#and I just think it would work so fucking well in Everything

[more-than-tender-curiosity]

@summerboysun

🌧️ for Chester (jayception edition) - Chester is genuinely deeply hurt from how Lucille treated him. He’ll act nonchalant about it but even before she took everything, their marriage was a living hell. He’d never say he hated her, because he’s got too much sympathy for that, but god did he hate being her husband. Her leaving was the final twist of the knife. After nine years of supporting her through everything, to have her swipe out what little life he’d managed to scrape out for them…well, there’s a reason he and George are so close now.

🪶 for Jay - Rarely. And even when he does, more often than not, he works so hard to obscure it, because he doesn’t like how it makes him look like he’s been caught off guard. He has to be on guard. But when he does finally relax and actually laugh, oh, dear god. It’s like water over rocks. Tumbling, bubbling sweet baritone that kicks along a little longer than one would expect, but never long enough to satisfy the listener.

🪞 for nick - Yale was especially difficult for Nick. He didn’t get much sleep, both because he actually had to study to succeed and because he finally, finally had a social life. But after a few too many fumbles in dark broom closets with students in classes he’d never attend, I’m sure there were some mornings where he looked in the mirror and finally had to separate this image from his self-conceptualization of being nothing more than His Father’s Son. He was looking at his own man now, tired and guilty and frazzled, and above all, embarrassed to be caught alone with himself.

🌪️ for chester - chester had the opportunity to go to college on full scholarship when he graduated from high school. He (perhaps rightfully) thought it would stifle his creativity and damage his sense of self, but looking back, he wonders who he would have been. He probably wouldn’t have married Lucille. He might’ve found someone like him, a man with similar interests and goals…but he didn’t. And so he’s just coasting.

🕯️ for Jay - Depends on the era. Before he meets Daisy he thinks a lot about better days with Dan—the simple moments he never thought he’d have to miss. After Daisy, though, she becomes his all-consuming Coping Mechanism so he just replays the night they met or, on nights with a full moon, he’ll cast a pink scarf over the lamp by his bed and lay there, awake, recalling the night he believes they were ‘married.’ But then after he meets Nick, well………….there are certain events he will replay in his head but I won’t spoil Gatsby in that way. It’s nothing salacious. Kind of sad. Kind of sweet. It keeps him up at night nonetheless.

🍻 for nick - boy crazy. Im sorry. It’s not even fully categorizable as Horny like he just Releases His Inhibitions and gives in to the hungry gay monster caged up behind his ribs. Think about it. The two canon drunks we get are either The Elevator Scene or [insert The Smile paragraph]. I have to assume this is why nick claims he doesnt get drunk. Because when he gets drunk. He drops to his knees and starts crawling after pretty twinks like a fucking dog. I hate him. I want him severely inconvenienced

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.

[ 🖐️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ? [ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ? [ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ? [ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ? [ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ? [ 🦇 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a fear they never talk about ? [ 🔒 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ? [ 🪢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they broke a promise ? [ 🫳 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they feel they owe, but never paid back ? [ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ? [ 🧨 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set them off, even if they hide it well ? [ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ? [ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ? [ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? [ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ? [ 🪞 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen have they looked at their reflection and hated what they saw ? [ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ? [ 🌊 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they cried ? [ 🐾 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo animals like them instinctively ? [ 🪶 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they laugh ? [ 🫀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho taught them what love is ? did it hurt ? [ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ? [ 🎀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is their main love language ? [ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ? [ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ? [ 🌒 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a dream or goal they have given up on ? [ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ? [ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ? [ 🧩 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ? [ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ? [ ✉️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of letter would they write but never send ? [ 🗡️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a scar that they have but never talk about ? [ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ? [ 🪦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud ? [ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ? [ 🌀 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a recurring dream or nightmare ? [ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ? [ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ? [ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?

[paucubarsisimp]

We need more angst with Lando Norris😝 (no ideas though..) love your work❤️‼️

the breaking point

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: in which lando and you have been drifting apart, until one night everything comes crashing down.

warnings: emotional abuse, near physical abuse, angst, asshole lando

a/n: not the best but i hope you like it ml <33

you knew something was wrong before he even opened his mouth.

the door slammed harder than usual. his footsteps were louder. heavier. like he wanted the whole house to feel the weight of him. his keys hit the counter with a clang, and you winced from the kitchen, hands still trembling from lighting the candles.

you told yourself maybe he’d be happy. surprised. touched, even. maybe this would help.

but the second he walked in and saw the table — two plates, candles, soft music playing low — you knew.

“what the fuck is this?”

his voice cut like a knife.

you turned, forcing a small smile. “i made dinner.”

he stared at it, at you, with open disgust. “why?”

your smile faltered. “we haven’t had a night together in a while. i just thought—”

“jesus christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “i told you i was going out tonight.”

“you said you might,” you said, quiet. “i didn’t think—”

“you didn’t think,” he snapped, pointing at you. “exactly. you never fucking think.”

your breath caught.

“i’ve had the worst week of my life and i walk into this? some romantic little setup like you think lighting a few candles is gonna fix everything?” he laughed — cold, joyless. “god, it’s like you live in your own fucking fantasy world.”

you tried to stay calm. “i’m just trying to spend time with you. to talk.”

“talk about what?” he sneered. “how i’ve been distant? how you ‘feel like i’m pulling away’? how maybe, if you cry enough, i’ll say the words you want to hear?”

you blinked fast. “why are you being so cruel?”

“because you make me cruel,” he said, stepping forward. “you push and push and cling and beg and then act surprised when i finally break.”

you swallowed. “i love you. i’m trying.”

“don’t,” he said sharply. “don’t say that like it’s noble. you’re not loving me. you’re drowning me.”

your lips parted, but the words got stuck.

he shook his head, angry now, spiraling. “you used to be… fuck, i don’t know. someone. now you’re just this shell. always waiting around for me like a kicked dog, hoping i’ll pat your head. it’s pathetic.”

your hands clenched at your sides. “i’ve given everything to this.”

“yeah, well, maybe you gave the wrong things,” he snapped. “because i don’t want this. i don’t want you. not like this.”

you looked down. “then why stay?”

“because it was easier than dealing with your meltdown if i left.”

that one hurt. worse than the rest.

and he knew it. he saw the way your shoulders dropped. the way your lips trembled.

and still — he didn’t stop.

“you think making pasta and lighting candles is gonna fix what’s broken?” he laughed again, meaner this time. “you think a meal makes me forget how fucking tired i am of this?”

you tried to hold the tears back. “please don’t talk to me like this.”

“why not?” he said, louder. “maybe if i say it enough times you’ll finally get it — i’m not in love with you anymore.”

you stepped back like he’d slapped you.

and maybe he noticed that. or maybe he didn’t care.

but something in him snapped too.

his voice got louder. harsher. like he wanted to hurt you now.

“you’re too much. too emotional. too needy. too fucking exhausting. you think love means trapping someone in this house with you and your endless fucking feelings? i can’t breathe when i’m around you. i hate coming home now.”

“stop,” you whispered.

he kept going.

“i’m out there every day trying to hold my life together and you’re in here playing house, pretending this is something it’s not. grow up.”

“please,” you said, voice cracking.

and then he moved.

quick. angry. a sharp step forward — his arm lifting before you could even process it.

and you flinched.

hard.

your whole body tensed, like the blow was inevitable. like your skin was already bracing for it.

his hand stopped mid-air.

everything froze.

your breathing was fast. panicked. eyes wide, tears falling freely now as you backed into the counter like it could protect you.

his face — it changed in an instant.

from rage to horror.

his arm dropped.

“oh my god,” he whispered, taking a step back. “oh my god, no.”

you couldn’t speak. you were shaking too hard.

he looked at his hands like he didn’t recognize them. like they didn’t belong to him.

“i wasn’t gonna—fuck. fuck.” he backed up again, stumbling like he’d been punched. “i wasn’t gonna hit you. i swear. i—baby—”

you let out a sob, and that broke him.

“no, no, please,” he said, rushing forward — not to yell, not to grab — but to fall to his knees in front of you.

“please don’t be scared of me,” he begged, arms around your waist, face pressed into your stomach. “i didn’t mean it. i didn’t mean any of it. i was angry, i was fucked up, i was… i don’t know who that was.”

you didn’t move.

he looked up. and his face — it wasn’t angry now. it was broken. desperate. wrecked.

“you flinched,” he said, voice cracking. “i made you flinch.”

you nodded, tears streaming down.

he reached up slowly, trembling. “can i hold you?”

you collapsed into him.

his arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and shaky and careful. he pulled you into his lap on the floor like you weighed nothing, cradling you like something fragile.

you were sobbing now. full-body, gasping sobs that shook you to your core.

and he held you through all of it.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again, his lips brushing your hair. “i’m so sorry, baby. my sweet girl. my heart. i didn’t mean it. any of it.”

you gripped his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you to earth.

he kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw — desperate, gentle kisses like he was trying to erase everything he’d said with touch.

“you didn’t deserve that,” he whispered. “i let everything build and i took it out on you. and i almost—fuck. i almost crossed a line i can never take back.”

you buried your face in his neck.

“you scared me,” you whispered.

his breath hitched. “i know. i know, baby. i’ll never forgive myself for that.”

you stayed there, wrapped up in him on the kitchen floor, surrounded by candlelight and cold food and a million shattered pieces.

but somehow, the silence now… it felt different.

softer.

“i love you,” he said, voice shaking. “i haven’t said it enough. not lately. not like this. but i do. so fucking much it kills me.”

you looked at him through wet lashes. “then don’t hurt me like that again.”

his eyes were red. “never. never again.”

and in that moment, with your face pressed against his chest, his heart pounding wild and terrified beneath your ear, you believed him.

maybe not forever.

maybe not perfectly.

but right now — here, in the wreckage of it all — he was yours again.

and you were his.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @dessashippr, @freyathehuntress lmk if you want to be added or removed!

[wandasaura]

would Wanda or Natasha be fucking r in the cunt and then “accidentally” slip in the ass?

oh so this sooo depends! you didn’t mention a specific fic, but i think we’re all very clear on the fact that there is mean wandanat™️, and then there’s… condescending cruel wandanat™️.

condescending cruel wandanat is prime beginning stages of yail to really set the scene. expectations are firm, consequence’s are strict. whole nine yards, whole shebang. that wandanat? the wandanat that talks you up so sweetly, but they’re fingers are hammering into your cunt, their pressing into a plug that’s been stretching you all day, preparing you for this moment that they’ve allowed you to think wouldn’t come. but then natasha would get between your legs, eager and desperate to finally get a taste of you. she breaks you down. just whines and cries. she lets wanda have a turn, a taste, a piece of you. but they’re sweet. they manhandle you, but then they kiss your clit, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and ‘why are you crying, baby girl? it’s supposed to feel good, no tears’ and then nat gets out the strap, and she’s plowing you good, chest to chest, her weight keeping you grounded, her arm wrapped around your head as she keeps you tight to her and the bed somehow at the same time, all while wanda works at your nipples that natasha’s meticulously arranged to spill between how her arms hold you down so wanda doesn’t have to reach and suffer. and they’d pull the plug out, work you through it, talk you through it, shush you through it, and natasha would be so gentle, sooo condescending about how you’ve done this before, she’s taken this tight little hole, but it never seems to stretch you any tighter, it never gets any easier and you refuse to breathe for her, refuse to let your body relax, so wanda takes initiative and grabs a handful of your hair and her eyes are so green, so bright, and you don’t even realize you’ve gone limp beneath her strict attention until you’re halfway arched off the bed grappling for anything and everything that can ground you as she bottoms out in you

mean wandanat? mean wandanat doesn’t give a fuck that you’re already crying, so fucked out that you’re babbling and drooling and so out of it that you think for a single second when the strap slips out of your cunt after your fourth orgasm that your all done, that they’re finally calling it, but wanda doesn’t care to be all done when she hasn’t cum nearly enough to satisfy her own need. so she bottoms out in you with one thrust, no lube, no preparation. she knows your cunt got the strap wet enough. she knows that the way arousal drips down your thighs and your ass is helpful enough. so she laughs with natasha while you whine and writhe and try and convince her it doesn’t feel good, but by the third thirst you’re moaning louder than you were before trying to get natasha’s fingers in your mouth because you have enough sense to know only sluts let the entire neighborhood know they’re getting fucked good and well at noon on a tuesday

[nightingale-prompts]

This was a terrible fucking idea! No one told him cramps hurt this bad!

Danny might have been forgetting to transformation back into a guy at night.

Danny was curled up on his bed in agony. He sent out apologies to every woman in his life. He shouldn't have made a joke about Sam being on her period that one time. He's sorry he even thought it was funny. He will never let Jazz do chores again while it was her time of the month.

Danny really wanted to cry and to top it all off Dani was awake. This meant she was already banging on the door.

"Wake up! Vlad made pancakes!" Dani yelled.

"Go away!" Danny yelled back.

When he eventually felt well enough Danny went to the kitchen to grab some food. There should be a container of strawberries in there and it felt like the only thing he could eat right now. Only it was gone. The container sitting in the trash can.

"My strawberries." Danny gasped in defeat.

"Oh, I'm sorry Danny. I didn't know you wanted them Dan and Dani ate the last of them. You all seem to like them alot." Vlad laughed a little at the end as he washed the dishes.

Danny felt a wave of emotions hit him. He was in so much pain and he just wanted to be left alone and eat some STRAWBERRIES!

"Euhg!!! Why is everything so hard?! And why are you washing dishes by hand!!! We have a dishwasher!!!!" Danny yelled at Vlad.

"We do?" Vlad asked in genuine confusion.

It was no use getting mad at Vlad. He was just an old coot now.

"Isn't everything alright?" Jazz asked hearing Danny yelled.

"Yes, I think. I didn't know we had a dishwasher." Vlad said cheerfully "But I think Danny is feeling unwell."

"Alright, Vlad. I'll talk to Danny. You should go sit down, The Young and the Restless is on."Jazz said taking the syrup covered olat from Vlad.

Once the ex-ghost was gone Jazz tried to talk to her brother who was wiping his face.

"What is going one? You've been acting different lately and while I have a feeling I know something— I want you to tell me what it is." Jazz said in a kind but firm tone.

"I feel asleep after shapshifting and now everything hurts." Danny said quickly.

Jazz paused for a minute. Apparently this wasn't the conversation she was expecting.

"I see. Are you...bleeding?" Jazz asked cautiously to not scare Danny away from this conversation.

Jazz debated getting their mom involved to help but that might make things worse. Jazz still remembered the confusing metaphors for the birds and bees she gave. Jazz shivered at the thought.

"No? Oh my god! I'm I going to bleed down there?" Danny said in panic.

"No! I mean maybe. But it'll be fine! Just describe what you're feeling right now." Jazz tried to calm him down.

"My back hurts, my stomach feels bloated and kina like...shifty? My chest feels sore." Danny listed off the symptoms.

Jazz sighed in relief.

"You just have PMS." She said.

"So, I'm okay?" Danny took the sight a good sign.

"Yeah, it means we have time to get ready. We need to go to the store and pick out what you need. You have alot to lean about what products to use and how." Jazz said "We should also get Dani. She hasn't had her's yet but she might any day now."

Danny froze in place. Was this really about to happen to him? Couldn't he just change back? Why didn't he think of that before?

But he didn't really want to. It was complicated but he didn't want to be a guy right now even if it meant being in pain as a girl. Like somethings one felt better then the other and right now he didn't want to change. Besides there was no telling what transforming now would do to his body. Like what if he still did the thing but as a guy? Like how does that work? Is it like peeing but red?

Danny wouldn't need to wonder as he was dragged around the store learning way too much. He was given one of those book that are used to give the rest of the birds and bees talk. The book was quickly hand to Dani because the patronizing preteen "girl talk" was annoying.

"You know know I've always wanted a little sister." Jazz hinted.

"You have Dani now right?" Danny did not pick up on the hint."

Danny Catfishes- DCxDP prompt

Every time Danny learned a new way to use his powers, he used them for his own gain. This time it was Sam using them for her own advantage.

Danny has the ability to shapeshift. Specifically, he can now change his appearance to look like someone else. Specifically, Sam wanted Danny to turn into a girl to attend a women-only dinner party in Gotham. Sam refused to go alone and not taking her boys is off the table.

So Danny had to go as Danna (Because Dani protested the name Danielle)

The event was stressful to say the least. High heels, makeup, long conversations, tight cocktail dresses. Danny was out of his element.

He ended up slipping up and mentioning that his Godfather (the one he had replaced with an alternate redeemed future version of him) was Vlad Masters. The woman at the event practically bulldozed him to try to have their families or businesses connected to Vlad's company.

Fortunately, he was saved by a helpful lady. Cassandra Wayne and her guest, Barbara Gordon.

Sam and Cassandra seemed to hit it off immediately. The four ended up becoming friends by the end of the night.

It was only after the party that Danny realized that they thought he was a girl. The text messages from them to hang out in the future were too tempting. He didn't know how to explain it but hanging with girls was just different from guys. He considered that he might like Cass and Barbara as more then friends but he didn't, he just really liked talking to them. And maybe the dresses weren't that bad .

Back at the Wayne manor Cass posted a few pictures from the dinner.

"Who's she?" Tim asked, hanging over her shoulder.

"That's Danna. Apparently, she his close to Vlad Masters. The one you're investigating." Cass signed, "I was hoping she'd have info on him and his recent change."

"Can you give me her number? She is kinda cute." Tim asked.

-----

"Hey, Sam? Why Is Tim Drake-Wayne messaging me on Instagram? And why do I have a new Instagram page under the name Danna?" Danny asked.

"Because my parents wanted to know who this new female friend I had was, so I asked Tucker to make a page using your email. We have been uploading daily there. It's kind of fun."

[tellingtell5]

The Blood is the Life 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

PetRemmick x witch femreader

Summary: So… some witches have black cats as pets. You? You’ve got a vampire who keeps showing up across eternity. Maybe he’s not just a clingy little pet after all?

A/N: This story was literally born on the bus and during dead hours at work lol. It’s not really a finished thing… I think? I just wanna keep writing little moments between the witch and the vampire who thinks he’s just her pet. Lmk if you’d wanna read more <3 Thanks for the love—every like and comment is a tiny blessing fr 🖤

I don't know just how it happened. I let down my guard. Swore I'd never fall in love again. But I fell hard

The air was heavy, tainted. As if the sky itself was bracing for something to fall from its heights. You’d felt it since the first light touched the canopy: a crawling tension beneath your skin, the breath of the forest caught in its throat. A warning.

Your instincts never failed you, not once in all the years you’d wandered the edges of ruin and rebirth. You didn’t cast a single spell that day. The cauldron remained cold, the runes untouched. Instead, you moved quietly through your home, gathering ingredients, moss for binding, root for clarity, ash leaves to ward what you couldn’t see.

You remembered the mother who had come to your threshold only a week before, trembling and tear-soaked, her hands clutching a locket with her child’s hair inside. The village healer’s leeches had done nothing. The sickness still clawed at the girl’s chest. The villagers whispered you spoke to the devil. Said your cabin breathed with the souls of the damned. And still, this woman crawled to your feet and begged you for mercy.

You’d taken nothing in return. Only handed her a balm to smear across her daughter’s brow, watched her vanish into the trees without promise or payment.

They always called it witchcraft when they couldn’t name it. Your tinctures. Your knowledge. Your hunger for what pulsed beneath the skin of things.

Men had come before. With torches, with blades, with the fury of the Church in their eyes. None remembered why they left without ever raising their weapons. They only remembered the nausea, the blood loss, the confusion. Some returned missing pieces of themselves.

Morning broke slowly, sunlight stretched thin and soft. You’d just fastened your cloak and were reaching for your satchel when you heard it: something collapsing against your door. Heavy. Human, maybe. Not quite.

Everything around you stilled. Even the wind seemed to withdraw. Birds vanished from the branches. Not a single leaf stirred. The forest leaned in, and waited.

Then came the knock. Weak. Hesitant.

You neared the door, fingers brushing the carved runes embedded in the frame. A pressure pushed through the wood—faint, fraying energy, like breath dragged through water. You heard it then, clearer this time: a voice.

"Please... help."

Every instinct screamed. But your curiosity had louder teeth. You cracked the door.

He was on his knees, body crumpled just beyond the threshold. Not quite man. His skin blistered in patches, flaking where the sun had licked him. Blood had dried across his arms in dark rivulets. Filth clung to every inch of him.

And yet—

The scent. It hit you like lightning to the chest. Rot, yes, but not decay. Death, but alive. Blood and lilacs and something darker. Dangerous.

You knew what he was.

He hadn’t looked at you yet. His face angled downward, as though listening to the forest behind him. Fingers buried in dirt, like it might anchor him.

When he did lift his head, you saw the cost. Hair stuck to skin, soaked in sweat and gore. His eyes, black wells. Bottomless. Empty of hunger, for now.

“Please...” he rasped, barely breathin’. “They were on me heels. They killed—fuck—please, a bit o’ mercy, yeah?”

You could taste his weakness. It made your magic hum. It would be so easy. Let him in. Drain him slow. You’d never tasted vampire blood. Not raw. 

And he saw it. The shift in your gaze.

He straightened, almost imperceptibly. Took in your cottage now with fresh eyes, its markings, its warmth, its breath. You saw the moment he recognized it wasn’t just a home.

The house was alive. The forest too.

His lips parted. A bitter laugh, or maybe a prayer swallowed too late. His head fell forward again. He muttered something, nearly inaudible.

The hounds. You heard them then, far but closing fast.

He turned toward the sound, dread coating every inch of his broken body. He was deciding how to die. And who should do it.

His voice cracked like dry bark.

“If yer gonna end me,” he said, eyes dull and dark, “do it quicker than they would’ve.”

His voice was ragged, almost broken, as he looked up at you from the dirt. There was no strength left in his limbs, no fire in his glare. Only surrender. Only a plea.

You opened the door a little wider. Let him see you. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before, the way the power coiled in your limbs and shimmered just beneath your skin, the darkness that filled every breath you exhaled. His eyes caught yours, and something in his expression shifted. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.

Something twisted in your chest, a soft, unfamiliar ache that tugged at memory more than conscience. It had been decades since you’d felt anything like pity, since you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge that soft flicker inside you. You’d built this solitude to keep yourself safe, sealed your life off from the rot of the outside world. And still, it had crept in.

You remembered the panic of your own hunted nights, the sound of men’s boots crashing through the underbrush behind you, the smell of fire licking at the corners of your home. It had taken everything to survive. To grow roots here. 

Your knuckles whitened against the doorframe. He looked so fragile now. Not quite man. Not quite beast. Something in between, curled on your threshold like a dying animal. You thought of the fox once caught in a trap near your garden, its leg mangled, its eyes bright with pain. You’d freed it. It had bitten you.

Would he do the same?

“You may enter,” you said at last, your voice low. And something deep in your chest hummed when you watched him crawl forward, dragging himself on his knees into your house. He didn’t even have the strength to stand. Not yet. The moment he crossed the threshold, the shadows closed around him like a second skin.

He collapsed just past your hearth, chest heaving, fingers clutching at his side. His eyes squeezed shut against whatever pain was devouring him from within. You stood above him and watched. Long enough to weigh your options. Long enough to consider if you should bind him, bleed him dry, and harvest the old magic that clung to the marrow of his bones.

But the forest shifted.

A murmur rolled through the roots and branches outside your home. You felt it in your bones. Intruders. Unwelcome. Boots slamming against wet earth, pushing into your sanctuary with reckless haste. The trees did not greet them. They punished them. Raking sharp branches across cheeks and arms, splitting open skin, drawing blood. Every drop that hit the forest floor was devoured. Given to you.

Your blood. Your earth.

You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, letting the forest whisper secrets into your skin. Letting it feed you.

He stirred on the ground behind you. Opened his eyes. You could feel him watching, not with fear, but with something else. Awe, perhaps. Reverence. Or just hunger. He drank in the sight of you as though he hadn’t seen light in years. As if your magic was the only warmth he’d known in centuries.

To him, you must have looked like a sunrise.

“Hide,” you said without turning. “I’ll deal with them.”

You heard him shift, dragging himself deeper into the house, into the breathless dark that waited beneath the floorboards. Into the place no one but you ever walked.

He only managed a nod, dragging himself deeper into the cabin on his knees, limbs trembling, the wooden floor groaning softly beneath him, like the place had begun to breathe again.

When you greeted the men who had followed him, something close to pity stirred inside you. You saw it instantly, the fury in their faces, laced with grief. You didn’t need to ask to know what had driven them. The creature you’d taken in had surely torn through many of them before they'd turned the tide. Their rage wasn’t baseless. You’d tasted it in the blood your forest had swallowed from their wounds, still pulsing in the soil beneath your bare feet.

You considered ending them. Letting the earth consume them whole, letting it feed for a few years on their bitterness and loss. It would have been easy. But then you brushed the edges of their thoughts, glimpsed the lives that waited for them beyond the trees, small children with wide eyes, wives whispering prayers at shuttered windows, brothers waiting with ale and silence. You’d never been cruel. You only took what was needed.

So instead, you whispered to them, soft words carried on your breath like smoke, slipped behind their ears like lullabies. They would forget the creature they had chased into the so-called cursed woods. Forget the hunt. Forget the fangs. They would remember deer, a rogue animal, a wound that bled more than they liked to admit. Close enough to the truth.

The magic cost you. Your head ached sharp and deep, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. Still, as you turned back toward your home, a sound caught you off guard, delicate, high-pitched. Glass.

You frowned, following the noise with slow, heavy steps, already suspecting something you didn’t want to confirm. When you reached your hearth room, the breath caught in your chest.

He was seated. Not collapsed or barely breathing like before—but reclined, sprawling, draped across your wooden chair as if he’d grown from it. Empty glass jars littered the table like careless footprints. His head lolled back, a nearly-finished jar tilted against his mouth, throat moving in a lazy rhythm. The sound—faint, obscene—was somewhere between a groan and a purr.

He drank like it was pleasure.

When the jar emptied, he blinked at you slowly, drunk on what he’d taken, eyelids heavy, mouth slack with satisfaction. His smile was languid and unapologetic—full of teeth. His chin and throat were smeared with blood, thick streaks of red glistening against skin that had already begun to heal. He looked alive again. Whole. Greedy.

You took a sharp step forward.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes me to gather that blood?” Your voice cut through the space like a blade. “And you just drink it, like it’s cheap ale in a tavern?”

He turned his gaze lazily away, as if the rebuke barely touched him. You noticed the difference instantly. The raw burns and open blisters were nearly gone. The sickly scent of decay had burned off his skin. That same energy that had come off him weak and broken before now surged, vibrant, electric, maddening. It pressed against your senses, thick and wild.

He reached for another jar.

Held it up to the firelight. Studied it like a connoisseur might a fine wine. When it met his approval, he uncorked it with a practiced flick and tossed the lid over his shoulder. It clattered against the floor, forgotten.

Then he dipped a single finger into the thick, dark red. Brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left yours.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, his lashes fluttered shut, breath hitching in the center of his chest. His entire body sagged into the chair, muscle by muscle, a visible ripple of ecstasy washing over him.

You didn’t breathe.

Not until he moaned.

A low, guttural sound that made something deep in your gut twist. Your whole body tensed, your fingers curling against your sides. And you knew—you knew—which jar he was holding before he spoke.

“This one's yers,” he murmurs, the rasp in his voice thick, vowels dragged like old secrets through dark earth. His eyes, now bled full crimson, never leave yours as he lifts the jar to his lips. You watch, helpless, as your blood meets his mouth. It’s like watching the ocean consume flame.

A sound rises from you, unbidden. Small. A gasp.

Because you felt it.You felt the way your own blood took hold inside him. How it surged through his veins, coiling like magic reborn. Your magic. His lips parted just slightly with the next breath he took, and it wasn’t a man who looked back at you now—it was something feral and worshipful all at once.

And you hated the way it made your chest flutter. You hated that your knees felt suddenly unsteady. You hated that it felt like power.

You cross your arms tight against your chest, pretending it’s anger, but really, you’re holding yourself together. Trying to silence the crawling heat beneath your skin, the pulse in your belly, sharp and slow and shameful.

He drinks like it’s the first thing he’s ever tasted. Slow. Reverent. Groaning now and then, low and guttural, like the act borders on prayer or pleasure. The kind of noise you shouldn’t be hearing from something half-dead. The kind that makes your thighs press together.

Part of you—the part that remembers restraint, reason—wants to rip the jar from his hands. Smack it against his head until he’s the one bleeding all over your stone floor.

But the other part. The old one. The one buried deep with roots and shadows and old tongues, she wants him fed.

He finishes, finally. Breath deep. Eyes heavy. He looks as if he might drift to sleep in the chair, but what’s in his gaze is something else. Recognition. As if some part of him has found home.

He rises. Slow, unhurried. Like a man approaching an altar. His feet drag, the floor creaks under his weight, until he stands before you.

You smell yourself on him.

And something inside you, something dark and feral, hums: He smells like mine.

He lifts his hands. Those clawed, bloodstained hands cradle your face with a gentleness that makes your breath catch.

“Seen it all, I have, Ban Draoid,” he murmurs, and his voice is wet peat and winter fire. “The loneliness ye wear like a second skin. Yer rites in moonlight tha' never answers. That hunger ye shove down, day after day, ‘cause yer afraid what’ll happen if it spills out.”

Your heart slams so hard it aches. His eyes dip to your chest, reverent.

No one’s ever spoken to you like that.

Ban Draoid.

The name lands like a blessing. No one has ever called you that, not like it meant something. You’ve hidden yourself for so long, convinced you didn’t belong to the witches, nor to anything else. But this creature, soaked in your blood, sees you. Knows you.

“So alone ye’ve been, mo chroi,” he says softly. 

He presses his forehead to yours. You grip his wrists, claws and all, just to stay upright. His power hums through you, steady and warm and merciless.

Then, he lets go.

You nearly collapse with the loss. He turns, without a word, and walks to the door. You think he’s leaving. That he’s gotten what he needed. But the sun is high, and no matter how much witch’s blood burns in his veins, sunlight will still scorch him into ash.

He pauses at the doorframe, staring out. Then, slow and deliberate, he slashes his palm.

The scent of fresh blood curls through the cabin. He crouches low, still within the shade, and presses his bleeding hand into the dirt just beyond your threshold.

The sun kisses his skin. He shudders. Smokes. Flesh sizzles.

You see it happen,  pain and rapture written into every tendon. His blood—his gift—seeps into your soil.

And you feel it.

Your roots wake. Hungry. Ancient. They drink. They know.

Your knees weaken. You feel yourself unraveling—split open by something older than lust.

The vampire’s hand trembles. The ground drinks more. The trees above hiss with delight.

And then, you feed. Not from his neck, but from the earth he’s blessed with his blood. Through your veins, his magic hums, like hot wind through hollow bone. The forest wants more. Demands more.

You almost let it.

But then your human mind claws back—stop.

You do.

He collapses backward, landing on the stone floor, bloodied arm cradled in his lap.

You stare at each other. No breath. Just pulse.

“Wha’…” you start.

He grins, mouth red as berries.

“Blood for blood, Ban Draoid,” he says, the words thick and reverent. “Ye gave me shelter. Fed me. This—” He nods toward the trembling trees. “—this is me repayin’ yer forest.”

You still feel it in your veins. The magic he gave back to your forest. The gift. His blood, seared into your roots, still pulsing beneath your feet like fire in the deep.

You hadn’t known anything could feel that overwhelming.

And then he stands. Rises slow from the floor like something ancient shaking off dust and death, and when his eyes find you again, there’s something else in them now. Awe. Hunger. Recognition. He watches you like he’s watching something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He steps closer—closer than you meant to allow—and lifts a hand to touch your cheek again. Fingers soft, reverent, like he’s trying to soothe the beast he’d just fed. There’s a murmur on his lips, low and lulling. A lullaby, maybe. You can’t tell if it’s in his tongue or yours.

And gods help you… you let him.

You, who haven’t let anyone lay hands on you in decades. Who’ve sworn that solitude is enough, that you don’t need soft words or warm skin or company that might see you.

But his touch doesn’t feel like possession. It feels like a memory. Like something you lost in a fire long ago.

Still, vulnerability leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, burns the sweetness out of the moment like rot in fruit.

You snap back. Break the contact like it scorches.

He blinks. His hand hovers in the air where your face was. Surprised. Maybe even… wounded.

“I hope you’ve had your fill,” you say, sharp. “You’ll leave when night falls.”

That stuns him. You see it.

Blood still binds you, yours in him, his in the soil—and it opens him to you for just a blink. In that heartbeat, you see it: the long years he’s wandered, alone and lost, dragging his hunger through cold earth and colder nights. You see how, for just a second, he thought he’d belonged somewhere. Here.

You turn your back before it can crack something deeper.

You crouch to gather the mess, glass jars sticky with drying blood, some shattered. Muttering curses under your breath. The air is thick with magic and spilled need.

“And if you touch anything of mine again,” you snap, without looking up, “I’ll skin you alive, leech.”

Your voice rings with something old. The house hears it. It shudders slightly in response, shadows curling tighter in the corners.

“I don’t keep pets for a reason.”

But of course—of course—you hear his footsteps draw close again.

Too close.

“Oh, but I’d be a good one, Ban draoid,” No bitin’ ‘less y’asked me to.”

His voice is a purr now. The kind that makes your bones itch and your skin hum.

He reaches out, slow, as if daring you to slap him, and brushes his fingers across your hand. They’re human again, warm and smooth.

“If y’feed me like that again,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, “I’ll be whatever y’want me to be. Pet. Acolyte. Demon. Ghost. I’ll bloody bark for ye, if that’s what gets me another taste.”

A shiver rides your spine, uninvited. You hate how easily his words slide into your bloodstream.

But you don’t show it.

You lift your chin, arms crossed, face a mask of disgust. “Disgusting.”

He grins like he’s won. Like he always does.

“And yet,” he says, leaning in, his breath brushing your neck, “here y’are. Still lookin’ at me like y’wanna bite.”

You scoff. Loud. Dismissive.

But your hands won’t stop trembling. And your mouth, goddess help you, is starting to water.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You had forgotten what it felt like not to be cold. The ache in your bones had become so familiar it was almost part of you. Your feet throbbed, and you were so exhausted that lifting your legs felt like dragging iron weights. That’s why you didn’t think twice before stepping into the building that promised warmth.

The heat wrapped around you like a forgotten memory the moment you crossed the threshold. The scent of beer and some slow-cooked meal you couldn’t quite name filled the air, rich and inviting. And then came the heartbeat of the place — strong, too fast, stirred by laughter and the murmur of voices.

Your ears filled with the rushing blood of villagers who had offered you shelter. You had to breathe deeply, centre yourself, keep that thing inside you in check — the one that had been unleashed without your permission long ago, and had grown wilder since you’d been driven from your woods.

A sharp pain bloomed in your chest at the memory, flames licking your skin, the silent scream of your trees. You still hadn’t grown used to the grief. The rage boiled beneath your skin like a second bloodstream. You’d learned to live with it, but healing was still a distant, impossible thing.

You let yourself collapse into a chair, half-hidden by the cloak you wore — the same worn thing that shielded your face more often than not. You didn’t order anything. Not right away. You let the warmth gather around your limbs, let the sound of conversation ease the sting of solitude. You only looked up from the wooden bar when you sensed someone waiting for your attention.

When your eyes met those of the round-faced man drying a mug with a tattered rag, something in you stirred. A feeling you thought you’d buried. His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition in his features. You were about to say you just needed to rest your feet, that maybe you’d order something later, when he opened his mouth and said it.

“Ban draoid.”

The breath caught in your throat. A shiver traced your spine. It wasn’t fear — it was hunger. Longing. That name awakened something in you that had been sleeping for far too long.

Decades. It had been decades since anyone had called you that. Only one person — one creature, ever had. And it was impossible for this man to know unless—

“He’s goin’ to be real glad to see ye, little witch.”

You didn’t need to ask who he meant. Your whole being screamed the answer. You could almost taste his blood again, call it up from memory. A soft sigh escaped your lips, like someone who had been lost for far too long and had finally found the way home.

“I’ll take ye to him.”

And despite the pain in your muscles, the weariness, the cold clinging to your skin like soaked cloth , you followed the man who had said only a handful of words.

You walked in silence through the village. You didn’t want to waste a single breath before you saw him. Before you knew this wasn’t some cruel trick.

He led you to the doors of a brothel. You huffed a laugh through your nose, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Of course.

The air inside changed the moment you stepped in — thick, heavy, warmer than the tavern had been. Eyes turned toward you. Breath held. You didn’t recognise a single one of them, yet they all looked at you like they’d known you once — like they remembered.

As you passed, some lifted their hands slightly, as if they might touch you, confirm you were real. By the time you reached the centre of the room, you felt… shy. Exposed. A young man stepped forward and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and you startled at the tenderness.

“Don’t be afraid, Ban draoid. We won't harm ye.”

A young woman touched your shoulder with the same careful reverence — a comfort you didn’t realise you needed. You didn’t know who they were, but all of them seemed to hum with the same energy — yours.

You’d heard whispers of hive minds, the kind some vampires could create. You hadn’t believed it. Not really. Not until now, surrounded by strangers who remembered things only he should have known.

“He’s missed you so much.”

The voice came from a velvet divan, soft, delicate, wrapped in nostalgia. And beneath the feminine tone, you heard him. As if the words had passed through her but came from him.

You were surrounded — by glances, hesitant touches, held breath. Somehow, in this strange twisted way, you felt worshipped. The beast inside you stretched, purring under the attention. Then the circle of people parted. A corridor opened in their midst , and there he was.

Unchanged.

Exactly as he had been when you’d let him into your home, let him feed on your forest, let him find shelter in the bones of your magic. Your heart stumbled at the memory of your grove, of what you had lost, and you nearly wept. The way emotions bloomed inside you in his presence… it was terrifying.

He looked delighted, a smile that lit his whole face. When he reached you, he took your cheeks in both hands and brought your forehead to his. You let yourself fall into the scent of him: death, blood, and uprooted lilacs.

“But just look at ye, Ban draoid.” His nose brushed against yours, gently, almost affectionately. You clung to his hands on your face, gripping him like an anchor. “Wearin’ eternity better than anyone I’ve ever known. Ye look older, love. It suits ye.”

You nearly sobbed,  you’d been strong for too long. You hadn’t noticed the way time had settled on you until now. It hadn’t been much — just a few years — but you felt them. Your magic had suffered when your home burned, and it had marked you.

“What are ye doin’ so far from home, love?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. In his gaze: worry, yes. But also that steel you remembered. That fire.

“They burned it all.”

The words barely left your lips before the memory scorched its way through your mind again, flames devouring bark and bone, ash dancing like snow. You’d tried. Gods, you had tried. But all your power had done was delay the inevitable. The only thing you’d saved was the seed pressed tight to your chest now, the last breath of your forest, the final whisper of a home.

He was watching you. Not blinking. Not breathing. Your eyes darting, unsettled, not knowing where to land. You knew that if you met his gaze, really met it, the quiet strength you'd clung to for decades would shatter at your feet like glass.

A breath trembled past your lips. Quiet, but not quiet enough. It hit him like a strike to the ribs. You saw it, the way his shoulders pulled in, the way he flinched with your sorrow as if it lived inside his own body.

His hands still cupped your face. Rough palms, cold fingers. He lowered your head gently, just a few inches, and then, his lips brushed your forehead. Barely there. Barely real. But you felt it. The hush of his breath, the stillness of his mouth, the aching reverence in the way he lingered too long and inhaled the scent of your skin like it was holy.

You closed your eyes, locking every part of yourself down so you wouldn’t come undone in his arms.

And when he looked at you again, you let yourself look back.

Your lips trembled—traitorous, aching—and you pressed them together, hard, as if the pressure could keep you whole. His thumb was there in an instant, soothing, still. As if he could stop the quake beneath your skin with a single touch.

“Our poor witch,” came a second voice. Silken. Male. To your right.

You flinched. Eyes snapping sideways.

Remmick leaned toward your neck, the movement barely perceptible. You felt his breath just before his lips, soft and wet against the skin where your pulse betrayed you. Your head tilted without permission, baring your throat to him in a gesture that felt ancient.

“What did they do to ye…” the new voice hummed, a slow trace of a fingertip gliding down your arm.

“We’ll mend it,” came another, almost a whisper.

Heat stirred inside you, curling like smoke. The frost that had built a cathedral in your chest melted in an instant. What lived inside you—coiled and feral—woke at their words like it had been summoned. Magic pulsed, hot and slow, down through your chest, pooling low in your belly.

Remmick’s mouth climbed higher, over your cheekbone now, his breath catching ragged in his throat. You turned just slightly, just enough, and felt the cool kiss of his exhale against your lips. You leaned forward, barely an inch. A tease. He lunged.

You pulled back.

He missed, brushing your cheek, and let out a frustrated sound that was too close to a whine.

You smiled. Sharp and pleased.

At some point, his hands had locked around your hips. Possessive. Hungry. You barely noticed. You reached up, tangled your fingers in his thick, dark hair, and yanked his head back. Hard.

He didn’t fight.

His throat stretched before you, bare and waiting. You watched the bob of his swallow, the faint tremor in his breath, the thrum of something alive beneath his deathless skin. You lowered your mouth to him and scraped your teeth across the exposed flesh. He groaned, deep and guttural, a sound that vibrated through your spine.

You had held back for so long. Held yourself in, stitched yourself shut. But his blood—his scent—was too much. The restraint snapped.

“How are you gonna fix this, Sweetfangs?” you asked, teeth grazing his throat.

You knew you were no match for him. Not now. Not like this. But he didn’t push you off. Didn’t resist. His hand found the back of your neck and pulled you closer, pressing you into him like a lover offering his heart.

“We’ll make ye strong again,” he breathed. “Blood for blood, remember that, Ban draoid…”

The words echoed, from him… and others.

Murmurs threaded through your skull like silk-wrapped chains. You could feel them. Their presence, their will. Your mind began to fog.

No.

You narrowed your eyes and looked around. Faces, yes. All of them echoing Remmick’s desire. Mirrors of his ache.

You dragged a single fingertip across his throat. He hissed at the contact. And they all hissed with him, every one of them, exposed and waiting.

You swallowed.

"Do you control them?"

His grip in your hair softened, not letting go.

“Nah, lass,” he said low. “No one controls anyone here. They feel what I give ‘em. They remember what I remember. If they offer themselves to ye, it’s ‘cause they know what I felt… kneelin’ at yer feet that mornin’.”

“Yes, Ban draoid,” another voice whispered. “We want you strong.”

Almost. You almost let it take you.

But no. You’d felt his memories before. That never meant surrender.

And then his mouth—his goddamn mouth—was back on your face, tracing over your cheek with reverence.

"Don’t think so much, ban droid. Let yourself be cared for. I’ll handle the rest. We all will."

He pressed closer, breath ghosting over your skin as he whispered promises meant for your hatred, but they curled into your bones like comfort. You felt your thoughts blur again, thick and heavy as fog. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he guided your mouth to his throat. You wet your lips without meaning to, instinct moving before thought, just a slow, teasing flick of your tongue against his skin.

Another sound tore from him, low and broken, and that was it.

Your heart stuttered, then surged. Control disintegrated. The second your lips found him, everything inside you caved. You tasted his skin, warm and strange, and when you finally sank your teeth into him, you expected relief—but the taste didn’t come. Not right away. That moment of absence left you nearly frantic. You considered drawing harder, faster—but the thought vanished the instant the first drop touched your tongue.

It was like drinking him.

Not his blood. Him. His essence. His being.

Thick and alive and ancient. His magic slammed into you like a tidal wave, unfurling in your chest, blooming in your veins. It took root, it spread, through your belly, your lungs, your throat. You could feel the trees again. The hum of the forest. The fluttering of leaves above you, the rustle of small lives moving in branches. You didn’t know if the tears spilling from your eyes were from shock or fever. Maybe both.

Your head spun, and you let go, let him hold you, press you against him. You thought you heard a lull, a soft murmur. You weren’t even sure when he'd lifted you, when your legs wrapped around his hips. Nothing was clear anymore. You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Every emotion inside you tangled with his—raw, starving—moaning into his neck as you drank something you hadn’t even known you craved.

You were just beginning to claw your way back to sense, remembering you could kill him if you didn’t stop, when you felt his mouth against your shoulder—his teeth this time. Real. Sharp. No longer hidden. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. But you nodded anyway. You didn’t stop drinking.

Around you, you could hear sounds—moans, shudders—but the one that rippled through every nerve in your body came from him. It wasn’t pain. It was relief. Something like release. And it crawled into your brain, wrapped around your spine, and ignited everything. You couldn’t help it—you moved your hips, seeking contact, friction, anything that let you feel more of him.

When you were nearly full, when the heat of his blood and your magic crackled beneath your skin like lightning, you pulled back. Your tongue ran over the wound to keep a single drop from going to waste. Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the strength coiled beneath the layers of fabric, and you bit your lip as you felt him drinking.

And then, you felt it.

His heart. Beating.

Just faintly. A rhythm where there had been stillness. Life where there had been nothing. It hit you like joy, like always, and you grabbed his face, pulled him back so you could see him. 

Colour floods his cheeks like a sunrise breaking through centuries of night. Not just a flush—life. His lips are parted, red and trembling, drawing in breath that fogs the air between you, hot and human.

You’ve never seen anything so terrible. So beautiful.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” he murmured, voice slurred and dreamy, as if the tide had pulled him under and he was only now surfacing.

His lashes flutter. His eyes—those cold, endless eyes—now seem to flicker with something familiar. A glint. A hint of what once was. Who once was. It steals your voice. It steals your thoughts. All you can do is stare, mouth parted, the taste of him still on your tongue as if even your body doesn’t want to let him go.

And then he breathes.

A full breath.

One that shakes his chest and yours along with it, and it undoes you.

You leaned in, and he followed, thinking—hoping—you’d kiss him.

But you tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose instead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a second, you swore he purred.

“So, what do you say then, ban droid?” he whispered. “Will you let us care for you?”

Everything in you wanted to say yes. To surrender. To rest.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

“I’ll let you feed me, sweetfangs,” you rasped, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just for now.”

You ran a finger along his still-glinting canines, wet with your blood, the touch somehow tender in its quiet savagery. And then,you let him kiss you.

Your breath hitched the moment your lips met, as if this was what you’d really been waiting for all along. As if the blood hadn’t been enough. As if you needed this, his mouth on yours, his hunger turned to fire, to need. You let him devour you, let him claim your mouth like he belonged there.

And for now… you let him believe that he did.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You thought you might disintegrate the moment the fabric touched your skin.

It was almost laughable, how in all your long life, you’d never touched a cross before. You had no idea what would happen if your fingers curled around one of those amulets the acolytes liked to wear. Would your hands burst into flame? Would your magic recoil in disgust? Likely not. You were older than their god, after all.

Still, you hesitated.

You smoothed the coarse cloth of the novice’s habit over your body once more, fidgeting with the veil that pressed too tightly around your ears, muffling sound, pressing your face into modest obedience. Everything about it itched, physically and spiritually. You weren’t built for meekness, not anymore.

But you’d come too far to turn back now.

Six months ago, you had crossed paths with Lorenzo Priuli, the gilded Cardinal of Venice, a man whose robes dripped with vanity and the stink of ambition.  You wanted to know what happened when you pulled the divine out of the devout. When you bled them dry, not just of life, but of the tether that bound them to their god. Acolytes, monks, whispered priests who hid behind gilded walls and velvet confessions. You sliced open their veins, drank their faith, and sifted through their memories for power.

The result had been disappointing.

The acolyte whose blood you'd taken had been just as dull as the city he came from, humid, grey, and stinking of rot. Their blood lacked depth, like wine left out in the sun.  You could barely squeeze two spells from his veins before it turned sour in your mouth. He was riddled with what men like him called sin. Spoiled by guilt, riddled with shame. You called it waste.

But there had been something.

Buried in his memories, half-faded, soaked in candlelight and incense, were whispers. Quiet conversations about a beast caged in the bowels of a fortress they called the Vatican. You’d heard the name before, whispered behind burning pyres and sharpened swords. The seat of the little man who commanded wars in the name of the divine. They called him the hand of God.

But if what they held below ground was real, then they didn’t worship God. They feared the devil.

They hunted your kind mercilessly for centuries. Burned, bled, butchered, never understood. But this was new. A captured creature, not for execution but for "study." You could only imagine what that meant in the language of faith.

It could’ve been any monster. But the description chilled you to the bone.

A demon with an Irish tongue and black eyes. A throat-ripper. A blood-drinker.

You told yourself it couldn’t be him. There were others like him. Others who tore and drank and laughed in the dark. But something in you, the old thing he once touched and woke, quivered at the thought of him rotting in some damp holy tomb.

So your hunt began.

Acolyte after acolyte. You drained them, rifled through their memories like parchment, whispered spells until one of them unwittingly opened a door. You left no trace, only hollowed bodies and muddled prayers.

Eventually, the trail led to a Mother Superior.

She looked at you the first time like she already knew what you were. Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. She sniffed out the blasphemy in your blood, the wrongness in your bones. She was stronger than the others—mentally, spiritually. She couldn't be bent easily.

So you didn’t bend her. You stayed close. You donned the veil. Played the penitent. A novice on the cusp of taking her vows, eyes lowered, lips always murmuring.

Night after night, you slipped into her mind. Not to break it, but to plant seeds, tender suggestions, dreams of purity and divine purpose, visions that always led to the same thing: that she must bring you below, down into the depths where the Church kept its greatest shame.

To him.

The creature who couldn’t walk in the daylight. The one whose blood once tasted like thunder and lilacs.

So when the Mother Superior whispered that they were here for more than just praising God, you forced your face into a mask of innocence and fear. You widened your eyes, lowered your gaze, and played the part of a naive girl devoting her body and soul to the divine.

She spoke of shadows. Of evil made flesh. She called it a war, not just a devotion. That by taking the vows, you were not only offering yourself to the Almighty but becoming His soldier. His blade against the dark things hiding beneath the world.

You nodded through it all. Pretended to tremble when she pressed the rosaries into your hands, tucked wooden stakes into your belt, strapped vials of holy water to your thighs. You whispered the sacred rites with dry lips, tasted ash in every vow. Not once did you feel the sting of power. The words were hollow. Magicless. Just sounds echoed into cold stone.

And when they gave you the blood of the so-called savior, when they placed his flesh on your tongue, nothing burned. Your skin did not blister. Your breath did not catch fire.

It should have scared you. That you could walk so deep into their temple, wear their habits, speak their sacred tongue, and remain untouched.

But it didn’t.

What scared you was the thing that had driven you here.

A beast.

Your beast.

It had started as nothing. A curiosity. A creature caged beneath your woods centuries ago, snarling and half-starved, the earth bleeding black beneath his feet. He should’ve been a pet, a passing fancy—a stain on your long, winding life. But now you were burning churches and gutting acolytes just to follow whispers of his name through corridors of marble and gold.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t love. That you were only retrieving what was yours. You didn’t like when people touched what belonged to you, especially if they broke it.

The truth of it nested deep in your bones, rotting quietly. You’d dressed it up in possession, in revenge, but it reeked of something far more dangerous. Far more human.

When the day finally came, the nun laced your fingers with more beads and crosses. As if they would save you. As if they could save anyone. You remembered Remmick once idly twisting a rosary around his fingers, murmuring that the smooth beads calmed his nerves. It hadn’t saved the girl who wore it, not from him. The memory clung to you like perfume.

Now you stood at the gates of their Vatican. You, draped in holy robes, with a stake strapped to your thigh and murder in your heart. The Mother Superior repeated again and again what a privilege this was—to be allowed into the lower catacombs. To walk the path only chosen men were allowed to tread.

You didn’t say a word.

Every thought had vanished the moment the scent of his blood thickened the air. You had feared it, feared that you’d recognize it the instant it touched your lungs, and you had been right. Every suspicion, every whisper of dread clawing at your ribs had proven true. The monster they kept chained beneath the earth wasn’t just any beast, it was yours.

Magic crackled under your skin like a storm waiting to burst. You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to bring this wretched place to the ground in a wave of fire and ash.

You reached the iron door of his cell. The nun—her voice sharp, shaking—warned you not to listen to him. “He’ll twist your mind with his viper tongue,” she muttered, clutching her rosary like a lifeline.

You nearly laughed.

She had no idea the things that tongue could do to you. Confusion was hardly the worst of it. You bit your lower lip, holding back the urge to say it aloud. Let her keep her ignorance. Let her die with it.

but you’d had enough of her. Months of pious instruction and venomous sermons against your kind. Months of hiding beneath linen and lies, swallowing down every urge to end her. So when she turned her back, you didn’t hesitate. You snapped her neck in silence. Her body hit the cold floor with a dull thud, and something deep in your belly purred with satisfaction.

Your fingers trembled as they touched the iron latch. Anticipation. Fear. Containment. You weren’t sure which feeling owned you anymore. When the door creaked open, your knees nearly gave out.

There he was.

They had him suspended by the wrists, iron cuffs scorched into his skin, the stink of burned flesh rising constantly from the wounds. His feet didn’t touch the floor, he was hanging, his entire weight yanked down by the chains. His body was ravaged with cuts and bruises, his skin a tapestry of cruelty. They’d stripped him of everything but the tattered cloth around his waist. His head hung low, hair soaked in sweat, plastered to his face. He hadn’t seen you. He didn’t have the strength to look up.

You didn’t know what to do. You’d seen him powerful, smirking, fanged, ruthless. Seeing him like this made something in you curl and break.

And then you saw it.

Around his neck, barely gleaming in the faint candlelight, still hung a golden chain. Your breath caught in your throat. That ridiculous little trinket, the one you had given him so long ago. They’d taken everything else from him. But not that. Why?

Your hand reached for the chains. The moment they clinked, he stirred. He lifted his head slowly, like it hurt to move. His eyes narrowed, straining to see through blood and haze. You didn’t stop working the shackles, your fingers desperate now, and that’s when you heard it, a rasp, more breath than voice, right at your ear.

“Ban draoid…”

Your heart clenched at the sound of it.

“Yes, sweetfangs. It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

He gave a hoarse, broken sound. Maybe it was a laugh, maybe a sob. It dissolved into a cough that wracked his body.

“F-fuckin’ hell… I’m sorry, mo chroí…” he mumbled, barely audible. One of his hands came free, and his entire body collapsed against you, limp as a corpse. You dropped to your knees to catch him, arms wrapping around his waist, his chin finding your shoulder, breath warm and incoherent against your skin.

“You shouldn’t… y’shouldn’t see me like this…” he whispered, words slurring. “I think they… they took it… took everythin’... I can’t…”

He buried his face in the curve of your neck, clinging to you with the last of his strength. One wrist still chained, body swaying like a broken puppet.

“Remmick?”

He stirred. Pulled back just enough to look at you, eyelids heavy but eyes searching. When your gaze met his, it was like something ancient ignited between you.

“You… called me by m’name.”

He looked stunned. As if he'd forgotten he had one.

“How else would I call you?”

“Leech. Pet. Sweetfangs. Never… Remmick.”

He wasn’t wrong. Even in your thoughts, you’d always called him the creature, the vampire, your beast. Never by name.

“Mmm. I like it,” he said, nuzzling back into your neck. He sounded drunk on you, disoriented, like a man clinging to the only thing that still made sense.

“Yeah? Then if you want me to say it again, you’ve gotta help me, sweetheart. I need you to stand.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat, a complaint, not a threat. He snuggled deeper, like a child refusing to rise from bed.

You tapped his side gently, coaxing. “Come on, love. I need you.”

He groaned but moved, feet hitting the stone floor, wobbling, but standing, barely.

While he leaned on you, you worked at the other cuff. His gaze was heavy on you, hungry. His face pressed against yours again, nose nuzzling into any exposed skin he could find. He mumbled nonsense, words from a fever dream.

The moment the last shackle fell, you both collapsed.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he clung to you with both hands now free, roaming your body like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he had to memorize you with touch before the vision faded.

You try to lift him.

You brace your legs, plant your feet, dig your fingers into his arms and try with everything you have to pull him up. But his weight won’t shift. His body is too heavy with pain and time and everything they’ve taken from him. It’s like trying to carry a cathedral’s worth of ruin in your arms. His knees buckle the moment you try to straighten, and he drags you down with him.

You both end up on the cold floor again, stone biting into your knees, your shoulder, your ribs. His arms curl around you like instinct, and you can feel the tremble in him, buried deep in his bones.

“Why won’t you move?” you whisper, not angry. Just aching. Just desperate.

He lets out a sound like a breath caught on broken glass. Then laughs. Dry, too hollow to be real. “Because yer not real.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts his head, just enough to look at you again. “You’re in m’head, same as always. Dreamin’ y’ve come to fix me… that y’ve come to fuckin’ see me.”

“Remmick.”

“You never said my name like that, ban draoid. Not when it mattered.” His voice cracks, but he smiles like it’s all some grand joke he’s playing on himself. “I was always your pet,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t I? Your good little monster. Guarded the necklace, bit anyone who tried to take it off. They kept trying, y’know. Could smell your magic on it, and they didn’t like it one fuckin’ bit.”

Your stomach turns.

You look down, at the bruises on his wrists, at the necklace still hanging from his throat. That ridiculous little charm you gave him centuries ago, when you never thought you'd see him again. And he still has it. Worn and bent and bloodied. 

“You bit them?” you whisper. “You fought for it?”

“Didn’t want ‘em to touch it.” His eyes flutter closed. “Didn’t want ‘em takin’ you off me. S’stupid, I know. You never belonged to me.”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “No, Remmick. I didn’t.

He flinches. “That’s what I said.”

Your hand goes to his face. Gentle. Real.

“I’m not a dream,” you say, your voice cracking on the edges. “Look at me, Remmick. Look at me.”

His gaze flickers, fogged and wavering, but it holds.

“I didn’t come for my pet. I didn’t come to leash my monster.” You press your forehead to his. “I came for you. For the only fucking thing that’s ever felt like home in this endless life of mine.”

He doesn’t say anything.

So you go on. “You think I’d wear these rags, swear vows to a god I don’t believe in, kneel for weeks beside their altars—bleed for it—if you were just some plaything to me?”

Still, nothing. His eyes glisten. His throat tightens. But he won’t speak.

“I’m not here because you’re mine,” you whisper. “I’m here because I’m yours.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His lips part. Still no sound.

You lift your hand, shaking ,and without hesitation, drag your fingernail across your palm. A clean, straight line. Blood wells up fast and dark, thick as molten iron. It smells of night and wild earth. Of every root you ever grew and every fire you ever lit. Of you.

His head jerks toward it. Not by choice. By need.

“I want you to drink,” you say, bringing your hand to his mouth. “No games. No servitude. This is a gift. I want you stronger. Because I need you alive. Because I can't—I won’t—lose you.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

Then, carefully, reverently, his mouth parts.

You place your bleeding hand, then, softly, reverently, his lips close over the wound.

The first pull is shallow, like he’s testing the edge of a dream. But when your blood hits his tongue, something shifts. His hands twitch. His breath hitches. His body jerks like it’s waking up after years of drowning. His eyes flutter shut, and a low sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.

He drinks.

And drinks.

You hold your hand to him, even as your knees wobble, even as your head spins. His mouth is hot now, his breath warming. You feel his grip strengthening where it clings to your arm. His fingers dig into your waist like he's anchoring himself back to life.

You feel him coming back to you.

“Slow down,” you whisper, dizzy. “Take only what you need.”

But he growls softly, shakes his head. “I need you, mo ghrá. I need all of you.”

Your other hand cups his face.

“You’ve always had all of me,” you whisper. “Even when I wouldn’t admit it. Even when I tried to leave you behind.”

His lips slow, soften. His jaw slackens, but not in weakness, this is reverence now. When he finally pulls away, your blood stains his mouth like wine and war. His eyes open again, and they're no longer dulled by pain.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you trembling from what just passed between you.

“We’ll find somewhere,” he murmurs. “A place with trees. Quiet. Hidden.”

Your breath catches.

 “Somewhere y’don’t have to pretend to be anyone else.”

Your heart cracks wide open. For him. For everything that could still be.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He smiles, weak but real. “I’ll help y’put your roots down again, love. This time, I’ll guard the fuckin’ soil myself.”

[princessfbi]

😘 17 pretty please? and ship is dealer’s choice 🫶🏻

Bucktommy + 17 …to distract.

Tommy had one job to do… and according to the look Chimney was shooting at him, he wasn’t doing a very good job at it.

Which was seriously just rude considering everything he had done to keep Evan well and truly distracted all day. First, had been the morning sex which was a tried and true method that kept Evan thoroughly distracted for at least an hour. Then they had gone clear across town for breakfast and a hike that may or may not have involved some heavy making out against a tree that left Evan with bark imprints on his back and a blissed out look on his face while Tommy wiped his hand clean with one of the wet wipes they kept in their kit. Lunch had been a picnic bathing in the sun and then afterwards they had gone home to shower and doze in bed while watching one of Evan’s many many many comfort documentaries. Evan had barely looked at his phone once all day!

He’d fed him. He’d walked him. He’d given him a nap. He’d fucked him. What more did Chimney want?

It wasn’t like it was Tommy’s fault they were behind schedule!

They said three o'clock! It was three o'clock!

Tommy only just barely caught a glimpse of Eddie nearly falling over what looked like a sad attempt at a balloon arch before Chimney was swiping the curtain closed with a snap of his wrist.

Evan, blessedly sweet Evan, hadn’t even noticed as he kept talking about how the gorilla that had been attacking boats immediately came running when he heard his old caretaker call his name.

“It was like he was a baby all over again,” Evan said, playing with Tommy’s fingers.

“Wow. Sounds like they really had a strong bond,” Tommy said while he tried to think of anything else he could possibly ask that could distract his adorable big brained boyfriend.

He came up with nothing.

“Well yeah,” Buck said, kicking at a loose piece of gravel on the walkway as they climbed up the driveway to Chimney’s house. “He was all he knew for so long. It’d be like if Maddie came and found me.”

“I don’t think Maddie would ever let you go out into the wild, Evan,” Tommy said.

“She kind of did,” Evan said and Tommy squeezed his hand, being a terrible person and using the small moment of vulnerability to slow their steps.

It was for Evan’s own good. He’d forgive him eventually.

“She came and found you though.” Tommy pointed out. He knew those three years Buck had been without his sister was still a sore spot in his heart even if he understood why she did it. She had been protecting him. The same way she’d always been protecting him.

Tommy could never fault her for that.

Buck couldn’t either even if it still hurt. He was allowed to hurt too.

The curtains shifted and Tommy spied Hen throwing him a thumbs up before she disappeared from view.

Buck smiled up at Tommy. “Yeah. I guess that’s true. And she does have a habit of making me feel like I’m twelve years old again.”

Tommy snorted out a laugh that quickly fell away when Evan started tugging on his hand.

“C’mon,” Buck said with a jerk of his head. “She’s going to wonder why we’re standing out on the lawn for so long.”

“Can’t you tell her it’s because we’re talking about gorillas!” Tommy tried in vain because Evan just sent him a confused glance over his shoulder.

The woman in question was frantically waving him down from one of the small windows by the door before disappearing from sight again.

“Was that—”

“So I was thinking,” Tommy maybe yelled. He didn’t know. These people stressed him out. Evan’s eyebrows rose as he turned to look at him. “Maybe we should go away next week.”

“Oh?” Evan frowned. “I thought you work next weekend?”

“I meant the one after that. I could fly you and me somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet. We could get a cabin.” What was he saying? What cabin? “Maybe take in somewhere we haven’t been.”

Evan tipped his head in the adorable way he did when he was thinking and Tommy desperately tried to think of somewhere they could go that wouldn’t cost an entire mortgage payment so last minute.

“Maybe a staycation?” Evan suggested instead. “You, me, and some take out. No phones.”

God, he loved him.

The curtains moved and there was no way Evan didn’t see and Tommy panicked okay?

“What’s—Oomf!”

Tommy grabbed Evan’s face and kissed him. He grabbed his face, turned him to face him, tipped his chin up, and kissed him right on the mouth. Tongue and all.

Evan stiffened in surprise for all of a second before he melted into the kiss, into Tommy, like it was second nature. Arms wound around Tommy's neck as Tommy let his hands slip down to the small of Evan's back, skating up underneath his shirt to dance fingertips the sliver of skin that always made Evan shiver.

Tommy didn't tend to get drunk very often. He could count the number of times on his hand, to be honest. But he could've sworn he could've gotten drunk off the taste of Evan Buckley.

Evan broke the kiss by smiling too wide and it took Tommy a dizzyingly too long handful of seconds to realize he was grinning ear to ear too.

"What was that for?" Evan asked, his nose dancing against Tommy's as his fingers played with the hair at the nape of Tommy's neck.

"Oh, you know," Tommy said, pointedly not looking at Chimney trying to tell him to wrap it up behind Evan. "Just felt like it."

And then just to spite Howie, Tommy leaned down to kiss Evan again so that when they walked into the party, Evan was well and truly surprised.

[clarkeyscherry]

BOYFRIEND HEADCANONS ❥ WILL LENNEY!

contains: will being the best bf !!! suggestive content, smut, angst

a/n: i know i said i wouldn’t write for will but rory’s full on turned me into a will girl so send in requests for will if you like, bare with me though x

boyfriend!will… such a gentleman omgomg. from when you first meet and still to this day, will never change.

boyfriend!will… i think he’d lowkey love matching outfits with you idk why just get that vibe from him.

boyfriend!will… he’s obsessed with you and he isn’t afraid to show it.

boyfriend!will… posts you everywhere, but it takes him a few months to finally fully post you.

boyfriend!will… always talks about you, finds any way to bring you up.

“y/n said.. y/n likes this.. i was telling y/n.”

boyfriend!will… let’s talk about his mullet 👅.

boyfriend!will… you were definitely begging him for ages to grow a mullet, but he was putting off.

boyfriend!will… but when he finally did it omfg, the correct and only move for him.

“look what i’ve done to my hair, sweetheart.” “will.. wow. i knew it would look good but not that good.”

boyfriend!will… both of you are big foodies.

boyfriend!will… he’d try get you into f1, explains everything to you.

boyfriend!will… would bring you to the races always.

boyfriend!will… would also bring you to the senor frogs races so you can watch him.

boyfriend!will… obsessed with calling you pet names. sweetheart & darling mostly. knows you love them too.

“sweetheart, can you get me this from the kitchen please?” “sorry darling can i just pass.”

boyfriend!will… and hands on your waist when he passes you 😝.

boyfriend!will… dog parents !!!!

boyfriend!will… loves your friendship with james.

boyfriend!will… but at this point you may as well be the third wheel in your own relationship.

“well there were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.”

boyfriend!will… james calls you the other woman x

boyfriend!will… i can see him getting insanely protective over you just being like;

“watch your fucking mouth when you speak about her.”

boyfriend!will… even to his friends.

NSFW!

boyfriend!will… whewwww.

boyfriend!will… definitely big no doubt about it.

boyfriend!will… so vocal too, and his accent is so sexy in bed 👹.

boyfriend!will… munchhhhh.

boyfriend!will… loves to have your thighs around his head.

boyfriend!will… i can see him being very gentle but also sometimes he can get slightly rough.

boyfriend!will… never enough to hurt you though.

boyfriend!will… praise kink !!!!!!!!!!

“be a good girl for me now, yeah?”

boyfriend!will… loves missionary but also is obsessed with bending you over. (over his desk at work ���🤫🤫)

boyfriend!will… i can see him being more of a 🍒 guy, but loves both 🍒🍑.

DURING AN ARGUMENT!

boyfriend!will… we all know how short tempered that man is.

boyfriend!will… can lose his shit easily but he tries his best with you.

“y/n i love you, but for fucks sake..”

boyfriend!will… his accent gets so strong when you’re arguing kinda hard for you to take him seriously.

boyfriend!will… tries to resolve everything as quickly as possible but if you’re being difficult he’ll just give up until you’re ready to talk maturely.

“i’m not going to yell like we’re children, when you’re ready to talk you can come find me.”

boyfriend!will… you end up arguing for silly reasons anyway. so it’s never that big a deal.

boyfriend!will… but again, when that man gets impatient he loses his shit 🙂.

tags: @luvdixon @livvymd @jamiekluivert @lilyyxoii @wherethezoes-at @madsclarkey

[magicalqueennightmare]

Loose Lips

John Walker x Reader

John overhears a confession on girl's night

vulgar language? Kissing

John knew it was girl’s night. That meant the entertainment room was off limits to him, Alexei or Bucky. Only Bob was allowed in. He normally would take care to avoid that entire floor but he wanted to work out and had misplaced his airpods. He stepped off the floor and heard Yelena’s laughter as she worked to get her breathing under control and said your name followed by  “Ok, now what about Walker?”

He froze, wondering just what conversation he’d just stepped into. “What about John?” you asked and Ava’s laughter hit his ears then. He could feel his face flush, thinking he was the butt of some joke he wished he hadn’t heard. “What is it about you always arguing with him? Even after you get through defending him?” Bob asked and you started laughing “Oh that”

John found himself pausing, knowing he should go but wanting more of an answer. “Do you like him?” Yelena asked and he swallowed hard before you said “Oh there’s times I’d fuck him so hard but then there’s times I’d also throw him off a cliff. It’s very confusing” He raised an eyebrow. Ok, which times happened more? Apparently Ava was curious as well because she asked “Which one happens more often?”

You didn’t give a verbal answer but from the way Bob groaned in disgust and the two women cracked up laughing your face must have given you away. “You want Walker” Yelena accused and you made a light sound before saying “Ok, hear me out.. He’s not a bad guy! He’s a little bit of a loud mouth at times but what man isn’t? Beyond that? He’s put in the work to change and besides, he’s fucking gorgeous. He’s so damn big! I’d love for him to throw me around”

He damn near choked on air. He never thought you would’ve felt that way about him. He was certain his feelings were one side but then again maybe they were. What if it was the alcohol talking? What if you only wanted a one night stand deal? Then again he would be willing to take one night with you over nothing. The thought of getting you in his arms…under him.. On top of him… he shook his head and headed for the stairs…fuck the gym he needed a cold shower.

You groaned lightly when you woke up. Yelena’s leg was across your shoulders. What the hell were you thinking? Why did you try to keep up with her and Ava when it came to drinking? Bob at least had the Sentry buried inside him to help him with the tolerance. 

You untangled yourself from Yelena and Ava both, stepping across Bob who was asleep sprawled out across the floor to head for the kitchen where the smell of coffee was already drifting down to you.

When you stepped in the room, John’s broad back was to you. He was wearing a plain shirt, those low riding sweatpants and it took everything in you to swallow the light whimper that threatened to leave your mouth. You were too hungover to keep the thoughts to yourself about what that man did to your hormones.

“Is there coffee left?” you asked lightly and he turned to look over his shoulder at you, a small smile slipping onto his face “Yeah sweetheart. I made sure to make plenty” you smoothed a hand over your hair or tried to as you walked across the room to stand next to him. He reached up into the cabinet and handed you a mug down. “Thank you” you told him and he nodded as you started to make the coffee to your taste.

After a moment of silence, you turned to cut your eyes at him “We weren’t too loud were we?” he shook his head “Never would’ve known you were here” you held his eyes, a grin slipping onto your face after a moment “Liar” “Yeah, y'all were pretty wild” he admitted with a laugh.

You turned to face him, letting your hip rest against the counter. “Well you, Bucky and Alexei could always get your hands on some asguardian liquor and have hangovers” he shook his head “No thank you. That’s one thing I don’t miss and there’s some things I’d rather not admit from alcohol loosening my lips”

Your eyes widened when he worded it like that. Had he heard what you said to Yelena and Ava about him? “Like what?” you asked and he shrugged “I don’t know, might accidentally tell Belova my pin number or something” you raised an eyebrow and when he ducked his head you felt your face flush. “You’re a shit liar John” you muttered, grabbing your coffee and trying to move around him but he stopped you with a hand on your arm “Don’t run. Please”

You cut your eyes up at him “Why? So you can laugh at me?” He looked shocked at that. “What?” you shrugged, waving a hand around yourself “Not exactly your type. Olivia was quite literally head cheerleader" he nodded slowly “Yeah and we divorced if you don’t remember”

You sighed “John, can we forget it?” he shrugged “Yeah but I feel kind of the same except I never want to throw you off a cliff. Maybe muzzle you a time or two but that’s about it”  “What?” you asked and he took your coffee and sat it down on the counter before stepping closer to you.

Before you could ask what he was doing he’d picked you up like you weighed nothing and sat you on the counter, stepping between your legs. “John!” you gasped and he grinned “I remember something about you wanting me to throw you around?” you grinned, letting your hands trail up his chest “Maybe?” he leaned down, lips just a breath away from yours “You can have me if you want me sweetheart. Even if it’s just for a one time thing”

You tugged him the rest of the way, crashing your lips against his. He seemed surprised for a moment but that quickly wore off and good lord could he kiss. It sent a shock straight through your core, a light whine escaping your lips. He pulled back from you with a laugh “What was that?” you pulled him back “I may just decide to keep you” he pressed another kiss to your lips, deepening it by flicking his tongue into your mouth, your hands slipping up around his neck while your legs slipped around his waist.

“EWW” you and he broke apart to see Yelena standing in the doorway. Her short blonde hair was sticking up in all directions and she looked disgusted “You have TWO bedrooms! Don’t do that here!” you burst out laughing, your head falling over on John’s chest as he laughed along with you. After a moment you cut your eyes up at him “She has a point. Your room or mine?” “Mine’s closer” he replied and you grinned “Yours it is”

Before you had time to climb off the counter he was flipping you over his shoulder. The entire room was turned upside down. You waved at Yelena who simply shook her head as the two of you walked out of the kitchen. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all that the alcohol loosened your lips a bit. 

[zoquette]

teach me?

oliver aiku x fem!/afab!reader genre : smut, mdni 18+ wc : 1k words cw : first time, f!giving, age gap (a lil)

imagine what it feels like to be 'just' a manager to the captain of U20s japan, not every girl is as lucky as y/n to be one.

it was the fresher welcome party for the new trainees who had recently joined the professional team. you made the arrangements of course, it was oliver who you work for, after all. he didn't want anything to get mess up, so he was quick put the pressure on you.

being with him was hella like what it felt like to be tortured, without any breaks not to mention. he wouldn't even care to move an inch from the couch while stuffing some snacks right after every practice or match.

stuff like doing the laundry, washing the utensils or cooking was way too far away to even be noticed in his daily routine. eat, sleep, practice and of course, video games always kept him too occupied to even care.

it felt like babysitting him.

but who you had your eyes on now, was just enough to take your mind off your tiring schedule. you would stare at sendou every time there was a team meeting or anything similar, he was the one you always needed by your side.

you had to discuss it with someone who knew sendou a lot, and it obviously was none other than your lousy 'foster baby' who you babysitted non-stop.

"aiku.."

"what?" can't you see I'm busy with something?" he frowns, without turning his head to face you, focused on his stupid video game.

wow. what a bitch.

but you really needed help from him, he's the only one who can get you close to your crush, even if you have to listen to his awfully attractive voice spilling shit.

"I wanted to learn something.. well um, things, actually so—" he cut you off, rolling his eyes at you. "didn't I just tell you something?" atleast he cared to grace you with a look.

but then again how the fuck could you forget that he's got that dicky attitude?

"oliver, hear me out for this once" you take a seat beside him, in front of a huge tv, on the couch. this was the first time you talked to him informally. it was actually very weird to keep saying 'mister' or 'sir' every time before his name as he was just about you own age.

he turned off the tv, facing you and giving in a small nod. he looked different, so mature up close but well, his actions spoke otherwise.

you took a deep breath, "sendou. I like him alot." you continue checking his reaction, only to find him looking curious but his eyes, they not seem to have their usual shine in them.

"and?" he raises a brow. "I want you to tell me, or even teach me, everything he likes about a girl" you let out a sign of relief, you did it, you actually asked him about sendou.

"what do I get in return?" oliver gets closer to your face, "hm?" you look at him with disbelief. "kidding" he lets out a chuckle.

"okay. he really wants to get together with a pin up model. that's it." you think over a quick second before replying, "now I can't suddenly become a model, you know?"

"you don't have to, you've already got the curves so just one thing to focus on" he grabs a can of coke from the side table. "what do you mean?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

"sex, darling, be good at it."

come on. that couldn't be true, really sendou? what the actual fuck are you, so pervy? but you knew you liked him anyways so you gotta do something.

"you know what? I'm a virgin. How am I supposed to be good at sex?" he looks a little shocked for some reason. "that's none of my problem, y/n."

"teach me?"

aiku chokes over the coke he just sipped a second ago, his eyes widening in surprise. was this actually happening? had destiny finally smiled at him?

"not the couch maybe?" your cheeks turning red while watching him strip his thin shirt off his well defined body which he noticed but didn't say a word, smirking in his mind.

damn. what a demi-god.

the next moment, he gestures you to follow him to his room. it's all clean and tidy thanks to you. aiku sits on the bed, "get down."

you gulped. nervousness sending shivers throughout you body, you can even hear how quickly your heart pounds, getting faster every millisecond.

"take it out" him barking orders is not new to you though, but it's still kinda scary. "use your mouth" oliver putting his weight on his arms on the bed as support.

you pulled his dick out and took a moment to realize how thick and long he was. how come you didn't even play the slightest attention before all this?

"staring, are we?"

you glare at him for pulling that awful, annoying joke, just another one of many. "what're you waiting for?!" oliver looked frustrated. the heck is his problem? it was your first time but he doesn't give a fuck about it?

he pushed your head down on his throbbing cock, your hair entangled in his fingers as his dick hits your throat so deep. a small tear fell from the corner of your eye, he could always be an asshole for sure.

you did your best to satisfy your 'mentor', which earned you a series of continuous pants and shit from him.

"mhm.. you're not so bad for first time, h-huh—?"

right after you were done, happy about your work, you made him cum not once, but twice in your mouth. "satisfied?" you looked at him, only to get ignored.

"you think."

confused about whatever he was pissed about. you did good, actually. maybe it was just that aiku hated the idea of you?

"that's not even close to giving pleasure to a man. you're just a cute little innocent one, sendou's outta your league."

that very moment, you pushed him to the bed to face you.

"lemme show you what even a novice can do."

© zqxouii — the storyline belongs to me and I do not consent anyone to translate, repost or rephrase my writing on any other platform so I expect you to respect my boundaries.

© dollywons for the divider ּ ֶָ֢୨ৎ.

[pyreo]

very ace post I'm about to make here

I think I'm just exhausted by how much of everything has to be Hot Woman

of course I'm responsible for choosing a lot of media I engage with here, that might be what's degrading my tolerance level, but like there's no escape from Hot Woman

you look into any kind of artistry by a man who's great at drawing or painting etc... as soon as you look for more stuff you'll also encounter 'guess how small I made her waist in proportion to her boobs'. but like, you can't judge. everyone can draw what they like.

fictional women in male dominated spaces have always been idealised but it feels like that overton window shifted once they figured out they could get away with anything. but it's just fanservice right. but it's so unavoidable. waifuslop dominates as a moneymaker which ensures there'll be more of it. character designs are less tasteful sideboob and more 'outfit with nothing on the legs just straight up underwear and we're pretending it's normal'

fantasy setting with grotesque monsters to be killed? the monsters can also be Hot Woman. a game where you obtain and raise creatres, well, of course, those can also be Hot Woman! here at women we are all about being controlled and managed by someone else, and we will do a little dance for you.

It's not any one thing. it's just everywhere. there's so many fantastic artists online, and they're working very hard with their own styles and ideas to formulate their very own best Hot Woman. And they have amazing taste! I love seeing designs and creativity, and yet in the back of my mind I know it's a variation on Hot Woman, the cultural topic. The inspirational ideal. I do this too!! I make up a character and I realise that I have a chance to be part of the Hot Woman moment. Whatever I'm not, she can be. But instead of that potential being varied and personal, I'm leaning towards the mould I've seen so many times. I can be a part of Hot Woman too.

And I should be part of it, right? Because there's supposed to be common ground there right? I identify as a woman for lack of anything more suitable. I guess that's what I am. My body represents those same ideas I'm seeing. Some anime lady with boobs bigger than her head... and me. Both women. There's gotta be some overlap.

And it's not the kind of dichotomy that gets solved by 'we should treat men the same! more male fanservice!' to me. You cannot do any of this to men. We will never be culturally inundated by images of men in speedos with massive cockbulges in our daily lives, in ads, on posters. We will never have every blockbuster movie based around dynamic interesting women while a dude is thrown in the back somewhere and just has a small romance going on. We will never trope-ify men into broad flavours like 'cute and fun and helpful' or 'dark and tall and sexy (dubious)' to classify them from the POV of picking The One For You off the shelf. We will never have animes about schoolboys where people argue on imageboards about which one is 'best boy', the one who succeeded in being Commodity.

I don't know what to do with this. This is an idea that has escaped out the window. Women get hired to stand in front of things. I'm in spaces that don't want me and freely advertise it - every convention I've ever been to has stalls with body pillows and a woman who wants to be fucked on it. And that's me, apparently! That's what I am! I'm supposed to be like that. Hot Woman doesn't look like me - I'm unfortunate enough to sit in anime video game spaces where they can't even be an average weight, let alone having realistic diversity. But Hot Woman does have the appeal of weight while being thin, because now every girl - that's me! - has a random belt strap around her skinny thigh, with a meticulously drawn flesh pudge either side. She's thicc now. That's what thicc means, being underweight, having huge tits, an utterly flat stomach, and a strap on your leg that would cut off circulation.

This is a genre. Of course it's always existed. And how can I blame anyone for the fun of a fantasy, for idealisation, for people joining in without wondering if it could ever be different. Imagine a world, people say, where Hot Woman can ALSO... wear glasses. Incredible. Just imagine. She's still hot though. Hot Woman cannot be dulled or diluted, but we can expand her domain.

I don't know. Obviously nobody is doing this with the expectation that real life women should conform to a concept on paper. It's not coercive. There are women who choose to have vtuber avatars with boobs that fill the entire screen. That's what they want.

I should be grateful for the rows of sultry-eyed babes staring at me across the convention hall, because the next booth is gonna have children, girls who look maybe 6-8, on the pillows, right there among the families cosplaying together. So it could be worse. Sometimes the girls look visibly distressed. It doesn't really get mentioned. Nobody else is taking issue with it, I wouldn't want to be a killjoy. So it's fine. It's fine. Let's see some massive boobs, haha.

[transformers-spike]

I was re-reading "Visitors" and I couldn't help but feel like I was watching a nature documentary with Soundwave, got a little giggle out of me when I thought about it.

So I thought about it more and I was thinking, what if the Quintessons were still around and watching the cybertronian's during their war? And now they were studying them along with the humans they have among them and everything is getting compiled into their own twisted little version of a nature documentary. (Note: I have not learned all of TFP's lore so I have no idea if the Quintessons are even a thing or if they're DEad, but SHSHHHHHH justpretend-)

Examples being like:

"Here is the cowardly Vosnian flyer, his sleek figure and large wings makes him one of the fastest flying specimen that we have recorded on this ship, and with his easily frightened nature, his speed comes in handy when he needs to make a quick escape. We watch now as he attempts to court and show off all of his attributes to the nesting human, his techniques lie within his build. He will extend his wings as wide as they will go and makes a show of his sharp claws by clicking them against his plating or the nest the human lays in, showing off his figure as a way telling the human how well he is capable of protecting and providing for them, especially in their time of need. As the human watches his performance, they are determining whether or not he is a suitable partner by the amount of pheromones they release into the air. If all goes well, the human will allow him into their nest to mate."

Or

"A pair of Velocitronians, one never too far of the other, now approach the heat bound human. Their goal, to mate with the human until their heat is over. The smaller of the two is the brains of this operation, he will subtly rev his engines, filling the room with purring sounds that would be pleasing to the human's muddled senses, the spinning of the wheels on his back is a hypnotizing tactic and a sign to the other cybertronian that this is the beginning of their velocitronian mating ritual. His larger blue partner is the muscle, he has the task of making sure that the human is comfortable while they are preoccupied with watching the red mechs show, as he moves slowly behind the human, he slowly revs his engines and heats his plating. Once close he'll proceed to grab and position the human in a more suitable mating form, if the human shows no resistance and relaxes from the heat emanating from his body, then they are ready to commence mating and the red cybertronian will move in to seal the deal."

sssssorry this is long, I just thought it was a silly thing. LOVE YOUR WORK :)))))

Anon, I need you to know how fucking badly I needed this

Omg... fucking... Quintessons making nature documentaries out of Cybertronians trying to rizz up a human in heat. That's... bruh, I'm literally crying rn - such a beautiful idea

If you have more to add I will die on the spot

Now I'm already imagining the Quintesson equivalent of Gordan Freeman narrating the entire thing

Do you think a Quintesson has ever woken up to "The Cybertronian spike can weigh up to 2 tons"?

And obviously the awkward as hell mating scene a family member will 100% walk in on where the human gets fragged in a mating press by the most dominant mech of the ship (aka Megatron)

Also I greatly appreciate the KO and BD bit because there are legit cases in nature where two males support each other during mating. You know damn well that human is about to take one spike after the other

Anyway, I love this post will all my heart

[m1ssunderstanding]

The John Lennon Owner's Manual By Paul McCartney

1. Make him food. I mean actually cook for him. Don't just take him out. He needs to feel loved and settled. John had a bit of a difficult childhood. He won't say it, but he craves security, and a good home-cooked meal can give that to him if only momentarily. Steak and potatoes is his favorite for dinner. Black pudding for breakfast. He also recently got a taste for a good American picnic lunch. Just real, hearty food. Hopefully you know what I mean.

2. On the other hand, you can't fall for his ‘i just want to stay home on the couch all the time’ routine. That's bullshit. He'll kick and scream on the way out, but the minute he's out of the house, he's like a dog at the park, or a bird headed South. Take him to the water. Boating, swimming, just staring at crashing waves or ships in the harbor. Take him to those rotating art galleries with different exhibits each month. Clubs, but it's got to be the good kind. You won't know what I'm talking about. Ask Brian or Mal. When you're dancing, ignore John's tough guy act. Twirl him, dip him, show him off. While we're treating John like a woman, John loves shopping more than any bleeding bird (girl) you ever went with. Clothes, books, sweets, gadgets. Take him. And you can't worry about all the money he's spending. Just be very excited about whatever it is he's spending it on.

3. Speaking of money. I assume you've taken over all my assets with my identity. I actually am terrified of John spending everything he owns and ending up completely broke, and it's not because I'm crazy. It's a legitimate possibility. So what you have to do, if you actually care about John, is be very very VERY careful with my money so he's always got a safety net.

4. Listen to him. This one is important. Every joke is a fucking tear-jerking rib cracker. Every snide comment is a scripture you're going to memorize and carve into the mountainside. He is an actual genius. I'm not being funny. I'm not being in love. Or obsessive as you'd call it. John’s brain operates on a level that's beyond even me. Quicker, deeper. All of it. So to you, he's basically a god. Anyway, my point is, treat him like a gift to the world, because he is one. Back up his plans. Draw attention to his wildness. Explain away the behaviors that to smaller minds might seem cruel or immature etc. File away little details of things he tells you for future use. I would usually answer them in a song, which you can't do. But you could call back to them with a public private joke. Or if it's some insecurity he's confessed, bring up how insane that thought is when he's had some minor success. Mention some random fact he taught you when you're bragging about him to strangers. Buy him that thing he once pointed out in passing at the shops.

5. Keep him working. I think all people experience this one, really, so this is probably self-explanatory, but just in case. If a person is feeling sorry for themselves, they might lose the motivation they need for the projects that make them happy. So they might stop working on those projects, which means they lose both the joy they get from the actual work, and the satisfaction and pride they get from a job well done. Think about how this cycle works in you, multiply it by fifty, and you've got John on a good day. He needs to be pushed. But he can't think you're telling him what to do, and he can't think you don't believe he can do it alone. You've got to be a bit sneaky with it.

6. Touch him. You were right. This is where – well part of where – I know I let him down. He loves to be touched. Anywhere. All the time. Even stupid shit like an ankle kick under the table or a shoulder nudge in the hallway will get you the most rewarding beaming beautiful smile. I guess you must know all about John and sex, so I won't go into detail here, but again. Just in case. You probably know his m.o. with sex is tender, romantic, passionate. Kissing your neck and running soft fingers up your leg before he takes you in hand. Arching his back and throwing his head back with reckless grace when you grind into him. Staring into your eyes and holding you in him deep as you come. Cuddles and heart-to-hearts after. But he also loves it when you mix it up a bit, you know? He's open to quite literally anything and he needs variety here as in every area of his life. But really. The point is, he needs to be touched. Probably goes back to the difficult upbringing thing, I don't know. He’s a bloody good hugger. He needs more of that. I should've done more of that with him. A lot more.

7. You will never be able to make him truly happy. Not the way that I can. So until you give him up, you're lying to yourself about loving him and doing what's best and all of that. I'm not helping you because I'm scared for me but because I'm scared for John. Try not to fuck this up for him.

8. Which reminds me. If you're ever out walking with John, especially in London. Say you're walking to the studio or something. Make sure John's on the side of the sidewalk close to all the houses and shops etc. You stay on the side of the road. The streets get busy. He doesn't see well. It's your job now to keep him safe. Take it seriously.

[idontknowmanijustlikereading]

Unique!AU: Habits/Urges

Alright, I can finally rope our dearest Rumi into this as well! Let's get into the habits and urges that arise with their funky genetics:

Starting with Rumi since I haven't included her much in this au yet. These are going to be post reveal btw, because my girl was deep in suppression before:

Rumi, anxious half-demon:

I have very much fallen for the "Rumi purrs, growls and is a walking mood ring" propaganda. She can also whine pathetically like a kicked puppy. It's just as effective as Zoey's puppy-dog eyes.

You want to really hear her purr? Gently take the braid out and scratch her scalp. Since both Mira and Zoey have sharp nails Rumi is in absolute heaven every time they do this. Which is just about always since they love hearing her purring.

Has the urge to "feel" Zoey and Mira's souls. She doesn't fully want to consume them as much as she just likes to kind of brush against them(don't ask me how this works idfk). They are offered on a silver platter to her at all times because of how much the other two trust her, so she kind of uses them like you would scented candles.

She does sometimes get cuteness/love aggression with this and feels the urge to just squeeze the souls until they're dust. This scares the shit out of her, to the point of isolation. Mira and Zoey have to coax her out of hiding with reassurances that, no, she's not a monster or a danger to them, she just loves them a lot.

(She obviously would never hurt either of them, but even the thought makes her want to vomit)

Is heat resistant, so she sometimes forgets to use oven mittens and just grabs it willy nilly. Mira was the first to see this and damn near had a heart attack.

Is constantly jump scaring Zoey with how quiet she is (She has not quite managed to bypass Mira's enhanced senses yet).

Once the secret is out, she does get into growl matches with Mira sometimes. Almost never over anything serious. Rumi sounds a bit like a tiger growling, but Mira sounds a lot more like a fucking dinosaur. The lizard bastard. Zoey likes to record them sometimes just for the growls(she thinks it's hot).

Fairly possessive over people she consider "hers". Doesn't like people getting too close to them or touching them. Always gets really guilty for the irrational anger she feels if these things happen. (The girls being "hers" is a given, but Bobby also falls into this category, just not in the romantic sense)

Because of the suppression of her demon side, there are constantly new things that she is discovering about herself. She and the girls keep note of everything.

Starts teething when her fangs are coming in. If the ache is mild, Mira and Zoey are more than willing "victims" of the teething, but if it's bad, she uses those baby toys.

Tends to perch on things like a gargoyle. Stays as still as one as well. The kitchen counter, the back of the couch etc.

Has perched on Mira's shoulders before, will do so again.

She likes the high ground(okay Obi-wan).

Has fallen asleep on Zoey while she was floating in he air. Imagine Rumi laying on her while Zoey is just flat in the air, stomach towards the ceiling. The image hopefully reminds you of a big-cat napping on a tree branch, limbs hanging loosely towards the ground and all that, completely conked out, because that's what I'm picturing.

Is a bit more nocturnal than a human, so she tends to nap throughout the day if they have things they need doing in the daylight.

Mira, resident half-dragon:

Hoarding. She does it to things she has an emotional attachment to instead of just money.

Every little thing that Rumi, Zoey and Bobby has gifted her has a place in her hoard. There are little notes of encouragement, some knick knacks, clothes that the other's thought would fit her(in general things that they got her when she wasn't with them, because it showed that they thought about her even tho she wasn't there)

She also kind of hoards people. This only extends to Rumi and Zoey, though.

She does not like when they are out of range for her senses. It makes her anxious and frays her nerves a bit. Prefers when they're all together and within reach. Kind of like a boarder Collie, she tends to herd them all together to the same space.

Has to be outside for a moment if it's raining/storming. Fucking loves the rain and how it feels on her skin and scales. She doesn't get sick from the cold, so the other two don't really have an excuse to drag her back inside(they like to watch how she shimmers and how pleased/peaceful she looks in the rain), unless they have other things going on.

Even then it's an uphill battle, with Zoey having to deploy her best puppy-dog eyes and Rumi whining at her until she folds and goes back inside. She will grumble about it and spitefully not use her water-abilities to dry herself before stepping back inside, dragging in half a river with her soaked hair.

Same goes for beach/pool-days. Mira will be more raisin than human/dragon by the time she gets out of the water.

Takes extremely long showers

She sheds her scales once in a while. The new scales grow under the old ones until the old ones are more stiff and fall off. Sometimes they don't fall off, though, and she has to get them off manually. Rumi and Zoey love helping with this, because they think it's really satisfying to peel them off. (Mira thinks they're slightly weird for this, but it feels nice and they seem so happy about it so she doesn't actually mind beyond a bit of light teasing.)

Once a scale is shed it's very solid, since it's old and no longer needs to be pliant for movement. It feels and looks a bit like metal. Pink metal, but metal nonetheless.

Rumi and Zoey noticed this and fucking ran with it, turning them into jewelry. First time Mira saw Zoey with rings made from her scales and Rumi with her scales dangling from her ears, she blushed so hard the pink scales on her face were a lighter shade than the red in her cheeks.

Always sleeps on her side or stomach because of her spine spikes and horns.

Speaking off: She will melt into goo the moment they scratch her back, specifically between the spine ridges. All three of them have some form of claws and they all take full advantage. The back and scalp scratches are phenomenal.

Also loves it when they scratch the base of her horns. Can and will give happy chuffs like a tiger.

Will also give head bumps as a sign of affection. Watch out for the horns.

Zoey, chaotic part go dokkaebi:

Dokkaebi are spirits, right? Spirits/ghosts tend to have spooky voices that are haunting and echo, right? Right. Zoey can also do this type of voice, but she doesn't do it much. She either does it to mess with the other two a little (it doesn't work much anymore, but in the beginning they freaked out every time she did it), but mostly she does it when they're far away so she doesn't have to yell. Since the spooky voice echoes, it carries farther without as much effort.

First time she did it for something mundane whichever one she spoke to came out looking like they were haunted. They were just chilling in their room, and then they just heard "Mira/Rumi, Come here..." in that classic "oh shit I'm about to be murdered by a ghost" voice.

She has urges towards pranks. Like an itch under her skin. She is capable of ignoring this for a while, especially if the other two really aren't in the mood. It's never anything malicious, just harmless things, like giving them a cup of coffee with too much sugar/no sugar while already having a perfect cup prepared etc.

Between Rumi's teleporting and Zoey's speedblitzing, Mira has her work cut out for her when those two get the zoomies. Usually she lets them tire each other out(and hopes they do so without casualties or property damage)

Likes to kind of submerge herself in the Honmoon. Just feel it ripple across herself and others. Especially likes to check in with the other two through it.

In general likes to sit in/run around magic rich areas and soak in it like a flower would the sun. Rumi and Mira don't actually feel or sense magic in the same way Zoey does, but they're more than happy to gain joy from Zoey's pleasure.

Post reveal she almost never uses a glamor around the penthouse. It drains energy, not much, but she still doesn't want to bother with it if she doesn't have to. The only things she still consistently hides are the black sclera, gums, and tongue. It's something Rumi and Mira work tirelessly towards getting her comfortable with showing (they both find these features extremely hot so their motives aren't completely selfless lmao)

Her patterns aren't sensitive like Rumi's are, but she still really enjoys it when the other's run their fingers across them.

Her own patterns actually helped Rumi a lot with accepting hers.

"Do you find me repulsive?" "What? No!" "Do my marks disgust you?" "No! Of course not! I love you and your marks, not despite them!" "...Do you get it yet?" "..." "Would you like us to say it?" "...Yes please."

Flies. A. Lot.

Mostly it's in the living area, where she'll just be aimlessly spinning in circles while writing down lyrics.

Sometimes she'll pretend to be sitting on a wall because she thinks it's funny.

A lot of the time she's upside down. (Spider-man kisses are frequent.)

Does actually use her magic in public sometimes. Usually it's with younger fans, where she'll create some sparks/mini fireworks in her hands.

The fans have created compilations of Zoey doing tricks, and Zoey never explains anything beyond "a magician never reveals their secrets ;)"

The mythical world is the most suspicious of Zoey being one of them simply because of how "open" she is with her magic. (she is still very careful about anything that couldn't be explained away, so no one is actually sure)

Gets antsy and agitated if she goes too long without using a weapon. Usually she solves this by either sparring or twiddling with her shin-kals. (very good with her hands)

When she was younger she'd give her parents heart attacks because they'd find her tossing knives with scary accuracy.

Goblin cackles every once in a while.

Likes to sometimes hold onto her tusks. She doesn't know why she likes it, probably because it puts a nice pressure on her skull.

Can, will, and has bent herself into cabinets before. She likes the spaces.

[highway-143]

lucifer- choi san

genre: smut, mafia au, based on the "in your fantasy" mv

pairing: mob leader!san × mob member fem!reader

taglist: (ateez/enhypen taglist open: im not gonna tag anyone bc idk who wants to read ateez on my taglist 😭)

word count: 1.7k

now playing: in your fantasy - ateez

a.n- finally picked my ass up and started writing for other groups 😩😩 hope this is good ig lol... also can you spot the mv references? hehehehehe

tw: profanity, unprotected sex, public sex, maybe dubcon idk, sir kink, rough sex, posessive-ish san teehee, dacraphylia, exhibitionism, probably some form of voyeurism idk, probably more lol

⊹────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────⋆

"do you even get what's happening here?"

you were standing in front of san on the balcony, his hand gripping your biceps, squeezing just enough to sting. his face was contorted into furrowed brows and a grimace. something like disgust.

"do you understand who's here right now?"

the theater below was filled with the wealthiest of the wealthy, the people with the most power, anyone with influence.

and that meant san.

and for some reason, you.

how could mr. mafia go to a play without a woman on his arm and a glass of wine in his hand?

except that glass looked like it was goint to be crushed with how tight he was holding onto it.

"yes, sir." you mutter.

"really? then fucking act like it. this is not the time for you to act out of line."

you frown. "all i did was shake the guy's hand! how the hell is that 'out of line'?"

"oh my god, are you dumb?" his voice is getting louder now, and your eyes dart to the crowd only yards away. "you're mine. that's how it works here. he shouldn't be touching you. you don't touch anyone else. there's no telling what these men will do, especially when women and money are involved."

you scoff, and san drags you closer to him. close enough to where you can almost taste his his cologne, close enough to where you can see just a faint outline of a scar on his chest where his silk dress shirt cut so low it was almost sinful.

"you think this is dumb? you chose this, remember? you need this. need me. you'd be on the fucking streets if it wasn't for me. you know how this works."

"fine. i'll be good. your quiet little doll, right?"

he can practically smell the sarcasm radiating off of you. but he ignores it.

for now.

⊹────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────⋆

the second you set a heeled foot back in the ballroom, san regrets letting you go back.

he knows you're going to make this harder for him. he can tell in the way you sit when he pulls out your chair, how your posture is impeccable even under his gaze.

his jaw tightens when you laugh at something someone said.

you notice.

you weren't planning on stopping.

san catches your gaze during intermission, and he places a hand on your thigh.

he starts tapping.

long, short short short. pause. short long. pause. short long, short short. pause. long, short long, short. pause. long, long, long. pause. long, short. pause. long, short long, long.

balcony.

you hold back a smirk. barely. san can tell.

he hates the way you get up from your chair, making up an excuse about how you're "so sorry but i have to go to the restroom."

you climb the stairs alone, san acting like everything was perfectly fine while he was surrounded by people.

until he excused himself too.

you didn't know when he would join you on the balcony, but you were starting to wonder when the lights dimmed and the show continued.

you must have waited for a few minutes, watching the play from above while your heart pounded.

until you felt a hand on your waist.

and you knew who's it was.

"how's it going up here?" his lips are right by your ear. you can feel his breath on your neck.

"fine." you fake canfidence, but you're certian he can see right through you.

"yeah? but it didn't seem fine while we were down there, did it?"

you shrug. "i thought it was going well."

he's directly behind you, chest pressed against your back. "was it? i don't think it was."

"was i too loud for you? your ego cant take a talkative woman, can it?" you spin around, back pressed to the balcony wall. "or maybe," you stare into his eyes, right in front of you. "maybe i'm actually making a better impression than you. all quiet and brooding like an introverted douchebag."

he freezes, and you can tell the words made him mad. but his scowl turns into a sneer within seconds. "really? you don't know how to fucking act around these idiots, do you? you're embarrassing yourself, bitch. giggling like a mindless slut at jokes that arent nearly funny enough for your time."

you laugh. "so you're jealous? try being funny and maybe i'll laugh at you sometime. oh wait, i already do. at your stupid 'mob etiquette' that makes absolutely no sense. that's the real joke"

he grabs your forearm, holding your hand up to your face. "you see that?" he asks, clearly talking about the small tattoo on your inner wrist, still a little red from healing and slightly covered by the sleeve of your blouse.

it's a symbol, the mob's. a king of diamonds playing card, except the diamonds were in the shape of an hourglass. "do you know what it means? it means you're gonna fucking listen to me when i tell you what to do. you made a deal. you hold up your end of the bargain."

"and i'm just making it fun."

he smirks. "making it fun? i can do that too, whore."

he spins around, pulling you by where he was still gripping your arm. he drags you to the wall, away from the balcony, where he pushes you against the gold detailing.

"you do what i say, right?"

you can't help but grin. "yes."

"yes what?"

"sir."

he presses his knee between your thighs, his pants sliding against yours, dragging along your heat.

"you like that?" he asks when you twitch, mouth dropping open. you nod, balancing yourself by holding onto his shoulders. he chuckles, voice gravely with lust, and grabs your jaw with his hands.

"you're gonna take it like a good girl, aren't you?" he grins when you whimper. "gon' be nice 'n quiet for me."

he drags a hand down your neck, your collarbones, down to your chest, rubbing his thumb over your breast, digging his fingers into your blouse while he started undoing a few of the buttons.

"god, you look so good like this. mine. sexy."

you almost giggle but you can't really think with the way he's fondling your tits and pulling your shirt to the side so he can see your bra.

"not here... please." you look over at the bodygaurds standing in front of the windows a few feet away, clearly side-eyeing the scene san was making no matter how shadowed it was. "please sir."

san just laughs and shoves your bra down, letting your breasts spill free.

you feel your eyes start to water, but you force yourself to take his hands.

god, his hands.

he looks down at you, grinning like the devil, rolling up his silk sleeves while digging his knee into your cunt like he was trying to shove it inside you.

and then he's touching you again.

hes unbuttoning your slacks, pushing them down with your panties in tow.

his fingers slip through your folds, and you buck your hips into his palm.

"oh my god-" you mutter, head spinning when you feel his thumb on your clit.

he smirks and rubs faster, feeling your fingers dig into his shoulder with every flick, every press of his hand onto your waist.

and the second you think about letting yourself go, he's not touching you.

he's unbuttoning his pants instead.

he smiles when his dick hits you on the stomach, and you let a little gasp slip out.

"you like my cock, right? it's your favorite, huh?"

"y-yes sir."

"and when i put it in and start fucking you like the whimpering whore you are, are you gonna cum before i tell you to?"

your legs are about to give out now. "no sir."

"good girl."

he grabs your thigh and lifts it up so your knee is hooked over his hip. and then he drags his tip through your wet lips.

his eyes meet yours.

"oh fuck!" you shout, and san covers your mouth with his free hand, his cock stretching you open and pushing further in with every twitch of your hips.

"shut up... shut up and fucking take it." he mutters as he starts moving, hips pushing into and pulling out of you slow. but deep. very, very deep.

so deep you thought you could feel him in your throat.

but maybe that was his hand on your neck.

his pace is killing you, the way he moves so slow, like this is all a game to him, like it wasnt torture on your poor, wet pussy.

"oh god, faster... please..." you mumble, trying to be quiet even though the gaurds had certainly already seen by now.

"you want it faster, huh? thought you didn't even want it at all?"

you dont respond. your face is red and sweaty and you're pretty sure your mascara is running but you couldn't care less.

because san is fucking you faster.

he slams his dick into you harder, holds your neck a little tighter, squeezes your thigh in ways that will leave bruises for a while.

your mascara is definitely running now. the tears made sure of that.

san lets go of your neck to hold your other leg when it gives out, wrapping it around his waist and holding you against the wall. his arms are flexing but he can barely feel it.

he loves the burn anyway.

when he feels you clenching harder around him, your gasps getting louder, your hands digging into his back, he fucking pulls out.

you almost scream.

not again.

san is fucking laughing. "you should've just taken what i fucking gave you." he drops you and you barely catch yourself.

"please..." you whine, hands still on his chest. you're a mess, hair sweaty, makeup smeared, tits still out and pants on the floor, along with one of your heels.

he scoffs. "go clean yourself up, slut." he pushes you towards the bathroom, zips his pants up, and walks away, strides long and confident.

bastard.

but god knows he wasn't done with you. that's clear in his cunning smile when he sits back down at the table.

⊹────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────⋆

a.n- "im getting in your head" more like "im getting in your bed" BAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH that was really bad omg

masterlist you may also like: babygirl- s.jy

[letmeoutofthebasementt]

Felix Possessiveness

SKZ Possessiveness series pt. 3: (when they're in a serious relationship do they get possessive at all? What makes them possessive if they get possessive? How do they act in a relationship? What's their response/behavior when possessive? How do they handle it?)

Felix can be the possessive type, but it's not obvious, nor is it a side of himself he really gives the time of day. He trusts his partners a lot, and is generally optimistic about certain things. He also knows his worth. That's literally what I got, 'I know my worth'. At the end of the day, anyone who would do something to risk losing him isn't worth having? In his mind. He's more possessive than jealous though, I will say.

He feels lucky to have his partners when he has them. Like they're a dream come true, or some divine gift.

His work-life imbalance definitely amplifies those feelings though. Because he's on the other side of the world and his partner is back wherever they are, and it stresses him out. Because he's someone who likes having his partner near. He likes knowing what they're doing, he likes being in the loop. Obviously, they're allowed independence, but he's also in general someone who likes being close to his loved ones or it gives him anxiety, because he feels like he has to look after them and make sure they're OK and safe. So when his partner is away, it stresses him out a lot.

He's the type who's constantly stalking people's locations on Find My. Like checking every five minutes. Probably texts the other members when they're at chipotle with his order saying he'll pay them back, and they're just like 'WTF?'.

That's what he's like. He likes keeping tabs on people and generally just...Knowing everything about them. He's very nosey.

He also just doesn't like competition. Not in a jealous way but in a possessive way. Like 'We're supposed to be together and you're supposed to be devoted to ME. We're supposed to belong to each other so why TF are you letting this person encroach on MY PLACE in your life?' Shit like that. And then he gets pissed and blows up, and you argue about it.

And Felix is stubborn. One thing about him, during arguments he is never wrong. NEVER. He can AND WILL argue for hours, tears streaming down his face, until he wears you down and you're just like 'whatever', something gets in the way of it continuing, or you give in. It very rarely happens, but when it does he's gone. And he's a loud arguer.

Felix is the type to walk away to cool down after an argument, and actually think about what he did/said and your side. So he can calm down and collect his thoughts and be rational. And that's when he realizes 'Oh, i'm being overly possessive right now' or whatever the argument was about.

But if YOUUUU walk away? He starts tweaking to the highest caliber. Because in his mind, in that moment you're trying to walk out on him, and so he'll 100% try and stop you. Because he's like 'Well why don't you want to be near me?' Because when he gets genuinely really angry he's not necessarily thinking straight. All he's thinking about is getting his point across.

But I also think those arguments would effectively stop those behaviors, at least in that specific relationship? Because it's line 'damn, I almost fucked it all. up. And for what?' Like, that moment of self-awareness after is revolutionary for him.

In general, he doesn't like how possessive he can get because it conflicts with the rest of him. He's a more light and fun and happy and optimistic person. He's more floating on cloud nine, detached, doing his own thing. Which always makes the fallout worse because he's having this internal conflict every time those feelings come up.

So, nowadays he doesn't show it at all. He used to when he was younger and more immature, but now he pushes down and ignores that side of him, and is trying to grow from those behaviors.

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

Lucifer x Aspec!Reader

This drabble for my fellow aspecs <3

Lucifer is the most loving man someone could ask for, he's pretty much the perfect boyfriend in all the ways that matter most

He spends every minute he can with you, encourages you, protects you, loves you with everything he has

You had yet to explore the intimate side of your relationship with him; and that terrified you

Would he be upset? Angry? Leave you just like that because you can't satisfy him sexually?

When your kisses became more heated one night, you froze, tears threatening to fall down your flushed cheeks

"Oh! Honey, what's the matter? What's wrong? Lucifer asked, cupping your face, worry plastered on his own.

"I'm sorry," you choked out, "I'm so sorry, I-I can't...I don't know...fuck, I'm sorry..."

"Hey, hey, hey," he cooed, "it's alright. You're okay. Are you hurt? Did something happen? Tell me what's wrong."

You couldn't hold back the tears anymore, doing your best not to cry out. You held it in as best you could

You knew how to do that all too well

"I'm going to disappoint you," you stammered through your cries. "You don't want me, Lucifer."

Lucifer looked at you stunned at your words. His eyebrows fell, he looked at you with such concern. "Of course I want you. Why would you think I wouldn't?"

"I feel broken," you admitted. "I'm not...I don't think I can give you everything you want..."

Lucifer sat there letting you explain, his expression still displayed one of hurt. Not for himself, but for you.

"I should have told you sooner, it would have saved us both the trouble. I didn't want to hurt you..."

"Tell me what, love," he pleaded, "why do you feel like this?"

"I don't know if I can ever be truly intimate with you..." the words poured from your lips like water breaking free from a dam. "I know most people need that in a relationship to work. But...I don't know if I can give that to you. It's not that I don't want to, I just...I can't bring myself to go that far...Lucifer, I'm sorry..."

Lucifer quickly wrapped you in a tight embrace, burying his face in your neck. "I need you to understand something," he spoke softly. "You're everything I want. You always will be. I don't care what you can or can't give me. That's not why I love you."

The waterworks continued as you clung to him. You continued to apologize over and over for who you were.

He was having none of it

"Sweetie, you don't need to apologize." He kissed the side of your head tenderly. "I don't need sex. Hell, angels weren't even created to be intimate! That's a human thing! Even some humans don't have that drive!" He laughed softly to try and lighten the mood "Whatever I've done in the past, it wasn't for me. Sure, it feels good, but so does eating ice cream or creating rubber ducks! It's all temporary pleasure. The last thing I want is for you to think I would leave you over something like this."

You took a deep breath, calming yourself down to be able to speak properly again. "I never thought about it like that..."

Lucifer pulled away and smiled at you. "I'll love you regardless, I promise you. And if you ever change your mind, that's perfectly fine too! I'll make sure to go at your pace. But that's your decision, I'll never EVER pressure you for it."

You smiled back, wiping away the last of your tears. "Thank you, Lucifer. I'm sorry again..."

His lips met yours as he cradled your face. "No more apologies from you tonight, there was never anything to be sorry for." Lucifer shifted himself towards the head of the bed and patted the spot next to him. "I think you need some cuddle time, love. Come on up!"

You followed happily, crawling your way towards him, laying yourself across his body and laying your head against his chest.

"Thank you," you whispered as you felt yourself become sleepier by the second. "I love you."

Lucifer pressed one more kiss to the top of your head before unconsciousness took over. "I love you more."