but forgetting that you had bloodstained fangs from your beverage – all the Orcs had curled up even further away from you.

But, after a few weeks of you taking over night patrols and not drinking anyones blood – other than your boyfriends of course – everyone had decided that you could stay.

The thing that really convinced the Orcs that you would be a good ally, was when they woke up one morning, when the sun was just rising, to find that you had decimated a group of monster hunters, all of which had their throats ripped out or had been sucked dry, not even having a chance to defend themselves from your wrath.

From that point onward, all the Orcs in the camp saw you as one of their own and treated you like it.

With your new found acceptance into the camp, your Orc Boyfriend felt a wave of relief and reassurance that everyone had finally accepted you. He was worried that his feelings for you would be invalidated if he confided in any one of his friends about the nature of your relationship together, and whether or not your relationship would be accepted by the rest of the clan.

Even being with an Elf or Human would have been seen as a more acceptable relationship in their eyes over a Vampire.

But thanks to being accepted into the camp, he didn’t have to worry about anything like that now.

However… there was just one other fear.

Your boyfriend was snapped out of his memories of you, the flaps of your shared tent flying open as you stretched your arms high above your head and yawned. Fangs glinting in the faint torch light, you scratched the back of your head “Alright,” you said, “let’s get this over with.”

After picking up the axe that your boyfriend had been leaning on and grabbing a torch from one of the nearby guards, the pair of you set off to do a perimeter check.

Your Orc sank back into his thoughts as the pair of you walked around the camps wooden walls, tied together tightly with twine.

Just because his fears of you being accepted by the camp had been laid to rest, didn’t mean that there wasn’t anything else for him to worry about. There was this nagging, restlessness that writhed in the back of his head whenever he was left alone too long with his thoughts.

He knew it was stupid of him to ignore it. Your boyfriend had known it the moment the pair of you had gotten together and knew it was an inevitability: you would outlive him. Perhaps hundreds of years into the future… and forget about him.

Your Orc found it particularly difficult to ignore when the pair of you would go out on Patrol like this.

In the silence, where there was nothing else to be heard other than the hooting of owls or the trill of crickets, it was hard to distract himself with other more important matters, like guarding the encampment.

Of course, whenever you started a conversation, he would participate and reply… but that didn’t mean that the anxiety went away.

Your boyfriend was sure you were aware of your immortality too, but he supposed that you were just used to it. Another fear on top of that, how many other lovers had you loved and forgotten? Was he doomed just to become another one of those people? A small mark in the long life that would be yours?

“Babe?” Your voice broke him out of his spiralling thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring out into the darkness for ages now.”

Your Orc Boyfriend turned to look at you, meeting your worried eyes, brows furrowed with concern. “I’m fine.” Your Orc said with a smile.

You narrowed your eyes at him, doubtfully. “You’re hiding something.” You said, observantly.

His eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow. You were just too good at reading people.

“Really, it’s nothing.” The last thing that your Orc wanted, was to make you feel guilty for his anxious thoughts. He knew you had no control over your memory, or for your endless life span. It was only natural that over time you would forget things… even if they were once important to you.

His answer, clearly didn’t satisfy you. “Babe, please talk to me.” Your voice was tinged with hurt. “I don’t like it when you go quiet on me. It makes me think I’ve done something wrong.”

That made him smile. Even though you’d been alive for so long, you still acted like any worried girlfriend. Sighing, he stopped in his tracks and looked at you.

You stopped beside him.

“… How long have you been alive?” He asked you.

You recoiled, surprised by the question. After a moment, you frowned and curled a thoughtful finger under your chin. “Let’s see…” You murmured. “I was turned when I was twenty five… and that was… around four hundred years ago?” You guessed. “It became difficult to keep track of, so I stopped thinking about how old I was a long time ago.”

The next question your Orc Boyfriend wanted to ask caught in his throat. He swallowed, “and how many people have you taken as a partner?”

You pursed your lips, tilting your head. “Why does that matter?” You asked, suspiciously. You knew that your boyfriend wasn’t the kind of person to judge you based on your body count… murder victims or otherwise, but it was still strange that he was asking.

“Please, answer the question.” Your Orc pleaded. “It’s not anything weird I’m trying to get at, I promise.”

Sighing, you searched your mind for past love affairs, prospective partners names and anything else like that. “None that I can make a note of.” You said, truthfully. “All of them were flings or creepy weirdos who wanted to become a vampire.”

Upon examining your boyfriend’s face in the dim torch light that he held in his hand, you observed something sad behind his eyes. “What’s this really about?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“I… I sometimes think about what will happen after I die.” Your Orc’s voice came out in a whisper, as if he thought his words would draw danger near. “What will you do? You’ll be on your own again, to live the next few centuries… In that time, are you going to forget about me? About what we have?”

The question surprised you. You shouldn’t have been, as it was a very valid question to come from your mortal partner. It was the sad truth of being a Vampire. All the people you knew, friends, family, lovers, children – if you had any while mortal – will die. You will outlive them all.

You had grown used to it, moved on from the deaths of your family… Forgotten their names. The thought of the same thing happening to your Orc boyfriend sent a chill down your spine. An uncomfortable pit opened up in your stomach.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” A lump had formed in your throat.

It was always a possibility. That you would forget… But how could you forget someone like him? This Orc, who had the audacity to approach you in the middle of a Tavern – knowing and recognising full well what you were – and decided to chat you up? How could any Vampire- no, how could anyone forget that?

Even your creepy vampire obsessed victims hadn’t caught on until you had tried to take a bite out of them.

“You don’t have to be concerned about that.” You said, firmly. Taking your hands, you placed them on either side of your boyfriend’s head and pulled him down to your height. “You are not just anyone. You are the love of my life, and I will never ever, forget this. You decided to approach me,” You let out a small chuckle, “a bloodsucking monster-“

“You’re not-“ Your boyfriend began, but you shushed him. “I’m not done yet!” You hissed. “… and took the time to get to know me. How could I ever forget someone so brave and accepting? This is the most alive and happy I’ve been in years.” Pressing your forehead against his, you whispered, “you have made me feel mortal again. And I will never, ever forget that, so long as I live.”

The lump in your Orcs throat rose again as he pulled you close with his free arm, squeezing you tightly against his body. Although you are cold to the touch, your skin waxy and frigid, there was still a warmth glowing inside you, he could feel it against his own skin.

“I love you, you know?” You told him firmly, holding his gaze. “With all of my undead heart.”

“Even when I’m old and wrinkled?” Your Orc smiled.

“Darling I’d love you if you were a worm.” Pressing a kiss onto his lips, you smiled

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Taglist <3

@sunndust @greenie-c

#monster lover #monster romance #monster x human #monster x you #monster x female #monster x reader #orc fiction #orc boyfriend #orc romance #orc x reader #orc x you #orc x female reader #orc x reader fluff #orc x human reader #orc x human

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hcneymooners · 3 days ago

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⟢ fairy-tale!pazzi sneak peek:

❝ her lips were the exact shade of arterial blood—not painted, never painted, for what paint could match what flowed in the veins of gods?—and when she smiled, her teeth were too white, too sharp, too many. it was a smile that spoke of study, of observation and learning, of practice.

wrong.

but it was her eyes that made azzi's stomach lurch and twist and know itself prey. they were bright blue and then bled into a bruised winter sky as it strayed further from the pupil. the colors reminded azzi of hypothermia, something akin to the last thing you’d see before drowning, or the color of your lover's lips when they've been dead and avalanched for more than three days.

wrong.

she moved with liquid grace, every gesture deliberate and flowing, as if gravity were a suggestion rather than a law, as if the world bent around her rather than the other way around. when she reached down toward azzi, her fingers were long and pale and beautiful as carved bone, as barren branches, as the ribs of an animal long dead and perfectly preserved.

wrong. wrong. wrong.

azzi could see that beneath the flawless skin, there was nothing. no pulse, no warmth, no life as she had understood it. only the terrible abundance of immortality, the weight of never dying, never changing, never being anything other than exactly what she was.

there was a great buzzing in azzi’s head, a horrible drone that only silenced when the woman’s feet met the floor. there were no tiles beneath her skin, only smooth puce stone. she leaned over azzi, then knelt as if she couldn’t quite put a finger on her image.

she reached down, curled a long nail over the neckline of azzi’s nightdress and split it down the middle until her breasts and hips were bared. azzi felt heat rise, her nipples harden, her toes twitch.

she knew what this was—who this was. mistakenly she’d thought the world too modern for it.

again, that droning. azzi’s mouth opened, an unnatural unhinging of her lips, and the woman leaned in until she could drag her pointed, pink tongue, along azzi’s teeth. her throat moved gorgeously as she swallowed, azzi’s spit now a wet, warm line down the pink tissue of her inner body,

the buzzing ceased. azzi still couldn’t move, but she knew, innately, that she could understand her.

“hello, little debtor,” the woman said, and her voice was honey poured over broken glass, birdsong in a graveyard, every lullaby ever sung to azzi now distorted through a blasphemous overlap.

“soon,” the woman crooned, her voice low. “i will come to collect.”

when she woke, azzi found herself bare. it was then, where she began to hunger for this other woman’s evil. ❞

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi fairy-tale au.#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige bueckers #azzi fudd

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reveryfics · 2 months ago

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noir (the boys) x partially mute!reader / reader with selective mutism? they'd probably get along lol.

Caffeine

Black Noir x Male Reader

Summary: Ashley Barrett hired you to help when she wasn't around, and you did just that until you noticed a certain member of The Big Seven hanging around you more often.

A/N: Absolutely love getting requests asking for a reader with different 'disabilities' especially since I don't see that often. I'm also asking kindly for some angst requests, I just wanna see what you guys come up with.

TW: Fluff - Selective mutism - ASL

Ashley Barrett had presented the job as an opportunity, a way for you to contribute your skills when needed. Instead, it had devolved into a relentless cycle of servitude to the Seven. Every whim, every demand, no matter the hour or your current task, required your immediate attention. Homelander, in particular, seemed to relish summoning you for the most trivial matters, tasks he was perfectly capable of handling himself. His late-night calls to his penthouse became a dreaded routine, punctuated by his cruel taunts and constant reminders of your mutism, a vulnerability he exploited with chilling regularity.

The sole beacon in this oppressive environment was Noir. You'd noticed him from the periphery, a silent, watchful presence. Unlike the others, he always met your gaze when you signed, patiently deciphering your meaning. He never treated you as a mere errand boy, even though the nature of your employment was undeniably clear.

As the months bled together, you began to notice a pattern. Noir seemed to gravitate towards your space. A fleeting glimpse of his masked face peering into your office, a subtle shift in his posture as you walked by, a deliberate signing of a simple greeting instead of his usual cryptic notes – these small gestures bloomed in the sterile landscape of your work life. They brought a quiet smile to your lips, a fragile sense of worth in the face of constant degradation.

Tonight was no different. You were entombed behind a mountain range of paperwork, each sheet a testament to Ashley's relentless demands. Empty plastic coffee cups, casualties of your desperate battle against exhaustion, formed a precarious barricade around your desk. You raked a weary hand through your hair, the strands feeling brittle and lifeless. Lifting a half-empty cup, you tilted the dregs into your parched mouth, the bitter liquid doing little to rouse your leaden brain. Your eyelids felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish. The graveyard of spent pens on your desk served as a grim reminder of the hours you'd already poured into this Sisyphean task. The mere thought of facing Ashley's disappointed frown or, worse, Homelander's mocking derision if the work wasn't completed fueled a simmering resentment. It was well past midnight; the caffeine had long since abandoned you, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and a powerful urge to simply collapse onto the cold office floor.

Pushing back your chair with a groan, you stood, your stiff limbs protesting the movement. The fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed monotonously as you shuffled towards the restroom. The reflection staring back at you from the mirror was a stranger – hollow-eyed, the skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. A sudden wave of claustrophobia washed over you, the starched collar of your button-down feeling like a noose. With a frustrated sigh, you fumbled with the buttons, shrugging off the offending garment and tossing it onto the counter. You untucked your t-shirt, finally allowing your body to breathe. After a brief respite at the urinal, you splashed icy water on your face, the shock momentarily cutting through the fog in your mind. The cool droplets clung to your stubbled skin as you made your way back to your office. Just before the doorway, you froze. A dark figure moved within the dimly lit space. Hesitantly, you pushed the already cracked-open door wider, your breath catching in your throat. It was Noir. He was silently gathering your discarded coffee cups, his movements fluid and efficient as he deposited them into a black garbage bag. "When did you get in here?" you signed, your eyebrow arched in surprise. He glanced up at you through the opaque lenses of his mask, offering a characteristic shrug before resuming his task.

Stepping fully into your office, you closed the door behind you, the soft click amplifying the sudden intimacy of the space. You sank back into your chair, your gaze fixed on Noir as he moved around the room, a silent, enigmatic presence. He placed a small brown paper bag on your desk, accompanied by two identical plastic cups from the local all-night coffee shop. Pulling a spare chair over to the front of your desk, he settled into it, placing one of the cups between you. "Hot chocolate," he signed, his gloved hands precise. "You consume too much caffeine. I can practically feel your heart pleading for respite." He crossed one leg over the other, reaching for his cup and carefully positioning the straw beneath his mask. You blinked, a flicker of disbelief in your eyes. Could he truly sense the frantic thrumming in your chest, a direct result of this unexpected act of kindness? "Thank you," you whispered, the sound so faint it barely registered in the quiet room.

Noir, remarkably, seemed to possess an innate understanding of the nuances of your mutism, the subtle shifts in your expressions, the almost imperceptible movements of your hands when you considered speaking. Still, your spoken words, especially directed at him, were a rarity, each instance causing a peculiar flutter within him. He watched as you opened the bag, your weary face softening with a genuine smile as you discovered the food he had brought. He knew that on nights like these, sustenance was an afterthought, easily sacrificed in the relentless pursuit of deadlines and fueled only by endless cups of coffee. "You have something," he signed, his gaze gentle. "Here." A gloved hand reached out, his thumb lightly brushing away a stray crumb that clung to your cheek as you devoured the bagel with an almost desperate hunger. You swallowed, the rich sweetness of the hot chocolate a comforting balm. The unguarded smile that now bloomed on your face was a sight Noir had come to cherish, a secret he guarded closely within the confines of his masked silence.

With the bagel and one cup of hot chocolate gone, you felt a renewed, albeit fragile, sense of energy. You returned to the stacks of paperwork, your focus sharper now. Occasionally, your gaze would drift towards Noir, who was now silently perusing the various trinkets and decorations displayed in your office cabinets and on the walls. His presence was a unique form of stimulation, a quiet anchor in the storm of your exhaustion. It was nearing four in the morning when you finally finished the last document. Noir was still there, now sprawled comfortably on the floor beside your desk, engrossed in a book he had selected from your shelf. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you tidied your desk, the silence punctuated only by the soft turning of pages. You then joined him on the floor, the worn carpet a welcome respite against your aching muscles.

He looked up as you settled beside him, setting the book aside and turning his full attention towards you. You cleared your throat, shifting onto your side, your gaze fixed on the worn fibers of the carpet. "I... I appreciate you," you managed, the words barely a breath. Noir's hands moved, signing with a quiet sincerity, "It is nothing. I enjoy your company." A small, genuine smile touched your lips. "I enjoy yours too," you signed, your hands feeling slightly more confident now. "More than you could possibly know." Noir didn't respond immediately, his focus seemingly fixed on the fact that you had spoken more in the past few minutes than you often did in an entire week. "Say my name," he signed, his gaze direct. You instinctively moved to sign it, but he gently covered your hands with his, his touch sending a unexpected warmth through you. Understanding dawned, and you took a breath, the sound soft in the quiet room. "Noir," you whispered, the name a fragile melody on your lips. He let out a slow breath, his gloved hand rising to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly tender before he slowly drew away. "I cannot tell what I enjoy more," he signed, his gaze lingering on your mouth. "The lingering scent of coffee on your breath... or the way your voice sounds when you say my name."

A low chuckle rumbled in your chest, a sound you rarely heard yourself make. "Perhaps," you signed, a playful light dancing in your eyes, "I will have to say it more often then, especially when it is like this."

#black noir #black noir x male reader #black noir the boys #the boys black noir #dc the boys #dc x male reader #dc fanfic #mlm #fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #xmalereader #requested #mute reader

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nightingale-prompts · 1 month ago

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The Devil's Drink-DCxDP prompt

Eldritch Coffee Shop AU part 3 (I guess)

First | Previous |

"Hey there, Sailor."

Jason already knew when he passed those aged mahogany doors that he'd be waiting. Always at that bar when the kids were sleeping. This place— it was like it shifted to what you needed at the time.

Coffee and cakes during the day. A speakeasy during the evening for food, drink, and dancing. But right now, when the graveyard shift takes on a new meaning, the age of this place starts to show. It's somber and quiet. The regulars talked low amongst themselves or sat alone at the booths or bar—contemplating where the time went at the bottom of their gin and tonic.

The band played jazz, slow and smooth. The trumpet dragged it's notes like a dead body across the floor. Made you wanna just close your eyes and sigh like a man bearly keeping it together because he knows that once he leaves the bar, life will be waiting to give him a reason to come back.

That barman. He had a sort of dry smile. He took a long drag from his cigarette, his red eyes focused on Jason and his every moment. Hungry—like was wanted something.

His uniform was slightly undone after a long night. His sleeves—cuffed and his forehead arm tattoos on full display. The ink went from elafent thin lines to thick black. Chains etched into his skin and skeletal bones that matched what was underneath the skin.

They sure liked their graveyard aesthetic around here.

"Need a drink don't you, Rev?" He said, the rich gravely voice said between puffs of smoke.

Jason took a seat at the extended bar that stood perpendicular from the barista station, or just a turn from it. Even now you can smell the coffee grounds mixed with the scent of cigars in the air.

"I'm surprised you're busy right now," Jason said tilting his head to the patrons still here.

"Are you? In a city like this even the dead don't sleep. Can't empty this place unless it's closed. You should know that. You don't own the Iceberg lounge for nothing." The bartender said holding his cigarette between his sharp black-painted fingers.

"No, I meant with your kids and everything." Jason said showing his cards as well.

The barkeeper grunted.

"Not like they need their big brother putting them to bed and it's not like I a have a partner waiting up." He said putting a glass on the bar and pouring a viscous, translucent green or blue liquid that swirls with light.

He mixed the drink with ice, strange leaves, and unknown berries before pouring it into a glass with one smooth motion.

"No shot?" Jason quiped.

The bartender leaned down until his cheek brushed Jason's and whispered in his ear.

"I think a bit of extra flair is needed. Too much of the raw stuff might ruin your palette. Can't have you like the straight whisky drinkers over there that can't tell a beer from a cider. Plus, I wanna water down your drinks so you stay longer." He pulled away and Jason got a good look at those sharp white fangs he had for teeth. More wolf then vampire thought.

Whatever he was Jason knew he was human. He knew that Jason was a revenant so perhaps he was too. He probably just committed to the death thing in a completely different way.

Did that mean he was from the League of Assassins? It was possible but would Raz allow someone to sell his treasured Lazarus water? Besides Raz had never considered drinking it like this. Jason had tasted it upon his resurrection and it was awful the grossest thing he ever ingested. Not like the stuff served here. Pure, potent, and delicious.

Jason took a drink. Just under the foamy head was a tangy-sweet taste with an oddly comforting chill, like mint and citrus with a hint of spice. Then there was a deep acidic bite like a wolf had his jaws at his throat. Exactly what Jason wanted.

The wolf looked at him, waiting for judgment.

"It's good. "Jason said, "What is it called?"

"Ordering it again?" The man asked a smug grin on his face.

"I might."

"The Elixir. Simple isn't it. No stupid puns at least." He said.

"I like that puns. They are cute." Jason said lowly while taking another drink.

"That's how those little troglodites get you." He sighed.

"You let them thought."

"No comment."

Jason laughed.

"So what else do you have?" Jason asked.

"It's a secret menu. Can't tell you or—you know. Not secret." The Bartender cooed while taking a glass left by a patron and putting it in the sink.

"How else am I gonna know what to order? Jason coaxed.

"Come back and I'll serve you a new one."

"An excuse to see me or get more of my money?"

"Money for sure. I love money."

Their conversation piddled away for a pit until they listened to music in silence.

"Well you should get going Rev. I got a group of old bones sweeping in soon."

"Can I at least get a name?" Asking a bit too needy.

"Dan. Don't get me mixed up with the other ones." He said.

"Don't think I could," Jason said opening the door to the stairs. The cool of graveyard slowly wafting towards him.

"Also. You sound better when you aren't stumbling over your words Rev. It's cuter when you do, Rev." Dan said with a predatory glint in his eyes.

Like a switch was turned in his brain Jason felt his tongue tie in his mouth as he babbled a goodnight and left as quietly as possible.

He's the devil. Clearly, he was a demon.

But Jason would come back. Like a call in the night he would seek out the devil's drink.

#this ship is your god now #should i make a secret menu drink list?#badblood ship #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #jason x dan #jason todd #dark danny #dan phantom

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ltadoriyuujl · 2 months ago

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blood on your jeans, blisters on our feet, a huge grin full of teeth

☆ twin holes in your body lead to twin holes in his neck and a tender moment in an unconventional location (AKA: trust hunters to fuck up a perfectly good moonlight date)

☆ werewolf!bakugou katsuki x vampire!reader, 2.6k words

☆ established relationship, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, gn!reader, a touch of religious imagery, they don't fuck but they get very close

☆ a/n: my contribution for katsuki's birthday that i totally got done on time. happy birthday to my favorite guy. crossposted on ao3

Each step felt like a struggle between his momentum and the mud, but his urgency won out every time. The ground was eager to soak up the first rain it had seen in weeks, making the earth beneath his feet warm and wet.

Meanwhile, you were indistinguishable from an ice sculpture in his arms.

You'd been cold to the touch for as long as he'd known you. A natural side effect of being a born member of the living dead. But this was different, more dire. Your skin was sallow at the best of times but you were growing waxier by the second, and the hands he knew could crush boulders without much effort grasped weakly at his shirt. The hem of his shirt and most of his pants were dark and stained, not from the rain or the muck, but from the precious little lifeblood you had to spare, the viscous liquid dribbling out of the two neat holes blown clear through your midsection.

He couldn't hear or smell the hunter anymore, though whether that was because he had genuinely lost them or simply due to the fact that his heart was thundering in his ears and his nose was full of you, he couldn't tell. It wasn't like it mattered either way. If the bastard caught up to him, you'd both be dead. If he didn't get you somewhere safe and put some blood back in your system soon, you'd tap out on him, and that was somehow the worse option.

You coughed, the sound rattling out of you, and it made the knots in his stomach tighten. The bleeding had slowed considerably from when you'd been shot, but it wasn't enough. Your supernatural healing factor could only work with what you had, and you weren't nearly old or strong enough to heal up point-blank shots from enchanted weapons on your own. He'd be damned if you died on him, because of him.

"Katsuki," you mumbled, the word quiet and half-garbled. He grunted in acknowledgment but didn't break his stride, eyes peeled for anything even remotely resembling a shelter. Then, like a beacon of divine providence, Katsuki spotted a spire jutting out in the distance. He immediately switched course, headed in that direction. A spire meant a house or a church, or at the very least something with half a goddamn roof.

"Katsuki," you tried again, voice firmer this time, "you should leave me. 'S not safe out here, go home."

You felt his growl in your bones before you heard it, the rough sound setting an ancient set of instincts on edge. "You've had a lot of stupid ideas," you could hear the snarl in his voice, "but that has to be your dumbest one yet. I'll chalk it up to delirium."

You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn't choke any more words past the dryness in your throat. Pain and hunger danced an awful duet inside you, and it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. The only part of your brain not submerged in the fog of negative sensation was screaming at you to stop wasting energy, so you grit your teeth and closed your eyes, focusing instead on the frantic thrumming of Katsuki’s heart under your cheek.

The trees thinned and Katsuki could clearly discern the building as an old church. The walls and doors were so faded it was impossible to tell what the original colors could have been, even with his enhanced sight. But all the walls seemed intact and the roof had no glaring holes, so he couldn't give less of a shit about whether or not it was pretty.

He tore through the attached graveyard with little concern for the slumber of the dead, only determined to ensure you didn't join their ranks. Using a single broad shoulder as a battering ram, he burst through the door, barely managing to keep you both from crashing to the floor in his haste.

He kept his senses peeled for any hidden surprises and stumbled towards the pews closest to the door before dropping to his knees between them, trusting the ancient wood to keep the two of you hidden and cradling your body so you weren't jarred by the impact. For the first time since you'd gone down, Katsuki allowed himself to properly look at your face, and the sight that greeted him turned his stomach. It wasn't like you'd ever been the picture of health or vitality, but the blood loss had turned you into a wax figure of yourself, a cheap, fake imitation. It was wrong, deeply wrong, and for a terrifying moment, Katsuki thought this would be the last version of you he ever saw.

It hardly took a thought to extend the nails on his hands into claws, the neckline of his shirt shredding like paper under the wicked points. With as much care as his trembling hands could muster, he made a shallow cut in the skin of his neck and raised your head to it, grateful for the way your body twitched at the smell of blood.

Your eyes fluttered open, and then fixed themselves on the droplets rolling down onto his shoulder and collarbone. On instinct your fangs lengthened, and it took every last ounce of your dwindling self-restraint to stop yourself from lunging forward.

"'Suki," your voice was more rasp than anything, vocal cords parched and tongue heavy as lead. Still, even on death's doorstep you had stubbornness in spades. "I can't- I can't make it good. It'll hurt. I don't know if I'll be able to stop."

Katsuki snarled and forced your head closer, placing your lips directly against the wound. "I don't give a shit. Drink."

The command reverberated through you and your body reacted before your mind could, unhinging your jaw fully and driving fangs into flesh. Your teeth tore through skin and muscle, and the blood that flowed into your mouth was sweeter than any wine, purer than any spring water.

You weren't kidding. It hurt like a bitch. You were too weak and frenzied to employ the weird vampire magic that made being fed on feel like a body high. Every one of Katsuki's instincts was urging him to pry you off, to get away, but he dug his claws into the cracked wooden floor and endured.

Just as his vision began to blur at the edges, you ripped your mouth from his neck, throwing yourself backwards to put some distance between the two of you. Katsuki watched in morbid fascination and mounting relief as layers of fat, muscle and skin knit themselves together over the gunshot wounds until the only indication you'd been hurt at all was the holes in your top. He could feel the gashes on his neck mending as well, sped up by the combination of vampire magic and his own healing abilities. His eyes flicked up to meet your wild ones and for a moment, you just stared at each other, chests heaving and the air thick with the scent of blood.

The wave of relief abated, taking his adrenaline with it. He all but deflated, scrubbing his still-clawed hand over his face as the gauntlet of emotions he'd been suppressing, the terror, anger and despair, all came crashing down on him at once.

For all the years spent nipping at each other's heels and trading eye rolls and increasingly creative middle fingers from different sides of a grand hall, you had never seriously put your hands on him until tonight. The glade in the middle of the forest between vampire territory and wolf country had been your go-to spot since you both were children. The area was synonymous with safety in Katsuki's mind, considering only the most suicidal hunters would even risk venturing so deep in search of targets. He'd been at ease, distracted, and you'd sensed the threat before he could. The force with which you shoved him out of the way was enough to send him tumbling head over ass halfway across the clearing. After a few moments of belligerent cursing and spitting grass out of his mouth, his bearings returned in time to see you go down, the smoking barrel of a gun glinting in the moonlight from the treeline.

What happened immediately after was fuzzy at best, distorted by shock and fear. He might've howled, let out a sound deep and full of rage, or he might have simply bolted over and scooped you up before making a break for it.

"That was a stupid ass thing to do." His accusation echoed through the church, and you winced as though the reflected words physically struck you.

"You're one to talk. Letting a dying vampire feed on you was way more dangerous than my stunt." Using the back of your hand, you attempted to wipe some half-dried blood off your cheek but only really succeeded in smudging it. "Hunters must have deep pockets these days if they can afford to have expendable bullets made of blessed silver-"

"Don't joke about this! You could've-"

"Better me than you." You weren't yelling, but your voice drowned out his regardless. The glint in your eyes was steely, your lips set in a firm line. "You just proved it. Two direct shots of holy silver and all I needed was a drink. If they had hit you-" your voice wavered, and your fangs dug into your bottom lip as you tried to regain your composure. "You would've died of blood loss and silver poisoning and even ripping every hunter in the world apart limb from limb wouldn't bring you back. I wouldn't have been fast enough to get you back to your home in time for them to help you, so I did the next best thing."

You shuffled forwards, eating up the floor space between you and him until your knees were almost touching. Tentatively, you reached a hand out to cup his cheek, a soft smile gracing your lips when he didn't recoil. "You're not as invincible as you think you are, Katsuki." Your voice had lost its previous hardness, the edges of it blunted into something far more tender. "I don't want to face a world where you don't exist. Not yet, at least."

Only a few weak moonbeams managed to filter through the grimy window behind you, but they were enough to drape you in a halo of soft silver light. The whirlpool of conflicting emotions churning in Katsuki's stomach quieted as he took you in. Your wild hair and bloodstained mouth did nothing to distract him from the color and fullness returning to your face, the blood—his blood—coursing through your veins and warming you from the inside out.

You were the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

He caved to his urges at last, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him. His embrace was ironclad, like if he squeezed hard enough you would sink into his chest and let him carry you in the safety of his ribcage forever, right next to his beating heart. Your surprised gasp melted into a soft laugh but you held him back just as tight, as though you'd slip away to somewhere he couldn't reach you if you let go.

After a few more minutes of holding you, Katsuki's hind brain was sufficiently disappointed with the fact that you weren't going to crawl under his skin and stay there. He pulled away slightly, just enough to study your face up close, and you tried your best not to squirm under his heated gaze.

"What?" you teased, "Do I have something on my face?"

"Can I kiss you?" His voice was steady, but the pleading undertone was impossible to miss. One of your hands made its way to his hair, toying with the soft strands while you pretended to think.

"I have blood all over my mouth."

Katsuki scoffed. "Yeah, my blood. I don't give a shit."

Your nose scrunched in distaste but you couldn't keep the laugh out of your voice. "You're gross."

"Look, are you gonna let me kiss you or-"

Your lips pressed softly to his, stealing the rest of his sentence away. It wasn't your first kiss together, or even your 50th, but kissing Katsuki was a novel experience no matter how many times you did it. He was so…alive, real and firm and full of a warmth you couldn't mimic even with a hundred liters of blood. The hand not in his hair came up to cup his jaw, his pulse thundering under your pinky finger. A groan rumbled out of his chest and into yours, large hands finding your hips to pull you impossibly closer. His tongue slipped past your parted lips and prodded at your fangs, wrenching a full body shudder from you. You could've spent eternity there, mouth molded against his and greedily basking in the heat of his body. His thumbs hooked themselves under the waistband of your pants and your stolen blood rushed south so fast you almost gasped. Only decades of honing your self-control granted you the presence of mind and sheer willpower it took to break the kiss and tilt your head away from him.

"Katsuki." You were shooting for playful but only managed to land on strained and slightly nervous. "I'm not fucking you in an abandoned church." You refused to look directly at him, knowing from experience that his flushed cheeks and blown pupils would shatter your already tenuous grasp on your resolve.

His chest heaved against yours, his breath grazed your neck, and his damned thumbs were still grazing your hipbones. "Why?" The slight rasp in his voice was deadly. "Too cliché?"

"Oh absolutely. Can you imagine? 'Two creatures of the night, locked in passionate embrace in a former house of God's light.' The universe might smite us for the audacity alone." Easier to joke and deflect than admit you were so drunk on him that if you let him lay you down you might eat him whole.

Thankfully, Katsuki seemed to recognize your turmoil and finally moved his hands, bringing them down to rest on your thighs (which, admittedly, wasn't much of an improvement, but at least he wasn't touching bare skin any longer). "I should get you home," he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. "Sun's gonna start coming up in about an hour and half." You had no idea if that was true considering your phone was long gone and you'd never gotten into the habit of wearing a watch, but Katsuki had a freaky sense for when dawn was approaching so you'd learned to trust his judgment on that front.

Still, neither of you moved, content to soak in the other's presence just a little longer. You ghosted your fingers over the spot where your bite mark had been, the smooth skin betraying nothing about what had transpired not even thirty minutes prior. A squeeze to your leg drew your gaze from his neck to the vermilion eyes you adored so much.

"I'll find them." At your quizzical eyebrow, Katsuki huffed and continued. "Bastard that shot you. I'll find them, even if it takes the rest of my damn life."

You hummed and tilted your head to press your smiling lips to his cheek. "You're so hot when you plan brutal revenge."

"I thought you said you weren't tryin' to fuck me here?"

"Are those 'fuck me' words?"

"Half the shit you say is."

You snort. "You really are a dog," you reply, and you hope he knows you mean it with all the affection of a thousand lifetimes.

#lovely divider from @/enchanthings #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #mha x reader #daisy writes!#happy birthday katsu #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader

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