#and so horny??

[save-the-villainous-cat]

I'd like to request a snippet for a justice-driven homicidal Vampire Hunter getting bitten by his long-time femdommy Vampire rival and enjoying it far more than he expected. Can be as suggestive as you wish <3

He didn’t talk for a long, long time. He just watched her curiously, not really sure what he would do, now that he was alone in a room with her again.

Last time turned out horribly wrong with her destroying all his weapons and pushing him against the wall. He wasn’t one to lose his composure easily but that one was…challenging.

“Ugh. You again?” she asked. Her pupils were dilated, two massive black holes in a dimly lit room that sucked him in. “Come back later.”

His eyes fell on the shards on the floor, the deep scratches in the wooden desk. A drawer was destroyed, torn into pieces. Usually, order was important to her. Wherever she was, there was a certain grace that followed her.

“I’m here to finally end this,” the vampire hunter said. “And I’m not leaving this room until I do.”

Usually, she would’ve laughed at that. She liked to tease him. Make fun of him.

But she didn’t say a thing, she just rolled her eyes and groaned. One hand sank into her smooth hair, grabbing her skull as she was squeezing her eyes together.

He’d never seen her like this before. Tortured like that.

Oh god.

She seemed to be in pain, fingers grabbing the desk hard enough to make the wood crack. Was she sick? Injured?

“I’ll make this quick. Some hunters capture vampires and force them to walk in the sun until they die.” This was mercy, wasn’t it? It’s what he had to do, what he was trained to do.

“Aren’t you a sunshine?” she asked. Her eyes found him again and hunger and insanity seemed to mix in them. He was more enticed than he should’ve been.

He’d been after her for months now, had spent years trying to end her. So many times, he’d been this close.

And he kept hesitating every single time. Sometimes he cursed himself for that. She seemed to be so much better at being his enemy.

“Look, pretty boy.” She looked at him and he noticed that her eyes were bloodshot. “I will decapitate you with my hands and let your head rot on my desk if you don’t leave now.”

“You’re sick.”

“So I’ve been told,” she said.

“No. You’re sick. You’re ill. Something’s wrong.” He took a step towards the desk, watching her hands, her body to detect any signs of danger but she didn’t seem to be capable of fighting right now. Her muscles tensed and relax almost rhythmically. “I can’t kill you when you’re ill.”

Technically, not true.

He took another step towards her, trying to reach her with his hand.

“I’m good with medicine and I have enough knowledge about vampires to help you, just let me—”

He didn’t know exactly why he was acting like an absolute idiot. When it came to her, his brain shut off and showed no signs of going back up.

She snatched his wrist and slammed it into the wall, panting as she pressed him against it once again. Her fangs hovered over his bare skin. He felt her breath on his neck, heavy and fast, and god, he realised how lonely he was.

“You have to go,” she said.

“I’ve never seen you act like this,” he said, his heart hammering in his chest. He concentrated on her body, trying to think of any sickness she could have. Nothing came to mind. “I’ve never seen a vampire act like this.”

“I…” She let her head drop, still panting, still clawing at his wrist. Their chests were touching and he was sure he was going insane when her forehead rested on his shoulder. “I’m trying to starve myself.”

“What?” he whispered, angry at the thought and confused why she would want to do that.

“My niece died three months ago of old age. She was the last of my family. They’re all dead now. I haven’t tasted blood since.”

“Are you insane?! Three months?” Her breath was slowing, her grip loosening. He knew she was probably at the end of her tether, with his heart beating hard enough for the two of them to hear. It probably took all her composure not to make a meal out of him.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I would’ve asked you but…I don’t think you can kill me.”

“Excuse me?”

She raised her head to look up at him.

“No offence,” she said, studying his face. He was probably drenched in red, even though he wanted to play it cool. “Fuck, you’re so adorable…”

He knew how unfair life could be. A long time ago she had mentioned that she never wanted to be a vampire in the first place.

To watch everyone around her die, to be alone for good…he swallowed, touched by how much he could relate to that.

It wasn’t easy, this profession. Most people didn’t make it to their 30s.

“Bite me,” he whispered gently.

“What?”

“Bite me,” he said again. “Please. I’ll beg for it if I have to. Please, help yourself.”

She was tired, he could tell. Maybe that was why she didn’t argue. Her nails dug into his shoulders and if that wasn’t enough to ruin him already, she licked his neck generously, sucking on the spot she wanted. He cursed quietly, trying to hold onto her hips but she was faster and pressed his wrists above his head with one hand.

The other found his jawline and followed it. When she was done with her preparations, she pressed a kiss to the wet spot on his neck and moved on to brush her lips against his.

“Is this really what you want?”

“Might as well have some fun before I kill you, huh?” He chuckled nervously. God, he was rusty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched like this.

“Don’t get cocky now,” she warned, lifting her knee to press it between his thighs. “Don’t get cocky…”

He groaned, nearly whimpered and leaned his head back, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He wondered if this was how everyone who got bitten by her felt like and that thought alone made him jealous.

He was a starved man, he realised. Starved like her, for other reasons and maybe for the same reason. He had expected her to be ice cold and though her skin was a lot cooler than his, she was comforting.

Being close to her made him feel at peace. It was as if he’d known her in his previous lives, as if this was meant to be. He couldn’t allow himself to think thoughts like that…

“Please…”

“Shhh, my love.” She sucked a hickey into his neck and it slowly dawned on him that she was edging herself. Sucking that blood to the surface, taking her time…or maybe she just wanted to edge him.

Maybe she was just as nervous as he was, maybe she was just as rusty. He couldn’t tell. And he didn’t care. He cursed himself for all the wasted years.

One last time, her tongue went over his skin and then, he felt a sharp pain, followed by sweet release and an overwhelming amount of pleasure.

He wanted to hunt her for eternity, he wanted to hate her, he wanted to call her his undying nemesis so bad but above all, he wanted to fall asleep on her chest with her long fingers buried in his hair.

[shesdrinkingcoffee]

[letoilepourpre]

og post

[maxfieldparrishes]

we told caitvi "go to horny jail" and they said "okay bet 👍✌️👅"

[beetleandfox]

I love how unsanitized The Terror feels. Like there’s grime everywhere. You can tell those men smell bad. When they do surgery you can hear the bone being cut, when they get sick they look genuinely ill. The main character’s actor even has pockmarks, he LOOKS like he could be from the 1800s! And idk, I think it’s cool that we’re so aware of the characters’ carnal desires. They’re hungry, thirsty, freezing, etc, and it is so obvious that they have a body with needs!!

I think this also accounts for how horny the show feels, even though everyone is bundled up 90% of the time and there are no real romantic subplots. Besides the fact that it’s a very carnal show, it just has the intimacy and grime of true horniness. Is this thing on

[eddiesghxst]

steve would find himself dating a weird girl, and he probably has no clue how he got there but he just kind of goes with it anyway because, not only are you like a sex god or something, but steve’s kind of scared of you if he’s being honest.

like, seriously, the first time he goes to your house, he enters your room and nearly shits his pants. you have animal skulls littered through your room, dead moths in frames on your wall, various sharp tools and traps on shelves or hanging on your wall— you even had a mason jar full of bullets that steve has no desire to ask about for the sake of his peace of mind. not to mention, the first time you fucked, steve had never seen you before and steve thinks he knows everyone in this town— but fuck if you don’t have the best pussy steve’s ever fucked in his life.

it’s godly, genuinely.

so steve keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t ask anything about the various dead animals in your room or the weapons, and he sits patiently on your bed as you feed your pet lizard.

and when you’re done, you ride the shit out of steve. there on your squeaky bed, in your cold room with an old, rusty sickle above his head that steve is a little stressed might fall from the wall and slice his head off or something— seriously, are you like a murderer or something? is steve fucking a murderer?

it doesn’t matter. you’re wet, so fucking wet, and warm and tight. you ride him to filth, to the point where it feels borderline disrespectful, but steve doesn’t care, not when you’re fucking him near an inch of his life, sucking him in like you’d never had a cock in you before.

jesus, steve has no clue how he got here, but thank fuck.

when you’re both done, steve doesn’t even catch a decent breath before you clamber off of him to wriggle your skirt back into place and pass him his keys— “my parents will be back anytime now, so you should probably go. unless if you wanna stay and eat dinner, you can.” you shrug.

and… well steve doesn’t have anything better to do, so he stays for dinner. your parents are nice— a lot less of a scary vibe coming from them which makes steve wonder where you get it from, but he says nothing.

and your parents seem to like steve (what parents don’t?) so steve keeps coming over. all summer. and eventually you just start calling steve your boyfriend and steve just nods and goes along with it. yeah. you fuck him good and you’re kind of cute even with the whole aura of death thing you’ve got going on. yeah, steve likes his little weird girlfriend.

[sensusual]

[carebeardean]

Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.

[i-like-forcefem]

Nothing I love more then looking a “guy” in the eyes and asking her pronouns

She’ll be so so confused about why I even ask? It’s He/Him obviously right??? She might even get a little offended, refuse to answer the question

All such cute responses

And when she finally says “He/Him” all it takes is a simple “are you sure cutie, I think she/her fits better, no?” And she falls apart

She looks so cute in skirts btw

[ghouljams]

no thoughts just simon roughly undoing your corset at the end of the night. idk how he'd be there without it being seen as improper or whatever or maybe hes your husband but i feel like it'd send me into subspace so quick.. kinda similar to shibari? idk.

The times when he's rough with your stays are few and far between, mostly he unlaces the (newly) double stranded thing with blunt nails that slip against the laces. His own knots so carefully tied keeping you held tight in what may as well be his embrace. His signature is already neatly embroidered on your modesty panel, his words neatly penned in bleeding ink professing all the places his lips would touch. Scandalous delivered before he ever made it to your marriage bed, you might add.

Oh no, Simon is very... deliberate with your stays. Possessive, even. His knot is one you can't undo, one that even he sometimes resorts to pulling between his teeth. It's a security you can't go against, a lock whose only key is held by Simon. He won't even let your maid touch your laces. You sit for him and arch into his touch as he threads one line, then another, and another. His fingers skim your chemise, his breath just barely even. You hang your head to feel his teeth graze the top knob of your spine as he pulls you tight, and takes the first swell of your breath between his fingers.

It's a beautiful thing. A second spine borrowed from your husband's hand. How each crossed thread holds its own knot at the center, how each lace ladders itself to climb up the looping of Simon's signature, his name just barely visible under the knots and laces. No, he doesn't tear at your stays. Swear at them maybe. Tell you he won't tie them so tight next time, a lie. But never tear.

Cut? Well, now that's another thing entirely. And you'd be lying if you said the press of his blade along your spine, slowly carving out your trapped breath, didn't make you squeeze your legs around the hand he'd already buried between them.