#MIND THE TAGS

[charliemwrites]

Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

--

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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[kotias]

Your Grace is a Fire

New fic just dropped, prompted by @gleafer on her Patreon!!

Prompt:

“Hell infuses Crowley’s body with hellfire so he runs away and hides for years. Aziraphale finds him, and he thinks he knows how to put out the fire that burns his demon so!”

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hell's Punishments, Graphic description of torture, graphic description of illness, graphic description of violence, Stalking, fleeing, divine ecstasy, Coming Untouched, Bloodgraphic description of body failing and doing disgusting things, Shedding, Angst with a Happy Ending, angst with a porny ending, Angst and Porn

TW: I am so serious. DEAD DOVE. There is blood, torture, intense amounts of gross bodily fluids.

Word count: 7,369 words

Summary:

Laudanum! Last time Crowley would do that… Hell infuses the demon with hellfire and sends him back on Earth, where Heaven hunts him down for three decades before Aziraphale gets his hands on him and brings him back to the bookshop. There, they work together to rid Crowley from this hellfire plaguing him…

Excerpt:

Before him, Aziraphale’s irises changed. The jade colour they had been wearing until then was engulfed into a golden typhoon, thrashing against the walls of its white enclosure and devouring it until all trace of the jewel was gone. The storm passed, leaving behind it the pure, bright blue of a clear sky, almost light enough to lose itself into the rest of the eye.

Crowley only realised that Aziraphale had opened his mouth when his warm breath tickled his skin, and he followed the light appearing between his teeth.

He shook his head, letting out a plaintive whine, trying to get away, get away, get away— but the cold light glowing harder than the sun breached the space of Aziraphale’s lips and entered his, resting on the tip of his tongue and giving him a moment of soothing warmth.

That, however, did not last.

As the glowing bundle rolled into his mouth and down his throat, the cosy embrace turned into a scorching hot tear rolling into the walls towards his chest and freezing his inside with shock.

“Wha—”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed in concern and, Crowley understood, a silent apology. “It’s going to hurt, Crowley.”

And hurt it did, like nothing he had lived through before. He didn’t need to see the light moving inside him to know exactly where it was; everything it touched caught on fire, only to be frozen over and shredded to pieces. Each nerve of his body seemed to be looking for an escape, goosebumps covering his skin like needles.

Each gasp of suffering added only more hurt as the air blew the flames of the hellfire inside him harder and harder. It felt like a battle between Aziraphale’s light and his own affliction, and the loser was himself.

He crashed to the ground, wriggling and whining, his vision turning black.

Read more here

And of course, I am not forgetting @goodomensafterdark ;)

[propertyofthefatui]

→⟩°⌊FATHER DOTTORE X DAUGHTER READER⌋

.;`~☆ NSFW .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ TW : , Father-Daughter Incest, Noncon, Grooming, Experimentation, Use of Toys, Segment Orgy, Audience, Gaslighting, Manipulation .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

ᶻ 𝘇 Z Authors Note ?

- ⋮ ` Please Read @ Your Own Risk .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ I DO NOT ADVICE OR SUPPORT THIS IN ANY WAY .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ This Is For COPING PURPOSES IN NO WAY DO I SUPPORT THE FOLLOWING .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

Please ;  Keep Yourself Safe, Love From Author , Remember , You Matter 𓈒𓏸

-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~

Finding yourself hiding in his lab coat during surgeries, fiddling with his pockets, minutes might as well be hours to a child like you, looking at all the machines he would work with, hiding behind his leg while surrounded in his lab coat as you stared up at the way his hands held a mutation of sorts. Being a child and witnessing all the colorful buttons on the various interesting machines, any child would be frustrated after so long, just standing still, waiting for your father to finish his surgery.

So you would often fall asleep by his foot, an adorable and amusing sight to him once he looked down to find your head snuggled against his boots, a genuine smile. Was his smile genuine because he genuinely adored your adorable behavior? — Or was his smile genuine because he admired himself for his intellect and brilliance that led to creating you?

Your adorable childish attitude has indeed amused him, unfortunately, you would most likely just get in the way of his mobility, most likely to affect the surgery. He placed his bloody instruments back down, the snap of the rubber as he took his stained gloves off echoed through the operation room. With a soft dark chuckle he scooped you into his arms before a segment took you away so you wouldn’t bother anything.

You were no stranger to experiments, regularly having scheduled checkups or surgeries to study you. As a child you were used to the cold, used to the cold air in his lab, the freezing sanitized metal table you would sit and lay on, even your fathers cold gloved hands. Your fathers segments within the room, studying you as their prime examined every bit of your body. Various x-rays and scans, even spreading your legs and examining your folds. You were no stranger to crowds of segments just observing you as you solved various advanced equations and riddles, testing your iq, eq, even creativity. Studying until the next day had been built into your schedule, your fathers segments often lecturing you on various scientific fields.

Unfortunately, like your father, you had no friends. Often alone and entertaining yourself with a book or with a piece of scrap machinery. When you were given the opportunity to interact with other children your age, you were baffled and disgusted by their lack of knowledge, making it almost impossible for you to communicate. Your father had always told you how different the two of you were from the rest of society, and you couldn’t help but be thankful for it. It wasn’t any different with adults either, treating you like a toddler. Often making comments about your wide vocabulary, often saying such things as ‘Oh, that’s such a big word!’ It was truly tiresome and so you chose to spend your time with your father.

Reaching into your preteen years your father began a new routine. Your body is changing and developing, afterall, he must examine his treasured creation, he would say.

Your naked body laid on the pristine white hospital bed. Vulnerable to his gaze, looking at your chest, he gazed down your torso and to your hips. Your figure had begun to develop, focusing his attention onto your stomach before dropping his gaze further down to your hips, observing the growth of your pubic hairs. You had been softly mewling to yourself as he poked and prodded at your skin. With a cold gloved hand, he grazed the side of your hip, a signal for you to flip onto your stomach, his hand slipping under your hips, bringing your ass up. He squeezed your ass, his thumb pulling back the soft skin to reveal your hole. He remained silent as he mentally took note of all the changes that he had observed, his eyes drifting back to your flushed face, he couldn’t help the mischievous smirk that crept onto his face.

“Someone’s a bit frustrated, aren’t we?” He teased, his deep dark voice made your knees weak, as if he was mocking you for being so aroused. His gloved hand softly rubbing your ass.

Already well versed with human anatomy and reproduction at a very young age, you didn’t show much interest in the traditional ways of reproduction. But your hormones were working against your mind, the carnal desire rising every second your untouched hole and clit ached. It was freezing but you felt so hot, with his hands touching your naked body while your ass was propped up to reveal more. He was obviously just toying with you at that point.

You were an intelligent child, you knew what your body wanted, so with a devilish grin his finger trailed your folds, earning an unexpected soft carnal moan of desire from you. A side of your face was buried into a soft white pillow. Your father was a cruel cruel man, you knew that much. You were so utterly wet, you desperately needed relief, so at a desperate attempt you rubbed your hand against your folds. You looked so pitiful. His little creation, his daughter, on her knees, with her ass up and face down, itching for release.

His lips to your ears, sending teasing little breaths down your neck, taking pity on you, he decided to give you an ounce of satisfaction. “Look at yourself, utterly pitiful. A shame we all must bend to carnal desires, don’t you think, my child?” He let his middle finger slip through your folds, rubbing your aching clit for you. You whined in response, hoping he would rub harder. “You’re familiar with the concept of masturbation but I suppose you’ve never had the urge to do so until now. Poor little thing, yet to discover the pleasures of the flesh… the feeling of coming, and wanting to do so until your vision fades. But not to worry your pretty little hole” He spoke as his index finger pressed up against your opening “I’ll teach you very very well…”

You soon felt his finger press harder against you, screaming as you felt him circle your entrance, he began to drag it up and back down slowly, with a certain rhythm. His thumb playfully toying with your swollen clit, rubbing circles around it. You were left weak and crying, your moans getting louder as a knot in your stomach began to build. Moaning to your father about the strange sensation while his other hand had been leisurely playing with your ass, squeezing and slapping it to his content. Everytime you sobbed about the sensation, he merely shut you down, repeatedly telling you “not yet” until finally, you heard him calmly say “go ahead…” And so you did, you let yourself come undone by just his hand. A scream left you as you rolled your eyes back. Your first orgasm, achieved by your fathers skills. He pulled his slick finger out, the insane thought of licking his finger covered in your orgasm came to mind, and since when was he one for being selfless? You rode out your high and let your body collapse back onto the bed. Your mind still dazed, all you could think about was the pleasure.

Since that day your daily routine had changed. He’s been more affectionate to you, you used to think nothing of it when he kissed your neck and jawline but after the day he opened your body to new overwhelmingly addictive feelings, arousal was always in the air. Everything became so utterly lewd to you, surprised to discover your new test were to use dildos, vibrators, even having to ride a segments face to ‘check your endurance’. You were becoming a whore for your father well into your preteens, your evenings with him spent in lewd activities. He absolutely adores seeing his most precious creation be needy for him. He records, or rather films everything. When the two of you are alone at home, he loves to film you riding him. While he’s lecturing you, your face is buried into the pillow as your eyes try and focus on the words on the page, his hips slamming against yours as his words fall deaf to your ears. Loves to play with your clit and finger you while you still wore your underwear when he’s bored doing some menial important documents he can’t trust his segments with.

He’s become a very affectionate man to you behind closed doors, before he goes on a long mission he makes sure to ruthlessly love and fill you up the night and morning before he leaves. It’s required that you must make out with him before bidding him goodbye. You’ve grown used to the constant sex and affection, so has he, becoming separated for a long period of time without your presence is unnerving to him. Ever since he created you he had looked after you, cared for you, made sure you were well loved. It was hard for both of you whenever he had no choice. But once left alone, you can’t help but doubt his affections, wondering if it was just another way of manipulation. But once his segments and himself showered you with affections yet again, you’re reminded that he did admire you, adored your very existence, in his own sick and twisted way.

[lipglossanon]

Red Flags and Long Nights

Real Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x daughter fem!reader (one shot)

hello hello 👋 this is the fic written for the milestone celebration poll winner (real dad taking accidental viagra); big big thanks to all of you who have gotten me here!! 💜 💜 I’m so thankful everyday that you guys choose to read/like/share/interact with my fics and just me in general! 🥰 so without further ado, I hope you enjoy this one shot!!!

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, INCEST, dead dove content, dad/daughter incest, groping, slight cnc, dirty talk, breast play, oral (m receiving), kissing, teasing, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread 😅 some of it was written while sleepy so hopefully it makes sense haha

title from Red Flags and Long Nights from She Wants Revenge

<<prequel: Oh By Gosh, By Golly>>

One day, your mom calls you up out of the blue wanting to talk about planning a family vacation this year. Somewhere with sandy beaches and clear blue water. Something over an extended weekend once everyone can take off work. She’s already talked it over with your dad and he’s agreeable as long as it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. 

As she talks, you pull open your calendar and look over your work schedule. Once you find a date that works, she promises to text you the details of the Air B&B she plans to book. You bid her goodbye and hang up the phone, quietly excited about a beach trip even if it is with your parents. 

You keep busy as you slowly count down the days; long graduated from college but still struggling to find work in your major, you’ve had to settle for any job opportunity that will pay the bills. Luckily enough, you were hired to work at the local post office. It’s not a glamorous job by any means, but you do get federal holidays off and your boss is pretty lenient with you. It’s a cinch to put in your PTO for the extended weekend you plan to spend with your parents. 

The morning you drive down to the beach house is pleasant; it’s early enough you miss out on a bunch of traffic which helps you save enough time to splurge a little and grab some coffee. Following the GPS, you get to the beach house in the afternoon with plenty of sunshine left to enjoy. Your parent’s car is already parked outside so you don’t have to worry about figuring out how to unlock the joint.

You grab your small suitcase and make your way into the lovely three story home. As you walk up the gravel sidewalk, you take in how secluded the area truly is and how lucky your mom was in getting such a nice place. You’re pretty sure it cost out the ass, but hey who’re you to deny such generosity?

The door swings open before you touch the handle and your mom pulls you into a hug. 

“Oh honey, I’m so happy you could make it!”

Breathing in the perfume embedded into your brain from childhood, you give her a quick squeeze back before pulling away. 

“Me too,” you smile, “this place is amazing!”

She laughs and moves further into the house, looking back as you follow along behind after closing the door. 

“A friend of a friend owns this place so it was pretty easy to get. Even your father can’t throw one of his little hissy fits about the cost,” she rolls her eyes and you breathe out a laugh. 

“Where is he?” You look around but only see the open kitchen leading off into the dining room. 

“Down at the beach,” she points to the sliding glass doors on the other side of the living room, “I told him I wanted to stay up here for when you arrived.”

You nod and smile at her again, “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m gonna go put my stuff up and change then we can head down ourselves.”

She nods, “There’s a handful of bedrooms on the second and third floor. Your dad and I are staying in the master down here so you have your choice of rooms.”

“Nice, be back in a sec,” grabbing your luggage, you climb the stairs to scout out where you want to sleep. 

You pick a cute room on the third floor; it has a little balcony with a couple of chairs that gives you a fantastic view for miles around. You toss your clothes into the dresser and quickly change into your swimsuit. Grabbing a towel and some sunscreen, you slide on your sandals and make your way back downstairs. Your mom, wearing a big floppy hat, is already standing outside the sliding doors. 

You chatter with each other, just catching up on your day to day, while you both make your way down the little path that leads out onto the beach. As soon as your sandals hit the sand, you see a huge beach umbrella. 

“Glad to know he won’t burn,” your mom laughs, toeing off her own sandals to walk barefoot over to your dad. 

Following her lead, you take off your sandals and carry them over to the blanket underneath the shade of the umbrella. 

“‘Bout time,” a groggy baritone meets your ears. 

“Shush, Leon, it didn’t kill you to nap on the beach now did it?”

Your dad just mumbles a reply to your mom before raising up. He squints over at you, eyes heavy lidded from sleep as you set your stuff down. 

“The drive okay?”

You laugh and finally look over at him, “It was fine.”

His blue eyes sharpen as they read your expression before darting down to give you a once over. Your nipples tighten against your will and his gaze seems to linger there for a split second before flicking back up to your face. Plastering on a fake smile, you sit down and grab your sunscreen. 

“Want some help with that?” Your dad nods to the little bottle in your hands. 

“S-sure.”

You kinda hope the ground splits open to swallow you whole, but instead you just move over to where your dad is sitting up on the blanket, hand outstretched to grab the sunscreen. 

“Well while you two do that, I’m going to go take a dip,” your mom beams at you, completely leaving you alone to wallow in this newfound awkwardness. 

Keeping your back to your dad, you feel his broad calloused palms drag the slick lotion all over your back and shoulders, deftly massaging it in. For the last few years, there’s been a line of tension between you and Leon. An accidental kiss under the mistletoe where you both used too much tongue to be appropriate (any tongue isn’t appropriate but you’re blaming the alcohol everyone had been drinking).  

Since then, you’ve both watched the other. Glances too heated to be innocent, brushing against each other unnecessarily… and now with his sun warmed hands rubbing across your back, your brain empties as your body buzzes with arousal.

It’s why it takes a second for you to realize that your dad has moved on to rubbing in the sunblock across your ribs and over your clavicle. His hands come up and cup your breasts, stiff nipples showing through the fabric. 

“Gotta make sure to get everywhere,” his breath gusts past your ear as his hands slip under your top and massages the fat of your breasts. 

“Ohh,” you whimper quietly, cunt pulsing warmly in time with your heartbeat.  

He squeezes and rubs across your soft skin, fingers plucking at your stiff peaks until you moan brokenly. 

“Dad,” your breathy exaltation has him pinching and twisting your nipples before groping your breasts roughly in his hands. 

“‘M almost done,” he licks the shell of your ear and your thighs twitch, “you’ve got such nice tits, princess. Don’t want’em to burn.”

You press your hand over your mouth to muffle the whine you let slip. With one last harsh pinch to your nipples, he lets go, scooting back away from you. 

“Should be good to go,” he grins at your dazed look, “don’t keep your mom waiting.”

Shaking your head, you blink rapidly and slowly climb to your feet. As you pass by Leon, his hand reaches up and smacks your ass hard. 

“Be a good girl, okay?”

“Y-yeah, dad.”

You pad out to the ocean, waving to your mom as she looks for seashells in the shallow water. Wading out far enough for water to hit your chest, you finally let yourself sigh out loud. 

“What in the fuck?!”

You rub wet hands over your face as you gaze out onto the horizon. Flirting is one thing, but getting felt up by your dad is definitely crossing the line. You shiver, clit still throbbing as you reach down to press your palm against your cunt. Even as messed up as it may make you, you wish he would’ve slipped his hand down and fingered your pussy. 

The sun glaring off the water makes you squint even as you enjoy the scenery, trying your best to squish all the other thoughts and feelings you’ve had in the past half hour down into a little box you can open later. It works for a time, until the squinting becomes too much and the glare is driving sharp little needles into your brain. 

Leaving the water, you make your way over to your mom as she scoops up more shells with a net. 

“I’m gonna head in, got a bit of a headache,” you wince as the sun bounces off her watch into your eyes. 

“Let me walk with you,” she frowns, “you’re looking a little washed out.”

You nod and follow her back up to the beach blanket, eyes skirting over where your dad’s lounging reading a book. 

“We’re headed up to the house, do you need anything?”

Your mom grabs her bag and your stuff as your dad sets his book down onto his lap. He looks at you then back to his wife. 

“No, once I finish this, I’ll be heading up, too.”

She hums and takes you by the arm, helping guide you back to the house since the pain beats a tempo behind your eyes and makes your vision a little blurry. Once in the house, she helps you upstairs to your room. In doing so, she makes sure to stop in at the bathroom on the bottom floor to point out the migraine medicine in the cabinet.

Entering your room, she sits you down on your bed. She tucks you in and makes sure to close the blinds before walking back into the hallway. Turning, she gives you a concerned look.

“I’m going to head into town. It’s about an hour's drive from here so I won’t be back til later. If you need anything, call, okay?”

You hum in reply already drifting to sleep in hopes you’ll feel better once you crash for a few hours. The nap helps and by the time you come to, your headache is completely gone. Waking up is a chore however; it takes you a minute to realize where you are, eyelids sticking together, gummy with sleep. 

Raising up on your elbows, you reach over to the side table and grab your phone. Eyebrows pinching together, you blink sluggishly until you can read the time. It’s only late afternoon even if it feels like you’ve slept through the night. Climbing out of bed, you change before leaving your room with a plan on grabbing some water from the kitchen. 

It’s noticeably quiet as you finally step out on the bottom floor. Your mom must still be gone since you don’t see her shoes by the front door. 

“Fuck.”

You hear the muttered curse from the half open bathroom door that you’re walking past heading to the kitchen. 

“Everything okay?” 

You slowly press the door all the way open and your dad fumbles with a towel before placing it over his lap as he sits heavily down on the edge of the tub. 

“I thought you were out with your mother,” he bites out, tone sharp.

“No,” you frown, leaning against the doorjamb, “I had a headache and took a nap. Are you alright?”

He blows out a breath and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I’m fine. What time did she say she’d be back?”

You shrug, “Couple of hours I think. I don’t really remember.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Should I call—“

“No,” Leon nearly shouts, “no, don’t. It’s not a big deal.”

“Dad, I can help I just need to know what’s wrong,” you step closer into the bathroom. 

He laughs without any humor, “Sure.”

You go to ask him why when your eyes catch on the bottle sitting by the sink. It’s similar to the migraine medicine you saw in the medicine cabinet earlier, the one your mom pointed out if the nap didn’t get rid of your headache. Who knew your dad needed help getting it up?

“Did you..?”

You trail off, feeling awkward and nervous and disgustingly turned on to think your dad’s dick is hard underneath that flimsy towel. 

“Yes,” he sounds tired, “I thought it was the other medicine.”

“Ohh,” you bite your lip, brain completely in the gutter as your eyes drift down to his lap, “I mean, I can still help.”

It seems insane but your dad’s not stopping you as you shuffle closer to stand between his legs. His blue eyes stay steady on yours as you kneel in the floor, knees digging into the soft rug in front of the tub. Leon tugs his briefs down and his cock slaps against his stomach, precum drooling from the head. He’s so hard, the foreskin has drawn back from the tip showcasing how red and swollen his cock has gotten from the medication. 

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, eyes greedily taking him in.

“Fuck, don’t look at it like that,” he groans, hands gripping the tub so tight his knuckles blanch.

“You’re just really big,” you press the dough of your thighs together, trying to put a little pressure on your throbbing clit, “you’ve got the fattest cock I’ve ever seen, dad.”

You watch as precum blurts from the tip to drip all down his length while he moans low in his throat. 

“Christ, you’ve got a filthy mouth,” his pupils are blown as he gazes down at you, “since you like how big my dick is, sweetheart, why don’t you show me, hmm?”

Your tongue licks up all the precum leaking down his dick before softly suckling on the head.

“Oh fuck, that’s it,” he grunts, “suck that cock.”

Moaning, you bob your head down, tongue tracing the thick vein you can feel on the side as you sink down inch by inch. Your dad pulls out to trace your lips with his drippy tip, smearing precum across your mouth like sticky gloss. You moan and press a kiss to his dick, tongue lapping at the crown until he’s rocking back into your mouth. Humming low in your throat makes his cock kick in your mouth, precum coating your tongue.

“Damn, so good,” he groans, hand smoothing across your jaw, cradling it as he pulls his cock out, “never get head from your mom anymore. Feels so good.”

More slick wets your panties as you mewl, throat clicking as you swallow around his thick length. You hungrily suck his cock, tongue circling his head before dipping into the slit to taste more of his precum.

“Like sucking me off, sweetheart?” he tosses the fringe away from his eyes while he rocks his hips, pushing himself deeper into your throat with smooth strokes until you gag heavily. 

“Love that, choke on it a bit more and I’ll be spilling down your slutty throat.”

Thick strands of saliva bridge between your mouth and his dick like shimmery spiderwebs as he slips out. You moan when he ruts his cock across your tongue. Leon groans and reaches down to tap his cock against your lips before feeding it back to you. Whining, you suck him deeper into your mouth, licking across the head before messily bobbing your head further down his thick length.  

“I'm about t’cum, swallow it all up, princess,” he thrusts a few more times before pulling out until the tip is sitting fat and heavy on your tongue. 

Leon grunts and moans as hot thick spurts of cum fill your mouth. Swallowing quickly, you try to keep his cum from spilling out around your lips, but it ends up leaving a sticky mess to drip down your chin in thick strands. 

You watch as he groans, stomach flexing while you suckle on the head of his dick, making sure to not miss any of his hot jizz as his balls empty into your mouth. After giving the tip of his dick a kiss, you pull back and wipe the spend from your face with the bottom of your shirt. 

Your cunt feels soaked, panties sticking to your pussy lips as you shakily stand onto your feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Your dad stands up beside you, cock still hard and leaking, making you whimper. Pulling his briefs back up, he leaves his shorts and shirt lying on the floor. He grabs you by the forearm and leads you out of the bathroom and all the way upstairs into your room.

“No surprises if your mom comes home early,” he informs you, pushing you further into your room followed by closing and locking your door. 

Heat radiates from your cunt, more slick dripping into the already soaked gusset of your panties. Leon shoves you back onto your bed before climbing on top of you, kissing you heatedly as he sinks down onto your body. You wrap your legs around his waist while you run your hands through his messy hair. You're so turned on you can’t think straight anymore. 

“Thatta girl,” he coos, pulling back to drop kisses across your neck, “can’t wait to feel your wet little pussy, baby.”

You whimper and pull him back up into another kiss. This time he licks into your mouth messily, spit dripping from the corners of your lips to slide down your jaw. You feel him grind his cock against you before pulling away. 

He sits back on his haunches and slips his briefs off, maneuvering until he can toss them into the floor. Next, he leans forward and grips the bands of your panties and shorts. You help him, shimmying to move your clothes down off of your legs. As he moves those into the floor, you slip your shirt off and let it too fall onto the pile of clothing. 

“God, love your tits,” he groans, shoving his face into your breasts, mouth licking and biting every inch of skin they come across. 

His mouth suctions around a nipple, tongue teasing the stiff bud as he tweaks the opposite one with his fingers. 

“Dad,” you moan, nails digging into his scalp.

“What?” He coos, “your dad can’t show his appreciation?”

A whine rasps from your throat and Leon laughs meanly before biting the swollen bud he was sucking. With a grunt, he moves across your sternum, leaving hot open mouthed kisses across your chest until he can suckle and tease the other nipple, fingers plucking and pinching at the now wet one. 

Your hips writhe, leaking cunt dragging against his stomach as his cock grinds against the cleft of your ass. 

“Gonna let daddy stuff your tight wet cunt?” He chuckles as your eyes flutter as he lathes your nipples with broad swipes of his tongue. 

“Yes,” you whisper, “wanna feel you split me open. You’re so big.”

Whining on the last word, you rock down, feeling his tip catch against your pussy lips and driving you crazy. 

He growls and sits back on his heels, taking his cock in hand to smack it against your clit. 

“So slutty,” his pupils swallow the blue of his eyes, “want daddy to stretch this little hole out? Show you how a real dick feels?”

Nodding along with his words, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, teeth sinking into the plush skin.  

“Goddamn,” he mutters, spitting in his hand to slick his cock before pressing the head against your soaked heat. 

Using his thumb, he presses his cock down so the tip slides into your hole. Keeping it there, he rocks against your hips, sinking inch by inch into your pulsing cunt as his thumb keeps his cock steady. Pulling halfway out, he flexes his hips and thrusts forward faster than before. 

“Even your mom doesn’t let me go raw anymore,” he chuckles, bottoming out so fast you choke on air, “so this is a real treat, sweetheart.”

“Ohh god, dad,” you moan, voice high as he starts sliding his cock in and out of your pussy, rough thrusts that make your breasts bounce. 

You whine when he grinds against you, his pelvis rubbing over your swollen clit just right. His balls smack against your ass on every thrust, the loud plap plap plap of skin driving your arousal even higher. 

“Dad, fuck, s’too much,” you gasp out another whine, head feeling dizzy as your blood rushes, arousal making your pulse feel heavy in your throat. 

He groans and drops his weight down on you, bare skin sticking together from the sweat building between your bodies. Leon kisses across your neck, mouth grazing your skin with barely there nips that makes your pussy flutter around his cock. 

The thatch of hair at the base of Leon’s cock grazes your sensitive clit, sending little electric shocks of pleasure that brings tears to your eyes. You feel so good, you can’t stop the slutty noises from leaving your mouth. Rutting into your body, your dad’s fat cock grinds against the spongy spot along the front of your cunt. Slick gushes from your pussy as he hammers your g-spot so perfectly you can’t help but squeeze him tighter and tighter. 

“Princess,” he murmurs in your ear, “is this little pussy gonna cum? You’re so soft and wet— I can feel you tightening up around me. God so much tighter than your mom, can’t believe I’ve been missing out.”

His words push you over the edge. You babble out little chants of dad, dad, dad until a guttural moan spills from your throat, thighs jumping as your pussy clamps down on Leon’s dick like a vice.

Your low moaning twists into a scream as his hand sneaks down to rub and tease your clit. Instead of your orgasm tapering off, it ramps up, gaining speed until it hurtles you into cumming again. 

“Aww, she’s gripping me so tight,” Leon mocks sweetly in your ear, “yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.”

“Dad,” you whimper, tears clumping your eyelashes, “dad, please.”

A moan rumbles from his chest and he humps your cunt faster, cock never pulling completely out as he ruts inside your slick pussy walls. Half a dozen thrusts more and he’s growling down at you, pressing his cock balls deep into your cunt, thick cum spurting from the tip of his dick to stuff you full.  

“Oh so tight, baby,” he sighs, hips pressed against yours as he spills inside your snug little cunt, “your little pussy fits me like a glove.”

Shuddering, your walls milk another small load of cum from his heavy balls and he pants noisily against your clavicle. He presses up onto his forearms, hips swiveling to pull his cock halfway out before sinking it back inside, a mix of your creamy arousal and his spend making a ring around the base.

“Good, huh,” his laugh tinges on mocking, “don’t worry, ‘m not done with my daughter’s cute pussy, gonna keep you here for as long as it takes.”

After that, it’s all a pleasurable blur. You're unsure how many orgasms your dad has given you at this point, but you know he’s only had three and his cock is still so thick and hard. 

“Think this one will be it, princess,” he grunts, hoisting your limp thighs up, the bend of your knees slotting perfectly over the bend of his arms. 

You can only pant in reply, mouth as dry as cotton. He notches the head of his drooling dick at your entrance, dragging the tip up to smear the cum from his last creampie all over your used cunt. 

“One last load for your greedy little pussy,” he grins down at you, “then we can take a shower.”

He sinks his cock into your sore pussy at the same time he leans forward, pressing your sweaty bodies together. Your eyes roll back as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, thighs shaking against his arms. 

“So deep,” he groans, “best cunt I’ve ever fucked and to think it belongs to my sweet daughter.”

Your pussy spasms and clenches down on his thick length as you cry out. Brain melting pleasure seeps down your spine as he pulls out to grind across your g-spot before fucking back into your cunt roughly. 

“S’good, dad,” you mewl, mouth drooling as he hammers his cock into your sensitive hole, “so good.”

“I know,” he croons, “I feel good, too. Not g’nna be able to give up this sweet little pussy. She grips me too good, baby, I’m gonna want her all the time.”

Another orgasm slams into your body, pussy pulsing and sucking his cock into your hole as your head thrashes against the bed. Leon’s hands grip your wrists to push them down against the bed so you don’t scratch him. 

“Fuck, milking your dad’s cock like you’re made for it,” he groans, humping into your pussy with deep strokes until you’re crying from overstimulation. 

“Shh, shh, just take it a little more, ‘m about to cum,” he licks into your mouth, biting on your bottom lip before pulling back, “that’s it, take it, take your dad’s dick deep into that hot, greedy little pussy.”  

Hiccuping a sob, your cunt steadily milks his cock as he buries himself all the way, as deep into your pussy as possible. He grunts against your skin as he grinds his dick against your cervix, spilling rope after rope of cum to paint your walls white. The sticky heat makes your clit throb even as your body aches, wanting to succumb to exhaustion. 

The distant question of how your mom isn’t back yet buzzes at the corner of your consciousness. You must slur it out loud cause Leon laughs as he pulls his softening cock from your puffy leaking cunt. 

“She texted you to say she got stuck in a traffic jam and the road’s blocked for a few hours,” he sighs as he slaps his cock down onto your messy pussy, a wet splat that makes you wince. 

“Dad, ‘m sore,” you pout.

“So sorry, baby,” he coos, a grin overtaking his face, “want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Chest fluttering at the thought, you go to agree when your phone buzzes with an incoming call. Leon grabs it to silence it but turns to look at you. 

“It’s your mom,” he chuckles, handing it over to you, “better see what she wants.”

Sliding it open, her voice rings out clear in the quiet of your room. 

“Hey honey, your dad didn’t answer but I wanted to say I’m about five minutes from the house if you wanted to preheat the oven for this frozen pizza I picked up,” she laughs to herself, “well, it was frozen.”

Your dad sits down on the edge of the bed, listening in to the conversation. 

“Okay, sure, we’ll see ya when you get here,” Leon nods at you, “bye, mom.”

After she says goodbye, you put the phone back on the side table. 

“Well we should get cleaned up,” Leon helps you stand on weak legs, “I’ll help you to the tub and I’ll head downstairs.”

“Thanks, dad,” you smile up at him and he drops a kiss on your cheek. 

“Of course,” he leads you out into the hallway, helping you inside the little bathroom next to your room. 

He sits you down onto the toilet, turning on the shower to allow it time to heat up. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss on your temple, “I know it’s all kinds of fucked up, but I still love you.”

Heart beating double time, you give him a crooked smile, “I love you too, dad.”

He presses his lips together, looking like he wants to say more, but he blows out a harsh breath and walks back out into the hall. 

“I’ll handle the oven and your mom, you just come downstairs when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you say as he swings the door shut. 

Sitting there with your thoughts, you let yourself feel. Satisfaction filters through followed by a smidgen of guilt and shame. You hate that your mom is an innocent party in all of this, but you don’t regret letting your dad fuck your brains out. And since this is a complete one off, it’s just a little family secret that you’ll both be taking to the grave. 

Once steam wafts from the shower, you stand up and step into the warm water. You whimper as the heat works on your sore muscles. By this time tomorrow, this will all seem like some really deranged fantasy you dreamt up. Finishing up in the shower, you dry off and make your way back to your room. Getting dressed, you descend downstairs, the smell of pizza growing stronger. 

“Oh there you are! Feeling better?” 

Your mom comes around the counter to feel your forehead. 

“Yeah, I just slept it off.”

She ushers you to sit down at the table and brings the pizza over, your dad following behind with the drinks. Your mom sits to your right and your dad sits across from you both. He catches your eye and winks, making you look down at your plate out of shyness. 

“Eat up, I’m sure you’re wore out from the hard day,” his mirthful tone draws your gaze back up. 

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and take a drink, “it’s been a hard day alright.”

[maximumcyborgs]

Here ya go!! ;) My artwork for @tf-bigbang Reverse Big Bang that accompanies an amazingly written fanfic by @dramamelon ✨

I’m going to link the fic below please read it’s just everything ✨✨🌸 I had an amazing time collaborating with Dramamelon✨✨

♥️♠️♦️♣️

THE JOB

Rating: T

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M,Gen, M/M

Fandoms: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers (IDW 2019)

Relationships: Smokescreen/Skywarp, Smokescreen/Streetwise

Characters: Smokescreen, Skywarp, Thundercracker, Swindle, Streetwise, Ratchet, Drift | Deadlock, Starscream, Soundwave, Sunstorm, Misfire, Megatron

Additional Tags: Transformers Reverse Mini Bang 2024, Alternate Universe - Mafia/Organized Crime, stylistically inspired by Ocean's Eleven, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbent Seekers, attempted Swindle/Thundercracker, minor Misfire/Sunstorm, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Violence, Drinking, Smoking, Gambling, Light Petting, Heavy Flirting, Character Death

[blackmonitor]

Miraak - Inspired by: Instincts' Escape from @mighty-peacock and @thebeastinsideusallarchive

Maybe it's not my usual style, medium, or subject, but... we are all changing. I'm turning back to more traditional ways!

[starwolfie]

Hyrule gets captured by Yiga. They want to find out where Wild is, but Hyrule isn’t going to tell them.

I saw an amazing drawing by @la-sera and got inspired. 😉

aka: Hyrule has a very bad time while the others are searching for him.

[themaidenofwords]

Jason: If you die in the same place you were born is your net movement zero?

Dick: That's a worrisome thing to ask when you're standing in the grave you were "re-born" from.

Jason: No one's allowed to be curious these days.

Chapter 13 up now. Mind the tags.

[jewel-shard]

Fall

Written for @inukag-week 9th Edition

Artwork: @classysassy9791

Hi beautiful humans. This is my first Inuyasha fanfiction. I am posting a chapter a day for inukag-week. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Yearning for you

Kagome's head rolled to the left, dust filling her nose and mouth.

He was there, she could feel him as the miasma thickened.

She sensed the streaks of power resonate out as the roar of the demon hoard grew.

It almost overwhelmed the ringing in her ears. Opening her eyes seemed like so much work. It felt like the weight of the settling dust on her skin was crushing her.

Warmth brushed her cheek, the grace of a claw on her lips. As her mind was consumed by darkness, her thoughts were of him; yearning for his touch.

Inuyasha.

^.^

He saw her fall. It was an impossible height. With the immense power of the hit, her piece of the jewel shard had shattered, and she had fallen off the edge of the steep canyon wall.

Demons scrambled around her, fighting over fragments as she tumbled. He saw only her. A cry of her name rang through the air as she found ground, landing with crushing speed.

Seconds felt like hours and it was lifetimes until he finally arrived at her side. The hoard swirled as he reached for her.

Kagome.

-.-

He had fucked up.

Again.

He watched her hair whip around her face.

He screamed her name; heard her bones crack against the earth.

He failed.

Her.

He had been so confident.

Said ‘shut up and let me protect you, stupid.’

Like he always did.

Her eyes shone with trust as she watched him leap down into the dry canyon.

He had seen only fear in her gaze as she fell.

He tried to reach for her.

Desperately using his claws to rip at the purple tendrils surrounding him. He had finally broken free just as Kagome's body was being lifted off the ground before she became consumed by a bright glow as it blinded him.

But not before he saw him.

Naraku.

[munsonkitten]

Steve gets Eddie out of the Upside Down. He doesn’t know how he does it, but he does. He holds his organs in with his own body, carrying him pressed front to front, one arm cradled under his thighs and the other wrapped around his back, Eddie’s head lolling on his shoulder. He has Eddie’s face on his bad side. If Eddie were to say anything to him, it would be lost to the constant ringing in that ear, but he hopes it’s nothing too important — Steve understands the situation. Either Eddie’s going to survive, or he isn’t and nothing he tells Steve now will be any help without a hospital.

All he cares about is keeping Eddie awake and keeping him alive. 

Each heavy footstep as Steve runs jostles Eddie back into wakefulness, thank god. Steve doesn’t know what he would do to keep Eddie awake otherwise, seeing as his own voice is gone, unable to make its way through his throat because how the fuck could anyone talk after seeing the shit he’s seen? 

They can’t get through the gate in the ceiling of Eddie’s trailer like this, that much was obvious from the moment Steve found Dustin cradling Eddie’s limp body to his chest.

Steve gets him out. He doesn’t really remember how. He doesn’t really remember what gate they went through. He just remembers running. He just remembers Eddie in his arms, weak and dying. 

He doesn’t really know how he managed to carry him that long or that far with injuries of his own. 

They get him into a car, Nancy behind the wheel because Steve won’t let go of Eddie in the backseat, cradling him to his chest. They get him to a hospital, they see an ambulance unloading a mangled, broken body with a shock of fiery red hair. 

Max. It’s Max. Max is hurt — bad. 

They take Eddie away from him. They take Max away. 

Steve fights off nurses that try to help him, too. He’s fine. He needs to get to his kids. He needs to get to Lucas who is fighting his way over into the hectic emergency room, to Erica who keeps a hand gripping the back of her brother’s shirt so she doesn’t lose him. 

He wraps the kids up in his arms, pulling them close, not caring that he’s getting blood all over their clothes. Nancy and Robin help a limping Dustin over to a seat. He gets taken back to get looked at. Steve can’t go with him despite his protests. That’s my kid! he thinks he screams. His ears are ringing so bad at this point, and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the constant buzz he usually hears. His head feels like it’s full of static as he watches Dustin get taken away. That’s my fucking kid! he screams again, and now his voice is hoarse and he has no idea how long he’s been yelling, but he gets pulled into a chair and his head is pulled into Robin’s lap as he lays down, shaking and sobbing into her stomach. 

Steve is woken up by a firm hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even realized he fell asleep, really. Not this time. He’s been so in and out for what feels like days (but was more like hours), that it’s hard to tell when he’s awake or not. 

He looks up to see an older man standing in front of him. He’s balding, and has a gray goatee. He looks like he has permanent worry etched into his features, like something has been going wrong for every day of his entire life. His eyes are soft, though, in such a familiar way. 

“Mr. Munson?” Steve croaks. His throat is dry, his neck hurts from sleeping sitting up, and he’s still covered in blood and gore. 

“You must be the Harrington boy,” the man says without answering. His voice is gruff, and he has a Southern accent, but Steve wouldn’t be able to place where. He still looks at Steve with those kind eyes, though, despite the shortness of his words. 

“Yeah. Yes, sir,” Steve nods, standing up. He immediately regrets that, feeling a wave of lightheadedness was from the blood loss he’s experienced in the last several days— several years, really. He holds out his hand to shake, but draws it back when he sees the red stain covering the entirety of it. “Steve Harrington.”

“You saved my boy,” Mr Munson says. He pulls Steve into a bone-crushing hug and releases a sob. “You saved my Eddie. Thank you. And call me Wayne.” 

“H-have you heard anything?” Steve asks him. “They won’t tell me.”

“He’s stable,” Wayne says, pulling away. “He’s… he’s in a lot of trouble. They think he did it; they have him strapped down and cuffed to the bed, but there's a good chance he’s going to make it.”

Steve breathes out a sigh of relief. He has no idea how they’re going to get Eddie out of this mess, but fuck, it’s better than him being gone. Steve was really scared there for a while. 

“I don’t know what the state of your home is, but considering you’ve been here instead of going home and washing all that shit off you, I figure… I have a motel room outside of town,” Wayne says after a minute. “Unaffected by the earthquake. I can take you there if you want to get cleaned up and get some rest. Ed will still be here when you get back.”

Steve finds himself agreeing. 

The water pressure in the motel sucks, and Steve finds himself washing blood away for what feels like hours. The water just won’t run clean no matter how much he scrubs and scrubs. He thinks his wounds might have reopened, but he won’t remove the bandages on his own. He doesn’t think he can stomach it. Plus, he didn’t want to rip open the wounds when peeling them off, so he figured soaking them would be the best option. 

So much for not reopening the wounds, he thinks as blood continues to pour down the drain, and he feels less and less like he’s going to stay standing. 

Feeling defeated and not at all clean, he steps out and grabs a towel from the rack. The white towel turns pink in an instant, then saturates deeper and deeper as more blood soaks into it. 

A soft knock at the door nearly makes Steve slip in his haste to cover himself up. He opens the door to see Wayne standing on the other side with a pile of clothes in his hands. 

“These are Ed’s. I grabbed them when I left home just in case he found me, but… Well, anyway, they should fit you,” Wayne says. He pushes them into Steve’s hands and stands there awkwardly. It seems like both of them have been feeling a bit awkward. They don’t know each other. Steve barely knows Eddie. But they’re in this together now, it seems, so they’re both trying. 

Steve nods, looking down at the soft shirt and sweatpants in his hands. There’s a small hole in the neckline of the shirt, clearly worn and well-loved by Eddie. 

“I don’t mean to overstep,” Wayne says. “But those bandages need to be changed.”

“Y-yeah,” Steve stutters. “Yeah, but I don’t have extras and I can’t r-really do it myself.”

“Alright,” Wayne says. He walks back into the main room, leaving Steve in the bathroom doorway. He picks up his car keys and his wallet from a table, shoving his wallet into the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Steve ends up sitting on the bed in nothing but the underwear Wayne had given him. He doesn’t think too hard about it being Eddie’s. There’s a towel beneath him, catching the blood that runs down his torso and his back. There are a few chunks taken out of his thighs that he didn’t notice before, too caught up in, well, everything to really care. 

Wayne comes back not too much later, a bag full of gauze and bandages and antiseptic and Tylenol. He begins laying everything out on the bed beside Steve. 

He works in silence, disinfecting Steve’s wounds and bandaging them up. Steve, on the other hand, makes a myriad of embarrassing noises, laced with pain. 

“Eddie’s come home beaten up more than once,” Wayne says as he finishes up bandaging Steve’s thighs. “I’ve had to fix that boy up plenty of times.”

Steve can tell, too. Wayne is gentle and practiced in the way he does this, like it’s definitely happened way too many times to count. He doesn’t even think between each step, just does them carefully without speaking a word or hesitating. 

“I don’t… I don’t know if Eddie’s ever told you about me,” Steve says, swallowing down the guilt rising in his throat. “But if he has… Thank you for helping me, anyway.”

“Oh, sure,” Wayne shrugs. “Not that Eddie didn’t come home crying, saying Steve Harrington called him a queer and tripped him so he fell into a locker and busted his nose, or anything.” 

“No, yeah, I — I know,” Steve whispers. “I’m sorry, and… I’m going to make it up to him, I promise.”

“You saved him, Steve,” Wayne says. He starts packing up the supplies and shoves the bottle of Tylenol into Steve’s hands. “And last year, I asked if you were still giving him any trouble, and he said you weren’t friends with that Hagan boy anymore and you were leaving him alone, even if the other boys weren’t. He said you’d changed and I’ll be honest, I didn’t believe him, but I see it now.”

“He said that?” Steve asks. 

“Uh huh,” Wayne nods. “And that Henderson boy would come around to talking with Ed about that game they play. He always had good things to say about you… Never quite understood why. It’s like he was trying to set you two up on a date, or something.” 

“What?” Steve asks. 

Wayne just chuckles in response, and says, “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

Steve ends up falling asleep on one side of the bed, warm in one of Eddie’s sweatshirts and a pair of pajama pants. He wakes up at some point, sweating and feverish. He rips the sweatshirt off, kicks off his blankets. Wayne is there a minute later with a cold washcloth that he places on Steve’s forehead. 

He falls back asleep, but it’s fitful. He knows he should probably see a doctor about his injuries, he knows he’s fighting off an infection as he sleeps. He’s just so tired. He just wants to keep sleeping. 

Wayne leaves a few times, comes back, forces water and pills down Steve’s throat, replaces the washcloth, checks his bandages. He doesn’t think his own parents ever cared this much for him when he was sick. He has no idea why a man he barely knows is showing him so much kindness. 

Steve wakes up to the shrill sound of the hotel room phone ringing. It’s just a few short rings, a swear from Wayne, and then the ringing stops. Steve thinks about falling back to sleep when he sees tears fill Wayne’s eyes, and hears a very quiet, ‘Thank you.’

He assumes the worst with the way Wayne gets emotional, but then he hangs up and breaks out into a huge smile. 

“We can visit him, kid,” Wayne tells him. He goes over to a duffel bag in the corner of the room — Steve knows it’s the one full of Eddie’s clothes. He digs through it until he finds something, and tosses it over to Steve, who, in his fevered state, can’t even think about doing anything besides letting them hit him in the face.

In the end, Wayne has to help Steve get dressed, and it’s awkward, and the pants don’t quite fit right and the outfit is nothing Steve would wear in a million years — Black jeans with holes in the knees, a black shirt with the sleeves cut off and ‘Iron Maiden’ emblazoned on it in red. Wayne picks up Eddie’s vest from the chair Steve carefully laid it down on. He had been wearing it under his jacket that he wore into the Upside Down. Eddie hadn’t asked for it back. 

“You know something?” Wayne says, holding the vest in his hands. 

Steve just shakes his head. 

“He wears this every single day. Won’t leave the damn house without it,” Wayne smiles. He turns it over in his hands, running his fingers over a fraying edge of the back patch. “This patch on the back here was a t-shirt at one point. I took him to St Louis to see Dio in ‘84… It was supposed to be a graduation present, but I couldn’t take it back when he didn’t graduate, not when I saw how excited he was. Anyway, I bought him a shirt because I had saved up as much as I could to go all out for this. It was his favorite shirt, wore it every day until the neckline was falling apart and the sleeves were just about coming off. He asked me one day if it would be okay to turn it into a patch, you know. He knows it cost money, so he thought he’d ask. I just laughed and told him he better before it’s completely ruined.”

Steve finds himself smiling as Wayne tells him. 

“Anyway,” Wayne says, passing the vest over to Steve. “For him to give this to you — I don’t know if you know what that means. He’s put hours into sewing these patches on, he made some of these pins by himself, you know. Made the design, pressed it with one of those button presses the school has, or whatever, he spent his own money on others. It’s all the things he likes most… What I’m saying is that this vest is Eddie. It’s everything he is. You better keep that safe and understand how much trust he has in you. That’s why I’ve been helping you, even knowing you were a dick to him in school.”

Steve feels like he’s going to burst into tears. He hugs the vest to his chest, and then quickly slips it on to wrap himself up in it. It’s covered in blood, it smells, but it’s Eddie’s. 

Eddie isn’t strapped down to the bed when they walk into his room. He isn’t cuffed. There are no police officers sitting guard outside his room, stopping everyone but hospital personnel from going in. Steve is just about to ask how when the answer walks into the room. 

“Hey, kid.”

Steve turns around and can’t believe what he’s seeing. Jim Hopper is standing there, his head shaved, his clothes hanging loosely off his body, deep bags under his eyes. But alive. He’s alive and standing right in front of Steve, and he’s the reason Eddie isn’t being carted away to prison while he’s still in a coma. Eleven steps into the room behind him, and her head is shaved again, too. She’s taller now, her face is so much older. Like she’s aged five years in the eight months since Starcourt. Steve imagines she’s seeing the same thing when she looks back at him. 

She walks right in and wraps Steve up in her arms, her head pressed into his chest. She lifts her head and presses in close to his good ear before speaking again, and Steve — well, Steve figures of course El would know. She has always been far too observant. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

“For what?” Steve asks, returning the embrace. 

“You have kept my friends alive,” El whispers. “You have taken care of everyone. Dustin says they would have had no chance if you did not drive them around.”

Steve laughs. That’s true, but he doesn’t feel like he’s all that important in the grand scheme of things. 

Hopper pulls him into a hug next, and it’s weird because Hopper and Steve were never all that close, but it’s nice, too because Steve still mourned Hopper, and now he’s here. He’s here and he’s likely the reason Eddie isn’t cuffed to his bed rails, and he’s going to make all of the Upside Down bullshit better because he isn’t afraid to go in headfirst to anything. 

“What are you wearing?” Hopper asks, taking a step back to look at him. 

Steve feels even more heat rush into his face, even when he’s already feverish. “They’re not mine.”

Hopper barks out a laugh, then grabs Steve’s arm to pull him into the hallway. 

“You need to get fixed up, kid,” Hopper says with no room for argument. “I got Eddie’s charges dropped, and now you’re going to do this for me, alright?”

“Or what?” Steve asks. “You’re going to re-arrest him?”

“I just might,” Hopper says, amused. 

There’s a doctor at the end of the hallway that Hopper passes Steve off to, and he spends the next few hours being sewn up and pumped full of antibiotics. He spends that time worrying and wondering if Eddie is going to wake up anytime soon. He’s worried that he won’t be there when he does. 

Steve doesn’t really know why that matters so much to him.

Read more on AO3

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Could you please point me to any angsty fics that are about a reunion/reconciliation in season 3? Perhaps any that include a kiss? Thank you so much!!

Hi! Here are some post-series two angsty reconciliation fics. Mind the tags and warnings on a couple of these!!...

Worship This Love by ghostsandmermaids (T)

Aziraphale resigns as Supreme Archangel, and Crowley has… mixed feelings about his return.

Night's Embrace by waterfallsilverberry (T)

Crowley grapples with Aziraphale's sudden decision to leave, leading to a heated confrontation about their love, choices, and consequences. Aziraphale expresses regret and the realization of needing Crowley. Despite initial anger, they reconcile, deciding to face the future together with renewed understanding and a commitment to each other.

something sweet and blue by perilit (M)

Crowley’s not breathing. They don’t technically need to, but the lack of it is so jarring that for a minute, Aziraphale just stands there and trembles, overwhelmed. Lord, what have I done? Aziraphale returns from Heaven after a year away, and discovers Crowley has all but given up. Before he can put things to rights, he’ll have to coax Crowley back to living.

Falling through the hours by verovex (T)

Through a renewed Arrangement, seeing how far ‘not talking’ really gets them, and conjuring hesitant, hopeful, mutual daydreaming, Aziraphale is then unceremoniously written out of the Book of Life. Crowley is left with the remnants of being the only one who remembers him, and the chasms of grief it brings are only stifled by how the world that remains would’ve been the image Aziraphale had always wanted.

six millenia, then nothing, nothing by solarmoth (M)

(He had been careening, hopeless, uncontrolled, thousands of years in the falling. It was inevitable that he was going to hit the ground eventually. Every fall must end this way. There is no other ending.) Or: Crowley is angry. Aziraphale is disillusioned. Heaven is horrible, though that's nothing new. The two of them find each other, again, again.

In Pieces by LollipopCop (E)

Crowley has been nursing his broken heart in a numb stupor since the day Aziraphale left for Heaven, but it turns out he isn't the only one suffering. Their kiss did not go unnoticed by the Metatron, nor unpunished.

- Mod D

[charliemwrites]

Oh, Witchfinder...

The rumors are seeds carried along the last frigid winter wind. There’s a cluster of townships that flirt at the edges of a dense forest in the northeast. The smallest and farthest village is said to be infested by those most heinous of Hell’s denizens, a witch. Witchfinder General Shepherd sends the captain of the 141st witch hunting division to investigate. "Let me pour you a drink."

Original AO3 Link

Content: Witchfinder AU, Dark Content, Dub-Con and Non-Con, Abuse of Power and Power Imbalance, Murder (non-descriptive), Possessive/Obsessive Behavior, Unreliable Narrator, Blasphemy and Religious Elements (Christianity)

The rumors are seeds carried along the last frigid winter wind. They sprout suspicion in the fertile soil of the witchfinders’ information network.

There’s a cluster of townships that flirt at the edges of a dense forest in the northeast. The smallest and farthest village is said to be infested by those most heinous of Hell’s denizens, a witch.

Travelling merchants who have weathered the journey tell tales of shrieking trees and shadows that creep around campsites. Water coppery with blood and plagues of nightmares swathing entire caravans.

Witchfinder General Shepherd sends the captain of the 141st witch hunting division to investigate.

It is a sunny spring day when John first steps foot in your apothecary.

A bell above the door announces his arrival, a little brass thing that peters off like good laughter once it’s closed after him. The shop is absent of customers in the late morning; all the better to ask his questions without others to share the weight of his attention.  

A voice calls to him from a room beyond the counter, a bright compliment to the doorbell just gone silent, begging his patience.

Church bells ring for death too.

But death knells are not what flood John’s mind when you flutter into view, sage-stained hands smoothing ribbon-laced hair. An apron hugs tight about your waist, a stained linen cloth tucked between double-looped strings. A smear of vibrant green when you absently wipe your fingertips over a corner.

Barbed hooks burrow into his mind and hold fast.

You come up short when see him, eyes big and blinking like a trick of the light you can’t make sense of. He takes a heavy step deeper into your shop, herbs fresh and bitter in his nose.

What remains of the man he was before this moment clings to his shoulders.

“Oh, hello,” you say, “I’m sorry, I expected… ah, what can I do for you, sir?”

You close the last bit of distance to the counter, a half step for him two of yours. Dainty hands stack at the edge, one beneath the other like nesting birds. John crosses your humble shop in two long strides, boots loud as gavel strikes across a clean-swept floor. He is accustomed to being judge and executioner, a blood-soaked cloak draping his shoulders; something in his chest stirs at being yours.

“You are the shop keep?” he asks, dragging his eyes over yours.

You peer up at him through your lashes. Sunlight spirals through your irises, trips over the dark ring that separates them from pristine white.

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

“You’re the village healer, then?”

You blink again, brows doing a complicated dance deciding if you’re offended or not. “I am.”

Petal soft lips curl and press together on that last phonetic, hint at the question you didn’t quite ask.

“The others tell me you were beset by a witch last year.”

Your mouth parts on surprise, closes when you notice the silver medallion perched on his chest.

“Oh,” you breathe in realization. “Yes, in the autumn. Another witchfinder cured me.”

His eyebrows arch, but your expression remains open and guileless. The counter is less than the length of his forearm, but it’s too much distance. He wants to drag you to his chest and bruise that delicate jaw, squeeze a story from your polite tongue.

“I heard no news of this,” he says, hardening his voice into brick.

You tilt your head. “I couldn’t say why. He seemed quite proud of his victory.”

John’s eyes narrow. Pride is a poison to be imbibed in small doses. A couple drops on the tongue will do, a honeyed warmth fueling good, hard work and living well. A witchfinder must abstain regularly, lest the work become hollow and the living too well.

“His name.”

“Sir Graves,” you answer promptly, then tap a neat fingernail against the countertop, “I’m afraid that if he shared his first name, I don’t remember it.”

Not likely, he thinks. Philip indulges pride a little too readily by John’s estimate – and by most others’ as well. It’s no wonder when Shepherd feeds his lapdog feasts just for fetching. Could, perhaps, put the Devil himself to shame one day, glutted on lording himself over peasant folk looking for salvation by his sword.

If Philip was in this little village and saved a lovely young thing like yourself from perdition, he would have come back to trumpets.

“Odd, that.” John muses. “That I heard of your village’s witch, but not one of my own killing it.”

You hum. “Yes, you said.”

“And the witch is dead now?” he confirms.

One shoulder lifts, a tentative shrug. “I should think so. The village has been peaceful and I’m no longer ill.”

No, you certainly are not. You’re a portrait of health, haloed in good humors. John has seen mere brushes with the wicked rend men in their prime to frail simulacra of themselves. Yet you stand exquisite upon the year’s rebirth, cheeks round from a full belly through the winter.

“And yet I hear that the woods cry in the night.”

He heard no such thing on his journey in, but better to see how far the roots spread. 

“I could not say,” you demure, “I sleep quite well, sir.”

He flicks his gaze over the precious silhouette of you, a pretty thing in a dress trimmed in yellow. An idle thought tiptoes to the front of his consciousness, a thief sneaking away his good sense.

You, tucked up alone in a too big bed, sleep soft and vulnerable, moonlight kissing bare skin…

The sleeves of your dress are scrunched up a bit at the wrist, tender skin and serpentine veins peeking past modest fabric. A dark splotch near your thumb draws his gaze.

He snatches up your little wrist like a lightning strike, yanking your arm across the counter while you’re still scrambling past a gasp to protest.

“When witches consort with the Devil, he often marks them.”

John’s grip is iron, though it wouldn’t bruise if you’d stop pulling. Surely you must know, just from the size of him, that you have no hope of resisting without indulging in some inhuman power. Even bracing your free hand against the counter for leverage, you’re held fast.

He tugs your sleeve down, revealing the discolored patch of skin to the light. You make a noise in the back of your throat, brows scrunched and tilted with distress.

“It’s just ink!” you squeak. “Let me—”

He concedes to his initial urge and locks his big hand around your jaw, from corner to corner. You squeal, supple lips bracketing teeth blunt of suspiciously sharp edges. A slick pink tongue pillows the floor of your glistening mouth. He twists his wrist, rough fingers hooking under your jaw and chin so that he can plunge his thumb into that noisy cavern.

He’s tempted, so tempted, to leave it there. To pet at your tongue until it’s a tame pet, jumping at his command. But your whines are getting pitchy, your eyes shiny, and he has no need of scaring you until you’ve been proven heretic. He dips into the saliva pooling behind your bottom teeth, then pulls away before you can do something monumentally stupid – like bite.

He rubs the wet digit over the mark and sure enough, it reactivates and dilutes a coal gray. Just ink after all.

When he releases you, the glass-laden shelf behind you rattles, glass vials shuddering together with a tinkling sound. Laughter at your expense.

“W-wha – why…?” you whimper, arms drawn close to your chest.

Perhaps he was hasty. He nearly startles that he does not feel more than passing regret – that you will be warier to approach him again. Hastily, disturbed at his own reaction, he forms his expression into a moue of apology.

“I know,” he soothes, weaving his voice into a velvet blanket around your tense shoulders. “That must have been frightening. That was not my intent, little miss.”

You sniffle a bit, those unshed tears still glossing big, round eyes.

“Witches are a dangerous kind,” he continues, “you know that for yourself.”

At your tentative nod, he curves his mouth into a gentling smile. Combined with the scruff of his facial hair, he knows he telegraphs warmth and trust – Soap has even teased as fatherly. The sight of it unfurls you, a wilting flower twisting towards the sun.

“You can understand, then, why I had to act swiftly?”

You nod slowly after a moment, taking the tiniest of steps away from the wall.

Brave little thing, he thinks with a wicked curl of fondness. The type of fondness a dog would feel for their favorite bone to gnaw.

He offers his hand, beckoning you to come of your own volition this time. His palm tingles in anticipation of your touch, builds into a burn the longer you hesitate, your touch the balm he needs to relieve it. Your eyes flick between his face and his hand; your unmarked throat bobs as you swallow.

Then you shuffle closer and glide your soft fingers across his, alighting his nerves.

“Though it is my duty, I do regret the affect it has had on our introduction,” he rumbles, voice lowering. You lean a bit to hear him better; he nearly drops to a whisper. “But may I offer my name, as a sign of good faith.”

Your answering smile is small, still shaky, precious like gemstones.

“I am Captain John Price, witchfinder. At your service, my lady.”

Men avoid you in the streets.

It’s a subtle gesture, a slight change of course or pivot of the heel. John doesn’t even notice until a group of three splits two and one to allow you unhindered passage. They don’t appear nervous, nodding their heads in greeting that you respond to with smiles and tiny waves. There’s a basket on your arm that they are careful not to bump, though none offer to carry it either.

The women, by comparison, frequently stop you in the middle of the street for a pleasant word or friendly clasp of hands. Like songbirds on the eaves, twittering brightly.

“Where are all the men?” John asks the baker.

“Begging your pardon, sir?”

“There are fewer men than women,” John notes, nodding to the main street – three women to every man. “Why is that?”

The baker blows out a breath, the long sigh of an elder man. “Oh, the same reason all boys leave home, you know? They go out to make their fortunes, chase fame, fall in love. We’re a small village, little of those first two to be found here.”

John chuckles his agreement, thanks him for the insight – and the fresh rolls – then strolls towards the smithy. The short journey is riddled with curious glances and whispers, none with concern, but none with eagerness. He thinks someone might whisper your name to another as he passes.

As luck would have it, you are outside the smithy, a younger girl hovering at your elbow with a worried brow.

“Is something the matter, ladies?” he calls.

You jump a bit, cup your hands together, one over the other. Hiding something. He arches an eyebrow and hooks a hand in the belt across his chest, thumb peeking out. Stops a polite distance away. Without the illusory safety of a counter, you appear ready to dart off like a startled doe.

“Or are we up to mischief this morning?” he teases upon seeing the younger girl’s flustered face.

You drag your teeth across your bottom lip, trepidatious eyes scanning John’s features. He keeps his smile warm and friendly, the set of his shoulders loose. Your gaze lingers at the corners of his eyes where the skin has begun to crinkle with his age. Then you giggle a bit, an embarrassed grin sneaking across your mouth.

“We’ve made a friend, Sir Witchfinder,” you reveal.

“A friend you say?” he asks, tilting his head.

You hum and lift your hands a bit in offering. “Would you like to see?”

He arches an eyebrow, taking his turn at a cautious measure of your intentions. The glint in your eyes is joyous, not sinister. Shaking his head a bit, he idles a step closer.

“If I end up with a face full of ash…”

“We would never!” the younger girl gasps.

“I wouldn’t dirty my hands for a silly joke like that,” you add with a cheeky curl to your lips.

“Let’s see it, then.”

You slowly, carefully, lift the hand on top. Sat in the well of your palm is… a mouse.

“This is your friend?”

“Handsome little devil, isn’t he?” you coo, thumb smoothing behind a rounded ear.

“A bit waterlogged, though,” he notes.

The poor creature’s fur is dark and clumped together, sticking up where it's brushed against your hands. It’s curled into a tight, shivery ball, beady little eyes staring out at a world far too big for it.

“He fell into the rain barrel,” the girl explains sadly, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could have sent it on its way,” he offers, peering at her across your arms.

This, apparently, is of great offense.

“He would die! It’s still far too cold!” she cries.

You hum in agreement, soothing the mouse as its ears twitch. “He’s a young one too, would be a shame that he survived the winter to die like that.”

A circler patch on your skirt reveals just how much of a shame you thought it would be.

“Well, what’s to be done with it now?” he asks.

You cuddle it closer to your breast, beaming as it huddles into the warmth of your body.

“Mallory, would you collect a wooden bowl your father won’t miss?”

“Gladly!” the girl chirps and scurries into the smithy.

Left alone, you don’t seem to grow wary of John again. Most of your focus is on your tiny charge, though you flick him a warm glance when he ventures a careful finger over its spine.

“What a stupid little thing,” he muses, not unkindly, “falling into the water like that.”

You laugh a bit, soft and quiet. A precious jewel shining from a riverbed.

“I like stupid creatures,” you reply. “When they lash out, you know it’s not with malice. Ill intent is an invention of man.”

His brows arch. “How do you reckon?”

You tilt your head, eyes sliding away in thought. “Well… I’ve never heard of mice starting a war for gold. Have you?”

Such a seemingly harmless question; it sits like stone in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I have not.”

Mallory returns, a wooden bowl with high sides in her hands. You pluck a square of linen from the layers of your dress and arrange it at the bottom of the bowl, then deposit the soggy rodent atop. Its tiny black nose twitches, exploring its new bed.

“Set this in a sunny window with a thimble of water. When he’s regained his strength, you can return him to the forest,” you instruct.

John clicks his tongue. “Your father will not be pleased if it gets loose.”

Still, he tears a bit of bread from his bounty of rolls and drops it next to the mouse.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Mallory assures and trots off with her occupied bowl.

You and John watch her until she’s disappeared back inside the smithy.

“It’s still a pest, you know,” he says after a moment.

You slant your eyes towards him, a sad twist to your smile now. “That didn’t make him any more worthy of drowning.”

“Someone may still kill it one day.”

You turn to him fully then, chin tilted in not quite a challenge. “Then why did you give him bread?”

It’s a question he could easily shrug off or wave away, but the weight of it settles heavy around his shoulders. Your gaze bores into him.

“I don’t believe in cruelty for cruelty’s sake,” he explains after a moment. “And I do not believe in suffering for principle.”

You blink at him for a moment, storm clouds churning in your eyes. Then someone calls your name and you bid John a quiet ado.

The sheep are huddled in the pasture, an off-white island in a blue-black sea of grass. Their sentinels perk as John passes, eyes glinting by fish-belly moonlight. They make no sound, only lift their shaggy heads to track his passing. John spares them a nod, one guard dog to another.

The nature of a witchfinder is not so different from theirs, to protect the flock and bend to the shepherd’s guidance. How must they feel when their master inevitably slaughters one of their own lambs and lets them taste of the meat?

The forest is loud for the first half-league. Mother nature has let her night children out to play – foxes in the brush and owls perched amongst crooked boughs. Perhaps she has welcomed the arcane tonight as well. The moon is not full, but the lure of sin drives the craven to sate themselves on unripe fruit.

John follows the trodden path to the river where the witch drowned. No trace of the execution or her remains. The wilds are cruel that way, swallowing the righteous and wicked alike and leaving not even bones behind. Marrow is always good for feasting, no matter the soul that inhabited them.

He follows the bank upstream a ways, deeper into the forest, and farther from the places that most would venture. The animals here are more cautious of unfamiliar scents and flee long before he might disturb their evening. As a consequence, the night grows quieter, lonelier.

Then silent all at once.

John is a blooded witchfinder; he knows what this silence means. His palm curls around the handle of his flintlock.

A shrill scream splits the air, high and awful. A death cry – a rabbit’s.

The insects return as the night folds over the bloodshed. John doesn’t move his hand from his pistol.

He waits, a chill wind gnawing at his skin, wriggling in the spaces between his clothes, tangling in his cloak. But there never comes a sign of anything more. Eventually, he turns and navigates back towards the village along the threads of deer trails.

Just as he passes the tree line, a breeze stirs. A few faint haunting notes burrow into his ears and carve maddening paths through his brain. Someone is singing.

His gaze curves towards your apothecary, though even from this distance the windows are ink black.

How easy it would be to steal inside, confirm that you are a good girl tucked up in bed. Perhaps even, for the sake of thoroughness, confirm with his hands and tongue that your croons are not the ones teasing him on an unnatural wind.

John takes a single leaden step towards your home. Towards you. Then the church bells toll – once, twice, thrice.

He pivots on his heel and returns to the inn.

You are at mass the next morning, in the third row from the front, tucked between the baker’s wife and the blacksmith’s daughter. The latter is giggling to you while the other parishioners trickle in and lace the pews. Your smile is bright and sweet, primrose blooms in the trellis outside the inn. A spiderweb of lace threads through your hair today, an intricate pattern he traces with his eyes, over and over and over.

He asked after you – before going to your apothecary and then after. You are well-liked, of course you are. Their precious healer, so handy with your tinctures and ointments, so kind in word and deed. A dreadful business it was, when the shadows appeared in your eyes and spilled over, vitality washed from your skin. You snapped at a huntsman one day, then snarled at the mayor’s eldest son a week later. They each fell fatally ill by month’s end.

You had not liked the witchfinder one bit. Had forced him from your shop and refused his men aid for their travel sores. No one knows what happened All Hallows Eve, when they dragged you from your home to the tiny village jail. All anyone knows were the rabid screams, the curses you shouted through the night, the staggering gait of one witchfinder come first light.

The villagers spoke little and reluctantly of the drowning. That you were marched, silent as death and blank as parchment down to the riverside in chains. The forest was silent when they bundled you up in canvas and roped it closed. There was a terrible splash when they threw your still body into the depths, how you sank and sank and sank…

You were sitting at old woman Josie’s side when they returned, dry and warm and so curious about where everyone had been for so long.

John watches you kneel for communion, mouth parting to receive sacrament. How powerful the Lord must feel, to be placed upon that silken tongue and taken into that soft mouth. The light shifts through stained glass, you’re dyed with Heaven and saints.

No, you are far too exquisite for God; all His angels would fall for envy of you at their gate.

Blasphemy tastes like fresh bread, warm and soft and a little sweet.

John forgets to cross himself. The eucharist has ended and you are gliding down the center aisle towards his post at the church doors.

“Good morning, Sir Witchfinder,” you chime.

The baker’s wife squeezes your elbow as you part ways. John replaces her touch with his own, turning with you towards the apothecary.

“I trust you slept well?” he asks, falling into step.

“Like a lamb,” you reply, “and you, sir?”

“Well, for what I got.”

You are a song that followed him into sleep. His dreams were laden with your big eyes and your soft lips and the memory of you yielding beneath his grip. He woke this morning humming your tune.

You have to tilt your head so far to gauge his expression. “Trouble sleeping?”

“I went into the woods last night, looking for truth to the rumors.”

“Oh! Did you find any?” You wear innocence like fine pearls.

“None. Though I may find something on the full moon.”

You hum, curious. “The full moon is important, then?”

“It is sacred to witches.” He scoffs, “Well, what passes for sacred to them.”

Another question perches on your lips, but a call of your name robs your attention once more. The mayor, asking for a tonic. You pause to ask after his symptoms, and his wife, and his niece in the next town over. It’s a simple yet beautiful net you weave, ensnaring the man’s good will. You promise a bottle before noon and continue on with John at your pretty little boot heels, a dog on a silver leash.

“Tea?” you ask as you enter the apothecary.

He nods. “My thanks.”

You hum and flounce off to the back room. He keeps half an ear on you there while he wanders the shop, a more critical eye upon your wares. There are jars labelled in looping script with commonplace items. A quartet of honey, a cluster of infused oils. Tins of balm for wind chafe and sunburn. Nothing of suspicion, though it would be a foolish witch that keeps virgins’ blood and reptile eyes in plain view. He’s still not sure if he expects to find them anyway.

Spurred by he knows not what, John rounds the counter. Beneath it is a number of other glass vials and containers with careful labels. Their uses are not included, but he recognizes some of them. Cinnamon powder, crushed chamomile, lavender buds, mint leaves. There’s also a little sheaf of bound parchment denoting inventory and sales; business is healthy for the village’s sole healer.

The quiet shuffle from the other room becomes supplemented by a light hum.

John’s feet move of their own accord. The backroom is a well-lit, clean space, but the entirety of his razor focus is on you. He does not bother to lighten his steps and so you’ve already turned by the time he reaches you.

A gasp pitches high in your throat when he backs you against the table behind you.

“Sir—”

You smell like vanilla and daffodils today. Incense in the church that’s been built for you in his mind. He braces his hands against the table to either side of you, caging you in.

“Price,” he growls against your ear. “Call me by name.”

The sweetest little shudder wracks through your smaller frame, a spray of blush blooming across your nose and cheeks. He exhales the urge to drag his tongue across it, let the heat burn his mouth, initiation by fire.

“I-I couldn’t possibly – never mind, what are you doing?!”

He could coo at the affront daring to color your voice. How dare this big man invade your shop and your space and your life, how dare he sink his teeth into the very thought of you?

“I heard singing last night,” he says instead, a growl in his chest that you surely feel against your fluttering breast. “It sounded like you.”

You shake your head, a little furrow between your brows. “I slept through the night, sir.”

“Price.”

“Captain, please, are you sure it sounded like me?”

He stiffens to his full height, towering over you. You try to shrink away, but space has become a commodity he will not afford you.

“You doubt me?”

That little spark of indignance is already cooling, smothered before it could grow into a proper flame. You try for reason with a man who thinks he lost it sometime between seeing you for the first time and his next breath after that.

“There are many children in the village,” you explain. Your hands inch up between your bodies, like ivy creeping up stone walls. Their roots will find purchase in the cracks you’ve chiseled in his foundation. “Perhaps it was a mother singing a lullaby?”

He grasps for all the good sense he was once graced with that made him captain.

Behind him, the kettle begins to shriek.

“Please… Price?” you murmur. “Let me get that?”

He allows the narrowest margin for you to escape. You take it with nervous, stumbling steps. As you collect the kettle from the modest fire burning against the back wall, he tries to wrestle up what remains of his tattered resolve.

John has always considered himself a fair and reasonable man. Unlike a tragic number of his fellows, who have never met a woman they did not condemn, he has strived to be more discerning. A shepherd dog cannot protect the flock if it bites its own sheep. He’s saved as many from the stake as he’s sent to the noose.

Since meeting you, however, he feels as if he’s stranded with no compass and no stars. You’ve robbed him of sense and patience and virtue, left a ravenous beast behind in his skin. It’s unlike any enchantment he’s heard of – one that wishes to ruin the caster so thoroughly. He’s possessed by his need to possess.

It’s some kind of magic, it must be. He doesn’t think he’d recognize himself in a mirror.

“We’re putting this to rest.”

His voice startles you, eyes wide and anxious when he closes the distance again. He counts his steps, measures them on whirls in the floor. You fidget at the sleeves of your dress, light blue trimmed in white lace. A bit of sky draped around temptation. Hell hidden in Heaven.

“The Lord’s Prayer,” he commands, “now.”

Though your voice wavers, you manage its entirety without stuttering or coughing, each word carefully enunciated. It is no surprise; you attended church and took communion without strain.

And yet… and yet.

“I need to be sure,” he decides. “I must examine you.”

You blink. “E-examine?”

“You must be familiar with this, yes? The Devil hides his marks in many places.”

Realization washes across your pretty panicky face. What an awful spell you’ve cast, that makes him want to see that expression when he wrests terrible ecstasy from your trembling body.

“I-I don’t…”

“I know,” he soothes, “it is frightening. We will do this last thing to ensure your innocence, and then I will not seem so mean, I promise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, perhaps finding solace in darkness one last time, before your glamour is revealed.

“One thing at a time,” he encourages, firm but not unkind. You look like your knees are about to give out. “It will not take long.”

With shaking fingers, you unbuckle the thick leather belt cinching your waist. You fold it in half and set it aside on a clear patch of worktable. Your gown comes next, laced at the front with a neat bow that had been hidden by the belt. This is draped atop the table as well, and then you pause, hands twitching in the skirt of the cream shift you’re left in.

John takes pity, generous with the promise of more to come. Delayed gratification has always been his vice of choice. “Let’s start from the bottom, shall we? Shoes next.”

You sigh softly in relief and bend at the waist, drawing the hem up with one hand. The other tugs at the laces of first one boot, then the other, stockinged feet padding out onto the wood floors. You tut offhandedly about tears while you set your shoes neatly aside.

Higher and higher your thin shift goes, a measure for the anticipation roiling in his gut. Your stocking climbs up to your thigh, where a clever little cuff hugs plush flesh, a slight bulge where you’ve laced it tight to stay in place. It slides down, down, down, and off your dainty little foot. Between the deliberate slide of fabric and the fluttering of your shift, bits of skin flicker into view like clouds passing over the moon.

The other stocking is just as torturous, just as hypnotizing. John drops to his knees when you’re finally standing barefoot, the hem of your shift still drawn up enough to display how you shift your weight.

Even your ankles are so small that he can fit his entire palm with fingers overlapping. You make a nervous noise as he pries your foot up from the floor.

“I’m going to fall,” you mumble.

“Hold onto me, then.” With his free hand, he guides one of yours to his shoulder. The other follows suit, balling into his tunic. “Just like that, there we are.”

You hum, sounding unsure but mollified. He tilts the limb until he can get a look at the sole, finds smooth and unmarked skin. The same for the other, and he luxuriates in how you lean into him for stability.

On both feet again, you seem to forget to let him go. He does not remind you while he smooths your skirt up your calves, your knees. He thumbs at a little bruise on the left and bites off a mean smirk when you twitch away.

“I bumped into a table,” you explain.

“Clumsy thing,” he tuts.

Your pouty little huff tempts him to look, but he refrains, rallying all his years of witchfinding service to the task at hand. There’s a scar on the inside of your left thigh that makes his mouth water.

“And this?”

“I dropped a kitchen knife when I was thirteen. My mother was furious.”

His teeth ache to bite into it. He taps at your hip instead. “The back now.”

“Oh.” You unlatch your hands from his shoulders to hold your dress for him. When you turn, he can’t resist drawing his palm up your thigh, marveling at living silk against his callous-roughened hand. It feels like he could tear you.

He stands, so close he can see the shade of each strand of hair. You glance at him over your shoulder, curious, but he wraps his fingers in your hair and faces you forward again. If you keep looking at him with those big, wet eyes, he’s going to do something unspeakable.

He examines the nape of your neck, the fine hairs that gather at the base of your skull. You fuss a bit about him ruining your braids when he tugs the lace ribbons free. Like a kitten, you subside when his fingers card through, scraping blunt nails along your scalp. It’s its own sort of magic, that. How your shoulders fall, and you lean into his touch just that guilty little bit.

“Back ‘round now, little miss,” he orders when the moment has stretched far, far too long for any justification.

He gives you another moment to gather your courage for what’s next and continues his inspection above your neckline. You scrunch your cute little nose when he brushes your ears and shiver a bit when he tilts your head back.

“Last of it now, c’mon,” he encourages.

A bit calmer now, you unlace the corset from your abdomen. An endearing little breath when it’s gone, ribs expanding like fireplace bellows. In nothing but soft linen, your nipples form rosy shadows through the fabric.

You have to turn away as you gather it up, flushing the brightest yet as you pull it over your head. The shift is piled with the rest of your abandoned clothes, and you are left wonderfully, scandalously, bare.

“No knickers?” he asks, a fingertip skimming over your buttock.

You jump. “I-I need to do laundry.”

He hums, amused despite the suspicious convenience of that explanation. Still, you are hardly the first woman to forget your washing, and you are a busy little bee at that.

“We’ll continue from here.”

The curve of your spine is a masterpiece, a thing for starving artists to make their name if they could capture it on canvas. He draws his thumb along each ridge, counting knots of bone down to the dimples at the small of your back.

Silver fissures decorate the lush roundness of your hips and lower stomach, where your body grew too fast inside your skin. A sign of a good, healthy childhood. They’re even softer and smoother than the surrounding skin, more decadent than silk.

“Once more. We’re almost done.”

You turn with great reluctance, arms drawn up and thighs pressed tight together. You’ve turned your face away, staring into the low fire. When he opens his mouth to coax you again, you fling an arm out, smacking into his chest. The other is still folded across the swell of your breasts.

“These as well… right?” you ask.

He tries to keep his chuckle soundless, but the dubious glance you send him from the corner of your eye is unappreciative.

Deft fingers unfurl when his thumb presses to the center of your finger palm, reflex that spreads them wide. It’s mouthwatering how easy your body yields. He turns your wrist and forearm over, checking along the tender parts beneath. You wrinkle your nose again when he holds it out to check your armpits as well. Once he’s satisfied with that, there’s some awkward shuffling to offer him the other arm.

“Your stomach, now?” he guesses, not trying to hide the patronization this time.

You jerk your head in a haughty little nod. He bends a bit to scrutinize your stomach, soft and well-fed. A sharp noise bursts from your throat when he thumbs at your naval. He arches an eyebrow as he tilts his head to your face, but you’re stubbornly looking as far from him as you can.

“That tickled,” you complain.

“My sincerest apologies, miss.”

Your nose twitches like you want scrunch it at him again. All that fussiness evaporates, however, when you realize what’s next.

“We’re almost done, little one.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Slowly, achingly, you lower your arms. They don’t go far, folding across your stomach with tight little fists. It only takes a glance to know that you are unmarked, but John is far from satisfied. He can’t bring himself to look away, fingers tingling with desire to touch that supple skin, to feel the weight of your breasts in his palms.

“Thinking naughty thoughts, are we?” he teases, the barest brush of a fingertip over one hard nipple. “And on a Sunday.”

“N-no!” you squeak. “There’s a chill. I-I’m not…”

“So when I check this precious little cunt, I won’t find you dripping for me?”

You yelp, hands flying up to cover your face. “You mustn’t say things like that!”

“Mustn’t I?” he wonders as he lowers to his knees. It sends an ache through them, but the view is worth the toll.

“I know this is all so unusual but that’s – that’s improper, sir!” you cry.

“How many times must I remind you?” He traces his fingertips up the back of your calf, delighting in the goosebumps left in his wake. “Call me by name.”

You squeal when he hooks a hand beneath your knee and jerks it over his shoulder. Your hand flies to his other to keep your balance, eyes huge. He rakes his gaze deliberately down the curving length of that delicious body until it settles on his prize.

Heaven, he thinks, is on Earth. It is here, nestled between your thighs. The pearly gates are dripping between plump lips in a bed of downy curls. The clouds are pink and shimmering; the apple of Eden is a swollen, throbbing bud. God’s throne is the tight little hole twitching around nothing, untouched for want of a worthy offering.

Heaven’s choir is your shuddering little inhale when his thumbs part your slit wider. It’s the bitten off sound from cool air blown over sensitive flesh. It’s your sweet, startled “oh” when he draws a knuckle through all that decadent wetness. Angels sound like your moan when he pays special attention to that forbidden fruit, light circles until your hips twitch.

“W-wait,” you whimper, breathy, “I’m a – I’ve never…”

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, “I won’t hurt you, but the Devil can hide things inside, can’t he?”

You whine as he prods a careful finger at your entrance. Your modesty is still intact, really the last bit of evidence he could ever need that you are innocent. He gathers your slick on his fingertip and prods gently at that thin bit of tissue. You shake your head, bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

“Calm yourself, little miss,” he croons. “This hasn’t been painful so far, has it?”

“N-no…”

“It will not be painful now, either. Just stay still for me.”

You make a weak little sound of agreement, hands clenching and unclenching. He massages at the membrane of your entrance in slow, even strokes, his thumb toying at that swollen button when you start to tense. It finally gives just that little bit and your body welcomes his finger inside.

He does not rush, keen to fulfill his promise of a painless touch. Who would forgo the pleasure of exploring Paradise in favor of sprinting from one end to the other?

When he’s down to the knuckle, he pauses, absorbing all of this exquisite moment, all of you. Shaking and panting, leaning into him with blush down to your chest. He curls his finger, draws it out just a bit, then sinks back inside. You bend your head to him as if in prayer, mouth falling open.

“Steady on, darling,” he coos. “You’re doing well.”

When you start to squirm, he hides a smile against your thigh and pumps his finger again. Deeper, faster, curling just that little bit to pet your supple walls. Your voice breaks loose when he finds his rhythm, a cascade of moans and whimpers that baptize him an acolyte. He devotes himself to your alter, to the pleasured twitching of your virgin cunt and the rocking of your untrained body.

He finds a spongy place inside that makes you flutter around him, a gush of slick beading a bracelet down his wrist. It soaks into the edge of his sleeve and beneath the leather of his vambrace.

“Th-that’s… oh.” You nearly sing with pleasure, a hymn made of monosyllables and whiny hums. He presses his thumb firm and insistent to your sensitive clit, rewarded by another flood of wetness and desperate whimpers. “I feel… ah, I feel l-like… what are you doing t-to me?”

He chuckles deep in his chest, brushes his lips along the side of your knee. Your traitorous pussy clenches around him, not nearly so demure of its admiration.

“Let that feeling build. Let it wash over you,” he purrs. “Don’t be afraid.”

You tilt your head back, crying your pleasure to the heavens as you tighten and shake. John braces your standing leg as your eyes roll back in your skull. You’re vicelike around just a single finger, it would be nearly painful around anything thicker. He rubs at that spot inside you, thumb still in place, unspooling your ecstasy like pulling a thread from knitted cloth. You unravel so beautifully for him, on and on until you’re a puddle in his hands.

It takes a little sniffle and a wordless mewl to coax him from your heat. His hand is drenched, slippery between his fingers. You lower your leg shakily from his shoulder, reluctant to put your weight on it with aftershocks still wracking your frame.

“Good girl. You’ve been so strong and brave, there’s a love,” he soothes, stroking your hip with his dry hand. “We can put this witch business to rest now.”

You tilt your head. Perhaps a nod; perhaps just exhaustion. He straightens while you gather yourself, flexing your fingers, likely sore from how hard you held onto him. He considers the mess on his hand, a temptation more intoxicating than any wine…

But he would rather drink from the source.

There’s a spare cloth folded into a neat square next to herbs you likely meant to cut. He cleans his hand with it and turns back just as you’re fumbling for your shift.

“Easy now, little miss. Allow me.”

John leans you up against the same table where you’ve piled your clothes, palms lingering at your waist until he’s sure you have your balance. You’re sweet and pliant under his touch, his voice. He redresses you with careful consideration, putting you back together just as he found you. Or nearly just.

The post-orgasm haze dissipates like fog with each article of clothing, an odd curiosity chasing across your face when he helps you back into your boots.

“You’re a strange sort of man,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “Is it because you’re a witchfinder?”

He arches his eyebrows as he stands again, arms winding around your waist to buckle your belt.

“I could not say without knowing what makes me so strange,” he chuckles.

You tilt your head, eyes still and deep, Leviathan’s abyss. Something is coiling behind your irises, a beast stirring from long slumber. Ripples in a lake will calm eventually, its natural state to be a placid mirror. You’ve become contemplative in your satiation; it’s the most substantial you’ve ever felt.

“You can’t decide to be cruel or kind,” you muse. “I didn’t know someone could be both.”

He presses his mouth to your temple.

“I’ve taught you a few things today, then.”

John sighs and runs his hands down his face, scratches a thumb absently at the corner of his jaw. His room’s modest writing desk is obscured by four pieces of parchment. One from each of his men, and a fourth from the witchfinder’s spymaster.

He sent Ghost, Soap, and Gaz to investigate the neighboring villages before setting for this one. They have each reported that there was nothing of note from any of them. Just the same things they’ve all heard. Rumors of a witch, a story of a healer who was exorcized of the evil. No curses or hexes since.

Laswell’s message was the last he was waiting for, just come in this morning.

Two men fell victim to your affliction. A huntsman, and the mayor’s eldest son.

The huntsman, an unpleasant man by the name of Robert, traveled along the province following his prey’s migration patterns. Apparently, he also had a predilection for women - girls, really - far too young for him. His last occupation before expiring: a certain blacksmith’s daughter.

As for the mayor’s son, there’s something to be said for still wearing that title at some four and a half decades old. Though Laswell’s information is scarcer here, owing that it was a very local matter, it seems he had a conflicted relationship with you. Would preen and fawn for your attention and then condemn you when you did not return it past politeness.

Even once boasted to a merchant two towns over that you would be the one he married, then stormed off when you declined to let him carry your basket.

Misfortune couldn’t have befallen better men, John muses. It was fortunate that no one else in the village fell victim to the witch’s wrath.

Fortunate indeed.

He sighs, sets his hands on hips. There’s really no need to stay, not now. None of his squadron have found any evidence of foulness. His own investigation concluded when his one suspect passed every measure of witchcraft he knows. He’s no reason to stay.

Gathering the parchments, he sets them aside and pens three identical messages commanding his men back to headquarters. He pens another to Laswell, thanking her for her diligence.

He returns downstairs, to hand his correspondence off to the innkeeper. Cecilia, the wife, is there instead. Talking to you.

“Oh, Captain Price,” she says, “dearest me, were you waiting there long? And here I am clucking like an old hen!”

“Not at all, madam,” he replies, approaching so that she need not go through the trouble of leaving her chair. You watch over the rim of your teacup, eyes dark and too knowing. “I thank you for looking after my correspondence.”

“Not at all, dear,” Cecilia coos. She takes his letters in one hand and pats at his shoulder with the other. “Now, then, we don’t want you losing any of that muscle, do we? How about a bowl of stew, it’s been cooking overnight.”

He stumbles out an agreement - not that he thinks it’s needed, she’s already bustling off to prepare him a bowl. You set your cup down with a gentle clatter.

“Important witchfinding business?” you ask, nodding after Cecilia.

And there’s the crux of it. You’re not a witch; you can’t be. He’s assured of that himself.

Yet…

Something lingers in the back of his mind, that animal knowledge of an unknown predator lurking nearby. Gut instinct tells him something is off, despite all evidence to the contrary. It has never betrayed him before.

“Something like that,” he answers.

You hum, apparently satisfied with that answer.

He’ll stay until the full moon, at least. Perhaps then better sense will finally win out.

There’s a garden in back of the apothecary, just sloughing off hibernation. You’re tending to what few brave plants have ventured above ground in defiance of the lingering cold. John finds an orange cat batting at your apron springs. It flicks its ears towards him, then turns back to your laces.

“Flaunting your familiars?” he asks to announce his presence.

You half turn, though your eyes don’t stray from the rosemary spines you’re collecting. “Do you mean Curtis?”

The cat overbalances and lands on its back, rotund stomach hindering its ability to gracefully recover. As far as familiars go, it would be a pathetic one, stocky and cockeyed as it is.

“He’s a village cat, but he likes to test his luck with the crows.”

“You’ve crows now, too?” he asks, sidling closer. He’s mindful of the neat rows of your garden, where seeds or bulbs may lie dormant. “You enjoy drawing suspicion.”

You scoff; it’s unladylike, but he’s enchanted by sincerity. “There have always been crows. They eat pests from the garden. Better here than in the fields, no?”

He does spot a number of crushed snail shells and unharmed leaves amongst your few charges.

“I defer to your logic, my lady,” he chuckles, hands up in defeat.

You shake your head, but he spies your smile regardless. “Have you need of me, Sir Witchfinder?”

“I’ve need of your expertise today.”

He follows as you gather your little harvest and sidestep him out of the garden, arm brushing his. Curtis brings up the rear, tail swishing. You don’t seem bothered by his presence and so John only closes the door after the cat is inside. Back to your preparation room; you’re ignoring the back wall by the fireplace.

“What is it?” you ask.

“The full moon is tonight. I intend to camp in the forest. Have you anything to deter wildlife?”

You hum, eyes gazing off and head tilting back and forth as if shaking the information loose. “Yes, I think so.”

You beckon him about the backroom and the shop. He holds a cheesecloth pouch open while you sprinkle powders and dried herbs into it, murmuring as you go. Calendula and some of that fresh rosemary for wolves, ground spice for bears, peppermint for foxes. It’s certainly fragrant, but even if it is not effective, it’s worth its weight in gold to watch you flutter about with a confident set to your fine brow.

You tie the pouch closed with a neat but tight bow and instruct him to sprinkle it around his campsite. When he tries to pay, you shake your head, flushing hotly as you tell him it is thanks for making your examination so… painless.

He chuckles and strokes a finger down your warm cheek to make you swat at him.

Just as he turns to leave, you take his wrist and press a smaller pouch into his palm.

“Lavender, to help you sleep,” you explain.

“Will I dream of you?”

“So improper!” you complain, pressing your little hands to your cheeks.

He dips down close, bristly cheek brushing the softness of yours. You shiver as his lips skim the shell of your ear.

“My thanks, love,” he whispers, “I will show my gratitude when I return.”

You turn your face away, “It is a gift, you need not repay me.”

He grins wickedly. “Oh, but it will be my pleasure to do so.”

You shake your head and push gently at his chest. “Out with you, Sir Witchfinder. You’ve preparations for your hunt, I’m sure.”

He goes, though not without locking his gaze with yours. “I will hear my name from your lips again.”

There was never a vow so sincere.

If God is the Holy Father, Mother Nature reigns His queen. It must be a contentious marriage.

It’s the first warm night and a fat full moon. John’s gut tells him that if ever there were a night for heathens, it would be this one.

He makes camp on the other side of the river, only just within earshot of the water. He builds a modest fire and scatters the sachet generously. It makes for a pleasant perfume, at least, and mingles pleasantly with the tobacco he smokes while he lets the night deepen.

The moon is high and the stars bright by the time he sets off from his campsite. Much like his last foray, however, there is little more than chittering animals and nightbirds to disturb the evening. John returns to stoke the fire after a couple hours. He is a patient man – except, apparently, where you’re concerned – he can wait for some sign.

It comes as he’s dozing on his bedroll, the scent of lavender fogging his mind with pleasant apparitions of you. The singing, again.

He pads through sodden leaf litter, ghostlike as he weaves among the vegetation, following faint notes. They grow louder as he picks his way through the forest, building in strength and pitch – and number.

It is not just one voice he hears but several, threads that twine a haunting tapestry. Soon there is not just melody, but shouts and whoops as well, powerful as they bounce off the trees. It is pitch black until all at once it is not. The thick tree line breaks upon a great clearing, where a bonfire smolders in the center.

Around it, a dozen dancing women. They are not naked, levitating hags painted in blood and ichor. They are dressed – or mostly dressed, in any case, as firelight gilds thighs peeking from skirts and shoulders bare of under-shifts. Some have their hair pinned back, others wear it loose, flying and tangling as they throw themselves about.

Hands joined and rising as they bounce around the flames, then spinning apart with cries of delight. A few plant their feet wide apart in the earth and drop their chests, hands extending towards the fire and then up towards the stars. The others whirl around them, voices rising to start a call and response that sends chills down his spine.

“When God is gone, and the Devil takes hold,” one set begins.

And the other answers, “Who will have mercy on your soul?”

A few refrains of this and then of others, until a single voice rings damnation above the rest.

“I am Death, none can excel. I am the door to Heaven or Hell.”

It has been burned into John’s bones, into his soul. Your voice.

A glamour he knows now. He knows, he knows. It is a foul trick meant to distract him from his true query, one he is ashamed clouded his judgement for so long. Of course you would not cast such a garish and obvious enchantment to draw his attention – lest it was not you that cast the spell in the first place.

Death is in the valley.

John knows his own capabilities, and he knows he cannot beat nor catch a dozen witches on a full moon. He must content himself with what he can, far as he is from their ritual and unable to distinguish any particular features. It need not be this night; he’s caught the scent and will root out the wolves from the flock.

The morning light is water between his fingers. He swims through it at the perimeter of the village, smoking another roll of tobacco. The night was long and cold; he did not linger near the witches, wary of being found. He gathered what little information he could, stamped out the coals of his campfire, and returned to the inn. Your lavender came in quite handy; he means to be especially generous with his thanks this morning.

You are not in the garden and the shop is still locked up from the night before. Perhaps you were called out early to treat some ailment. He makes a direct line from your shop back to the tree line and hears your humming again.

When he follows it this time, he’s led to a creek and your naked form sunk beneath the surface. Your back is to him, hair streaming with the current.

“And what naughtiness are you up to this morning, little miss?”

You shout, hands instantly flying up to protect your modesty. When you spin to find him, arms crossed, on the bank, you make an angry little noise and splash at him. Not even a droplet touches his boots.

“You know witches bare themselves in the open like this?” he asks.

You scrunch your nose at him, an embarrassed blush high on your cheeks. “That’s not funny.”

“You oughtn’t to be out here like this.” In fact, the more he thinks of another man stumbling upon you like this, the hotter his blood simmers.

It seems you’re not entirely unaware of your actions either as you deflate a bit. “I know, I know – but I spilled an entire jar of vinegar all over myself.”

A bloodless finger emerges from the water to point at flat rock, where your clothes are laid out in the meager sunlight. A brush and bucket rest beside it, suds still clinging to the sides.

“Clumsy thing,” he sighs, fond and exasperated.

“You oughtn’t to call me names,” you huff.

He arches an eyebrow and uncrosses his arms.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” you reply haughtily, turning away to scrub at your hair. He suspects it is to give you reprieve from his darkening gaze. “It’s terribly rude.”

He wades into the creek. “Rude, you say.”

“I do.”

You peek over your shoulder and startle when you see him approaching. “John, you’re getting wet!”

“I’m not the only one, I reckon.”

You sputter long enough for him to snatch you up in his arms, the entirety of your shivery little body pressed against his. The creek isn’t actually that deep – just to his waist standing. You’ve only been knelt down among the round stones of the bed, but he drags you up to your feet as you wiggle.

“Why do you insist on such impropriety?!” you groan, ducking your head.

He takes your chin between thumb and forefinger and tilts your face back towards him. Craves your eyes on him like the starving man craves food.

“I may be improper in word, but you are in deed, my lady,” he counters, drawing spirals at the small of your back. “A matched pair we make.”

You dart your eyes away and purse your pretty, pouty lips, but you cannot conceal your pleasure at his declaration.

“You oughtn’t to call me your lady either,” you mutter. “I am not yours.”

A serpent’s tail thrashes his insides. He swallows the sick, violent burn in his belly.

“No?” he asks. “How can that be when I’ve pleasured you the way a man pleasures his? When you take such good care of me with your teas and herb pouches?”

You blink, latch onto that last thought with endearing desperation to alter his course.

“Oh, how did the lavender treat you?”

“Quite well,” he answers, sweeping his hands along your sides. “Allow me to repay your care.”

Your fingers curl gently in his sodden shirt, peeking up at him through your lashes again.

“I told you, you need not – wah, John!”

He’s hoisted you up on the steep, grassy incline of the embankment by your lush thighs. Your weight is negligent when he has your knees nearly to your hitching chest. Splayed open and lovely, a breakfast fit for a king – no, for God. He would usurp Atlas to have you like this. 

“Remind me again, little one, how exactly you are not mine.”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you try to gather your scattered words. Have just begun your very sensible quibble when he laps at the cream between your thighs. Digs his tongue into that precious hole he so recently collared as his newest pet. Traces the seam of your cunt to that perfect, round clit and flattens his tongue against it.

Whatever pretty bouquet of arguments you’d arranged are swept downstream. His mouth is mortar upon your flimsy defenses; devastates you to trembling rubble. The mewling pours fast and easy now that you’ve found your voice, pitches into a squeal when he sucks. You taste clean and human on his tongue, sticking in his facial hair, ambrosia from the purest source. He pampers your cunt to keep the drink flowing, swallows you down like the finest wine.

Even better than those weak cries, is the way you squirm in his hold. You arch your back and twist your hips, fingers tearing up flossy grass, then tugging at his wet shirt, then scratching uselessly at his forearms. He growls when you think to tug his hair, and the vibration of his voice against your swollen folds makes you sob dry.

“Please, please, John,” you chant. His new favorite psalm. “Please, I can’t, John, please.”

He hides a smile by curling his tongue as far inside you as it can go. When he comes up for air, you’re properly teary this time.

“Why not?” he murmurs against your neck, false concern makes your hips twitch. “Why can’t you, darling?”

“It’ll – I’ll fly apart this time,” you gasp. “I swear, John. I’ll fall apart.”

Oh, so precious. So sweet and perfect and utterly his. You can’t be anything else. Not now.

“Is that all?” he asks. “I’ll put you together again, just like last time.”

He dives in with your bitten off fretting in his ears, licking you into silence, compliance, until you’re obediently whimpering again. Your slick spills down his chin, his neck, smears across his cheeks. Gentleman that he was raised to be, he is a messy eater, and you are a delicacy.

Now that he knows what it sounds like, he recognizes the rising tide of your pleasure and rides its crest with gusto. You wail and whine about that feeling again, that sublime crescendo to a symphony played with your own body, by a conductor so cruel as him. He swirls his tongue around your clit, then suck it into ravenous mouth.

“John, John, John!”

He only just manages to cover your mouth; your songs are for him alone, no need to serenade the rest of the village. You taste like salvation, communion he’ll kneel for at every mass.

Overstimulation makes you noisy, fussy sounds in the back of your throat as you try to press away, pushing with earnest at his forehead. He relents only because you say his full name, sharp and scolding, and he needs to see the angry little furrow between your brows.

“You are incorrigible,” you pant.

He hums, licking shamelessly at his lips. “My sincerest apologies.”

“Lying is a sin.”

He gives you a look. It makes you burst into a fit of giggles to rival birdsong.

“Yes, yes, have a laugh at the old captain,” he grouches, lowering you gently to your feet.

“You’re not old, John,” you scoff.

“Older than you, spring chicken.” He pauses as he notices that the fine tremble in your limbs has not subsided. “And speaking of spring, you’ve spent far too long in this water. You’ll catch your death.”

“I would have been out sooner had I not been accosted.”

“Oh yes, I’m a terrible man,” he soothes, guiding you back to shore. “A scoundrel.”

You hum in placid agreement, clinging to his side to leech his warmth. “Yes, yes. All of that.”

“As you say, little miss.”

You tuck up against him by the fire in the apothecary’s backroom and send him warning looks whenever his gaze grows hotter than the flames.

John wakes in the dark.

He cannot move his arms or his legs. The mattress at his back is softer and thicker than the inn’s, absent the odd lumps that bent his spine at angles. He is also stark naked.

He has been captured, somehow.

Memory shines thin and useless beams through a waning fog. A thick, warm stew… sweet, floral tea… you…

You.

Where are you?

There is little point in trying to gain his bearings, though he does regardless. There are no windows to light his prison. Only the scent of exposed wood and slightly stale air. It’s warm enough, at least, even bare as he is. Sound comes from above his head, creaking boards.

He’s belowground.

Some minutes pass in consternation, his last memory your hands in his hair and his head in your lap.

Then the creaking above shifts. Away, then to his right. A louder, metallic squeak. Hinges. Individual steps now, descending a set of stairs. A faint seam of gold grows near the ground, a miniature horizon with an approaching dawn.

A click.

Candlelight infiltrates the room, shying from corners and exposed ceiling beams. John gets his first glimpse of his prison – a rather cozy bedroom. The generous bed he’s splayed on and tied to. A vanity in one corner; a bedtable to his left. A chair kept company by a small shelf of books.

There’s even a rich burgundy rug on the stone floor, on the other side of which you stand.

“This is one way to have a man in bed.”

You do not speak, only cross the room, round the bed. The heavy candelabra you’ve brought is set on the bedtable. The flames play ghostly shadows across your features, caressing the line of your nose and the curves of your mouth.

The silence stretches so far it begins to sag beneath its own weight in the middle.

You – or the facsimile of you – have not turned your gaze from the whirls of silver in the candelabra.

“You need not keep this shape any longer, witch,” John growls at last.

The illusion twitches, fingers curling tight in its skirt.

“I know this is a glamour, stop hiding behind her face.”

“Damn you, John!” You – it snaps around, gaze burning hellfire and brimstone. “There is no glamour.”

Held still before, he is stone now. “What?”

It – you? – snarl, showing all your teeth. Still as blunt and neat as ever.

“You witchfinders,” you scoff, shaking your head, “and your so-called purpose. You’ll see anything shiny and call it gold. By God, any woman is a witch if you try hard enough, isn’t she?”

“I acquitted you.”

You snort. “Was that before or after you wanted to wet your cock?”

It was always, regardless. He does not think it wise to answer. You don’t seem to need one.

“Graves condemned me only after I denied him – repeatedly.” You perch at the edge of the bed by his ribs and press your palm against the mattress on the other side of his head. John denies you the pleasure of leaning away. “He took me to the river in chains.”

“Magic.”

You roll your eyes. “What did I say? Use the wits your God gave you.”

When he just stares into your blown out pupils, you pull away with a groan, standing again.

“The blacksmith made the manacles,” you explain. Slow, quiet. “And Agnes brought my last meal.”

Mallory, the smith’s daughter and Agnes, the baker’s wife. Your church companions.

You hum as understanding smooths his brow. Despite the pleased lilt, your mouth is a flat, angry line. “Makes much more sense, doesn’t it?”

He tugs at his binds as you gather up the skirt of your dress.

“I took a blade to that wretched sack and swam with the current downriver,” you explain. There is no shift or corset beneath this time. “When I emerged, I snuck back home and hid right where you are now.”

You bend at the waist to unlace your boots, ass on full, beautiful display. You are no longer just a temptress; you are a succubus. The limited candlelight paints you in burnished gold, Hell’s currency. John is far, far too gone on your sin to help his reaction to the sight of you, even now.

“When the moon rose, Cecilia let me into the inn and unlocked their doors.” You kick off your boots, inner thighs glistening. You don’t even bother with your stockings. “One. By. One.”

You pad to the foot of the bed and place your knee on the mattress between his legs. It’s real weight, your weight that sinks into it. You crawl up the bed, body swaying over his, flesh and blood depravity.

“I saved Graves for last.” You straddle John’s thighs, trace soft palms up his abdomen and over his chest. The bite of your little, clean nails chases belies that deceptive gentleness. “I slit his throat with his own iron dagger. The blood looked like ink in the moonlight.”

His cock stands proud and flushed, pressed against your belly, begging entrance. A tower of pride in spite of God and all sanity, he throbs with the low thrum of pride in your velvet voice. He tries at the ropes again; they hold fast, creaking in reprimand.

“I fed him and his men to the river.” You lift yourself, wrap an elegant hand around the girth of him. Your lips part, above and below, at the heat of him against sensitive flesh. “I thought it was over. Hoped I could finally have my peace again.”

You grind the flared head of him against that bundle of nerves, back and forth, up and down. A sigh slips from your lips and blankets him in fire. Head tipping back, neck rolling as everything that makes you human sloughs off, overworn garments. You tease yourself and him, wetness dripping down his shaft and spilling over his groin. He is a slave to his desire’s whims, your whims, hips twitching to grind.

You crack your eyes open, damnation in your gaze. “And then you showed up.”

You bare your teeth and take him into you all at once. A ragged shout cracks you both in half, clashing in the lust-heated air between your bodies. You are tighter than a vice, strangling him in plush, slick walls.

“Fuck,” you grit, sucking in air. Your mouth drops open, a delirious bark of laughter hitching in your throat. Ruby crescent moons decorate his chest. “You fucking bastard.”

Swallow thick and harsh, as if you can feel him in your throat. It certainly feels as if he reaches that far, as deep inside you as he is. He wants to test it for himself, but the ropes do not relent despite his persistent tugging.

“I could not do a goddamn thing without feeling your eyes on me,” you snarl. “Is this what it’s like to believe in God?”

You rock your hips. A little at first, still somehow so mortal to the pain of a thick cock in your virgin pussy. And then your spite and pride overtake the discomfort and you bounce once, hard. Grin wildly when it guts a groan from him and do it again. And again. And again—

It’s torture, it’s paradise. It’s John’s undoing. Your face twisted in divine wrath and hedonistic ecstasy, riding his cock like you were born to bring men beneath your dainty heel. He drops his head back against the mattress, tries to arch up to meet your thrusts. You’re having none of it, hissing as you brace all your (not considerable) weight on his chest.

“I don’t care if God is real,” you breathe, “I care about the people He and His have forgotten on Earth. Does that make me a witch?”

It’s all so much noise to him with the way you squeeze around him, walls fluttering. You’re moving hard and fast, but not hard or fast enough. John moans your name, earns another of those scowls that makes him throb.

“Shut up, Witchfinder,” you pant. You rise up, back arching as you find an angle that breaks your voice. “I will have my pleasure and you will thank me for the privilege of delivering it. The least you can repay me for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

The angels themselves could come to his aid now, and he’d only ask that they cut him loose.

And for all your scoffing, perhaps there is a greater force at play because the rope circling his right wrist catches. A rough edge or a bent nail, it does not matter. John works his arm back and forth, sawing through rough fibers, any remaining blood in his body dedicated to this salvation.

Your voice rises with your pleasure, knees widening to get him deeper, but not with any actual intent to bring either of you to climax. No, you’re luxuriating, gloating. You’ve won. He reaches across while your head is tilted back to pull the loop from his other wrist.

He will show you the spoils you’ve wrought.

“Tell me, oh Witchfinder,” you smirk, diamonds dripping between your breasts, “what am I?”

Your eyes go beautifully wide when he fits his wide palm around your pretty throat. Small hands grasp at his wrist, need both just to wrap around the circumference. Lips parting, you clench down so tightly as he sits up and reaches for the silver hidden in your right stocking.

A paring knife, honed to a deadly edge.

“Now what did you plan to do with this?” he wonders. “Little girls shouldn’t play with knives.”

Eyes locked with yours, fluttering like butterfly’s wings, he slices his ankles free with two flicks of his wrist. The knife is discarded over the side of the bed, far from your sneaky fingers.

It is laughably easy to flip you onto your back, to bind your dainty wrists together with the remains of one of his. So he does laugh, cock still buried deep inside your pulsing cunt and his hand loosening from your throat.

Each blink brings you back to focus, until you seem to realize all at once what’s happening. You snarl, kick your legs, back arching at an angle that makes him grunt. And you are still so, so wet.

“I should have killed you!” you shout, even as John guides your legs around his waist. Your knees press into his ribs, ankles interlocked at the small of his back.

“You should have,” he agrees, pressing your tied wrists to the mattress. He forges a path of biting kisses up your chest, over your neck, licking where he can feel you swallowing noises.

“Oh, let go, let go!” you demand, except it comes out more a whine, and one you don’t even mean at that. Not when you twist your hips to feel him pressing inside you.

“Oh, my little witch,” John rumbles, drawing his tongue along your jaw. “Never.”

That just spins you up further, mouth clashing violently with his. He revels in the scrape of your teeth on his lips and tongue, chasing into your mouth and counting how long before you remember you hate him.

“I’m not a witch,” you spit when he pulls away.

“Then what was all that business in the forest?”

You smirk. “Just a bit of fun to hail the spring - and at your expense.”

He sinks his fingers into the roundness of your hips. “Funny.” And slams home.

You shriek, loud and shameless, body jerking as he sets the pace you couldn’t achieve atop him. It’s brutal and animal, you keen at every scrape of his fat cockhead against your (nearly) untouched walls. The headboard knocks against the stone wall, a steady, rapid beat to match his thundering pulse.

You’re still cursing and threatening him between moans, rocking your hips eagerly to meet every thrust. He snakes a hand down your stomach, down to where your bodies collide with obscene wet squelches. You yelp when his thumb finds your neglected clit, shake your head and struggle in earnest.

“Don’t you dare,” you wail. “Y-you don’t get to…”

He sheathes his cock as deep as he can and grinds.

“Say my name,” he commands. You shake your head, squeeze your eyes shut. “Say, ‘John, don’t make my pretty cunt come.’”

You whimper, high and keening, sinking teeth into your bottom lip hard. There’s nowhere for you to go but try to press your hips into the mattress - and he can’t have that, can he?

Manipulating your squirming body is becoming his new favorite addiction. John gets his knees under him, curls an arm around your waist, and hauls you up into his lap so easily. You’re half-limp and half-struggling and yet still he sinks you deeper and deeper onto his cock unti the head of his cock bumps against your womb.

“There we are,” he purrs against your jaw. “Do you feel me? Right here?”

He presses a covetous palm to the spot where he swears he can feel the pulse of his own drooling cock. Your arms loop over his head, try to pull yourself up and off. A firm flex of his biceps drops you right back down again, squealing.

“Just like this, darling,” he whispers, “You’ll milk my cock just like this.”

You moan, hide your face in the crook of his neck. This position slows him some, but he’s not lost any of the power or angling that makes your eyes flutter. He rolls his hips each time he buries inside, just to tease at your cervix. If he could, he’d bury himself there too and fill you with his seed directly.

As it is, he’s not nearly done with you yet. No, not when you’re starting to shake so badly that all you can do is grip onto him for support. Your clit is rubbing against his pelvis each time he bounces you to meet him. An object built solely for his pleasure.

“I’m going to - no, no, you can’t,” you hiccup, tugging and pressing closer, closer, closer. Your hips are twitching of their own accord. “You shouldn’t get to—”

He doesn’t even need to coax you over. A final shiver wracks your body as you clamp down. Head falling back, you scream to the ceiling, fingers twisting in the short hair at the back of his head. He rocks you through it, steady, until you finally go limp against his chest.

There’s a sharp pinch to his shoulder - you’ve bit him. When he eases your head away, your mouth is smeared crimson. At first he thinks you’ve managed to break skin; then he notices the bead welling up on your bottom lip.

“All that just to avoid my name,” he tuts, amused despite himself.

When he leans in to lick at the wound, you sigh softly. “I-I’m going to kill you.”

He grins against your mouth. Kisses you one last time as he pulls you off his cock. You whimper, sensitive, arms barely able to lift over his head. He lays you down gently, follows to ghost his lips and tongue over the marks he’s left all over your skin.

“Now, then,” he says, sitting back on his haunches. “Once more.”

Your eyes fly wide and panicked as he turns you onto your stomach. 

“Absolutely not,” you gasp, scrambling away.

“Ah, ah.” He catches your hips and yanks you back. The force of it knocks your trembling and still-bound arms out from under you. “I’m not done with you yet, little witch.”

Chest against the mattress and hip high in the air, he has a perfect, unfettered view. And what a view it is. Your pretty little cunt is puffy and red, visibly stretched, and the sensitive little button above it is swollen with abuse. Slick drips and drips from your entrance, entreating his return.

John nudges your knees wide and fits himself between them, the dripping and flushed head of his cock slipping over your folds.

“Get that away,” you snarl, “you’ll fucking break me!”

You try to wiggle away, but he just holds you firm, waits you out. And when you pause to catch your breath, he plunges inside.

“If you don’t recognize God, then there’s really no need for ceremony, is there?” he muses.

You make a questioning noise, the best you can manage when he’s forcing the air from your overworked lungs.

“My little witch wife,” John croons into your ear, “what pretty children we’ll have.”

It’s suffocating, how tight you get around him, even as you buck and swear. Your voice breaks when he tilts his hips just so, torturing that spot that’s already tipped you over once already. It’s such sweet music to his ears, protests cut off on long, rapturous moans, each time he bullies your overstimulated walls.

“I’m going to keep you.” John adjusts his bruising grip on your hips. Widens his own stance and presses his chest to your back. “I will be your god and your devil. My name will be amen.”

He drives home especially hard, and your voice breaks with a sob. His groan twines with it, divine harmony.

“We’ll form our own covenant, you and I,” he rasps. “I will give you everything, and you will be mine.”

His end is coming. Balls drawing up tight and hard, sparks crawling up into his stomach. A ragged grunt leaves his chest as you spasm around him, leftover of the last orgasm or forewarning of the next. He shifts to one arm and wraps the other around your hip, reaching for your clit to ensure it’s the latter.

“My name, love,” he breathes, “that’s all I need.”

“You’re awful,” you cry, “I hate you, John.”

“I know, little one,” he moans, shuddering. “Show me just how much.”

You reach your peak with his name on your tongue, loud and clear. His ears ring with it. Hips tilted back to get him as deeply as you can, John finds his end in the rhythmic, coaxing pulses of your cunt. His cunt.

He buries as deep as he can, hips stuttering roughly against your plush ass. Hopes he’s gotten you pregnant on this first try - perhaps your baby will be born on Samhain. You’re cooing softly when he comes back to himself, so sensitive you can feel the last feeble twitches of his release.

“Easy does it, now, darling.”

He supports your hips as he slowly pulls out and your knees collapse. The sounds you make are truly pathetic, he shushes you half-heartedly while he pets at your sweat-sticky back. He doesn’t let you drop; that’s no way to treat his new wife.

John lowers you gently to your stomach, then reaches over your head to pull the knot of your binds loose. You make a noise as he rubs at the red marks left behind, kisses at any raw spots.

“I-I have a salve…” you murmur, “upstairs.”

“We’ll get it in a mo’,” he assures, pushing tangled hair back from your face.

You nuzzle into his palm, lips skimming his fingertips. Not quite a kiss. “Don’t pretend to be kind now.”

He chuckles, exhaustion leaving the sound mostly in his chest. “I’m not the one who pretends between the two of us, little witch.”

You huff. “I’m not a witch. Witches aren’t real.”

“Of course, love,” he huffs, “and neither is God.”

[ineffableclassics]

Aziraphale ascends to the highest level of the Archangels. And he remembers—well. It’s not important what he remembers.

Words: 229,988

Status: Incomplete

Rating:Mature

By @moonyinpisces

Art Credit: The Whale by Rick Amor, 1993

[earthtodora]

Read here.

(or, hello, it's me earthtodora and i'm here to ruin your day again with all this angst)

[lipglossanon]

Turbo Killer

Real Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x daughter fem!reader (quasi foursome) w/ Dad!Jack Krauser x daughter!Ashley

shoutout to the anon who gave me this idea! It’s all smut so if your here for any plot, you’re looking in the wrong place 🤣

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, INCEST, DEAD DOVE, multiple pairings (slight Ashley x Leon & Krauser x reader before Leon x reader & Krauser x Ashley), fingering, dirty talk, kissing, unprotected sex, creampies

not proofread

title from Turbo Killer by Carpenter Brut

Your dad easily talks you into going up to the cabin for the weekend once he says Jack Krauser and his daughter are tagging along. Having someone else there helps keep your thoughts away from picturing you on your knees for Leon; you’re sure he wouldn’t appreciate the thought even as it makes you wet between the legs. (This messed up train of thought hasn’t stopped occurring since you accidentally walked in on him changing last week). 

Truthfully, after graduating college, you two don’t really see each other as much so it was a surprise he even invited you out for the weekend. To make up for lost time, he told you over the phone. So now, you’re pulling up in front of the family vacation home with your dad’s friend and his daughter parking behind. 

Ashley, Mr. Krauser’s daughter, is bubbly and sweet; she brings you out of your shell in no time even though you haven’t seen each other in years. You’re actually looking forward to this impromptu weekend getaway. Until hours later, you walk into the guest room and see your dad fingering Ashley on the bed. 

“Sorry, baby. You weren’t supposed to see,” his dark blue eyes stare at you, not stopping as he continues to press his fingers inside Ashley’s wet cunt which is bared to the room since her skirt’s flipped up over her hips. 

You don’t know what to say, completely rooted to the spot. Your own pussy throbs as you watch your dad finger your friend. She tries to get him to stop, but he’s pinning her in place, making her take his rough fingerfucking until she cries out. Ashely cums all over Leon’s fingers and he watches you the entire time. 

“Starting without me?” A rough voice rings out behind you. 

A pair of hands sneak around and grope your chest as Mr. Krauser presses against your back. Gasping low in your throat, you watch your dad drop his gaze from your eyes down to your breasts.

“Sorry, she just seemed like she needed it,” Leon smirks, looking up over your shoulder, and Mr. Krauser laughs. 

A calloused hand slides up your skirt and palms your mound. 

“Seems like this chubby little pussy’s soaking wet, sweetheart,” he growls loud enough for your dad to hear. 

“Is that so?” Leon’s stare makes you squirm, “bring her over here, we can share the bed. Right, princess?” he directs the last part to Ashley, who’s still trying to catch her breath.

She only whines in response, making both of them chuckle. 

“Let Jack take care of you, baby,” your dad coos as the other man guides you to the bed. 

In a blur of motion, Jack slips off his clothes before helping you out of your own. Glancing over to the side you watch your dad and Ashley do the same. Seeing Leon completely naked makes your clit pulse with heat. 

“Little pussy’s so wet already,” Jack praises, bending you over the bed and pushing you forward until you're on your hands and knees, mirroring Ashley’s position in front of you. 

“This one too,” Leon groans, “her cunt’s dripping all over the bed.”

You and Ashley whine, fingers tangling together to hold hands as each of your dad’s slide their fat dicks into your holes. 

“Aww look how sweet,” Jack mocks, “holding hands while we rail your sweet little pussies.”

Shuddering, you arch your back deeper, pressing against Jack as he pulls halfway out to thrust back into your cunt. A loud moan from Ashley pulls your attention back to the couple in front of you. 

“God your dad’s so big,” she whimpers, burying her face in the sheets as Leon hammers his cock deep into her pussy, balls slapping against her clit. 

“Yeah?” you mewl, eyes greedily watching as his slick shiny dick pulls out until just the head stretches her cunt open. 

“Yeah,” she repeats, shuddering as he bullies back into her soaked hole, “s’fat cock.”

You moan loudly and your dad’s dark blue eyes cut over to you; his gaze feels like a physical caress as he drags it down your body to see Jack splitting you open on his cock. 

“Your dad feels good, too,” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut as Jack bottoms out again, stretching you open deliciously, “oh god, Mr. Krauser, please.”

You watch as Leon fucks Ashley harder into the mattress, your own pussy fluttering wildly around Jack’s thick length as jealousy burns bright in your chest. You’re unable to stop looking at how his cock thrusts in and out of her wet pussy, the dizzying thought of wishing it were you making you leak more slick around Jack’s dick. 

“You like that?” a gravelly tone murmurs against your ear, “like watching your dad fuck my little girl?”

“Yes sir,” you whimper, knees spreading wider to arch your ass out, tits squished against the mattress as Jack presses his chest down along your back. 

“Bet you wish it was your sweet little cunt he was reaming, huh?” He chuckles meanly and bites your ear, “what a filthy slut, gagging for her daddy’s dick.”

Your loud cry gets muffled as Jack grinds his thick cock into the spongy spot along the front of your pussy while covering your mouth with his broad palm. 

“Be careful with her,” Leon growls out, eyes watching you two. 

Your pussy pulses and clenches around Jack and he groans. 

“Keep talking to’er and she’s gonna fucking cream all over my dick, Leon.”

Your dad grunts, hips losing their rhythm as he pounds into Ashley more roughly. 

“Is that true, sweetheart?”

Eyes rolling back, you squeal behind Jack’s palm as you grow even closer to cumming. 

“Yeah, daddy, you’re g’nna make me cum.”

Leon groans and pulls his cock out, hand tightening around the base so he doesn’t spill too early. 

“Daddy,” Ashley whines high in her throat, “wanna swap.”

Jack and Leon moan almost in unison.

“Swapping sounds good,” Jack grunts, eyes watching his daughter’s tits bounce as Leon fucks into her one last time before pulling out, “c’mon over here, princess, let daddy fill you up.”

Mewling, Ashley crawls forward as Leon grabs your arms to tug you over onto his side.

“Such a hot little cunt,” your dad moans, pushing your thighs up to your chest, “want daddy to split you open, baby?”

“Please, please,” you gasp, eyes rolling back when he smacks his cock down onto your clit, “please, daddy.”

“Fuck,” he bites out, notching the head at your drippy hole before sliding slowly into your snug walls, “fat fucking pussy needs dicked down, huh?”

“Uh huh,” you choke out a whine, “need it so bad.”

Another masculine moan echoes in the air as Ashley squeals. 

“Daddy, s’too deep,” she whimpers, “you’re going to f-fast.”

“But you’re pretty pussy’s taking it so well, princess,” he goads, laughing when he pulls out and bullies his cock back into her soaked cunt, “look at that, my pretty girl’s made for taking her dad’s dick.”

Listening to Jack fuck Ashley sends your arousal spiraling higher. 

“How’s that sweet hole, Leon? Good?” Jack grunts, hips snapping forward to bury himself fully inside his daughter. 

“S’good,” your dad sighs as he slowly thrusts in and out making you clench repeatedly around his fat length, “fuck, better than her mom.”

Jack laughs crudely, “Same here.”

You whimper up at Leon who smiles down at you. 

“My special girl,” he leans forward and kisses you messily, tongue licking into your panting mouth. 

You lose yourself to your dad’s tongue filled kisses as he grinds himself deeper into your cunt, leaking tip kissing your cervix and making you clamp down on him. The loud slap of skin meeting skin fades to white noise as you strain to listen to the little grunts and moans slipping from Leon’s mouth. 

Every now and then the squeals and whines from Ashley or low rumbling grunts from Jack will pull your attention, but it’s few and far between with the way your dad is rearranging your guts. 

“Daddy, ‘m close,” you whisper, tears beading your lash line as he rubs against your g-spot over and over again, “‘m so close.”

 “You’re gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna cream daddy’s cock and show’em how much you love this?” He croons nastily, fingers coming down to press against your clit, “gonna let daddy breed your soft little pussy?”

You head thrashes, hips bucking wildly before he presses down on your waist with his free hand to pin you down on the bed. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” his voice hardens, “say it.”

“Want daddy to breed me,” you gasp out like it hurts to say, “want you to breed my pussy.”

A throaty groan slips out and he circles your clit with quick firm swipes of his fingers. 

“Of course, baby,” he smiles, all faux sweetness that sticks to your tongue like rotten honey, “daddy only wants to make you happy.”

Your pussy flutters and clenches around him as he continues to tease your swollen clit. Ashley’s moaning has you twisting your body so you can look back at her and Mr. Krauser. Jack has his daughter bent in a full nelson now, cock pistoning up into her cunt as slick drips all down her thighs and his balls. 

“Daddy, feels so good,” her toes curl as her eyes flutter, “love it so much.”

You watch her breasts bounce, nipples hard, while Jack hammers up into her sopping wet hole. She whimpers and tosses her head back against his shoulder and he growls down at her. 

“Looks fun,” Leon whispers against your ear, grabbing your attention back, “wanna try that next? After daddy stuffs your sweet little cunny.”

Body shuddering, the band of arousal tightens a fraction more as he pinches your clit and fucks into your pussy. 

“D-don’t call it that,” you plead, tears slipping from the corner of your eyes.

“Hmm? Don’t like cunny, sweetheart? Only like when I call it your pussy?” He laughs mockingly, “don’t think it matters. I’ll call it what I want since I own it. This is daddy’s little hole.”

More slick gushes around his cock and he laughs harder, hips rabbiting into your squelching heat as you cry, feeling too much but not enough— the need to cum overwhelming in its intensity. 

“The first time, I wanna watch your face as you cum around my cock,” he kisses the apple of your cheek, dichotomic from the harsh way he bullies his cock into your cunt.  

He pulls back to spit on the hood of your clit, fingers smearing it across the pudgy bundle of nerves until you’re keening high in your throat. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant, gaze trapped on his, “fuck, daddy, you’re gonna make me cum.” 

A few more grinding thrusts rubbing against the spongy spot at the front of your cunt paired with his slippery fingers on your sensitive clit is enough to push you over the edge, the band of arousal snapping and letting your orgasm overtake your senses. 

“That’s it, squeeze my cock, sweetheart,” he murmurs down at your twitching body, “daddy’s so close to breeding your hot little cunt.”

Your pussy clenches and pulses around his cock as he thrusts forward, never fully leaving your hole until he buries himself balls deep. With a low groan, he pumps his thick load into your cunt, walls milking him as thick spurts of cum fill your pussy until it’s leaking out around his dick. 

“Damn, haven’t nutted that hard in years,” he kisses you sloppily on the lips, “my sweet daughter’s got the kinda pussy that’s made for daddy’s creampies, huh?”

With another low chuckle, he pulls out with a loud squelch, hissing as his half hard cock rests on your mound, smearing creamy spend all over your pussy lips. He presses you down into the bed with his body as he kisses you, biting your bottom lip before drooling a line of spit into your open mouth. 

“Drink up,” he pats your cheek, “daddy likes it when girls swallow.”

Goosebumps break out across your skin, sucking Leon’s tongue into your mouth and swallowing the spit he gives you. Jack’s low groan pulls your dad’s gaze and in turn yours; he has Ashley on her back, cock buried in her pussy as she digs her nails into his shoulders. 

“Cumming, princess,” his hands flex on her thighs as he bucks against her, “take it, take it.”

With a low whine, Ashley scratches down Jack’s chest, “Feel so full, daddy. I’m g’nna cum again.”

Leon continues to kiss down your neck, biting and sucking the skin while you watch Ashley cum on her dad’s dick as he pumps her full of his load. When Jack pulls out, his cock’s covered with a mix of cum and slick, making your own pussy flutter around nothing. Your dad’s hot mouth suckles a hard nipple as he pinches the other making you cry out, drawing the attention of the other two. 

“Round two?” Jack asks, scarred face grinning as he gestures down to his half hard cock. 

Leon hums and raises up to face him, “Sure, but I’m using this little pussy all night.”

“We can swap some other time,” Mr. Krauser grins at him, smacking his cock down onto his daughter’s messy cunt, “I’m happy with this for now.”

Leon grins in return, “Me too.”

divider: @/firefly-graphics

[delta-pavonis]

Fic: feel your ocean (come to my moon)

Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Explicit || 10k words || complete

alternate universe (canon divergence from meeting at The New Inn), getting together, identity reveal, eldritch Dream, D/s, BDSM, all of the following in Hob's daydreams [food kink, temperature play, mild pain play, rope bondage, vampire bites, size kink, size difference, implied/referenced homophobia, violent thoughts, blood and gore, non-human genitalia, fisting, anal fisting, extreme fisting], temporary changes to gender or sex, oral sex, rough oral sex, face fucking, cum swallowing, multiple orgasms, orgasm edging, hints of The Oldest Game, hand jobs, cum shot, cumslut Hob Gadling, language of flowers, fisting, extreme fisting, anal fisting, belly bulge, love confessions, idiots in love

Hob’s hand comes up and cups Dream's cheek, doesn't let him move too far away. “Is that because I am dreaming right now?” He smiles like he knows it isn't true, like he knows this is real but still can't quite believe it. Honestly, neither can Dream. “Or are you a dream?” “That question,” Dream says as he leans minutely into Hob's touch, and oh look at how Hob's pupils dilate at that, “has a very complicated answer. One that I would give you. But not in such a public place.” Watching Hob's expression soften, seeing his eyes look at Dream with such affection, is intoxicating. Dream wants to taste it.  So he does.

Read on AO3

First part of this fic was posted in response to @anabimelo's lovely fanart here.