#SCREAMS TA THE HEAVENS

[theorist-fox]

Rationally

John 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

Cross posted on AO3

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: you're rational but love isn't—and thank god for that.

CW: canon typical violence, blood, injuries (broken nose), suggestive smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Masterlist 🦊

There’s a reason why you never spar with Johnny.

It’s definitely not because he’s bad at it. Because he isn’t. Actually, he’s the perfect balance of measured and unhinged: he puts you on the spot and creates an environment akin to the field, but he’s always so careful with it.

With you.

But no, you can’t train with Johnny. You’re not insane.

How would you even fit a punch here and there if he's staring at you with those smart baby blues riddled with mischief and wonder.

How could you stop yourself from staring at his shirtless top, at the trickles of sweat running down the divot of his chest.

At his arms.

At his sweaty, swollen, freckled arms. Thick, so thick. Able to take away your life if carefully wrapped around your neck, or to bring you to the edge of heaven if slipped between your thighs.

How you’ve managed to keep yourself decent around him for all these years is something truly remarkable. Perhaps you have a superpower of sorts, some rock-hard self-control. 

All the times he’s spent the night at your place, too drunk to even speak—drawl heavier yet sweet, and his dramatically whispered “Thank ye, hen, can’t drive when I’m this pished. Saved ma life, y'have.”

All the times you found him lingering by the stove of your kitchen, with your breakfast in the pan, and his rumble of a voice—“Ach, wanted ta wake you up with it, bonnie. Humour me an' go back to bed.”

All the times you caught him looking at you with a similar longing but never dared to touch the subject—because maybe you’ve imagined it, because work, of course, because friendship, because excuses and your cowardice. 

Coward, that’s what you are. A weak, spineless coward.

And Johnny’s training on his own today, in a corner of the gym, as you spar with… someone. Some grunt, you think. You met her barely past the threshold, and she offered to spar with you when you jumped on the mat. A few punches here and there; you landed some and dodged most. It’s fine, she’s easy to predict. Younger. Brash. Perhaps wanted to show off by training with someone higher in the ranks. 

You understand. You’ve done that too.

And you keep sparring, movements fluid but somewhat distracted. She hits, you dodge. You hit, she takes. Or… whatever. You don’t know, you’re not sure—the world’s in slow motion, the chatter fluffed.

Because your eyes are on him.

Calloused hands in fingerless gloves strapped at his wrists. 

His fists hit the punching bag swinging in front of him. 

Thud.

The vibrations of the impact cause his biceps to ripple. Your eyes follow each wave. Its firmness, sturdy and tight, all the way to his neck.

Corded. Bitable.

Thud, thud.

Sweat explodes from his skin like dewdrops. He glistens like he’s drenched in fucking oil, with his loose shorts that hang low on his hips. Happy trail in full show, and you’re starting to wonder how it would feel to have your nose buried in there.

Your throat filled.

Right hook. Uppercut. Left. Left again.

Fuck.

Something cracks in your skull.

And then it's like the world is not in slow motion anymore, like it picks up the pace again. And the pain that shoots up in your face is the catalyst for it—what pressed the speed-up button of reality.

Your scream echoes like a roar, as the attention of the whole gym falls onto you.

"Fuck!"

Sitting on the gurney in the infirmary gives you a very much needed reality check. 

You keep your hands cupping your nose as it swells and bleeds, head tilted forward. Your tongue peeks out every now and then to soothe a split on your lip.

A curtain is pulled. The rings that keep it up clink against each other. It’s your cue.

But instead of a nurse, it’s Johnny who walks in. 

He didn’t bother to wear the t-shirt, of course. That’s John MacTavish for you.

You can’t help but sneak a look at the ruffled hairs growing fiercely on his chest. How they create a trail down his stomach, before expanding just above the hem of his shorts—leading to what you can only guess is fucking heaven.

"Och, that's a braw shiner ye got there," he says, giving you quite an entertained look.

Yeah, you got caught. 

Warmth spreads from your neck to your cheeks, and thankfully he can't see the nervous smile under your palms shielding your nose. “Had worse.”

A scoff from him, but not a spiteful one. Softer than that. 

He shoos your hands away without touching you to take a peek at your nose. Vigilant eyes inspect the mottled bruise slowly forming along the bridge and right under your eye. 

“My nurse today, Johnny?” You quip if only to dissipate the heat building up under your skin.

“Aye, bonnie.” He smirks. “Nurse MacTavish at yer beck an’ call.”

You manage, somehow, to bat your lashes even though one of your eyes is starting to look like a ripe plum. “Mmmh, m’so lucky, then.”

“Luckiest.” He replies in kind, “’Cause I know just the way to treat ye.”

You purse your lips, trying not to mind the way it pulls at the taut skin on your left cheekbone. “What is it, then? Can I still keep my nose? Or am I doomed to wander 'round like a bloody Lego puppet?"

Gently, like he’s measuring even the pressure he puts on the pads of his fingers, he flicks your forehead. 

He gives you an unamused look, one that melts away as soon as he spots the way your lips twitch. “Lemme do my thing, aye?”

His accent is thicker today, like honey falling in ropes from a spoon. It’s sweet to your ears, and the gruffness of it barely manages to hide his concern. Johnny and his heart, so big it spills out everywhere, even in the rough vibrations of his Scottish lilt.

It makes you soften, like a hardened sponge under the jet of water. 

You bring your hand to your forehead in a mock salute. “Sir yes, Sir.”

He shakes his head fondly, before testing here and there along the bridge of your nose, quietly apologizing each time you flinch, until his fingers find a specific spot on each side. 

He settles there, secure.

“Remember tha’ I love ye, yeah?”

Your brows shoot to your forehead. “You wha—”

Johnny snaps his fingers to the side. 

Your nose sets back into place with a nauseating crack. 

“M’sorry,” he murmurs, sounding genuinely apologetic, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. “M’sorry, don’t hate me now, love.”

You feel queasy, and the world around you spins—so much so that your hands automatically search for him to tether you steady. Fingers curl in an iron grip around his wrists, nails dig in between his tendons.

“Alright?” He asks. Stupidly.

“Ngh,” is all you manage to utter. Pathetically.

The unexpected blessing is that you’re able to swallow an even more miserable retch.

You suck.

“Cuttin’ off my blood flow there, bonnie,” he says with a breathy laugh, nodding idly at the deadly hold you have on his wrists.

That was cute, you think. That was the cutest chuckle you’ve ever heard. Your eyes would morph into tiny hearts if your head wasn’t pounding in agonizing pain.

This is awful. You’re sitting there with your pupils rolled back and a cocktail of tears, snot and blood running down your face. Your tongue overflows with the coppery taste rushing from your nose into your mouth and the bitterness lingers long enough to worsen your nausea.

You shouldn’t allow yourself to look this miserably ugly in front of Johnny. You should suck it up and at least reduce the quantity of bodily fluids streaming down your cheeks to look a pinch more palatable, a tad more fuckable. 

Maybe that punch should’ve knocked you out for good and saved you the embarrassment.

However, his words reach your ears through the vicious pounding of your heart, and you feel bad enough to release him from his shackles—because he can’t see you as bloody, ugly and violent too.

Johnny’s tender, though. Gingerly, he moves his fingers from your nose. One hand reaches the shelf bolted in the wall overhead and tests blindly, looking for a gauze he must’ve spotted beforehand.

He finds it. Cups your cheek while carefully cleaning up below your nose, before gently pressing it to your nostrils. He tuts when you go reach it with your hand to hold it up, offering to keep it there for you.

“Sorry for cutting off your blood flow,” you say with a voice so disgustingly nasal it doesn’t even sound like you.

Johnny’s lips curl in a smile. “Returnin’ the favor.”

You snort and flinch. Curse yourself—“Fuck me.”

“Aye,” he mumbles impudently. “Soon ‘nough, hopefully.”

There’s no time for you to register that, a joke that has spark to it. The fuse of a dynamite flickering to life, promising an explosion that won’t come just yet. A promise, a quip—perhaps just to keep you distracted, perhaps just to divert your focus from the pulsing pain in your face to more lighthearted subjects.

But when you see his smile, you can’t help but mimic him, infectious as it is. Or, well, you try—it’s a little hard. What is turning into a black eye manages a twitch, while your safe one turns into a pretty crescent.

And maybe, due to the chaos of events that have submerged you in blood and tears, you almost forgot what Johnny told you when his hands set your nose back into place. 

Almost being the keyword. 

Because when it comes back to you, you gasp. Gasp and choke, because there’s still a bit of blood left on your tongue, dribbling down your throat. 

Your coughing startles Johnny, of course. He asks things you can’t quite hear over the ringing in your ears, but you manage to pull away from his fussy hands just enough to focus on his face.

You could look lower and meet the expanse of his chest still shining in sweat. You reckon blood rushing to your pussy instead of your nose would be a convenient way to slow down the hemorrhage—it’d be much easier to take care of an orgasm than to deal with blood loss.

But no, you meet Johnny’s eyes instead.

Blue and pinched, like he’s much too worried about your well-being to pay attention to the intensity with which you’re looking at him.

He's so beautiful. Not handsome—he's beautiful. 

There’s so much of him for you to look at. Not a single line that contours his shape is worth missing out—from the tips of his ears to the muscles in his calves. He looks like he was carved in marble, once upon a time; even his imperfections—the scar on his chin, the slight tilt of his jaw—seem carefully chiselled, details added to glue the pieces together into one gorgeous, perfect man.

But it’s his eyes that hold your attention, always have. Thick, dark brows frame bright blues. Wrinkles branch out the corners when he smiles, or when he worries. They’re deep now, aptly carved similarly to the single line above his nose. Concern, not happiness.

You’re not sure you like them just as equally when they’re not blossoming from joy.

“Easy,” he whispers, hand drawing circles on your back to soothe your cough. 

The bloody gauze has dropped on your thighs and onto the floor. A wet patch left on the dark grey of your sweats.

When you lift your head, your eyes touch. 

Johnny looks so soft, like he’s not really there at all, like it’s a figment of your imagination and maybe you’re delirious because the pain is that strong.

Perhaps it’s the mist in your eyes playing tricks, or the tears prickling at the corners, but he’s never looked this gorgeous, his blues never this deep.

“You said you loved me.” You say, and it’s a bit hard to talk because your nose is stuffy and your heart’s in your throat.

Johnny cocks his head. If he's taken by surprise at your statement, you don't know. He doesn't show it—odd, you think, because he's constantly wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Not now, you guess. Fuck him, because today is the day you actually need him to show everything pretty fucking blatantly.

“I did.”

That’s it, he doesn’t add much to it.

And so, you reason with him. “Because I was hurt and you felt bad that you had to hurt me more.” 

Logical. Makes sense.

His mouth opens for a reply. Nothing leaves him. It falls closed again. You’re so attentive to each movement you think you can hear the swallow of his throat, the smack of his lips.

At his silence, you go on.

“You needed the shock value,” you explain nasally, “So I would focus on that instead of the pain. A distraction.”

Rational. Good.

However, he’s never been quicker to reply. “No.”

You blink.

There is no reason in his answer. You live by that—swear by that. Things happen logically. Things happen because other things have happened before. Domino tiles fall because they’ve been hit by the previous, until the last one finally falls flat, and life ends.

Cause and consequence.

There have always been signs, true. You were never blind to Johnny’s lingering hands, to his softening eyes, but you’re also a chronic pessimist and an awful overthinker—so what if he acts like that just because he’s kind, and you’re reading too much into it. 

And yeah, maybe you’re a coward. Maybe you’re a spineless, weak coward, and recognizing the signs would mean facing the music. The consequences that would bring, how many tiles would fall chaotically: your jobs, the friendly relationship you would lose, the horrifying prospect of heartbreak—you’ve never been quite ready for that.

Still, this feels like a tile falling stupidly by itself, miles ahead, due to a gust of wind that had no business blowing in this direction, today—because how can a punch and a broken nose lead to this.

Obviously, the conversation can’t end there. You want to ask why, what, and how, but the air around you has suddenly tensed, and you’re afraid you have to measure your words and have your doubts solved with one question only.

And when you think you have it ready, you can’t even utter it.

Johnny’s thumb comes to rest on your lower lip, next to the split bisecting it. His fingers are curled in a loose fist right under your chin.

He presses down, exposing your teeth. You watch his eyes fall, abandoning yours to favour the sight that it’s your mouth. 

There’s blood there, you’re sure of it. You can feel how slick your skin is under his pad—he doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. 

“I—I meant it,” he whispers, and his voice sounds like it’s cracking. “Hard no’ to, eh.”

You feel quite faint. You might peg it to the uppercut that just rocked your skull, but you’re not that naïve. 

In fact, it might just be because Johnny’s thumb gently presses against your teeth.

Your jaw pliantly unlocks, welcoming his finger inside. 

“’Course I meant it,” he says hoarsely, “Look at you.”

You taste iron, mostly—the pungent flavour of blood. And then, underneath all of it, once he’s settled his thumb in the cradle of your tongue, you feel the salt of his skin, too. You want more of it, and so your lips wrap around his knuckle. 

“Steamin’ fucking Jesus,” he breathes, utterly disarmed. 

You’re keeping your eyes on his face, and your good one widens when he lifts his own.

Johnny slowly licks his lips and then presses his mouth closed. His cheek sinks in like he's biting into it, and God, how you wish he had no restraints whatsoever right now.

Your heart jumps in your throat when Johnny uses his thumb to smear your spit over your lips. 

His eyes aren’t on yours anymore. He’s mostly intent on watching his handiwork: the pink lines left by his thumb on your mouth, the clipped breaths brushing like breeze over his hand.

Instinctively, you part your legs, and the gesture must’ve made him feel welcome because he walks that step forward. He’s a broad man, which is why he barely fits in the space you created for him. The drape of loose boxing shorts covers his muscles but fails to mask the tent growing in between.

No amount of pain could stop your mouth from watering at the sight.

He presses forward until your noses touch. His eyes flit back to yours. 

You’re not really aware whether you’re breathing or not.

“’Course I—" he cuts himself off. Swallows.

And somehow, he doesn’t sound as worked up as you think he should be. 

Lust is there, clearly, if not in his eyes, then in his cock faintly brushing your lower stomach. But there’s something else too, some barely veiled sorrow he’s trying so hard to mask but failing oh, so miserably.

“’Course I love ye,” he sighs, tilting your head back so your lips can level with his. “Don’t even know how ta stop talkin’ about it—L.T. bloody hates me.”

He’s struggling to control the way he breathes; you can tell. Struggling to control where to put his free hand, curling into a fist at his side.

You’re not faring much better.

“Makin’ a fool o’ myself, bloody hell—” he croaks, shaking his head. 

There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a certain pinkness to his cheeks that makes him all the more endearing.

Johnny cracks through your dreamlike state when his eyes clock yours. Pleading, like he wants—needs—you to understand.

“—but I love ye. Fuck, I do.”

Rationally, now would be a good time to pull away. 

There are so many don’ts and a very much single do.

You’ve just stopped bleeding. First don’t. 

There’s still blood smeared on your face, from your nose downwards. Some of it is fresh, some of it is mixed with your spit, and some more is dried up on your chin and on your cupid’s bow, flaking off. Second, third, fourth don’t. 

The fifth don’t would be that half of your face is tumid and dark. It hurts to blink your left eye, there’s a split on your lip that burns like a bitch, and a whole migraine is rearing its ugly head in response to the concussion.

That’s already a sixth and a seventh and an eighth don’t.

There’s a single do, however, that somehow has the weight of thousands.

Johnny loves you.

And it’s enough.

You lean up, using your palms pressed on the cushioned gurney as leverage, and your lips brush with his.

One of his eyes twitches, and Johnny dives in.

It’s a soft kiss.

It doesn't match the hurried way with which he met you halfway as though he's had to rein it in for your sake.

Your lips slot together, and you wish you could have a better feel of how his own taste, to see if it matches what you’ve spent countless nights dreaming about—alas your tongue still lingers with the taste of blood. 

Johnny doesn’t seem to care, though, no. Because his hand leaves your chin and threads with your hair at your nape.

His head lolls to the side with a sigh. It doesn’t feel like a controlled movement, it’s more like the muscles of his neck have given out and turned slack. You kind of understand, because you’ve gone much softer too—especially when his free hand rises to cup the side of your neck.

The position allows for the kiss to deepen. 

His tongue dances with yours; the coppery layer veiling every other flavour becomes dull. Diluted. And suddenly you’re overflown with Johnny’s taste. His scent, too—earthy, salty with sweat. Intense, grounding. It’s enough to make you dizzy, even more than that punch did. 

And it doesn’t meet your expectations, no.

It exceeds them.

You feel yourself sigh, fluttering your eyes closed as the shock abates and leaves the front seat to relief, to absolute fucking wonder.

He checks in often, kiss after kiss. 

Can ye breathe, love?, whispered just a breath from your lips.

Am I hurtin’ ye?, as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

Your hands land on his chest.

Somehow, the trepid drum of his heartbeat feels contrastingly calming, and you feel less alone in this fear like it's a jump into the unknown that you didn't take on your own.

Johnny kisses you carefully, but the more he goes on, the more his hunger grows.

He shows it in the softer groans that leave him when you press closer, and his cock nudges your belly. Or when his fingers brush your ribs, when they trace right under your breast. The touch is barely there, and his fingers still tremble, but it makes you shiver nonetheless.

It’s electric. It tips at your sex and your hips instinctively grind against the gurney.

Johnny takes the hint, tracing the line of your bra until your back arches against him. Your shirt sticks to his chest, heartbeats in sync—erratic, afraid, sweet.

He leaves the back of your head, perhaps finally trusting you won’t move away, and uses those fingers to trace your jaw, then the slope of your neck, your collarbone.

"We should stop," you whisper but don't follow your own advice, keeping your lips on his instead.

“Aye we should,” he agrees, but only verbally, because he doesn’t part from you either.

Every single touch makes you soften that bit more, and you find yourself absolutely powerless against him. You lock your arms around his waist and simply graze with your nails at the indent of his spine, feeling the goosebumps that rise along his skin.

You allow yourself to be taken care of. 

Johnny does that. 

His hand finally reaches your breast, where he kneads the fat gently until you’re panting in the kiss. Until your head spins when his thumb draws circles around your nipple, perked and prominent under your shirt. 

He tentatively reaches downwards. Hooks his finger at the hem of your shirt. Lifts it up agonizingly slow, and you feel the cold air kiss every inch of skin as it's slowly uncovered. Gooseflesh laps your stomach, tips at your skull. Johnny’s fingers languidly rake up and down your abdomen, turning the heel of his hand when it reaches just under the line of your bra, only to travel downwards to the hem of your sweats. Your belly clenches in rippling waves, delighted in the slow tortures he delivers.

He reaches for your bra, hooks his knuckles at the cups, and drags it down. Your breasts subtly bounce as they fall out of it, bra wedged just underneath. Johnny takes a second there, watching like a hawk at the indents left by seams of your garment, at the darker skin of your nipples.

He locks your eyes. Heavy lids fall on them, mouth parted to say something he can’t bring himself to speak. Instead, he cradles your jaw and brushes his thumb on your cheek, gentle as can be. A peck to your lips, then another, only left after checking in with you through his eyes.

His palm cups your breast—it's warm again. You sigh against his mouth, and Johnny curses under his breath when you do.

“Can I?” He whispers, but he’s already trailing down with his lips.

He’s already nipping at your jawline, sucking at the tender flesh of your neck. He’s already turning you breathless, pinching your nipple between thumb and forefinger. Already kissing at your breastbone, and it’s only there that you manage to breathe a “Yes,” to his request.

He's hunched over quite a bit, so you favour him by arching your back and presenting your chest to his mercy. Slow, open-mouthed kisses drink up the taste that permeates your skin until he reaches your nipple. He sucks and nibbles as it pebbles on his tongue, turgid and sensitive. Liquid pools at your lower belly, invading the crevices inside—hot like molten gold, dense like the sweetest of syrups.

You moan a staggered breath, fingers digging into the plasticky leather of the gurney—the same one you're subtly grinding against. Johnny's mouth is full of you, but still he manages a groan that makes your cunt flutter around nothing.

He unlatches from your skin, glossy lips panting warm breath against your breasts.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ," he murmurs as his thumb flicks your nipple and smears it with his spit. “Fuckin’ killing me ‘ere, hen.”

He drops to his knees. Rapid. The knock against the floor is faint but still loud enough for you to worry and look down to check on him.

You find a mesmerized man with pupils swallowing his eyes. You find a hungry hound with blood around his lips, caked into the stubble at his chin. You feel two hands, calloused and rough, wrap around your waist, thumbs dimpling where your stomach gets softer.

Johnny kisses your belly, smooths his palms at your sides. Your hand moves instinctively, threading into his mohawk, still damp with sweat—messy strands slipping through the gaps between your fingers as you brush them back.

You’re panting, so caught up with the way he tries to get a taste of you that you forget about the pain irradiating from your nose, about the mist clouding your vision from one eye—the throb of your bruise, the effort it takes for you to do something as natural as breathing. They vanish when his tongue draws a fat line from your belly button to the hollow of your ribs, when he cocks his head sideways, gently sinking his teeth into your stomach.

To see Johnny’s nose buried in your middle, to see his hands cinch at your waist, his head comfortably snug between your thighs—to see him on his knees just so he can taste you, just so he can have you, ravenous like he’s been waiting far too long just to have this—

—it’s enough.

Perhaps sometimes a gust of wind is needed—the tiles can break that cause-effect relationship and fall without being knocked over by anything else if not a fresh breeze. Wind, creating a new path, placing new tiles. Bringing something new, something loved, right where you need it—right where it belongs.

There’s no logic in that, you’re aware. But alas, there’s no logic in love either.

And you’re okay with that.

Your lips move on their own, your voice barely a whisper he must’ve strained to catch.

“I love you.” 

You can feel his hands still, twitching at your sides. His brows furrow right before you like he's concentrating, absorbing, realizing. His eyes flit to yours, holding you loosely by the waist, but still alert—in case you want to make a run for it.

As if.

“Yeah?” He croaks, perching his chin on your belly.

You swallow something thick. “Yeah.”

Your t-shirt, scrunched and resting atop your breasts, is finally succumbing to gravity. Johnny pinches the hem between his fingers and brings it back down to cover your torso again, tracing back the same path he followed before.

He pulls back. Stands up. A hand runs down his mouth, slowly, smearing the blood that has transferred from your skin to his. 

It's absurd to you how he doesn't seem to mind.

He searches for doubt in your eyes, you think, maybe something that tells him you’re not being truthful—you have no idea how to convey that you’ve never been this genuine in your life.

The mood is suddenly somber like you haven't just uttered words that would light up the world for most. You allow him to think, to go through the mental gymnastics of it—give him space if that's what he needs, even though he'd been the first one to say it, the first one to put you in this spot.

You fix your bra, rip a piece of the exam paper now all scrunched and torn in different places on the gurney. Gingerly, you bring it to your nose to check for blood. You try it all—anything that might yank your head out of your ass, anything to stop the spiral.

Perhaps you're still in time to save that single tile from hitting the next. Perhaps you're still in time to fix it, press the rewind button, find a way to stop the wind.

Rationally, it’s impossible—but reason doesn’t have a fucking place here anymore.

And there, right there, when the silence has turned heavy and scary, when your heart is drumming a dark tune—Johnny brightens it.

He chuckles. It’s breathy, tinged with disbelief, like you can’t be for real. 

Like you, with your black eye and your cracked nose that definitely needs an ice pack and a doctor, with your blood smeared on your mouth and a split on your lip, can love him.

You want to tell him that it's the easiest, most natural thing you've ever done, but he cuts you off as soon as you start and kisses you again.

It’s… excited.

It’s a kiss that thrums with happiness. It’s a peck, after peck, after peck, with his hands slotted on the slopes of your neck. Johnny barely manages to purse his lips to kiss you, too busy smiling. 

And that’s another natural thing, to smile with him.

He pulls back, only enough to speak.

"Yer laughin'," he says, laughing himself, soft as can be.

He gives you another nip. You chuckle.

Something in your stomach turns and knots when one of his hands drops on your thigh. The weight of it, the warmth that so easily seeps through your sweats—it’s enough to turn you into a puddle of yourself.

God, you’re a goner.

“I am,” you murmur. “This is very funny.”

And you kiss him back.

Johnny cocks his head with a smile. “Is it.”

That pulsating ache on the left side of your face dulls, as much as the one in your nose. 

Or maybe you simply forgot to pay attention to it, because your focus is solely on the beautiful man in front of you and his bloody lips now trailing down your cheek to your jaw.

Your fingers dance on his chest upwards. He catches one of your hands, gently curling his fist around it.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” You whisper with a smile, like you two are there sharing secrets. “You got my bloody bl—my fuckin’ blood on your face.”

His brows flutter to his forehead, smirking as he catches you awkwardly stumbling on your curses. 

The warning glint in your eyes is meaningless, dimmed by the fire glowing inside of you, shining even through the darker swelling of your face—alas, peeking through it with a smile.

“Yer bloody blood.” He parrots.

"Oh, fuck off!" You chuckle, pushing at his shoulder.

“On ma face, aye,” he chortles, leaving a fat kiss on your good cheek instead.

“Johnny!”

He explodes in a laugh, so loud you think everyone outside of the infirmary must have heard it. You don’t manage to shush him, don’t manage to chide him, to tell him that you don’t fancy getting caught in this predicament by a superior.

You don’t manage because you’re laughing, too.

He comes back to your lips. Kisses you until you’re sighing in his mouth. The sound must do something to him because his fingers dig into the fat of your thigh. You wish he weren’t standing in the middle so you could clench them together and find some semblance of relief.

Thankfully, having him in between your legs still feels unbelievably nice.

“Can I get more o’ it, ye think?” He quips.

It steals a smile from you. “Of what?”

He nips at your lower lip. “Yer bloody blood.”

You pinch his side in retaliation, but otherwise reciprocate the kiss.

“That’s disgusting, MacTavish,” you say, even though you couldn’t care less about being decent.

“Just say yes.”

You do.

And you do so many times after that day, that it’s hard to pinpoint which one is your favourite.

If the yes you said after you got your nose broken, or the one you said years later when he got on one knee.

[wendichester]

please can I request Sam x reader where Sam’s like a lovesick puppy and reader is obvious even though it’s painfully obvious

also plz can I be 💌 anon? (I’m the one who requested happier hehe)

₊ ° ⊹ ♡ truly, madly, deeply,

summary. sammy is absolutely smitten for you but you're clueless

pairing. sam winchester x reader

wordcount. 607

notes. thank you so much for requesting hon! you always have the best ideas ehe 😙🩷

Sam Winchester is completely, hopelessly, stupidly in love with you.

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea.

Dean sees it. Cas definitely sees it. Hell, even random strangers you meet on hunts seem to pick up on it within five minutes of talking to him. But you? You remain blissfully oblivious, flashing that gorgeous smile of yours at Sam without realizing that every time you do, it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

He tries to play it cool, he really does. But then you go and do something unbearably cute—like scrunching your nose when you’re trying to decipher old Latin texts, or singing off-key in the car like nobody’s listening—and suddenly, he’s a goner all over again.

“Dude,” Dean mutters one evening at a dive bar, watching Sam’s gaze track your every move as you laugh at something on your phone. “You’re making heart-eyes so hard it’s embarrassing.”

Sam tears his eyes away from you (which is a Herculean effort, honestly) and frowns at his brother. “I am not.”

Dean just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You sigh dramatically every time she leaves the room, Sam. If this were a chick flick, you’d be the guy writing sad poetry in the rain.”

Sam glares, but before he can argue, you slide back into the booth next to him, all bright eyes and warmth, completely unaware of the conversation you just interrupted.

“Guys,” you say, holding up your phone. “Did you know baby goats scream like people? Listen to this.”

You press play on the video, and sure enough, the high-pitched shrieks of tiny goats fill the bar. You dissolve into giggles, pressing a hand against Sam’s arm as you lean closer, and just like that, his heart forgets how to function properly.

Dean looks at him like, See? You’re doomed.

And honestly? Sam kinda is.—

It gets worse when you fall asleep on him in the Impala.

You start nodding off somewhere outside of Tulsa, head lolling against the window before eventually finding its way onto his shoulder. Sam freezes. He can literally feel the warmth of your breath against his neck, your body soft and trusting as you curl into him.

Dean catches his panicked expression in the rearview mirror and smirks. “Try not to combust, Romeo.”

Sam ignores him, carefully adjusting so you’re more comfortable, letting his fingers brush lightly against your arm. You sigh in your sleep, pressing closer. He’s pretty sure this is what heaven feels like.

The problem is, Sam doesn’t know how to tell you.

He could. He should. But every time he works up the nerve, you flash him that beautiful, unsuspecting smile, and he panics. What if it ruins everything? What if you don’t feel the same?

So, he suffers in silence. Until one night, when he wakes up from a nightmare and finds you sitting beside him, worry creasing your brow.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Bad dream?”

He nods, still catching his breath. You don’t hesitate. You just shift closer, resting your head against his shoulder, the same way you always do when you want him to know you’re there.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion or the way your hand finds his without thinking, but before he can stop himself, Sam blurts out, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

His heart nearly stops.

Then, you pull back just enough to look at him, your expression unreadable. Sam braces himself for rejection, for awkwardness, for anything but the soft, breathless way you say, “You think?”

And then you kiss him, and suddenly, Sam doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

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[hazymoonlinh]

[EN]

Kéo xuống là có phần tiếng việt.

Yan!Phainon x Reader x Yan!Mydei

The scariest curse is love itself.

✦ The Cost of a Miracle

You died smiling.

You died a hero.

But love—no matter how noble—has limits.

And theirs?

Snapped.

They tried living in a dream with your fading soul.

They tried remembering. Holding on.

But when even your ghost began to flicker—

They snapped again.

“We don’t want a shadow of her.”

“We want her—alive.”

⸻

✦ The Deal of Blood and Beauty

Phainon goes first.

He laughs, wild-eyed, storming across Amphoreus.

Every old grimore, every lost scroll, every forgotten ruin—he tears it apart for one thing:

“Give her breath. Give her warmth. Give her back.”

Mydei does not speak.

He just takes.

He slau.gh.ters silently.

Takes the cores of immortals. Steals the light of sanctums.

He doesn’t flinch when they beg.

They lay your body on a marble altar.

And on that altar… they offer everything.

The blood of innocents.

The souls of saints.

The last echoes of a dying world.

All for you.

And it works.

⸻

✦ The Return

You awaken.

Not broken. Not faint.

Alive.

Truly.

Your heart beats strong.

Your legs move without pain.

But the skies are black.

The rivers run red.

And the stars are… gone.

“We brought you back,” Phainon says, grinning, hair soaked in blood. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“You’re whole,” Mydei whispers. “Everything… for you.”

You look around.

A world in ruin.

A sky weeping ash.

Millions of lives gone.

And your hands?

Stained in their sacrifice.

⸻

✦ You: The Living Curse

You scream.

You scream until your voice tears.

“WHAT DID YOU DO—?!”

They don’t flinch.

Phainon only kneels, pressing your hand to his cheek like a priest to a relic.

“We gave you life.”

“We gave you the world.”

“We’d give you more if you asked.”

⸻

✦ The Collapse

You run. You try. You flee through burning cities and shattered temples.

But they find you.

Always.

They’re not cruel.

They don’t raise their voices.

They simply smile, hold your wrist gently, and whisper:

“Please don’t run from your miracle.”

And worse—

You can feel it now.

The life they gave you is tied to theirs.

To the sins.

To the blood.

If you die again—so will the last innocent remnants of the world.

You are their love.

You are their weapon.

You are their curse.

⸻

✦ Final Whisper: Their Madness

Phainon leans against the wall of your ruined sanctuary, blood on his hands, stars in his eyes.

“I know it hurts, my love… but I’d burn a thousand heavens if it meant I get to see you smile.”

Mydei wraps you in his cloak. Holds you tighter than a crown grips a king’s skull.

“If guilt is the price of your breath, I’ll carry it gladly.”

And when you cry—when you whisper “This isn’t right…”—

They both only smile, hollow and warm.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s right,” Mydei says, forehead to yours.

“It only matters that you’re here.”

/////////////////////////////////

[VN]

⸻

✦ Cái Giá của Một Phép Màu

Người đã rời đi với một nụ cười.

Người đã rời đi như một anh hùng.

Nhưng tình yêu—dù có cao thượng đến đâu—cũng có giới hạn.

Và giới hạn của họ?

Đã vỡ vụn.

Họ đã thử sống cùng ký ức.

Ôm lấy linh hồn tàn lụi của người trong một giấc mơ kéo dài.

Nhưng khi ngay cả hồn của người cũng bắt đầu phai tàn—

Họ phát đi.ên.

“Chúng ta không muốn một cái bóng.”

“Chúng ta muốn nàng—sống.”

⸻

✦ Giao Ước của M.áu và Vẻ Đẹp

Phainon là người đầu tiên đánh đổi.

Hắn cười, đôi mắt hoang dại, chạy khắp Amphoreus như một cơn bão.

Mọi cuốn sách cổ xưa, mọi phương thức đã ngủ, mọi tàn tích bị lãng quên—hắn xé nát để tìm một thứ duy nhất:

“Hãy cho nàng hơi thở. Cho nàng hơi ấm. Hãy trả lại nàng cho ta.”

Mydei không nói lời nào.

Chỉ lặng lẽ gi.ết.

Hắn gi.ết không chớp mắt.

Đoạt lấy lõi của những kẻ bất tử. Cướp lấy ánh sáng của các đền thánh.

Hắn không run tay, kể cả khi họ quỳ xuống van xin.

Họ đặt cơ thể người lên bàn đá cẩm thạch.

Và tại đó… họ dâng lên mọi thứ.

Máu của kẻ vô tội.

Linh hồn của các thánh nhân.

Những tiếng vọng cuối cùng của một thế giới sắp sụp đổ.

Tất cả… vì người.

Và điều khủng khiếp nhất?

Nó hiệu nghiệm.

⸻

✦ Sự Trở Lại

Người mở mắt.

Không còn yếu ớt. Không còn đau đớn.

Người sống lại.

Tim đập mạnh mẽ.

Bàn chân bước đi vững vàng.

Nhưng bầu trời thì đen đặc.

Sông suối chảy đỏ.

Và các vì sao… biến mất.

“Chúng ta đã đưa nàng trở lại,” Phainon nói, cười rạng rỡ, tóc nhuốm máu. “Thật tuyệt, đúng không?”

“Nàng đã trọn vẹn,” Mydei thì thầm. “Tất cả… là vì nàng.”

Người nhìn xung quanh.

Một thế giới đổ nát.

Một bầu trời khóc tro.

Hàng triệu linh hồn đã tan biến.

Còn đôi tay của người?

Nhuốm máu hy sinh.

⸻

✦ Người: Đóa Hoa Không Thể Héo

Người gào thét.

Gào đến rách cả cổ họng.

“HAI NGƯỜI ĐÃ LÀM GÌ VẬY—?!”

Họ cũng chẳng giật mình.

Phainon chỉ quỳ xuống, áp má vào tay người như một kẻ sùng đạo hôn lấy thánh tích.

“Chúng ta đã trao nàng sự sống.”

“Đã trao nàng cả thế giới.”

“Và nếu nàng muốn thêm… ta vẫn sẽ dâng lên.”

⸻

✦ Sự Sụp Đổ

Người chạy. Người bỏ trốn qua những thành phố rực cháy, những đền thờ tan nát.

Nhưng họ vẫn tìm thấy.

Luôn luôn tìm được.

Họ không ra tay tàn ác.

Không hét. Không đánh.

Chỉ lặng lẽ bước tới, nhẹ nhàng nắm lấy tay người, thì thầm:

“Xin nàng đừng chạy khỏi chúng ta.”

Và điều kinh hoàng nhất—

Người cảm nhận được.

Sự sống mà họ trao cho em…gắn liền với họ.

Với m.áu.

Với tội lỗi.

Nếu người ch.ết lần nữa—

phần cuối cùng của thế giới cũng sẽ sụp đổ theo em.

Người là tình yêu của họ.

Là vũ khí.

Là lời nguyền.

⸻

�� Thì Thầm Cuối: Sự Đi.ên Loạn Khoác Áo Tình Yêu

Phainon dựa lưng vào tường trong tàn tích nơi người trú ngụ. Tay vẫn dính m.áu. Mắt vẫn long lanh như sao rụng.

“Ta biết nó đau… nhưng chúng ta có vĩnh hằng. Nàng, và chúng ta. Thế là đủ.”

Mydei quấn người trong áo choàng đen. Ôm chặt như ôm một đế chế đang rạn nứt.

“Nếu tội lỗi là cái giá cho từng nhịp tim nàng… ta sẽ gánh lấy, không hối tiếc.”

Và khi người khóc—khi người thì thầm

“Không đúng…điều này thật sai trái—“

Họ chỉ mỉm cười.

Trống rỗng. Đầy yêu thương.

“Không cần đúng sai,” Mydei nói, trán kề trán người.

“Chỉ cần nàng ở đây.”

[cece693]

YOU REMIND ME OF SOMEONE DEARLY PT. 1

pairing: platonic! male child reader x hannigram synopsis: Hannibal isn't taken aback by anything anymore—his life has been filled with experiences that built him into the man he is today—but during a hospital shift, he's stunned to encounter Mischa again. While the child is of the opposite gender, everything down to their smile is reminiscent of his beloved sister. A parental instinct immediately engulfs the doctor, more so, when he realizes the child doesn't have the best life.

The hospital’s after-hours hush always soothed Hannibal Lecter—pneumatic doors sighing like well-trained lungs, anesthesia drifting faintly above polished tile. Tonight, however, the stillness tore at him with anxious claws. “Dr. Lecter, trauma bay three,” a scrub nurse called. “Pediatric transfer from Frederick County."

Hannibal nodded, letting the masque of urbane calm settle over his features. The fluorescent lamps above Trauma Three were a pitiless white, but Hannibal had lived inside harsher lights. He crossed the threshold prepared for gore, for the usual cloying perfume of antiseptic mixed with the metallic ozone of blood. What he was not prepared for was the instant, violent dislocation of time.

The harsh lighting revealed a body far too small for the adult gurney. Eleven, perhaps twelve. Golden-straw hair, clumped by plasma, framed the child’s face. Under the glare it looked exactly the shade Mischa’s curls adopted in midwinter sunlight—just before she’d scamper back inside smelling of snow and woodsmoke. The resemblance struck so hard Hannibal’s lungs forgot their task, forcing a shallow, ragged breath past perfect teeth. His fingertips twitched for the memory of her weight in his arms, for the warmth that had been ripped away and devoured by wolves wearing human skin.

Then clinical habit re-asserted itself: assess, catalog, plan. Radius with spiral fracture—yanked, not fallen. Cigarette burns in varying stages of healing. A deep purple boot bruise where a child’s liver nestled beneath brittle ribs.

The scalpel of rage glinted behind Hannibal’s eyes, but his hands remained steady as metronomes. He repaired a splenic laceration, plated the shattered forearm, irrigated and closed. When the ventilator finally clicked into a gentle rhythm, Hannibal allowed himself a single stroke of knuckles across the child’s hair—an unheard benediction.

When the boy surfaced from anesthesia, his lashes fluttered, revealing irises the soft caramel of birch sap. They lacked the worldly exhaustion Hannibal had carried since childhood; they were absent of judgment, of fear—even of the instinct to flinch. Instead, they carried something impossibly forgiving and looked at Hannibal with utter gentleness.

“Are…are you my guardian angel?” he whispered, throat rasped raw.

The words struck like a scalpel finding unfinished suture—precise, unbidden, opening Hannibal along a seam he had sworn would never gape again. Guardian angel. In Mischa’s nursery there had hung a watercolor cherub, all pastel wings and candle-bright eyes, painted by a governess who believed children slept safer beneath pretty lies. Hannibal had scoffed at it, even then. Angels had never answered Mischa’s screams.

Yet here was a boy who could have been carved from the same early-spring light, asking shyly if the butcher at his bedside might be Heaven-sent.

“No, little one,” he said in Lithuanian first—reflex, because the timbre of those vowels belonged to Mischa—then translated softly. “Angels are creatures of heaven. I am simply a man who could not endure seeing you harmed.”

The boy’s lips curved. A faint dimple ghosted his right cheek—Mischa’s dimple. “Thank you simply-a-man.”

Delight stirred; it felt like thawing ice. Hannibal leaned closer, matching the child’s hushed cadence. “My name is Hannibal Lecter. May I know yours?”

“Y/N,” he breathed. “Y/N Anatole.”

Light, Hannibal noted—the name of a lantern-bearer in Old Greek. Prophetic. “Y/N,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. “Y/N, do you know why you’re here?”

A flicker—too knowing for innocence, too resigned for twelve. “I got clumsy again,” he said, parroting an excuse beaten into him until it sounded like fact. The quiver at the edge of his mouth told the true story.

Hannibal’s anger flared, hot enough to bleach memory.  Clumsy. The word echoed like a joke told at a funeral. He imagined the father’s boot slamming into a ribcage the size of a violin case, the mother’s ringed hand snapping ulna like kindling. A swan-neck clamp in Hannibal’s mind clicked shut on their carotids—a fantasy so vivid he felt the spray warm his cheeks.

But before the rage could overflow, Y/N touched his sleeve—small, trusting. “It’s okay. I always get better.” The boy’s words, so matter-of-fact, sliced deeper than any scalpel. I always get better. Anemic optimism forged in bruised bone and narcotic drip—a child’s version of this is normal.

“Getting better is not the same as being safe, Y/N. And you deserve safety more than you can yet imagine.”

The boy blinked, surprise widening those birch-sap eyes. “Dad says accidents make me tough.”

Hannibal’s jaw flexed. Tough, yes—like rawhide soaked, stretched, beaten until it could no longer feel. Exactly the kind of “strength” a cowardly man could admire from a barstool. However, before Hannibal could refute that absurd claim, the door was nearly ripped from its hinges as two adults barged in, reeking of liquor and stale resentment.

“We want him discharged tonight,” the father snapped, the words slurring just enough to betray a companion flask. “We’re missing shifts because the kid’s accident-prone.”

Y/N shrank against the rail, analgesic haze not quite dimming the reflexive fear. Hannibal heard the flutter of the boy’s heart trip into tachycardia—an SOS tapped in flesh.

“Your son sustained a splenic laceration, four displaced fractures, and a pneumothorax,” Hannibal replied, voice quiet but diamond-edged. “Moving him now would almost certainly kill him.”

The mother rolled her eyes. “Doctors love drama. He’s been worse.”

“No, madam,” Hannibal corrected, “He has never been worse.”

The father stepped closer, posture puffed with ritualized dominance. “Listen, doc, you patch ’em up, we take ’em home. That’s the deal. Sign the papers.”

Hannibal inhaled slowly, bottling wrath the way chemists bottle acid—tight-sealed, for later use. “Hospital policy requires a 48-hour observation. If you object, you may sign an AMA discharge—Against Medical Advice. However, child-protective services will be notified immediately.”

“You can’t do such thing!” the father bellowed, voice wobbling between outrage and incipient panic.

Hannibal did not so much as blink. He let silence hang between them long enough for the father to taste his own heartbeat. Then, with the unhurried diction of a professor correcting an imbecile, he replied: “I can. And I will. Federal statute 42 U.S.C. § 5106a requires me to report any suspicion of abuse. Your son’s injuries are not suspicious; they are conclusive.”

A purple vein jumped in the man’s temple. “You smug—”

Hannibal pivoted slightly, granting the father a clear view of the ceiling-mounted camera whose red LED winked like a judgmental eye. “This encounter,” Hannibal added, “is being recorded. Any further obstruction will be appended to the CPS report—under violent interference with medical care.”

The mother’s mascaraed eyes darted upward, saw the lens, and a tremor seized her bravado. “Honey,” she hissed, tugging at her husband’s sleeve, “let’s just—”

“Shut up!” he snarled, jerking free. Rage overrode tactical thought; he lunged, thick fingers closing on Hannibal’s coat lapels.

Hannibal allowed the grasp, studying the meaty hands as a pathologist examines a specimen: interesting only in the theoretical. Then he spoke, voice so low the syllables vibrated directly through the father’s bones. “Remove your hands, sir, or I will remove them for you.”

For one breathless second the man froze—primitive brain parsing predator signals too primal for language. The spell shattered when two security officers strode in, summoned by Hannibal’s silent badge-tap moments earlier.

“Sir, step back and release the doctor,” the lead guard ordered. Tasers, bright as dragonfly wings, hung at their belts—a rehearsal that would not be needed if Hannibal chose less public methods.

The father’s grip slackened. Hannibal smoothed his coat as though brushing off lint, eyes never leaving the man’s. “Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Anatole to the family waiting area” he told security, “and remain until social services arrives. They are not to see the patient unsupervised.”

The woman wilted; the father sputtered threats—lawsuits, politicians, a brother on the county board—but the guards’ practiced grips shepherded them into the hallway, their protests fading beneath the hiss of automated doors.

Silence settled over the recovery bay like a fresh layer of sterile gauze—light, immaculate, strangely heavy with the residue of violence just expelled. Hannibal let the hush seep all the way to his pulse; only when his own heartbeat slowed to a deliberate metronome did he turn back to the gurney.

Y/N’s heart rate spiked the monitor in bright green peaks. He lay stiff against the pillows, IV line trembling where it vanished beneath his taped wrist. “They’re gone?” Y/N asked, voice a rasp of timid hope.

“For now,” Hannibal answered, lowering himself to the bedside with a grace that conceded nothing to exhaustion. He kept his tone level, its sotto voce cadences meant to reassure prey—but here repurposed to soothe a child. “Others will speak with them before they return. Very serious people.”

And if those people fail, he told himself, I will speak with them in a language bone understands—syllables of fracture and finality.

A pulse of uncertainty flickered across Y/N's face. His gaze darted toward the door, half-expecting those familiar silhouettes to charge back through. Hannibal sensed the boy’s muscles coil, the primal readiness to make himself small or flee despite the drain in his flank and the plate in his arm.

Deliberately, he slipped a gloved hand beneath the rail and pressed the bed’s control, tilting the headrest until Y/N reclined more comfortably. Monitors adjusted, beeping a fraction slower. Then he placed two fingers beneath the boy’s chin—light, paternal, non-threatening—and guided that birch-sap gaze back to his.

“Look at me,” he murmured. Midnight OR fluorescents painted silvered halos on their foreheads. “You are safe here. Do you understand?”

Y/N swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against bruised cartilage. “The nurses said that, too. But Dad usually finds a way.”

There it was—the surrendered certainty of an eleven-year-old who has seen every promise collapsed into apology. Hannibal’s jaw tensed hard enough to click. He forced the muscle benign, then brushed his thumb across the bruise shadowing Y/N's cheekbone in a gesture more diagnostic than affectionate, though it felt like both.

“Your father will find many things tonight: a police report, a social-worker’s interview. But he will not find you.” Hannibal murmured, adjusting the blanket so it draped in perfect hospital folds, the way he once tucked Mischa under goose-down quilts during Baltic winters. “Sleep. That is the prescription now.”

“But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs’ tonight. I will remain until you’re dreaming. And outside that door stands a nurse who would tackle an army for her patients.” Hannibal leaned closer, voice dipping into conspiratorial warmth. “She doesn’t look it, but she played varsity rugby.”

A ghost of a smile appeared; the tachycardic beeping eased toward normal sinus rhythm. Hannibal reached for the IV pump, dialing the rate to deliver two milligrams of morphine and a micro dose of midazolam—enough to usher pain into the background and coax the boy gently over the rim of consciousness. As lashes sagged under the twin lullabies of medication and safety, Y/N fought to keep them open. “You promise?”

“Yes.” Hannibal vowed, fingers brushing the child’s knuckles. "Sweet dreams."

[hoeforalbedo]

Dolly (Finale)

Demon Alastor x Demon Housewife!Reader

Tw: Alcohol, Club, reader referred to woman, murder, rushed work.

Note: It’s kinda rushed. I tried. I was watching a school play and it was Chicago so I thought why not start it off at the club. I was also going to write a smut but it wouldn’t save so I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. Last part was literally taken from Hannibal 😭😭

———————————————————————

Loud sounds of the trumpet ring throughout the club. It’s not the modernized type of clubs. No, flappers gather around dancing to the music with others at the dance floor. It’s almost as if everyone gathered together to learn the choreography as they all seem to dance in unison.

“Whiskey?” A small lady asks, holding a glass cup.

“I’m good Mimzy,” You smile. You lean back on your chair.

After years of loneliness, you’ve finally come to the end of your days. It was no natural death. Even in old age you found yourself feeding off the high you felt from murder. It was the only thing keeping you sane, ironically.

One moment were falling back onto the ground, the second you were greeted by the gold pearly gates. “Welcome to Heaven. Name please?”

“Hi, I am Y/N L/N, I believe I would not be on that list,” You smiled.

“Is that so? Surely I fine mannered lady like you should be on the list.” The angel hummed and looked at his list. “How odd, your name isn’t here.”

“I hope not, it isn’t. I’m very aware that murder is a huge sin,” You chuckled.

“Oh. . . Well then-“ You found yourself falling once more.

“My dear wife can’t handle her liquor well,” The static voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Oh Alastor, you know I’m not one for alcohol,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll take that, Mimzy.”

“Oh you two are truly a match made in hell,” The short flapper laughs.

“Hell?” You smirk, looking at Alastor.

“Truly.” Your husband answers, taking your hand and kissing the back of it.

“Oh I’ll leave you demon couple to be. I don’t plan to be a third wheel. Ta ta~!” The flapper waves, getting lost in the crowd.

“I believe we have time,” You look at him mischievously.

“I believe we do!” Alastor looks at a certain direction of the club, eyes landing at a man sniffing some substance. “I wouldn’t want to waste the night, especially since my wife dressed all pretty for me. Care for a dance?”

You jump up from your chair. “Why I thought you’d never ask!” You smile as Hit the Road Jack through the speakers. The song is very much after Alastor’s time however he found that he enjoys his music.

The two of you get to the dance floor. He places his hand at the small of your back and swing in sync with the music. He takes the lead, spinning and twirling you around.

“How I missed this!” You scream over the music.

“I’ve forgotten how amazing you are,” Alastor compliments, hooking your leg around his waist.

“Dancing was one of the many things I’ve missed.”

Alastor slowly dips you low to the ground before pulling you back up. “The day I took you dancing, I knew I was in love.” No, actually his mom suggested he take you dancing although he was taken off guard when you managed to keep up with him.

The demon lets go of your hands, letting you shimmy around him to allow you to have a clear view of what’s going around the club. He then takes your hand, pulling you back in and guiding you to twist your hips while kicking your feet.

It’s amazing how in synch you two are with how fast the song is. At the same time, the both of you are keeping a lookout for the man that you both could not bother to know the name of.

“Alastor,” You suddenly say darkly, looking over his shoulders.

“Allow me.” He managed to maneuver you both in the dancing crowd, spinning and twirling along with them.

“How dramatic you are. We could have walked!” You chuckle.

“Well you know me, I am one for theatrics. I trust you can handle the rest?”

“Of course dear!” You smile. He twirls you one last time and you spin much farther than you should, causing you to bump into a man who ends up spilling his drink on him.

“Shit you woman this is expensive!” The man yells.

“Oh I apologize! How clumsy of me,” You apologize profusely, taking your handkerchief out and trying to dry the liquid. Your doe eyes look at him innocently, looking full of regret.

“Well I’m sure I can forgive you, if you give me your. . .” He scans your body, taking in the black dress that is modest yet perfectly hugs your curves. Your cleavage peeks out just enough to leave the rest for the imagination. “Yeah, how about you offer me your body for the night.”

You look at him with innocent confusion. “I’m afraid I can’t do much for a night. A laborious task of cleaning the stain of your suit would take me a couple hours at best!” You play coyly although you know he intends to sleep with you.

“I- you know what, how about you come with me. I’ll show you a good time,” He smirks.

“Oh that’s just the experience I’m looking for!”

“Perfect.” The man leads you out to the back of the club. Your back is leaned up against the brick walls as the man gets very close to you.

“I’m not sure how this is more fun compared to dancing.”

“How did an innocent thing like you get into hell?” The man chuckles, taking your wrists and pinning it over your head.

“I lied just a little bit,” You answered.

“How naughty,” He hums, about to burry his face into your neck until he was simultaneously pulled back by shadow tendrils.

“I’m sorry for my vagueness. I lied about murdering someone,” You smile then walk to Alastor’s side.

“Who the fuck ar- Fuck,” the man’s eyes widen realizing that the one holding him captive is none other than the radio demon he had messed with a couple days prior and that you are associated with him.

“Am quite aware that I allowed for this to happen, but I still hate the fact that someone touched what’s mine,” The radio demon says menacingly, the filter in his voice going in and out.

“Alastor, sweetheart, how about we save this for the broadcast,” You mutter to him, putting your hand on his chest. “It was the plan after all, right?”

“Why you’re right, my dear. Well then!” He wraps an arm around you and teleports the three of you to his radio station.

“Oh fucking hell. Come on man! I don’t even know who this bitch is! Spare me!” The guy begs.

Alastor’s head spin towards the man while the rest of his body remains still. “This bitch is my wife and I will not tolerate your demeaning words. However!”

The man sighs in relief. “I do not fight my wife’s battles so my dear, do as you please.”

“Gladly. I was thinking meatloaf for tonight,” You smile as you glide towards your poor victim with a butchers knife.

“Good afternoon to my fellow sinners of hell! It is I, Alastor, accompanied with my lovely wife for the first time.”

“Hello!” You say cheerfully as you chopped the man’s fingers, a scream filling the studio.

“Today there will be music, dancing,” His filter disappears, “screaming,” his voice goes back to the usual, “and all that jazz so sit back, relax, and enjoy.” Another scream resonates through the air as Alastor plays some peaceful music. He then turns to you who has been chopping off the man’s external parts. “I hope you’ve left some for me, ma chere. I’m still rather irked from earlier.”

“Oh he’s still very much alive, see!” You say, pulling the man’s cheek to force a smile on his face.

“Lovely. I hope you don’t mind a bit more blood, my dear.”

You chuckle, “Oh I’m by far very used to it.”

He kisses your forehead, “What a doll you are, me cherie.”

“Only for you.”

“Just fucking kill me already!” The man begs.

“Gladly,” Alastor says, voice deep without any filter.

———————————————————————

“Smells delicious dear,” Alastor kisses your head.

“Of course! We made it together. Is Charlie and her father almost here?” You ask as you place the last dish down on the table.

“I believe-“ A knock is heard. “They are here now.”

“Let’s hurry and greet them!” You say excitedly, taking your apron off and putting it away.

The two of you open the door with bright smiles.

“Hello you two!” You greet, hugging the both of them.

“Well hello,” Alastor says, less enthusiastically as he glares at Lucifer.

“Well if looks could kill,” Lucifer begins only to be interrupted by his daughter.

“Well I’m glad that we were invited to your home, although of course we always have space at the hotel, and I feel so bad for coming empty handed,” Charlie speaks almost as if she’s being chased by something by how fast she speaks.

“That’s absolutely fine. My wife really only ever eats the food she or I prepare,” Alastor says. “Shall we?”

The father and daughter find themselves walking past the living room where deer heads are posted above the fireplace. Once they get to the dining room, the vibe is much more homey.

“You can tell who decorated what in the house,” Lucifer snickers.

“Wow! These all look delicious!” Charlie’s eyes sparkle at the food.

“Please have a seat!” You say.

All of you begin eating, making small talk. “This tastes good. What kind of meat is this?” Lucifer asks curiously.

“Rabbit,” Alastor answers.

“He should have hopped faster.”

The couple look at each other. You smile, “Yeah, he should have.”

———————————————————————

Tags: @notsentimentalll @mixplara @futureittomainn @karolinda007-blog

[jhoneybees]

Feelin' in my body

Here's a little blurb for you lovelies! Something to make up for the long wait on the requests❤️

Characters: Late 70s!Elvis X reader

Warnings/triggers: a little sexual but it's all pretty fluffy

Tags: @atleastpleasetelephone @theelvisprincess @i-r-i-n-a-a @hooked-on-elvis @polksaladava @thelonelyheart

_____________________________________________

“Baby?” Elvis calls out, turning his head to look into every room as he walks down the hallway, upstairs. He quietly steps down into the foyer, wanting to see if you're in the kitchen.

“Honey?” Lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head as he looks around the room.

“Where is that girl?” He thinks to himself then as he walks past the stairs going down in the jungle room, he stops in his tracks hearing something familiar.

He cautiously takes one step at a time downstairs, frowning in curiosity when he realises the noise is music with a faint sound of someone singing under it.

He sighs and as he goes halfway down, enough to see who's in the room. His eyebrows soften and his lips curl into a crooked grin seeing you dancing around the jungle room, holding his microphone singing along to ‘I got a feelin' in my body'

“I got a feeling in my body, this will be our lucky day!” You sing, jamming around on the plush green carpet. Swinging your hips from side to side as the music plays.

Elvis breathes out a quiet chuckle, resting his hand on the bannister. Shaking his head in disbelief.

He finds it funny that you're singing and dancing to his music, he thought you'd be sick of it by now because of how many times you heard it in the studio while recording it but he's been proved wrong.

“Funny lil girl.” He tsks, grinning widely at how your hair bounces around and the little dress you're wearing is slowly riding up your thighs. Just about giving him the tiniest view of your white panties.

“Won’t you lift your eyes up, children, lift ‘em to the sky, heaven stands before you, gates are open wide, shelter for the weary, comfort the weak, we'll leave the devil's evil, sweatin’ on the stre-” You sing but suddenly you feel a pair of hands on your shoulders making you scream.

“Jus’ me, darlin'!” Elvis laughs loudly, pulling you against him when you realise. “What's my baby doin' in ‘ere?”

You breathe out relieved and start to giggle, sliding your hand up onto his chest giving it a little rub. “Dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Mhm.”

“Mmm… I was enjoying your dancin’.”

You smile with another giggle, a little louder this time. “Yeah?”

“Mhm, would like ta see ya again.” He responds, giving your ass a small squeeze and light pat.

“Sit down then…the song ain't over.”

He hums, grabbing your chin to bring you into a gentle, playful kiss before going over to sit on the animal fur covered couch. Chuckling and rolling his eyes when you take your dress off, leaving you in just your matching white bra and panties that have little pink bows in the center.

“What's this?” He asks, holding his hand out for you to take, allowing you to climb onto his lap. Still holding his microphone.

“Wanna give ya a lap dance.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, smiling like a teenage boy.

“cause I got a feelin' in my body.”

[schrodingers-romy]

Heaven Works on Borrowed Time [Karasu Tabito x Reader]

Pairings: Karasu Tabito x GN!Reader Word Count: ~1200 [Ao3 Link]

Summary: Two people escaping an office party have a first meeting under the stars

Warnings: no gendered pronouns/language used for reader, reader doesn't like their job and is kinda bitter about it, discussion of the fermi paradox, karasu-typical tacky nickname, pre-relationship

Notes: very pointless little convo between crow boy and reader but I thought it was fun. title from fermi paradox by avenged sevenfold bc i think i'm funny

You sighed into the night air, relaxing as the late breeze cooled your heated face. Office parties sucked. You were glad you were able to sneak away from you drunk, overly friendly coworkers, and find yourself some peace.

Your jaw had just finished unclenching when the door behind you clicked open, bringing with it a rush of sound from the party inside before it swung back shut.

So much for your peace.

“Didn’ know anyone else was out here. Hope ya don’t mind me intrudin’,” said the newcomer.

“’S fine,” you said, even if you wanted to scream a little.

You recognized the voice; Karasu Tabito, who worked on the floor above you as part of the company’s legal department. You never really interacted with him, aside from including him in a few email chains; if you didn’t know he was friends with Otoya Eita, you wouldn’t have an opinion on the man at all. However, considering you did know Otoya (both by his reputation for dating or hooking up with half of the office and cheating on at least an unlucky third of them, and because he tried to hit on you during your first joint meeting), your opinion on Karasu leaned towards the negative. Still, you didn’t need any more rumors of your snappishness circulating, so you didn’t kick up a fuss at sharing the balcony with him. You would be making your excuses to leave soon anyways; you had been there for over an hour, which was enough to say you had socialized.

Ignoring the man who had sidled up beside you, you blinked up at the sky. The city didn’t have the greatest clarity, but letting your eyes adjust for a moment revealed a splattering of the brightest stars, visible against the deep purple of the heavens. You wished you were in the countryside, where it was so pitch-dark that you could see all the constellations, and the pale, cloudy arm of the milky way as it stretched above you. Where the air was clear, and you were away from the nagging voices of your coworkers and the ambient, unsleeping, anxious hum of the city. But instead, you were stuck at a shit job you were overqualified for, with officemates you barely tolerated most days, just because you were too apathetic to try for anything better.

You slumped against the railing. You should’ve stayed home.

“Hey,” came the deep voice once more. “Ya okay over there?”

You turned to look at him, your cheek pillowed in the crook of your arm as you squinted up at him. His expression was fairly flat, but his eyes seemed honest enough, so you replied. Albeit sarcastically. “I’m doing awesome, man. I love it here.”

He snorted, lip twitching up into a small smirk. “I can see that. Yer jus’ the life of the party, huh?”

“Yup.” You turned away from him, your gaze returning to the stars.

“I woulda thought otherwise, what with how ya were staring up at the sky like ya were prayin’ for aliens ta come and abduct you.”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped you. “Where did you pull that from? Big alien believer yourself?”

“Not any more than’s logical.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, intrigued. “And how much is logical?”

He moved closer, leaning against the railing so he could more easily catch your eyes. The indigo of his irises caught the light, and, for a second, you thought he was rather pretty. “I mean, it stands ta reason, statistically, that we’re not alone out there.”

“Don’t you think we would have some evidence of alien life, if there was any?” you asked, sardonically. “Statistics aren’t always accurate, or comprehensive.”

Karasu doesn’t seem off put by your tone, smirking right back at you without a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “Have ya ever heard of the Fermi Paradox?”

“Of course. I’m quite partial to the great filter theory, myself.”

“Do ya think the filter is behind us or ahead of us?”

You stared up at the sky with a frown on your face. “Ahead. I hope civilization hits a wall soon. I’m tired.”

He let out a laugh like a raven’s cackle. “Well aren’tcha a bright spot of sunshine? Personally, I think they’re out there, jus’ watchin’ us.”

“Why?”

“’T’s what I woulda done.”

“Ooh, alien civilization observer Karasu. You’d need a better title than that though, right now it sounds a bit voyeuristic.”

“Tabito.”

You turned back to look at him. “Huh?”

“Ya can call me Tabito.”

You studied him for a moment. The strangely gelled shape of his hair reflected the starshine like an oil slick, and the light seemed to drip down his face and settle into the amused wrinkles at the corners of his bright eyes. He was overly familiar with you, accent and tone breaking down any sort of professional distance, but you found that you, oddly enough, didn’t mind. It was refreshing to talk to someone so frank, who didn’t take your bluntness for an attack. Instead, he seemed…amused by you. (Charmed, even, if you were being wistful.)

“Sure. Tabito,” you said, before offering up your own name in return. You ignored the little flicker of something in your chest at hearing it repeated back at you in his deep voice.

“So, what was that about voyeurism?...”

You glanced away, a little flustered but unwilling to surrender. “I stand by it. Secretly observing a different intelligent species sounds weird as fuck, actually. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Aw, wouldn’t ya want ta observe me if I was ‘n intelligent species? No? ‘M hurt, truly.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to say, ‘Maybe I would if you were an intelligent species.’ But something in you held back from using one of your typical snappish replies. Instead, you said, “Well. Perhaps I would make an exception. For you. Maybe.”

His smile was so big that it caused his eyes to form crescents. “Aw, that’s so sweet of ya, little storm cloud.”

Your nose crinkled. “Storm cloud? I thought I just gave you name privileges.”

“Ya just reminded me of one, tha’s all. Gloomy. And fluffy.”

“Fluffy?”

“On the inside.”

“Sure, Tabito.”

The two of you are silent for a moment, soaking in the relative peace of the little balcony you’ve found yourselves on. The stars continued to glitter overhead, with more and more peeking through the gloom of the night sky as time ticked past.

“Do ya need someone ta walk ya home?” he asked.

You didn’t. “Sure.”

-

Unlike his friend, Tabito was the perfect gentleman when he brought you home, leaving with nothing more than a good night and a cheeky salute. You wouldn’t have invited him in, not on a first meeting. But. You had a feeling that you might not be so unwilling after getting to know him better.

The next morning, there was a book sitting on your desk. With it, a note: “For my little storm cloud, to borrow. Tell me your opinion on it, I’m sure it’ll be interesting ;)” Hell. Maybe you didn’t want to believe the great filter was ahead; maybe life should continue on. It wasn’t all bad.

[lyriumcoloredskies]

Smitten (18+)

Pairing: Sanji x Lunarian!Reader WC: 2.1k Summary: You spent your life as Big Mom’s daughter, bending and catering to her whims. When your mother decides it’s time to cement the alliance with Germa 66, will you finally find something you’ve been searching for? CW: 18+ mdni, older woman and younger man, reader is Lunarian (so described with dark skin and black wings), smutty content with fluff mixed in, cowgirl/woman topping, unprotected sex, piv, creampie, forced marriage, no beta. AN: Listening to Agora Hills by Doja Cat. I got really sick with the 'vid-19 :(. Anyways here's some Sanji smut. Was really torn between this or doing mermaid!reader.

When Mama mentioned the newest marriage arrangement, you had been skeptical. The history between the Big Mom pirates and the kingdom of Germa 66 had always been cordial at best, despite most alliances between pirates and evil kingdoms ending up dotted in betrayal and violence. For the most part, the agreement between Mama and Vinsmoke Judge had been positively tame compared to the blood soaked alliances your mother previously held and subsequently broken. Nevertheless, you offered yourself up as the sacrificial bride, not wanting to see your sweet sister Pudding be married off so young. Your 30 years in Totto Land as Mama’s precious daughter had taught you that Big Mom always got what she wanted.

***

In the haze of the room, Sanji can feel his grasp on his mind slipping, his eyes desperately claw themselves onto a spot in the ceiling, hoping to find some clarity to keep him from drowning.

Sanji can barely recount the events of the last week. Sanji truly thought that his decision on Zou had been the safest one. It was only when Sanji found himself face to face with the life he left behind that he realized how in over his head he was. Every shred of Sanji’s mind told him that he was doing everything in his power to save those dearest to him, that this sacrifice was necessary, but every bit of his heart was screaming for his captain to come save him, just like he had done for every one of their nakama. Plunged into the misery of his past life coming back to haunt him, Sanji found himself dreaming, like he did when he was younger. In his thoughts he was free to dream of the seas, of Nami and Chopper’s loud laughter, of Luffy’s happy face every time he cooked him something new, and of the All Blue. Sanji dreamt endless dreams he once thought died with his mother, rescued by the kindness of Reiju, Zeff, and his dearest friends. Going over his dreams and happy memories, he steeled his resolve. No daughter of the Big Mom pirates would ever have his heart, no matter how gorgeous the lady might be.

Never did he think he would find himself like this, playing a balancing act on the edge of a razor, a moment away from tipping into heaven or hell, with a beautiful angel cruelly observing as he struggled.

A particularly hard slam of your hips back down onto his has him throwing his head back, mind wiped blank and eyes rolling back due to the pleasure of his soft spongy dick tip hitting your cervix. You walls envelope his shaft in such a warmth, Sanji swears he’s burning in the fires of sin. He sinks deeper and deeper into the pit of pleasure you offer him with your delectable warmth. Nothing but whimpers and moans escape his lips as if he was a cheap whore, not a groom on his wedding night.

Everything is too much. Sweat coats his body and Sanji is aware of the soft 800 count Alabastan sheets sticking to his skin. The same sheets are fisted in his hands, gripping the bed for dear life. Sanji feels as if every nerve under his skin is alight, static running through his veins as you continue your devilish ministrations on him. The soft velvety walls of your heat wrapped around his dick better than his hand ever could. Your supple skin is like the rich icing of the wedding cake served at your ceremony, tasting equally as smooth and saccharine under his attentive tongue. Sanji can still taste your slick on his lips from earlier when you sat on his face. A euphoric taste that had Sanji thanking whatever gods and Zeff for keeping him alive so he could sop up every drop of your divine arousal, his face serving as your throne.

Sanji’s eyes, half-lidded in lust, focus on your figure and he is lost in the beauty of it all. Your cheeks are flushed and the golden light of the room only serves to add a beautiful bronze glow to your inky brown skin. His eyes trace a bead of sweat rolling down your damp skin, he finds himself desperately wishing he could be the one to caress the curvature of your breasts so intimately. It only adds to the sinful sight of your breasts, bouncing up and down as you ride him at a mind numbing pace. The black wings on your back with feathers gleaming like a million obsidian gems, adds the finishing touch. You are an angel of lust, Sanji concludes in his mind, sent to break him in the sweetest and most painful way.

Oh, what misery, but oh what joy.

Sanji lets out another strangled moan as he lifts his head to get a better view of the obscenest sight.  His thick shaft parting your glistening folds, pistoning in and out of your sweet tight hole. He can spy the creamy ring gathered around the base of his shaft, your collective juices smeared all over his skin and pubic hair, the prominent vein on the front of his shaft glinting in the light of the room, only to be swallowed up by your greedy hole moving up and down on his cock with practiced precision.

You let out a small breathless laugh as you spy your new husband’s eyes roaming, lustful and dazed. Leaning over, but never breaking your pace, you capture his mouth in a sloppy kiss. His soft swollen lips close messily around yours, and you can feel his neediness. His tongue engages yours in a desperate dance, gliding around and begging yours for intimate contact. You allow your hands to roam over his well-built body, fingertips drawing imaginary lines over the well corded muscles of his pecs and torso, dipping into the valleys and mountains of his perfect abs. When you break the kiss, you hear Sanji let out a small whimper, the sound sending sparks of want and need right to the heat nestled in your belly. Your eyes catch Sanji’s and you’re enraptured by the sight. His hair is messy and strewn on the pillow, surrounding his head like a golden halo. His pupils are so blown out you can barely make out the blue ring around them. You take in the sight of his creamy skin stained pink, all due to your efforts. You can practically feel your ego humming in pleasure at seeing such a powerful pirate under you, writhing and mewling like a needy kitten.

“Feels so good doesn’t it - husband?” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice as you emphasize the last word. The man looks like he wants to reply but you don’t let him, eager to continue his pleasure driven torment, you give his cock a squeeze with your core. Sanji lets out a choked moan which breaks into soft gasps when you start grinding on his dick while it’s fully sheathed inside of you. You throw your head back and moan, leaning back to angle his hard length to your g-spot.

You continue your grinding at a teasing pace, the tortured whimpers leaving Sanji’s mouth only serve to fuel your masochistic streak. Sanji is hypnotized as he sees your hips moving in sensual circles, the pace agonizing, pleasurable enough to stoke the fire deep in his belly but not enough to send him over the edge. He whimpers and begs, wanting to feel the unrelenting pace again, to feel your sweet hole milk and squeeze around his cock, like he was your little fuck toy.

“P-please” Sanji begs, screwing his eyes shut. His body squirms under you, hips desperately trying to press up to fuck into your warmth. “m-more” he whines.

Sanji opens his eyes, tears dotting the corners as he looks at you pathetically. The look on your face is dangerous and Sanji knows it. The teasing smile, flushed cheeks, and those eyes. The intensity of your stare has his heart fluttering. You stop your grinding, causing Sanji to groan in protest. His complaining stops when he sees you lean forward. You’re close enough Sanji can feel your labored breath on his skin.

In that moment he’s brought back to earlier today, the sight reminiscent of when you leaned in for your first kiss at the altar. Time had stopped then like it did now. The thought brings fire to Sanji’s cheeks and suddenly he feels too exposed, like you’ve somehow flayed his heart open, and he finds himself defenseless to you.

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, then one to his temple, and trailing butterfly kisses down his cheek.

“My sweet boy” you whisper softly, words only meant for him, his ears and heart greedily soak up the sound.

That’s when Sanji knows he’s utterly lost - drowned in your magic spell. He knows he will always be desperate to feel this love again, all-encompassing and vulnerable – one that can break him into shards too sharp to ever put back together.

Your kisses find their way down his strong jawline and then to his neck where you bury your head in the crook. He can smell the amber incense and vanilla of your perfume wafting around him along with the thick heady scent of sex in the room. It only serves to add to the dense cloying haze in his mind. Sanji’s sensitive skin can feel the soft mounds of your breast resting on his chest, the hard peaks of your nipples poking into him.

A loud moan leaves both your mouths as you begin moving up and down on Sanji’s ample length again. Sanji can hear your breath stutter, caught in your throat as a particular thrust grazes over your sensitive spot. Sanji wraps his arms around your waist, as if to anchor himself, in the fog of lust and emotions which he finds himself overcome with. Sanji moves in sync with your hips, thrusting upward, desperate to find your climax together. Sanji gives himself entirely to you, chasing his high as your chants of his name spur him on. Your moans grow louder, turning into needy mewling as Sanji begins to focus on hitting your spongy g-spot. Every thrust winding the coil in your loins taut.

Pinned down to Sanji’s chest by his strong arms, you’re powerless as he tightens his hold on you to take on a brutal pace thrusting upwards, hammering your cervix. Each thrust drives the air out of your lungs as you whine out in pleasure. Your eyes roll back and you squirm in his arms

“L-love it s’much S-Sanji” you babble out, words slurring together. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to find some purchase to steady yourself from the unrelenting pace of your husband’s thick cock. The sound of your nonsensical babbling and squelching of your pussy, is all too much for Sanji as he quickly finds himself nearing the edge of his orgasm.

“Yes – ah, f-fuck, my angel I’m s-so close” you hear Sanji say, his voice strained by effort and lust.

“M-mcummin’ Sanji” you cry out as the coil in your body tightened until it finally snapped, flooding you in depraved pleasure as you whine out Sanji’s name, burying your face deeper into his neck as your mind buzzes.

Your climax brings Sanji to his as your pussy milks his cock until he’s seeing stars. Sanji nearly blacks out as he thrusts one last time, hips lifting your body up as he tries to bury himself into the deepest part of your pussy before flooding you with ropes of his hot cum.

The two of you collapse into a mess of labored breathing and sweaty skin. As the intensity of your orgasms fades, your pounding heart and rushing blood slowly coming back to a regular rate. The both of you lay still, allowing several beats pass as you soak in the moment. Finally, you push yourself up, your chest peeling from Sanji’s, and you look up to see your new husband’s flushed face. His ocean eyes offer up everything to you and for the first time, you think you can truly see him. You offer Sanji a sweet smile, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek. His face flushes a beautiful rosy pink. You take in the sight for a few seconds before leaning in to close the gap between you and Sanji, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

Mama may get everything she wants, but this time you think you’ve gotten something you’ve wanted for a while.

Someone you could fall in love with.

[melanthios-has-glitched]

when “I don't believe in God, but I believe that you're my savior / My mom says that she's worried, but I'm covered in this favor / And when we're getting dirty, I forget all that is wrong / I sleep so I can see you 'cause I hate to wait so long / I sleep so I can see you and I hate to wait so long” when “It's a death wish love / Take my heart, I'll let you spill my blood / Cut me down again / I love you and I'll love you to death / On and on and only you can kill me now / I'll scream your name until my lungs give out / Pull me down again / I love you and I'll love you to death / Love you for as long as I get” when “Je te laisserai des mots / En d'ssous de ta porte / En d'ssous de les murs qui chantent / Tout près de la place où tes pieds passent” when “Try to follow your light, but it's night time / Please, don't leave me in the end” when “We were born sick / You heard them say it / My church offers no absolutes / She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom" / The only heaven I'll be sent to / Is when I′m alone with you” when “There ain't no love like our love / There ain't no love like our love / Like our love, love, love, love, love / Build us a door / And rest here with me / Lights are on / But nobody's home” when “И мне не нужно много Слов / Ты просто будь со мной и все / Ведь без тебя, родная, я не я / Ведь без тебя, родная, я не я / Родная, я не я, родная, я / Я готов терпеть, я готов бежать / Я готов умереть, но с тобою дышать / Только не закрывай дверь / Перед носом моим / Просто мне доверься / И засыпаешь, баю-бай”

[taintedpompom]

Of Moths and Honey

Mindfang was queen of her castle. It wasn't true she knew, she was simply stewarding it, and it wasn't a real castle. The Sassacare College of Arts, like many colleges, was a seperate campus from the rest, and of course by teaching the Arts she presided over the entire campus, from the students learning within to the TAs reciting the lessons she engraved into their memories. It was a duty, however it remained a privilege nevertheless. She was allowed free reign of the treasures within, precious treasures to pick apart and reconstruct. She was much more free here, in service, then she was for a long time.

Plus she was actually being helpful, which was a novel sweetness to the gluttonous buffet. A dash of lemon to cut through the gristle.

She was too perfect to skip, but inside she was dancing, at peace in her little hea-

There was nothing here.

There was Nothing here.

Mrs. Mindfang did not get her skills, or her lifespan by being blind or stupid. She could see things others couldn't especially the unformed cattle of the students. And she knew the meanings of what she saw. A wisp of lost love. A thread of melancholy, and whether that thread was painful or if the tug at their heart was a bitterness to underlay something sweeter. She saw many things.

But a nothing was here. A hole in existence that ended all answers. It walked down the halls in velvet lace and loomed over the students too blind to realize the danger they were in. A eight foot abyss passed by a couple and the fools looked up, like cows too dumb to recognize the butcher's cleaver.

"Oh hi Ms Dolorosa." The woman smiled and the nothings head tilted.

The Nothing passed silently, the students frowning as if they had anything less then the fortune of the heavens to be so dismissed. "Huh, guess she isn't chatty." The student looked down. "Wasn't my tie crooked?"

The nothing only got closer, imperfections vanishing around it, flickering lights suddenly shone, laces reknotted. And all her unseen connects vanished, not severed, not broken, vanished as if swallowed by the Nothing, that Moving Maw that wanted far, far more then this world had to offer.

The world was young, a few billion years of life that was predated by eternities of unexistence. And, inevitably, eternities would follow after. Mindfang was a fool, her castle was far from unassailable, it could fit between the teeth of the old monsters who slumbered waiting for those eternities.

Why, why did they ever think they could afford to wake one of them up? What trifle did existence, that broken thing, even have to slate such endless appetitive? What balm soothed such pain.

It looked at her. It had no face but it LOOKED, and for a moment the nothing was beautiful. Wasn't the world hard, hadn't she squandered so much of her life, all to feel pain, heartbreak? Loneliness? Why did she bother? Not with life but with choices. There was a answer. There was a peace, there was the Nothing.

There was the Governess. a beautiful leash to that perfection. Why did she suffer such a naked neck, such a painful weight of mistake and choices? What succor could be more perfect then the one who took the first wolves and made them dogs.

It was the last choice, it was the only choice.

A part of Mindfang screamed at her to look away but before her mind could wrestle with itself a Intention pressed upon her.

She needed to find Vriska, her mind screamed, distracted from its fancys of submission with a newfound purpose that Mindfang knew to be utterly alien to it. She HAD to find Vriska Serket. If she had Vriska, she would be happy, she would be warm. Where was Vriska Serket.

"Art room." Mindfang stammered out, her survival instinct flaring with relief with such a simple request. "Painting her miniatures." The nothing did not move, it did not flare in jealous anger or calm in relief. It, and the inexorable pain of being, simply remained in place, nonexistent eyes staring through Mindfang as her brain wracked with confusion.

She doesn't know, Mindfang realized with a start. She doesn't know anything about my castle, or me. The Governess, that ancient evil, simply wanted directions.

"Third floor, next to the bathroom." Mindfang said, sweat caking her clothes. And the Nothing turned.

Relief filled every inch of Mindfang's meridians, she was going to live, intact even. She could hug someone. Instead, she hugged the floor. The rapidly approaching floor that was suddenly greeting her.

Mindfang woke upon on the floor. Her castle was safe again, and her lap was... warm?

Mindfang looked down, a dress lay on her lap, a gown of brilliant navy blue, glittering like a bright midnight. It was softer then skin and utterly flawless, a masterpiece that could not be afforded even in the modest imaginations of small gods.

And it was hers now. Because she gave directions.

Mindfang clutched the dress and sobbed, she was small. So, so small.

[the-blood-pervert]

flea

The sweet taste of freedom had not yet lost its lustre for Astarion, and probably never would for as long as he had it, but he had grown increasingly tired of the world outside of civilisation. He was, in fact, starting to particularly loathe the stretch of wilderness where the nautiloid had crashed, with a contempt borne of awful familiarity. Their party had traipsed through every last inch of dirt along the coast, and in the process of such dreadful effort, managed to scare up every pathetic and monstrous creature in residence, including not one but two packs of gnolls.

Gnolls! Not only were the wretched things vicious, but they were loud enough to split one's skull even before one passed into range of their barbed and deadly arrows. And, to top it off, the beasts stank to high heavens and probably all the way to Lae'zel's precious Astral Plane. And their blood! It gave off an odor that turned the stomach and seemed especially determined to cling to the inside of one's nostrils and the back of the throat, no matter the amount of scrubbing and gargling and spitting. Astarion's mouth still tasted like metal and sour perfume and wet dog.

He had just finished scrubbing the worst of the blood from the cuffs of his jacket in the river when he heard the umistakeable sound of a wet squelch. He whirled to see Fugue standing on the bank, one bare scaly foot sunk into the mud while she looked down with her lip curled in disgust. Unlike Astarion she was not simply splattered with gnoll blood, but drenched in it, bits of gore stuck to scale and hide alike.

"Hold up, darling," he called, moving hastily through knee deep water, trying to get upstream. "You're absolutely filthy, and I've just gotten the worst of it out of my only pair of pants."

"I hate mud," she complained, shaking her foot out like a giant, fussy cat. "It's always cold."

"I thought white dragons loved the cold."

Fugue huffed, a tinge of chesty growl audible on the exhale. "I thought you liked blood."

"Not," Astarion said sharply, with the wave of a hand, "when it is launched in-to my face with Violent Force~"

"She ran," Fugue said, voice thrumming with fond recall as she watched Astarion come closer. Her viscera-covered fingers twitched and spasmed, as though she were replaying the evisceration in her mind. "I love when they run."

"Well next time, wait until I'm out of the way," he told her, stepping delicately onto the driest part of the bank he could find and trying not to think about the dirt clinging in between his toes.

"So long as you don't run," she said, watching him with one of those oddly difficult dragonborn expressions he had decided was curiosity (non-violent).

He scoffed. "Bravery is one thing for you, my friend, you're practically the size of an ogre. But rest assured when I see trouble, I'm not sticking around to see what kind."

Fugue's giant hand on Astarion's shoulder arrested him before he could turn away, too tightly for him to brush off. Suddenly she was close. Too close. Leaning in, with sharp, bloody teeth visible in the imitation of a smile, which on her face always took on a garish, threatening quality. Close enough for her rancid breath to stir the curl of hair on his forehead, before she tilted her head slightly to study him with one eye. He felt uncomfortably like a mouse being examined by a hawk.

"I mean it, little star," she said, in the kind of oozing tone that told him she knew exactly how frightened he felt, and the loathing shame that came with it. "You're my favorite, so I'm telling you now. If I come at you in a battle, don't run. Don't scream. Don't struggle."

Astarion wanted desperately to do all of those things, though perhaps not necessarily in the same order. Yet something about that single dark eye, burning like obsidian flame, transfixed him in place as effectively as any of Cazador's orders.

"Oh?" he asked, trying and failing to sound casual. "And what do you suggest instead?"

"Look me in the eye," she answered, muscular tail flicking once from side-to-side. He couldn't have broken eye contact even if he wanted to. Every one of his cowardly, self-preserving instincts screamed at him to keep his gaze on the predator holding him in her grasp. "And never, ever, blink."

A half-dozen witty replies died on his limp, dry, tongue. Eternities passed as he hoped uselessly that she was joking. Then the sound of Wyll's laughter floated down from the path in the trees, growing closer along with the sound of Gale's strident, annoyed reply.

Fugue released Astarion with a wink so quick he thought he might have imagined it. She turned to wade into the river, leaving him clutching his sodden jacket, waiting for the right time to run.

[cleverhottubmiracle]

When Taylor Swift sang, “I’ve got a blank space, baby, and I’ll write your name!” pregnant moms everywhere felt that. The only problem? What baby name will you actually write down? It’s so hard to choose! The “Karma” singer — whose The Tortured Poets Department double album dropped today! — can help. Anyone whose been to her Eras tour, filled with over three hours of hits, tons of glitzy costume changes, and more to make our “Wildest Dreams” come true, knows that Swift has tons of material to draw from for inspiration. Reflecting on her 11 fabulous albums, we can’t help but think: her poetic lyrics and cottagecore vibe lend themselves to some beautiful baby names! Related story Who Was Taylor Swift Sitting With at Super Bowl LIX? Everyone in Her VIP Box Just ask Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively, whose daughters’ names, James, 8, Inez, 6, and Betty, 3, are all mentioned in Swift’s “Betty” from Folklore. The song isn’t about the little girls, but Swift did use their names to enrich the story, which is pretty cool. Taylor Swift. Photo by Hector Vivas/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management. Hector Vivas/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management From an autumn aesthetic on her Evermore album to the bubblegum pastel vibe of Lover, the edgy style of Reputation to the timeless style of 1989, there is so much material from which to score baby names for both boys and girls. Even on her new dark, poetic, and haunting latest album! Both longtime Swifties and casual Taylor Swift fans can find something unique and beautiful for their little one. Baby names are special, and what’s more special than your love of Taylor Swift? You listened to her through heartbreaks, first love, and anger at sexist double standards (looking at you, “The Man.”) You’ve scream-sung her songs in the car and danced at her concerts and watched her beautiful, award-winning All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version) on repeat. So, it’s the logical next step to bestow a Swift-inspired name to your newborn baby. The Grammy winner is a clever storyteller and beautiful lyricist, so it’s no surprise that her songs would inspire the perfect baby names. If you’re a huge Swiftie, this list is for you! Pop Culture Taylor Swift Matt Winkelmeyer/Getty Images Taylor Alison Swift Travis Joe Harry Jake Calvin Tom Selena Sophie Blake Brittany The Tortured Poets Department Frazer Harrison/Getty Images Clara Lucy Dylan Patti Jack Chelsea Ken Heath Sarah Hannah Sunday Halo Saint Stevie Chloe Sam Sophia Marcus Aimee Eve Cassandra Peter Robin London 1989 (Taylor’s Version) Taylor Swift Kevin Mazur/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Dean Cherry Alice Rose Heaven Dream Skye Faith Midnights Taylor Swift Hector Vivas/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Lavender Scarlet Janet Daisy May Rain Sapphire Diamond Karma April Paris Evermore Taylor Swift Hector Vivas/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Willow Marjorie Dorothea Este Ivy Ever Folklore Taylor Swift Hector Vivas/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management James Inez Betty Rebekah August Carolina Lover Taylor Swift Kevin Winter/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Cornelia Archer Summer London Drake January Leo America Stella Reputation Taylor Swift Emma McIntyre/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Bonnie Clyde Goldie Day King Hart Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) Taylor Swift Emma McIntyre/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Honey John Clark Emma Cleopatra Red (Taylor’s Version) Taylor Swift Emma McIntyre/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Grace Ronan Autumn Wednesday Fearless (Taylor’s Version) Taylor Swift Emma McIntyre/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Abigail Stephen Romeo Juliet June Debut Taylor Swift Jeff Kravitz/TAS23/Getty Images for TAS Rights Management Cory Mary Drew Tim See the meaning of our favorite royal baby names from around the world. Source link

[asteriaspirit]

The Storms of War

Rain pours from the heavens, the sky weeping as the storm cackles. A flash of lightning splits the air as a berserker’s axe cleaves an empire soldier’s helmet in two. An arrow zips across the town square, piercing the calf of a fleeing soldier, his scream lost to a crack of thunder.

Odhran stumbles into an alley, colliding with a building. He barely feels the stone digging into his shoulder as his pained gaze falls to his thigh—and the arrow jutting from it.

“Fookin’ idiots,” he mutters with a grimace. “Wouldn’t be surprised if’n it was one of our useless archers.”

His fingers curl around the arrow's shaft, arm tensing to pull it free, but the hairs on his neck stand on end. It isn't from the cold rain. Someone is approaching, their steps masked by the chaos of war and the storm overhead. Odhran's grip loosens on the arrow, sliding to the dagger at his belt. He spins, ready to drive the blade into his assailant.

Gloved fingers wrap around his wrist, and gold-green eyes meet his hazel ones. Cassandra grins, her lips parting slightly.

"Odhran," she whispers in her familiar husky monotone. He can smell blood on her breath, her face inches from his. “You smell like death.”

“You too, lass,” he replies, frowning as he pulls back to focus on her face.

She looks... radiant, despite being drenched in rain and covered in blood. Her pale complexion has a faint blush, and though the red on her lips is surely blood, a part of him wonders if it could ever just be paint.

“You’re hurt,” she whispers, her gaze trailing from his throat, across his chest, and down to his thigh. Her hand releases his wrist and hovers over the arrow’s haft. Her brow furrows, head tilting slightly like a curious animal.

She always watched him skin her kills with the same eerie focus—

“Nothin' but a scratch,” Odhran grunts, his attention flicking to the wound, then back to her. The unnatural quickness with which her gaze snaps to meet his makes his jaw clench. "Nothin' ta worry about. Not now when the enemy’s retreatin’. We should be givin’ chase, makin’ sure they ain't rallyin'—"

“You can’t run on that leg.”

“Yer always underestimatin’ me just ’cause yer some creature with no shred o’ humanity left—”

“You’ll do more damage to yourself if I don’t get it out—”

“I don’t need yer help ta pull it—”

“This is the second battle I’ve fought beside you, and still, you don’t trust—”

“No, I don’t, ’cause ye just be waitin’ ta stick yer fangs in my throat—”

“Not your throat, Odhran.”

His teeth snap together as he shuts his mouth, lips pressing into a grim line. He tries to ignore the part of his mind that wonders where she would bite, if not his throat.

It’s just the adrenaline talking. These thoughts will pass.

“Thanks for the offer,” he mutters, “but I’ll decline the vampire lass helpin’ with the bleedin’ wound.”

Cassandra clicks her tongue in mock dismay, though her expression still looks playful—almost amused. The emotion stirs something in Odhran’s stomach, and he can’t tell if it’s unease.

“I’ve eaten well,” Cassandra says, her grin widening, the points of her canines catching in the flash of lightning that illuminates them for but a moment. “I don’t hunger, Odhran.”

“Nah, yer just battle drunk. Fergot yerself entirely, lass.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says with a smirk. “But I do know you’re right—we should give chase.”

Before Odhran can nod in agreement, Cassandra’s hand darts up, catching a bolt mere inches from his skull. He gasps, both of them turning to see an empire soldier reloading at the end of the alley.

Cassandra chuckles low in her throat, a sound Odhran doesn’t recall ever hearing from her.

“I’ll make a bloody bolt,” she muses, twirling the projectile between her fingers, “and after I kill the boy, I’ll come back for your bloody arrow. Deal?”

“No deal, ye devil woman—”

She sighs, rolling her eyes at the soldier, then flings the bolt with precise aim. It embeds in his wrist, sending the crossbow clattering to the ground as the man falls to his knees, screaming into the storm.

“Odhran,” Cassandra sighs, and Odhran stiffens at the tone. “You’re no fun.”

She vanishes, reappearing behind the soldier, forcing his head aside to sink her fangs into his throat.

[omentranslates]

Owari no Seraph chapter 131 english fan translation

Howdy tumbly vampire fans, please enjoy this text only fan translation of the new chapter. The official has already been out for a little over 12 hrs at here so this is just for fun pls make sure to read that one if you haven't ;)

Color page text: Determination set in eyes gazing straight towards the future

Owari no Seraph chapter 131: All Are Forgiven

Yuu: So heaven is up there, I guess that makes this Hell.

Mika: Ah, Yuuchan there's one there!!

Bear: *roaring*

Yuu: Sorry about this, I'm gonna eat you.

Mika: What number was that?

Yuu: Third one. Oh, sweet.

Mika: We've gotta get enough food stockpiled up, since Yuuchan's gas mileage sucks.

Yuu: You're the one eating all the power, we'll preserve this stuff so I'll have it while we're on the move.

Mika: Mmk, I'll start the fire. Yuuchan, you do the gutting and stuff.

Yuu: K.

Yuu: Gonna take this off so no blood gets on it, be a pain in the ass to wash off.

Yuu: Man, I really want curry or something.

Mika: We had curry the last day I was human, didn't you eat my share?

Yuu: WHAT, NO I DIDN'T I SAVED YOU SOME.

Mika: The last curry the kids had, did they enjoy it?

Yuu: They said they wished you were there too.

Mika: No shit? Guess the play's less fun when it's missing its lead.

Mika: Got me thinking how I wanna eat curry together with everyone when we bring them all back to life.

Yuu: You can eat curry???

Mika: Well since the Great Mikaela will doubtless be human again.

Yuu: Someone's looking ahead all of a sudden.

Mika: I mean that's what we decided, I can't help it. Would you rather I stop?

Yuu: Go ahead. Actually no, help me dress this meat.

Mika: Can't, too busy scheming.

Yuu: *screaming*

Mika: So to summarize, what we have to do is gather the sin keys and resurrect Mikaela. And...the people who've been gathering them all ready are Ferid and Guren. Whatever their thought process is.

Yuu: Pretty sure Guren's goal is to resurrect humanity. With no Mikaela.

Mika: Any ideas about Ferid?

Yuu: I don't think anyone has any idea about Ferid. Probably whatever the worst possible thing in the world is.

Mika: Oh, ok but if the past we saw is factual, then you ARE Mikaela.

Yuu: Oh?

Mika: Meaning, for Guren to get what he wants, everyone except you will be resurrected.

Yuu: Uhhh, this got complicated. Really?

Mika: Well isn't it? Mikaela's resurrection will require those sin keys, but so would humanity's.

Yuu: Yeah.

Mika: But the angel Mikaela was actually Yuuchan.

Yuu: Seems that way

Mika: So then, yeah.

Mika: And that turns our whole situation around, doesn't it? I actually don't care if anyone else gets resurrected, so this is great for my goal being to just protect you no matter what. Realized that somewhere along the way.

Yuu: Oh, so that's where the sudden burst of motivation came from. Like how you used to be.

Mika: Ta-da!!! All the Fool Yuuchan must do to succeed is come along with the Great Mikaela!

Mika: I will definitely save you!

Yuu: You sure are excited about that.

Mika: I can't have you dying on me now, Yuuchan. Not after we've come all this way.

Yuu: I mean sure.

Mika: Huh, I thought for sure you were gonna say something like 'well then I'll become the sacrifice and it'll turn out fine.' Yuu: Well it's not like we really know which is which. Seems like I was a lot smarter in the past.

Mika: True, true. None of that carried over, for you anyways.

Yuu: You mean to say that I'm even smarter now, right?

Mika: Why yes of course.

Yuu: We still can't choose a course of action 'til we know, though. If we don't resurrect the angel Mikaela, one of us could die and then we're in trouble.

Mika: Ok but is the angel Mikaela a separate person? And to resurrect THEM we need those 7 keys? We'd be seriously stuck if resurrecting them caused you to disappear.

Yuu: I dunno actually I'd be fine with that

Mika: I wouldn't.

Yuu: Well, I wouldn't be fine if it was you either.

Mika: Yeah.

Yuu: So, so far we have that the First's goal is to resurrect the angel Mikaela and then use their life to resurrect all the angels, right?

Mika: Most likely yeah

Yuu: And Guren's goal is to use those keys to resurrect all of humanity?

Mika: Right

Yuu: So then my....or the angel Mikaela's goal was to..?

Mika: They kept saying they wanted to save the First.

Yuu: Yeah

Mika: And there's no way to do that without first resurrecting all of the angels, right?

Yuu: Ok

Mika: But we have to remember that every time there's a resurrection, divine punishment is dispensed. Who's going to be the next sacrifice?

Yuu: Alright, then my goal will be to do this without bringing punishment down on anyone.

Mika: I hope I'm right in presuming that no one receiving heavenly punishment will include you?

Mika: For you to perform the resurrection as the angel Mikaela and accept punishment in place of the First, in order to resurrect the angels and the humans, and that be it....you understand why we can't do that, right?

Yuu: Aren't you supposed to be thinking of a way I don't have to?

Mika: Yeah, I am. But if the decision comes down like that anyways, promise me you won't sacrifice yourself.

Yuu: ...

Mika: I'm not lifting another finger to help until you promise me that you won't give up on yourself, even til the very end.

Yuu: If you wanna be like that, if we find out along the way that the angel Mikaela really was you, will you promise the same thing? That you won't sacrifice yourself?

Mika: Yeah, alright.

Mika: Y'know this whole story, as long as we keep just sacrificing ourselves over and over, it won't end. The despair and obsession will just repeat themselves.

Mika: But...I've already died once. If we're fixing everything on this meaningless life anyways

Mika: This lifetime, we're going to move forward sacrificing no one and winning it all. That's the promise I want to make, Yuuchan.

Yuu: It's really like....you're seriously starting to remind me of the way you used to be again.

Mika: Whatever, just promise me Yuuchan. That you won't give up on yourself.

Yuu: So do you have a plan, then? Our enemies are real smart. Guren, Mahiru, the First, Saitou and Ferid.

Mika: No way, we've got someone way smarter on our side.

Yuu: Oh wow you mean me?

Mika: But actually, we're the ones in first place right now. Since everyone else still thinks the angel Mikaela is me. If we can keep them from finding out about that...I've got a plan that'll knock every one of them off their feet, I've thought of the meanest scheme in the entire world.

Yuu: Whoaa!!! I expect nothing less from the most infamously mean-...

Mika: DON'T YOU EVEN

Yuu: Then let's get to it!!

Mika: Right!

Yuu: ...so what are we getting to again?

Official Lodging of the Japanese Imperial Demon Army

Saitou: Well hey there, what an unusual caller. What have you come for?

They've finally made a move towards accomplishing their goal.....!!

[msweebyness]

MirrorVerse Special- Halloween Town Trolls (Happy 30th Anniversary Nightmare Before Christmas!)

Hellllo, my fine, fright-loving folks! Exciting news! This year marks the 30th anniversary of one of the greatest holiday films ever, so Sparky and I decided to celebrate by doing a special involving our characters from the Disney AU's who come from said film! Keep an eye out for two more surprises from me (one largely from Artzy, lol.) Enjoy! @artzychic27 @imsparky2002

(Set During Senior Year)

(Holding a portal open, BluRore gazes sternly at the two Halloween Town natives standing in front of her, both bearing maniacal grins.)

BluRore: Now remember, you two. Don’t cause too much trouble. Heavens know these people have enough to deal with already, with him being about…

(Eri places a bony hand over her heart)

Eri Skellington: Not to fear, dear fairy! We have but one target in this endeavor. He alone will suffer the dregs of our mischief!

SalAnthony: Translation: We’re only gonna punk the Boogie, we won’t bother anyone else.

BluRore: (Nods with a sigh) Good. Now, with that out of the way…(smiles wickedly) Give that jackass hell!

(The two nod with devious smiles of their own, before stepping through the portal)

*SCENE CUT: Ivan Oogie’s Lair*

(The villainous Ivan Oogie cackles menacingly as he watches his bugs and critters wreak havoc in Halloween Town, ruining the preparations the townsfolk had worked so hard on.)

Ivan Oogie: (Laughs with pure malice) Lookit ‘em, runnin’ around like chickens with no heads! What a bunch’a suckers!

(Suddenly, he hears an odd tapping noise from outside his lair.)

Ivan Oogie: (Eyes narrow) What the…

(He steps outside to investigate…only to be whacked in the schnoz by a severed blue hand.)

Ivan Oogie: What in the Sam Hill?! Who-

(He’s cut off when the hand rounds back and slaps him across the face, before scuttling into the shadows around his lair. Two voices laugh from somewhere unseen.)

Ivan Oogie: A’RIGHT, WHO’S THA WISEASS, HUH?! SHOW YOURSELVES, ‘FORE I LOSE MY PATIENCE! WHO’S THERE?!

Eri Skellington: (From the darkness, in a voice with an exaggerated southern accent) It’s yer mama, Boogie Boy! Hauntin’ you for killin’ me, which ya did because yer a bitchass motherfucker!

SalAnthony: (Snickers, also hidden in the shadows) A little pissbaby, who’s scared of widdle bunny wabbits!

Ivan Oogie: (Trembling with fury) GET OUT ‘ERE AN’ FACE ME, YA ROTTEN LIL FREAKS! I’M THA KING’A THIS TOWN!

(The two just laugh at him again, angering him even further as he tries to see through the thick shadows.)

SalAnthony: Yo, jackass!

(Eri’s parasol whacks Ivan over the head, momentarily stunning him, but she disappears back into the darkness before he can spot her. This enrages him, of course.)

Ivan Oogie: I'M GONNA RIP YA TO BITS! DON'T Y'ALL KNOW NOT TO GAMBLE YER LIVES ON MESSIN WITH THE BOOGEYMAN?!

(SalAnthony’s hand slaps him upside the head.)

SalAnthony: Ooooh, we made him angy, Eri! I'm sooo scared! (Snickers)

Eri Skellington: Now, now, my dear doll, I believe it’s time we made our entrance, don’t you agree?

(The two suddenly appear behind Ivan Oogie, giving earsplitting shrieks as they make their most terrifying faces. He jumps, and it takes every ounce of willpower the young boogey has not to scream in terror.)

Ivan Oogie: So ya f-finally get the guts ta sh-show yer faces! Th-that the b-best ya got?

(The two give each other sly grins)

Eri Skellington: Of course not! A little friend of ours wants to say hello as well. (She pulls out a fluffy grey rabbit with green eyes.)

(The boogeyman lets out a high squeal.)

SalAnthony: He's Jesse's stress bunny. His name is Antonio. Isn’t he just the cutest thing in the world, Oogie? (Cackles)

Ivan Oogie: (Falls back on the ground and scrambles away) GET THAT BEADY-EYED LIL BUGGER AWAY FROM ME!

Eri Skellington: (Cackles with glee) What's this? What's this? He's screaming like a loon! He's pissed, what bliss! And he'll start crying soon!

SalAnthony: Damn, will he ever, hold it together? No, I think not, never to become. This fool is simply too much fun!

Ivan Oogie: (Scowls) Just wait till my Pun’Kin finds out ‘bout this! Y'all’re gonna be sorry when we slice ya up and eat ya for dinner!

SalAnthony: (Scoffs) Sorry, boyo, but your calamari cocktease doesn't scare us, and neither do you!

(Ivan is about to shout at him not to speak that way about his scallop, but Eri cuts him off.)

Eri Skellington: Well, it’s at least something of a comfort that you at least won’t kill your Tonsil Hockey partner to boost your fragile ego! (Examines her nails)

(Ivan Oogie splutters, only for SalAnthony to set the stage for the next blow)

SalAnthony: Well, Bones, he’s also got a soft spot for his baby sistew, doesn’t he? (Smirks devilishly)

Eri Skellington: (Giggles) That’s true! So much so that he’s a regular honored guest at her tea parties! (She pulls out her phone, where she had somehow procured an image of him sitting at Sasha’s small tea table with her, wearing a glittery princess tiara and a pink feather boa)

Ivan Oogie: (Eyes shoot open wide as he stammers, his face a mask of shock and mortification) WH-WHERE DID YA GET THAT?!

Eri Skellington: I have my ways, it’s neither here nor there! (Giggles) But rest assured, no one but me and dear Anthony have see-(Makes a show of ‘accidentally’ tapping something on the screen) (Gasps, covering her mouth with her hand) Oh, dear me! It seems I just sent it to the entire student body of the DuPont Reform Academy. Dreadfully sorry! (She and Anthony cackle)

(Ivan Oogie screams in rage)

Ivan Oogie: YOU BONE-BRAINED BITCH!

(He grabs her by the throat…only for his scream to change to one of pain when she effortlessly bent his wrist the wrong way, her expression calm as she drew her parasol out)

Eri Skellington: (Icy Tone) Did no one ever teach you not to touch a lady without permission, imbecile?

SalAnthony: Never mind him, love. The gist of it is that if he’s hot for them, or they came from the same womb he did, they’re safe. Otherwise, he’s a pathetic little sociopath who gives a bad name to real boogies!

Ivan Oogie: (Puffs out his chest) The rest’a my kind ain’t nothin' but cowards who waste their time bein' goody-goody losers! I'm better than all of 'em combined!

Eri Skellington: (Rolls her eyes) Oh, yes, you're SUCH a macho man! Constantly needing to pick fights with that buffoon friend of yours to prove yourself superior.

SalAnthony: (Scoffs) The only thing he has over that moron is that he doesn't beat women.

(Ivan Oogie snarls)

Eri Skellington: (Giggles mockingly) I would almost argue intelligence too, but it's too small of a margin to really be sure.

Ivan Oogie: (Crosses his arms) Y’know, it ain't very HERO-like of y'all to come here jus’ to rough me up an’ call me names.

SalAnthony: (Rolls his eyes and groans) Why do you villains always say that? We are allowed to be petty, you know. Especially to cannibalistic homicidal edgelords.

Eri Skellington: Too true. Pity that your massive egos and minuscule brains can't handle even the most valid criticisms.

Ivan Oogie: W-Well…Y-You…Y’ALL SUCK!

SalAnthony: Oooh, nice one. Come on, Eri, let's go back to a Halloween Town that ISN’T plagued by a burlap sack-looking hick with a ‘Macho Man’ complex!

Eri Skellington: Indeed. I tire of this fool. And you know how much they panic when I disappear close to Halloween time. (Rolls her eyes fondly)

SalAnthony: Mayor's gonna have another conniption, isn't he?

(The two laugh before disappearing through the portal back to their own universe)

Ivan Oogie: Yeah, that's right! Run away! (He begins attempting to console himself) They were too scared to keep pullin' shit. Runnin' away like a couple’a pussies. I'm the best, and ev’rbody knows it.

(He feels a tap on his shoulder)

???: Hey, Dickface!

(He turns with a scowl to see who insulted him…only to drop to his knees with a squeak of pain as he’s kneed right in the groin, by none other than the daughter of his Canon Disney counterpart!)

Darcy Boogie: (Flips Ivan Oogie off, before turning to face us, the audience) Bet ya’ll weren’t expecting that. JJ!

(Her boyfriend gracefully kicks Ivan Oogie right in the head, knocking him out cold, before turning in the direction of the fourth wall.)

JJ Skellington: (Gives a dramatic bow, tipping his signature fedora) Happy anniversary, everyone!

AND SCENE!

Leave thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

[burning-fcols]

"Yanno, maybe we could make this a regular thing." Adam suggests coyly, watching the way Angel wakes up. "I mean, if it means I get to hear you screamin' my name every night, I think it'd be a pretty sweet deal, don't you think so?" ( :'3 ) - ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @questionablemuses 」 ˙ ˖ ✧

「 ☆ 」 Groggily blinking his eyes open, Angel sits upright and stretches. Back arches with a drawn-out whine as he examines the soreness of his muscles, chest pushed outward and hair messily falling across his face. Littered with marks from last night— bites and bruises beautifully peeking through disheveled fur —it’s a pleasant sight… Not many get to witness Angel waking up AFTER a session. Normally he’s dismissed once the deed has been done, or is careful to slip away ( when able to ) during more recreational romps.

Honestly, it’s not surprising Adam wants to see more of it.

Running his hands through his hair, he sucks in a deep breath, exhaling as his bangs fall back over his face. For a second, he's caught off-guard by the sound of Adam's voice. With how heavily the first man had fallen asleep after exerting himself— Angel had lied in bed for a while, waiting until the others breathing slowed before he could feel comfortable enough to try and rest —he partially expected the exorcist to still be asleep. Hastily regaining his composure, surprise slips into a sultry smirk.

No time to be emotionally exhausted... He has work to do.

❝ You sure Mama Bird won' have a problem wit' that?~ ❞ He teases, trying to play off his genuine curiosity as merely some banter. Frankly, it's surprising Adam was able to get a ❛ special guest ❜ of this type up to Heaven in the first place. Angel hadn't asked any questions. Smart enough not to overly-examine an opportunity to protect his friends. But if Adam is suggesting this become a more PERMANENT arrangement, then Angel would like to know how secretive it may be.

It's not as though he's earned himself a cozy spot amongst the ❛ winners ❜ , after all. Go figure his route to Heaven would be fucking his way there. ❝ Don' get me wrong. I wouldn' mind th' Dickmasta' regularly givin' it ta me~ ❞ Stomach churns at the saccharine flattery. It even more sickening that it's not entirely false. Annoying as it is, Adam hadn't been lying when boasting about his sexual prowess. Still, if Angel is going to surrender to a new gilded cage, at least it involves someone who knows how to make him genuinely scream their name. ❝ But how do I know yer mouth ain't makin' pretty promises it can't keep?~ ❞

Chest tight yet gaze unwavering upon the first man, Angel marvels at how intricately hope and disgust can intermingle. Desperate for Adam to have enough pull to keep Angel around... To provide this method of ensuring his friends' safety, so long as he keeps that asshole smiling. He can do that. He can act. Can play whatever bullshit games Adam feels like indulging in. Can even hold back this ever-growing urge to snap one of those horns off and ram it through the exorcist's gut. He's sold himself to a lot worse for a lot less.

Fluttering those sharp lashes and flashing that sharp smile, sharp gaze is fixated upon Adam as Angel delicately runs a finger down his chest, ❝ Tell ya what— You manage ta keep me around, an' in addition ta hearin' me scream yer name ev'ry night... you can wake up ev'ry mornin' wit' yer big fat dick in my mouth~ ❞ A little extra incentive never hurt anyone. 「 ☆ 」