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weskie · 2 months ago

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Serene Mornings (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

18+ | 1.9k words, consensual somnophilia, blow jobs, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, gender neutral reader | Fic Directory

Your darling Albert works so very hard. You'll help him wake up the right way, won't you?

To say Wesker was irresistible was an understatement. You admired him for more than simply his looks of course. His mind was the sharpest you’d ever come across, capable of solving even the most complex problems or producing the wittiest response. He could analyze a situation down to the finest detail and not miss a single thing. He was pleasant to be around and charming to boot regardless of how blunt his delivery may be. But that just meant he was straight to the point, never leaving you to ponder his feelings or devolve into a fit of anxiety over uncertainty. Plus, he’s always been so incredibly sweet to you.

You utterly adore him and, simply put, you couldn’t possibly be more proud to call the S.T.A.R.S. Captain your lover.

Still, you can’t help but appreciate the rest of him. His body was nothing to scoff at. Gorgeous hands with slender fingers, strong arms, a defined chest, and perfectly cut hips always left you ogling him. The sight alone of his sleeves rolled up was enough to send you spiraling into thoughts that left your cheeks flushed, and that was even before you were blessed with seeing the rest of him.

Even now, with your head against the soft rise and fall of his chest, you can’t help but marvel at all that he is. You let a hand ghost over his upper body for a time, featherlight in every touch to avoid disturbing him. Just enough to feel him. He typically wore a black tank top and silky boxer briefs to sleep, but, without fail, the shirt always seemed to ride up a little throughout the night, exposing a sliver of skin that eventually turned into a whole section of his hip. You never could quite keep your hands off of it. Like a forbidden fruit that you had all the permission in the world to partake in.

Albert wasn’t a heavy sleeper by any means, but he’d slowly gotten better at sleeping through things since the two of you started sharing a bed. Used to be that a late night trip to the bathroom would have him bleary eyed and mumbling as you’d slip back beneath the covers and into his arms. Now you can get away with that and more.

You’re not sure what possesses you more to begin shimmying down. Could be the throbbing between your legs, the all-consuming hunger you feel when you look at him for too long, or simply the ardent desire to make sure his day begins with a delicious surprise. Perhaps, though, it’s all three that drive you to nestle between his legs with a greedy little grin on your face.

You’re thankful for his choice in underwear. The silky texture makes them slide with ease, not even needing his hips lifted to slip them down his thighs. You lick your lips at the sight. He’s like a meal just waiting to be savored, tempting you by simply existing. Sure you’ve seen him bare so many times now, but every time was just like the first, sending a jolt of arousal right between your legs that left you squirming. Still, your hunger far outweighs your need for your own release.

You lap at his soft length, pressing the occasional kiss to the hooded tip. Every movement, every touch has to be so terribly gentle so as not to wake him yet. He’s been working so hard lately and deserved nothing less than the softest, sweetest treatment you could possibly give him. That’s why, when you finally slip his shaft into your mouth, you simply hold him in place and let your tongue caress the underside. It’s like magic to feel him grow, to feel that heavy cock of his stiffen and edge closer and closer to your throat. Like a flame whose heat only you can coax into a blaze.

Drool begins to pool in your maw and you angle your head to let it slip past your lips. Though he’s never expressed it directly, you’ve always felt the shivers that shook him when your spit dribbled down to his balls. Albert has always been an intensely clean man, well kept in every sense of the word, but there was something about an act of reverence becoming utterly messy that left him writhing beneath you. Even now, unconscious to what was happening between his legs, he squirms the slightest bit. His hips shift and his breaths grow a little heavier.

So you take him deeper, of course, just like he’d want to see if he was awake. Not until he triggers your gag reflex do you begin to draw back, lips locked firm around his cock, dragging nice and slow. Once you reach the tip, you grasp him and give a gentle pump, dragging his foreskin back to reveal the head. It’s a warm hue of pink, practically calling out to you for delicate kisses and tender licks to his frenulum– and maybe, oh, maybe a soft suckle while you stroke him.

His hips lift the slightest bit and you can’t help but smirk.

You drag your lips down the length of his cock slowly, peppering the occasional kiss to the side, fist taking over as you work your way to his sack. The first lave of your tongue to the soft skin wrings a weak groan from him which, of course, only fuels that overwhelming need to consume every part of him. You take one of his balls in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, eyes rolling back as the sweet taste floods your senses.

“A-ah…”

You feel no greater swell of pride than when that first gentle moan slips between his lips. You let off with a wet pop, switching to kiss and nibble at his inner thigh, free hand coming up to stroke along the outside of it, basking in the thickness of muscle just beneath the surface. There’s nothing you want more than to sink your teeth in and mark him. A little present to remember you by while he’s at work the next day. Something that, with every step he takes, with every brush of fabric against the tender bruise, will make him think of you. But such an act would tear him too quickly from his fading slumber, and that simply would not do.

You suckle a hickey there instead. Then another… and another.

Finally, you take him in your mouth again. This time you don’t hold back, bobbing up and down along his thick twitching length, taking him deeper and deeper until your nose presses against the soft prickles of hair that bed his cock. God, you love the way he fills you. If it wasn’t so impractical, you’d stay there forever with his shaft lodged firmly in your throat. Alas, you’re only human. You come up for a breath of air before greedily slurping him, not even bothering to hide the messy wet sounds nor your own gratified whines. Then you feel it.

Fingers threading into your hair, curling weakly as if to tug.

“T-that’s– mm, good morning…”

You glance up, admiring the dazed look on his face and the way his pinched brows twitch above eyes that shine like the stars that had long since vanished with the sunrise. You moan around him and those fingers curl tighter.

He’s close.

Wesker has so many little tells. For as cool and collected as he always is, he’s never more vocal than when he’s being taken apart at the seams. It’s as if something in him snaps, making him keen over and over again about how good you feel, how well you’re doing, every sweet pet name he’s ever thought to call you… It all comes tumbling off a quivering lip while he strokes lovingly through your hair as if to apologize every time he can’t help but buck into your eager mouth for more.

Not to mention the way he squirms for you… The way his legs push weakly to plant his feet into the bed for leverage and support. If his face isn’t buried in your neck, you can usually find his head lolled to the side or pressing back into the pillow when he arches– just like now. Such a beautiful sight. Then there was the way his thighs trembled… Strong as they are, there was no stopping the little shakes that overtook them when he was pushed too close to the edge. You felt it when you marked him, but it’s obvious now more than ever with your palm pressed to the junction of his groin.

You love nothing more than when he’s like this. Putty in your hands. At your mercy. But you’re so very giving and you want so terribly to give him his release, so you don’t tease him and pull away when those hands start using you.

“T-that’s– oh, god… you feel s-so–”

Your hands leave his thighs in favor of finally giving him that shove he needs to fall right over the edge. One at his balls, toying gently with their spit-soaked softness, and the other teasing a finger back behind them nice and slow. It just takes one little press, one firm touch to his perineum and suddenly those fingers in your hair lock tight and you’ve got his cock jammed in your throat and he’s crying out your name into the quiet of the early morning.

You feel his balls tighten and the base of his cock throbs against your lips with every spurt that paints your abused throat. His body is arched, head thrown back as he gasps and mewls– sounds he’d only stopped suppressing once he was sure there was no need for performance in your relationship.

Another point of pride. One that the thought of almost keeps you from having to pull yourself free to gasp for air. He lets you up, ever the gentleman that he is, shaking hands fumbling to pull you close enough to kiss. He’s never minded the mess. In fact, the weak little moan every time he’s kissed you after spilling his seed down your throat has always cemented that idea in your head that he really likes it.

You find his cock, stroking torturously slow to milk the last ebb and flow of his pleasure while he groans into your mouth. He breaks from you to gasp and snag you by the wrist.

“E-easy,” he pants, cheeks burnt an uncharacteristic pink. Suddenly he’s got you rolled onto your back with both hands pinned by your head. Wesker trails the tip of his nose along your temple, eyes shut as he basks in the moment. He hums a faint laugh, grin evident in the huff of breath against your cheek and the touch of his lips that follows. “Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice is still gravely from having been asleep.

You’re hardly surprised when his head comes down to rest on your chest and his arms snake under you. It’s yet another thing he’s never outwardly admitted to, but you know with full certainty that he absolutely treasures being held in the afterglow. Couple that with his relaxed inhibitions after just waking up, and, well…

The lazy smile on his face is brighter than the sun itself. Chances are your fingers wandering through his hair and thumb stroking the light scruff at his jaw will have him falling back asleep in no time, but you don’t mind.

He deserves to rest.

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #wesker x reader #wesker x you #resident evil #dead by daylight #dbd

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empresskylo · 1 year ago

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simon 'ghost' riley x gn!reader

⊹ simon falls in love with you while you’re falling out of love with him.

[ warnings ] none. wc 908

cod masterlist

you shouldn’t have been upset. you knew better than to fall for your superior. and someone like simon? he wasn’t exactly the most emotionally available person out there.

and yet, something unspoken drew you to him. you became infatuated. and then, once you had become good friends, you had fallen in love.

when simon didn’t return those feelings—after you had drunkenly confessed to him—you were left heartbroken. but you could recover. you always recovered.

maybe someone else had caught your eye. maybe your friendships were fulfilling enough for you. whatever it was, you slowly fell out of love with simon . it freed you from the weight of unreturned feelings. like a burden lifting from your shoulders. your heart mended, and you learned how to make friendship feel like enough.

you still hung around him, he was your teammate and lieutenant after all, but you managed to suppress your feelings. and after realizing you deserved someone who could return the love you gave, you moved on.

of course, you still liked simon, he was your friend first, before everything else. but you had felt your feelings for him dwindle down to a tiny spark, until it extinguished itself all together.

simon, on the other hand, was moving in the opposite direction. for he was falling in love.

he didn’t want to admit it at first. it wasn’t an emotion he was particularly keen on. but the more he saw of you—the more he took you in, the more you forced yourself into his life, the more he let you get under his skin—the easier it was to fall.

how could he not? you were everything he wasn’t. soft. gentle. warm. friendly. inviting. it all drew him to you like a moth to a flame.

but he had made the mistake of brushing you off far too quickly. simon didn’t love the way other people did. it took time. it took a hand to slowly nurture the budding feeling.

and you had felt it so fucking ardently and fast, it took him off guard. he didn’t have time to process it. he had politely rejected you that drunken night, hoping it wouldn’t damage your friendship.

he was relieved when it didn’t, but over the weeks, he felt something new for you blossoming in his chest. the flowering sensation of love.

he hated it at first, but he had grown to like the nerves. he liked the adrenaline rush he got when you entered a room. or the fire that blazed within him when you two would accidentally touch.

he was always mapping out your features. staring at you constantly when you were together. memorizing every laugh line and freckle.

all while you were slowly erasing these minute details from your own register. you no longer stared at him from across the room, your breath hitching when he’d catch you. you no longer marveled at his blonde eyelashes that were stark against his charcoal makeup, or gawked when he wore a slim-fitted shirt.

and simon would do anything to get a laugh out of you. he’d say the most ridiculous jokes—ones so bad even soap wouldn’t approve—just to see you smile. your dreamlike giggle was melded into his brain.

and you had always enjoyed the humorous side of simon, especially compared to his usual austere demeanor. but you found his one liners had begun to radiate through you the same way one of gaz’s or soap’s jokes would. his small remarks that made you stifle a laugh were no longer the comfort you desired on missions. it became only a fun way to pass the time. you had stopped relying on him. stopped seeking him out. stopped needing him all together.

so while simon was slowly, but surely, falling deeper in love with you , to the point of no return, you had more rapidly been falling out of love with him. you saw a world beyond simon, no longer shrouded by his demanding presence, while simon only saw you —everything else was a background detail to him, unworthy of his attention. you had moved on. you had relinquished those feelings for him and let them morph into friendship. while simon took that same friendship and was slowly growing wildly from it, making something new all together.

he knew he was too late when he finally fell for you, but that didn’t stop the pain of loving what could never love you in return. he figured he deserved that. it only made sense to him that when he finally found someone worth waking up for, they would be just out of arm's reach. god, you would have loved him with such burning passion, something he had never experienced before. something he now wanted desperately from you.

you were there, taunting him, something untouchable. you were around him all the time, but you weren’t his . you had developed feelings for another, someone who could return the passion you gave.

and he let the unrequited love burn him from the inside out. once the fire had begun, he wasn’t able to put it out. so without you to match his fervor, to absorb some of his flame, he was going to burn himself completely to ash.

but he would gladly take that pain as punishment if it meant keeping you in his life, no matter how much agony it caused him to see your eyes sparkle for someone else like they once had for him.

#simon riley #ghost #cod #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #cod mw2 #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff #fluff #cod fanfic #simon riley headcanons

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historiaxvanserra · 2 years ago

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Reverence

Pairing: Azriel x female!reader

Description: Azriel’s love had always been rough-edged but in the soft light of morning his love is reverent, devout, almost holy.

Word count: 2.8K

Warnings: 18+ only! this wasn’t a request it’s just shameless smut without plot (dirty talk, unprotected sex, oral sex, etc).

This is the sequel to Ruin but they can be read separately. Part II here.

Tossed from the bosom of dreams and into the arms of a pastel morning you wake with a jolt.

The sun perforates through the thin satin of the curtains and fractured light illuminates the room in golden shadows. It’s a myriad of dancing light, like a broken kaleidoscope, sparkling and shattered– but beautiful still. The sun soaks your dewy skin with her burning kisses, searing white hot into naked flesh and the smell of sleep and sex lingers in the air. You lie cocooned between creased sheets, and recount the night before; his rough touches, and the feeling of his calloused palms as they gripped your hips, his chest and how it tasted of salt, his lips and the curses that fell from them like prayers as pleasure washed over you both.

Your fingers ghost over the bruises that he has left. They bloom like roses on the expanses of exposed skin. The stirring of the body next to you, pulls your from the thoughts of last nights tryst. Rolling onto your side you’re greeted with Azriel’s sleeping figure; his hair falls in messy strands onto his face, the longer hairs sticking to his forehead that is coated in a thin veil of sweat, his long eyelashes press against the tops of his fine high cheekbones and the dull crescent moons under his eyes are hardly visible, his mouth parts slightly, soft snores erupting from him. You watch closely as the rise and fall of his chest lulls you into a hazy state wakefulness. He looks at peace in this light, the shadowed sunbeams ribboning onto his sleeping form casting him in a heaven-yellow light.

Lost in introspective thoughts you don’t realise that he has woken from his slumber. His eyes flutter open, hazel irises illuminated in the daylight, flecks of gold and amber that melt into leafy green. Your eyes bore into his and the ghost of a smile forms on your face as he rubs the remnants of sleep from his eyes.

Still half-dreaming Azriel snakes his arms around you, pulling you closer to him, feeling the heat of his body and the beating of his heart in his chest that rises and falls in a steady rhythm. His mouth runs blazing trails of messy kisses down your neck and along your collarbones, nipping at the sunkissed skin of your shoulders and whispering words of adoration into perfumed skin. The memories of not so distant fever dreams, passion still hot in his veins only this morning in the soft, pale light his love is gentle, careful, almost holy.

You relish in his tight embrace and the heat of his skin thaws the cold morning chill away. Him and the sun; burning and ardent. You sigh contently as the gentle kisses he places at the base of your neck become more urgent, breathing him in as he runs his fingers through your hair, you are reminded what heaven smells like; icy air and cedar. Brushing a stray hair from his forehead you stretch in his hold and you bruise like fruit flesh in his tender grip.

Azriel shifts in his position, rolling onto his forearms and his hands settle between your shoulders and your head, sweeping your hair which has fallen in haphazard curls away from your face. Your body curls into him, fitting together like it was always supposed to be this way-- you and him in the pale morning light.

Swallowed by his height and the expanses of his broad shoulders you run your hands over the taut muscles beneath his skin. As your body, still flirting with sleep, melts into him, you snake your arms around his neck, one hand stroking the loose strands of chestnut at the nape of his neck and the other tracing the inky patterns along his right shoulder blade. Your lips meet his slowly, breathing him in with ardour and adoration, deepening the kiss, your swollen lips pressing into his harder this time. Azriel’s hands come to either side of your face, cradling you in his palms, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing soft circles onto the skin of your cheek, running along your cheekbones, temple and jaw. His lips move slow against yours as you melt into each other. He sighs into your mouth, taking you into him, clinging to you, his breaths synchronising with yours and lulling you into a state of bliss.

The way he touches you is full of devotion and something akin to worship. He looks at you more reverently than he does any divine being or High-Fae. He doesn’t know if he believes in a The Mother but looking at you all sleepy, and sunkissed and ethereal, wrapped up in divine light he believes in something. He’s been searching for too long for a place to worship and you, whispering his name like sin against his skin and your hands scorching his flesh, seem the closest to the next world that he will ever get.

He rocks gently into you, his lips dragging across the skin of your neck, brushing his knuckles over the soft, exposed planes of skin at your ribcage, only stopping to whisper in a language you can’t understand, words comparable to prayer.

In those fleeting moments, doused in pale light as he moves over you, it’s clear that the need for each other outweighs all else. Yearning for release, longing for him makes everything more intoxicating. Your breathing grows laboured and heavy with a serene bliss, your senses blur, drunk on his touch and the heat of his skin on yours. His calloused hands, once covered in blood, kiss hymns up your sides, scars grazing over yours, skin whispering and limbs, like heavenly bodies caress your supple skin as they curled into each other, entwining two bodies and becoming one.

His breath hitches in his throat, coming out in breathy rasps as he comes to rest upon your hip, you push your bare hips into his. His cock hardens, silken and cool marble beneath your touch as you press against him in an unyielding rhythm. He groans, his eyes darkening and boring into yours, lips parting and eyes drifting shut so beautifully that your walls tighten at the sight of him. You stroke your hand up and down his length, growing harder under the delicate touch of your hand– the hand of the Gods he thinks to himself.

Azriel pulls your hand from him and entwined his fingers with your own, kissing you, he sucks your lower lip lightly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. He begins to kiss down your jaw, the crook of your neck, the base of your throat and collarbones, the peaks of his knuckles ghosting the skin of your hips and thighs. Dipping his head into the valley of your breasts, his nose and beard grazing the silken skin as he hums against you, taking a hardening nipple in his mouth while he massages the other. He has committed the maps of your body to memory; always able to find a home in you, returning to those sweet spots he knows make you weak. Giving yourself over to him you exhale, arching your back into him, his one hand holding you, where your back curves away from the bed and into him.Your lips parting with a gasp as his tongue runs light circles over your nipples, flicking them slowly, the grain of his stubble rough against your softness.

Sinking slowly down the curves of your body, savouring you in the light of the rising sun, Azriel prays to you, his words and his touch like velvet over your skin and into your ears. Whispers of worship and the sound of his lips on your skin, marking you as his. You thread your fingers through the tresses of his head when his head settles between your parted thighs kissing odes into the skin there.

You cry out softly, gentle rasps, like hymns when his tongue begins to circle your clit. Sliding his strong arm over your hips so he can hold you still, his muscles, taut and contracting beneath the skin, he holds you down with ease. You’re painted in a blush the colour of the dawn sky as he runs his tongue up your folds, watching your hips struggle to roll in his hold, his pupils dilating and sharpening, a look of devout adoration glinting in his hazel eyes.

Azriel’s tongue sends waves of pleasure rippling through you, heat that creeps up your spine and pools in the pit of your stomach. Your mouth falls agape, a string of curses and praises falling from your pink lips. A soft furrow of your brows in an effort to stop yourself coming undone. Your pleasure and heavenly moans only make him grow more ravenous, he hums deeply as his tongue, inside of you, causes your hips to roll in protest. Sliding his hands around your hips he holds you to him, continuing his assault against you until you’re begging to come undone, begging for him. He draws his lips away from your core, only obliging you by pressing two fingers into your tightness, your walls fluttering around him. His lips fall open, laboured breaths falling from his lips in curses.

You fist at the sheets, needing him close as your body begins to writhe under him, the slow, hypnotic movements of his fingers making you ache. He returns to you, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before pressing his forehead to yours and watching you as he thrusts his finger inside of you; a thin veil of sweat on his brow, lips parted and through his eyes darkened in lust you swear you see his soul.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, silencing your gasps with kisses, “I’ve got you.”

Your walls begin to clench around his fingers and Azriel’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes leave yours, that search for heaven behind his, to watch himself once more, his fingers curling into your sweet spot, swearing before your permit him to put his lips upon yours again.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, “Come for me.”

Unravelling, coming undone is easy with his words in your ears and his arms sheltering you, cradling you against his chest as your body quakes with the rippling waves of your orgasm as you come, your cries quiet against Azriel’s lips.

Gentle and unyielding, he doesn’t give you time to recover, sitting up and pulling you into his lap, your ankles digging into the base of his spine and the length of his cock, like marble smooth and hard at your entrance. Adjusting to his size you hold Azriel’s face and look down to his parted lips, drinking in his breathless sighs and whispers of reverence as you roll your hips against the thickness of his cock. Swearing sharply, he arches himself into you filling you. His knuckles grazing the knots in your spine, he holds his lips against your forehead as his thumb traced the outline of your swollen lips, smiling against you when your kiss the calloused pad of his thumb.

“you okay, pretty baby?” Azriel murmurs, voice soft and soothing against your skin, nodding in response to your hum of agreement. “Always so good for me.”

Slowly at first, he fucks into you, gradually gaining momentum as your tightness yields to him. You’re left unable to answer his question, moaning into the crook of his neck, trying to muffle your cries. He combs the messy strands of hair that has fallen into your face with his fingers, curling them away from your face while your name, like some ancient prayer, falls from his parted lips. His hands roam your body, touching with delicate caresses the curves and contours of your body, his arm resting on the bottom of your spine, his hand splayed across the small of your back as he thrusts into you, your hips rolling to meet his movements.

“Don’t stop,” you say airily, tugging on the dark hair that rests at the nape of his neck.

His head falls back, eyes closed and lips parted as he draws closer to his own orgasm. Azriel’s head falls to rest in the crook of your neck, his forehead settling onto your skin marked with the ghosts of his adoration. Unable to find the words, he only growls vows into your skin as his hand on your back pulls you further into him.

With your bliss encroaching the world seems to blur at its edges, bursts of colour and white light momentarily blinding as he fucks into you at an unforgiving pace, his thrusts rough and sporadic as he teeters on the edge of heaven.

Azriel moves you upon his cock and it brings a blush to your skin, pink staining the exposed flesh of your chest. Your moans now little more than whispers as he brings you to the brink of paradise, your body wrapped around his as he lays you back down, pressing your into the bed. Azriel pulls away admiring the glow of your skin in the morning light as the sun peeks over the horizon; the pink and gold sun beams falling in technicolour ribbons and becoming tangled between the waves of your hair. As he comes back to you, pressing his lips roughly to yours his hips begin to snap into yours at a faster pace than before, desperate for release. His lips never leave yours, holding your face in his hands again, thumb rubbing circles into your skin. He groans against you, your ankles crossed against the small of his back, holding him in place.

Your orgasm stirs in your stomach like a raging tempest, whispers of pleasurel dissolves into profanity. Stroking your cheeks, running his thumb over your jaw and up your neck, and whispering in your ear those words that only he knows, he sanctifies your body, bringing a hand to your clit, rubbing slow circles and coaxing your orgasm closer still, so you give yourself over to him and sacrifice never felt so unholy.

Azriel’s name once fierce on your tongue dissolves like sugar, like prayer– you whisper it. Unholy against rose petal lips. It catches in your throat like confessional and he fucks you like a God. Thrusting deeply into you, as his lips leave blazing kissed along your collar bones, his thrusts don’t slow even as the heat of him spills inside you.

There’s no scripture that ever foretold you of such sweet agony; his hands in yours, or his lips that atone a mass across your heaving chest, or the blasphemy he rasps when he spills into you. His fingers bruise like sin into the cradle of your hips. When he’s buried so deeply inside of you until the only word you know– his name– falls from your lips. You wonder if other angels fell so sweet.

Laying you back down on the bed he sits back, pulling out of you watching his orgasm spill from you with a lustful gaze. He rubs comforting circles into your hip with his thumb, his head tilts slightly as he watches you; the rise and fall of your chest beginning to even out, his skin on yours grounding you to this earth. Your skin sheened with a thin veil of sweat, pallid in the divine light of high summer.

Crawling to him, kissing his damp chest that tastes of salt and sweat, and taking his softening cock in your hand, his moans are gospel against your bare chest. Azriel groans softly, his eyes closing as your hand on his skin is a familiar paradise.

You lean your forehead against his and graze the tip of your nose with his, as your lips moved to meet him halfway. Before he kisses you, those amber eyes lock with yours and linger there, as if to convey what your words could not. The harsh edges of your narrow eyes soften. He looks at you in a way that assures you it will be this way, always. All you can do is kiss him, inhaling slowly as you press your lips to his. A warmth settles in your chest when his eyes catch yours again. Laying on his chest, melting into him again, you breathe him in and he hums gently. The heat of the sun and the comforting silence lulls you into a misty wakefulness.

Your finger ghosts his tattoos where the sharp blade of his shoulder meets inky black shadow and your legs entangle themselves in his as he murmurs vows of reverence in a foreign tongue against your dewy skin. The sun finally breaks over the horizon, the veins of amber, topaz and molten gold illuminate the sky.

It’s then he realises that not all angels are made of flesh and feather, milk and honey, molten gold and stardust; some are made of scars and sin, sleep and sweat, flesh and blood and in the heaven yellow light you look holy to absolve him

#acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar smut #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of silver flames #a court of thorns and roses #azriel headcanons #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x female!reader #azriel x you

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empty-fantasies · 5 months ago

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Burning

Love involving Mortefi is like a flickering flame; fueled by blazing passion and embraced by gentle affection

Character(s) Included: Mortefi

gn!reader, fluff, mindless ramblings from eden once again

It takes an attentive and mindful approach to endure the fiery passion known as Mortefi’s love.

Treading carefully at the beginning of the flaming romance, as if one wrong move would create a gust of wind and take out the flame you had oh-so-painstakingly pined after for so long. It was no easy feat to come to terms with your ever growing love for the Head of the Tacetite Weaponry Branch. Nor was it any less difficult to accept the possibility of rejection should you carelessly smother that fire by beating around the bush about your sudden awkwardness the manifested upon realization.

Patience was required when the meter approaches its limits and manifests in frequent groans of frustration and a near permanent frown. The flame, as you have learned, can easily burn you if you’re not careful with your own words. He’s a straightforward man, after all. Which was evident in his rather blunt way of confessing to you that eventful day and something that had always seemingly caught you off guard in unsuspecting moments. Would you complain about this? Not at all, contrary to your playful complaints that your heart was far too fragile for such (Mortefi would rather admit to defeat against Xiangli Yao before ever confessing openly around others that he simply adored your varied reactions).

Love, in the way that Mortefi expresses it, was all consuming. There was no lack of effort on his part. A point was made for each planned date and every little moment of exploration that no words were needed to express the everlasting devotion he had for you and only you. Determination to perfect everything despite your constant reassurances that occasional mishaps and derailed plans (due to a certain someone’s habit of sacrificing his sleep every now and then) happen. It engulfed your entire being; heart, mind, and soul. Overwhelming as it may sound, you welcomed it fully and returned just as much by fanning the flames, having quickly become accustomed to the heat long before you even realized it yourself. Much to your surprise, you too have also found yourself adopting new habits just to show as much appreciation and effort as he does.

As consuming as it is, Mortefi does have an uncharacteristic gentleness that many are not privy to picking up by mere observation alone. A comforting warmth, one that reminded you of serenity found in a cup of tea on a winter night spent in bed. You wouldn’t deny that you were a bit selfish in wanting to keep this warmth to yourself at first—desiring nothing more than to bask in the fact of knowing that only you were able to experience such without limits.

Sweet-tempered fingers would dance across your skin, taking hold of your hand in silent moments when either of you are finishing up reports. Tenderhearted words responding to your curious questions about the classical music to echoes softly every now and then. A rare pink hue dancing across his cheeks the moment any small praise falls from your lips. As the fervent flames roar of adoration, they also invoke a sense of comfort shared just between the two of you. There were no walls other than the ones that shielded this flame of love from gusty winds of doubt and weariness. To bask in such has made you realize that perhaps that selfish desire for keeping it to yourself was a wish instead to keep this flame alive—to endure all this is to come in the future.

Mortefi’s love is an ardent flame; ever-consuming in the way that he has to make it known where his heart resides. Yet, it is also a soothing warmth marked by the solace found in butterfly kisses and gentle gazes. To you, the ever curious lover of his, the heat is gladly welcomed each and every single time.

#wuthering waves x reader #wuthering waves #wuthering waves mortefi x reader #mortefi x reader #wuthering waves mortefi #wuwa mortefi #wuwa x reader #mortefi #strange that I’m planning a xiangli yao post after this oho

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poisonlove · 1 year ago

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JEALOUSLY p.2 | m.a

jealously

Wednesday Addams watched Y/N from afar as if she had been ensnared by a spell. The fairy sat under a majestic tree, its foliage filtering the golden sunlight, enveloping her in an angelic and hypnotic aura. Sunbeams danced through the leaves, creating patterns of light that caressed her soft brown curls, making them shine like dark wood strands bathed in the morning dew.

With almost obsessive attention, Wednesday noticed every little detail: the delicate curve of her neck, the long, dark lashes that gracefully opened and closed as she read, her tongue that, at regular intervals, lightly grazed her lower lip in concentration. When something in the book intrigued her, her eyes would light up, a vibrant gleam that turned her beauty into enchantment. Y/N had her unique way of reading, a fascinating ritual. With nimble fingers, she turned the pages gracefully, sometimes delicately underlining the words that struck her the most. Her usually serene face came alive with a radiant expression of joy when she found a particularly touching sentence. Wednesday couldn't help but notice Y/N's small absentminded gestures, her fingers playing with strands of hair, gently touching the book cover, or toying with a blade of grass. It was as if the world around her had melted away, her focus solely on the magic of written words.

Wednesday remained there, admiring the scene with fascinated eyes, as if she had been transported to an enchanted world. It was a vision of beauty and grace that she would never forget.

Wednesday was consumed by an uncontrollable jealousy towards that book. Her jealousy was extreme, fueled by the way Y/N caressed it with her fingers. She ardently wished that those fingers would explore her body, entwine in her hair after every passionate kiss. Unconsciously, she bit her lower lip as she imagined Y/N on top of her, kissing her passionately and penetrating her with her fingers.

From being as cold as a stone statue, Wednesday had suddenly become a burning flame of passion.

"Obsession Addams is the only solution"she thought to herself.

Her eyes continued to enjoy the sight of Y/N, admiring her as if she were looking at the most beautiful painting exhibited in an art gallery. A deep sigh escaped from her lips, a lament of uncontainable desire.

Suddenly, Wednesday felt her blood freeze in her veins when she saw Xavier approaching her. The misunderstood artist from "Nevermore" sat down next to the fairy, causing Y/N to close her book.

A flash of anger flickered in Wednesday 's eyes when she saw Xavier push a strand of hair away from T/N's face during their brief interaction.

How dare he touch what she considered hers? How dare he touch her?

Wednesday clenched her teeth violently, and a growl erupted from the depths of her throat. Her blood boiled, and a fiery blaze burned in her stomach. Her fingers clenched into a fist as she struggled to control her immense anger.

That useless boy was about to experience her wrath.

Finally, she rose from her hiding place and hurriedly made her way towards her Beloved, who still didn't know she was hers. Y/N turned to her, wearing a confused smile at the unexpected visit from the ravenette. Xavier stopped laughing when he met Wednesday 's gaze, which radiated a chilling darkness.

"Oh, hello, Wed," the fairy exclaimed as she got up from the grass and quickly brushed off her uniform.

Every word Y/N spoke made Wednesday Addams feel like her heart was about to explode. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to regain the composure that her trembling knees had taken from her. She sighed deeply, maintaining an impassive expression as she looked at her fairy.

"Do you need anything?" Y/N asked, confused but also slightly excited. It seemed that she was finally having some kind of conversation with her crush, someone she had secretly admired for weeks.

Wednesday decided to get straight to the point, without mincing words. "See you tonight. Here. At 9 o'clock," she said with a determined tone, before turning around and walking towards the academy's entrance. The fairy looked at the silhouette of Wednesday walking away with confusion; their conversation had been brief and enigmatic.

However, Y/N had no intention of letting this opportunity slip away. Excitement and anticipation mixed in her chest as she mentally prepared herself for the upcoming date.

At exactly 8:30, Wednesday was already on her way to the rendezvous point, but she had an important matter to resolve first. Cautiously, she looked around for signs of life, ensuring that no one was watching her as she headed to Xavier's not-so-secret hiding place. The raven-haired girl sighed and silently entered the shed, where she knew she would find him.

Inside the shed, Xavier had his back turned, completely absorbed in his painting. His face lit up with a smile when he felt the door close behind him.

"Hello, Y/N, you know..." he began to say before he turned around, but his voice trailed off when he met Wednesday Addams' piercing gaze.

Something was clearly wrong, and Xavier felt uncomfortable under the ravenette's intense scrutiny. Instinctively, he took a step back.

Did he just say "Y/N"?

With a mocking smile on her lips, Wednesday slowly approached Xavier.

"So... you were expecting Y/N?" She asked with an innocent tone as she traced her fingers over the hanging paintings on the wall. A fire burned in her guts as she remembered the bastard touching her fairy. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Xavier noticed that the girl was wearing gloves, which increased his unease. He audibly swallowed.

Wednesday advanced towards Xavier, picked up a forgotten brush from the table, and drove it into the boy's thigh. A cry of pain escaped from Xavier's lips as he doubled over from the sudden and sharp pain.

Wednesday clenched her jaw tightly, applying more pressure to the open wound. Xavier, with pleading eyes, looked at the ravenette. Wednesday could feel the fear in his eyes, and she found it highly amusing.

"Why did you do it?" Xavier whimpered, struggling to hold back tears as he stuttered from the pain.

"She is mine. The next time you touch her, I'll stab it in your neck, not your thigh" Wednesday said in a low and threatening tone. Xavier nodded in desperation, making gestures to show he understood.

Wednesday got up and walked away from the boy, who was at that moment trying to remove the brush from his leg. With a victorious smile on her lips, Wednesday left the shed, removed her gloves, and put them in her backpack.

The night was taking an unexpected turn, and Wednesday was determined to ensure that Y/N was safe from any threat.

(...)

"Sorry for the delay" Wednesday said with a slight discomfort in her voice. The fairy turned to her and returned a nervous smile.

"Don't worry... you're right on time" Y/N replied simply, her eyes meeting Wednesday's. Addams looked away, feeling nervous about the intensity of her Beloved's gaze.

"Are you ready?" Wednesday asked with a smile as she took Y/N's hand, interlocking their fingers.

The heart of the raven-haired girl was beating strongly against her chest as she enjoyed the pleasurable contact of their entwined hands. She fervently wished that this touch would never fade away.

However, Y/N furrowed her brow when she noticed a red stain on Wednesday's right cheek. Without thinking twice, she raised her thumb and wiped the stain from her cheek. Wednesday sighed, feeling the warmth of her touch.

"Thanks. It's paint" Addams affirmed, offering a small smile, relieved that she could come up with an excuse quickly. She couldn't admit that it was Xavier's blood.

Unable to resist her impulses, the raven-haired girl leaned in to kiss her Beloved gently. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise as she felt Wednesday 's cold lips against hers, but she quickly surrendered to the kiss, smiling at the long-awaited magical moment.

Wednesday caressed Y/N's cheek, enjoying the softness of her skin and the deliciousness of her lips, which immediately became her addiction. She made a small smile when she noticed that the fairy's eyelids remained closed and her lips slightly parted.

"Let's go... I'll take you to a special place, Cara Mia" wednesday whispered, pronouncing the Italian nickname while smiling as she noticed the blush on the girl's cheeks.

Y/N didn't hesitate to take Wednesday's hand. She had complete trust in her, not only because she felt safe and protected but also because she knew that Addams would do everything possible to make her feel comfortable.

Wednesday tightened her grip, fearing that her Beloved might pull away. She hadn't stabbed Xavier in vain; Y/N was supposed to be hers, and the whole school had to know it if they didn't want to face her wrath.

#jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #miércoles addams #wednesday x you #wednesday addams x you #merlina addams #wednesday addams gifs

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burntsaltsblog · 2 months ago

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tw: death and blood

Chapter Eight

"Stay here," Butcher instructed sternly as he hastily pulled on his clothes and checked that his gun was fully loaded.

"No," I argued, rising from the bed to slip on my jeans that had been previously abandoned on the floor.

Butcher whipped around to face me, his brown eyes blazing. "Jo, I swear to god, if ya try to follow me, I will handcuff you to the bedpost."

"I'd like to see you try," I challenged, crossing my arms.

Butcher pinched the bridge of his nose before crossing the room in a few long strides and placing his hands on my shoulders.

"What did I tell ya earlier?" He shook me gently.

My brows creased in confusion. "Billy, what are you talking about?"

"Blimey, petal, what did I tell ya earlier? What did we talk about?"

"Uh, I don't know." I shook my head as I wracked my brain for Butcher's words from earlier that night. "Our future? The fucking house in the country? How you want me to have your babies-"

"Exactly," Butcher cut in, his voice earnest as he gazed at me intently. "Why, on God's greenest and bloodiest earth, would I send the future mother of my children into a possibly perilous situation?"

I opened and closed my mouth several times as I tried to summon different angles from which to dispute his point of view.

"No, love. You ain’t fightin’ this. Now, are ya gonna be a good girl and lock yourself in the bathroom, or am I gonna need to get out the cuffs and do this the hard way?"

I knew Butcher's threat was legitimate. Not too long ago, he’d nicked a pair of handcuffs off a cop and kept them should he need them in a hostage situation.

"Fine," I grumbled, having to restrain myself from giving him both middle fingers as I pivoted toward the bathroom.

"You'll be gettin’ a reward later, princess," Butcher declared as he followed me on my heels.

"Yeah, whatever." I glared as we stood on opposite sides of the bathroom threshold.

Butcher couldn't hide his amusement from my displeasure. "Dontcha pout, doll, or your mouth will stay like that," he teased, tracing my frown with his finger, but that only made it deepen as my eyes narrowed at him.

"Fuck off and find out what the noise was so I don't have to play stow away all day long," I snapped, shutting and locking the door in his face.

I could hear his continuous snickering on the other side of the wood as he exited the room, no doubt shutting the door behind him.

I paced the length of the small washroom, swearing at Butcher as I spoke to myself to pass the time. Who knew agreeing to be that British asshole's girlfriend meant that I'd be running from danger instead of embracing it head-on as I'd always done since joining The Boys.

There wasn't a clock in the bathroom, so I had no way of calculating how long Butcher had been gone. But after what felt like an eternity, I heard someone burst through the bedroom door as Butcher’s voice rang out, and his fist pounded on the bathroom door.

"Open up, doll. We gotta go!"

"What are you talking about? What's going on?" I panicked as I unlocked the door and swiftly swung it open.

"No time for a fuckin’ Q&A, sweetheart," Butcher said gruffly, taking me by the arm and hauling me back into the bedroom. "Pack your shite."

I watched in perplexity as Butcher yanked open his drawer of the white wood dresser and haphazardly bunched his clothes in his fists, hurling them into his duffel bag.

After tossing in his extra guns and a few hand grenades on top of his clothes, he zipped the bag shut before turning to look at me, surprised and clearly distressed due to the fact that I was just standing there, observing him and not packing like he had instructed me to do.

“Oi, what the hell are ya waitin’ for? The second comin’ of Christ? We’ve gotta get the fuck outta here.”

“I’m not moving a single muscle until you tell me why,” I asserted ardently.

Butcher breathed out a laborious breath before retrieving my bag from under the bed, opening up another drawer of the dresser—the one filled with all of my belongings, and dumping the entirety of its contents into my bag.

“We’ve been burned,” he informed me before striding into the bathroom, returning momentarily with our hygiene products, most of them being mine.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I grabbed my moisturizer, toothpaste, and mouthwash from Butcher, taking over the packing process. “How could we have been burned again? We haven’t gone outside in weeks. I’ve barely even looked out the window.”

“How should I know?” Snapped Butcher, slamming both dresser drawers shut.

“Ok, Butcher, walk me through what happened down there. How do you know we’ve actually been burned again?”

Butcher marched the length of our room, making sure nothing was left behind before he faced me, looking somber.

“Ed’s dead.”

All the blood drained from my face as I looked at Butcher in shock.” What are you talking about?”

“I found him in his chair behind the front desk. His back was facin’ the door, so he didn’t know they was aimed at him.”

“That what was aimed at him?” I asked shakily, not entirely sure that I wanted to know the answer.

“The lasers.”

My stomach dropped, and I fought the bile that rose in my throat. “Do you think it was Homelander?”

“If It wasn't the blonde cunt, then it was somebody else with the same vile mutation.”

My breaths shortened as Butcher continued. “But I guess that our favorite bloody bimbo has found us, and that’s exactly why we have to get the fuck outta here.”

I nodded, wiping away a stray tear that cascaded down my face. I swung my bag over my shoulder, and Butcher quickly did the same. We walked towards the bedroom door before I stopped short, dread filling me. “Wait. How do we know the psycho isn’t still here?”

“I searched every room after I found Ed.”

I bit my lip as my nerves simmered just under my skin.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not here. We might find him levitating over the roof when we get outside,” I muttered as I threw open the door, but not before pulling out my pocket knife, freshly polished and sharpened for a fight.

“Well, that’s why we have these, aye?” Butcher referred to my knife and the gun that he held steadily in his hand.

“It’s not like they’ll do much damage.”

We shared an uneasy silence, but I was convinced it wasn’t because Butcher was purposefully ignoring me but more like he was purely focused on sweeping the hallway and eliminating the idea of a potential threat.

“Get behind me,” Butcher demanded.

“You’re the one who implied Homelander wasn’t even here anymore, so I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck whether or not the stupid twat is here—you should still let me go first,” Butcher insisted as I beat him to the staircase, descending the single flight ahead of him.

I heard his displeased rumblings was about to make a snide comment to shut him up, but every snarky word I had died on my tongue when I caught sight of Ed behind his desk.

As Butcher had said, he was sitting down, facing away from the door, and the hole in his throat, courtesy of Homelander’s lasers, was evident.

“Come on, love. We got to go,” Butcher urged me impatiently, placing an arm around my shoulders as he tried to guide me out the door.

“We need to bury him,” I said, trying to walk over to Ed’s lifeless motionless body. But Butcher’s grip tightened, holding me back.

“No, sweetheart, we don’t got time. Homelander could be blowin’ this place to bits any moment.”

I finally struggled out of Butcher’s clutch and ran behind the front desk, walking around Ed’s chair until I was in front of him.

I shoved my knife in my back pocket and clenched my fists. My nails dug into the palms of my hands, and I welcomed the blood that trickled down my wrists. It was a much-needed distraction from the lifeless look in Ed’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

My voice was hoarse, but I forced the words out anyway.

“You were so kind to us. And this is how we repaid you.”

We weren’t the ones to sear a hole in his neck, but we had drawn Homelander here. So, as inadvertent as it was, we were still responsible, and the guilt was all-consuming, rocking me to my core.

I knelt on my knees, and I reached to grasp one of Ed’s hands. It was still warm.

“It’s all our fault, and I’m so sorry we weren’t here to protect you. Because that’s what you deserved. You deserved to have us take care of you after you spent so much of your time taking care of us.”

My shoulders shook, and I could no longer hold in the sobs that clawed their way out of my mouth. Boots thumped on the floor behind me before I felt Butcher's warm embrace as he lifted me to stand, murmuring in my ear.

“Hey, I’ve got ya. It’s ok, I’ve got ya.”

My legs felt unusually weak, and I was grateful Butcher was there. If it weren’t for him, I would’ve collapsed on the floor by now as grief and self-reproach infiltrated my body.

“I’m sorry, petal. I know you’re upset, but the longer we stay here, the longer we put our own lives at risk.”

With shaking hands, I wiped my tears and mumbled “Ok” so Butcher would know I’d heard him. But I had one more thing I had to do before we left. If we couldn’t bury him, I needed to make sure someone else would.

I stumbled to the desk behind Ed’ slumped form and reached for the small landline he’d kept there. I dialed 911, and put the phone to my ear, listening to the steady ring.

“What the bloody hell are ya doin’?” Butcher growled as he tried to wrench the phone from me.

I swatted his hand away and cleared my throat as someone answered.

“911. What is your emergency?”

I lowered my voice and prayed the person on the other end of the call was competent enough to catch everything I said as I quickly spoke.

“I need to report a death. 306, Webster Rd. Haverhill, New Hampshire.”

I pressed the End button, cutting off the connection, and avoided looking at both Ed and Butcher as I readjusted the bag on my shoulder and headed for the door.

“Let’s go.”

The late November air stung my face, and I felt Butcher’s all-encompassing presence right behind me, no doubt mentally cursing me for not allowing him the chance to venture outside first.

I retrieved my knife and held it firmly as my eyes raced over the side street on which the small bed and breakfast sat. The ground was coated in a thick layer of snow thanks to the blizzard from earlier in the evening, and there was a sense of peace that floated around this part of Haverfield. If only the other residents knew of the horror that had ensued inside this picturesque bed-and-breakfast.

After determining that no supes were lurking in the shadows, I inched down the narrow sidewalk, and that’s when my eyes landed on Butcher’s old Cadillac. To the naked eye, the vehicle looked untouched, but that wasn’t enough to convince me.

“Stay here,” Butcher barked, already passing me on his way to the car, not giving me a chance to rebuke his command.

I scowled, but it didn’t hinder my ability to be alert as I watched every single one of Butcher’s movements as he trudged through the dense snow.

With his gun at the ready, the safety lock having been already flicked off, Butcher peered through each window, circling the vehicle as if it was a ticking time bomb. But knowing Homelander, it very well could be.

Butcher pulled his keys from the pocket of his trench coat and unlocked his Cadillac before easing the door open. He ducked his head inside and then settled the rest of his body in the driver’s seat.

I was about to call out with the intention of warning him not to start the car, but I was too late, and the engine roared to life. The headlights blinded me, and I threw an arm over my face to protect my eyes.

“Come on then, love. We don’t got all night.”

Unsure, I tip-toed through the snow and reached the passenger side, hesitantly opening the door.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked, untrusting of the vehicle that could’ve easily been tampered with.

“Yes, doll. M’sure.”

“But what if it explodes while we’re both inside? For all we know, Homelander could be behind a tree somewhere, waiting to press the button.”

Butcher opened his mouth to respond, but both of our attentions were pulled towards a siren that wailed in the distance.

“Marvelous, that’s the authorities.” Butcher groaned before rolling his eyes. “Look, love, unless you wanna be caught at the scene of a crime, then ya better climb in.”

I eyed Butcher as l gnawed on my lower lip, feeling the dry skin rip away.

“I promise you, it’s safe. I’d never put ya in harm’s way.”

I still wasn’t convinced, and my neck craned over the roof of the Cadillac as I caught sight of the unmistakable red of a police cruiser’s cherry.

“Fuck me,” Butcher swore, having enough of my reluctance, and tugged me into the car without a thought of my feelings.

“Butcher-“

“Shut your trap. I just saved us both from bein’ taken into custody for a murder that we didn’t commit.”

With some difficulty due to the road that had yet to be shoveled, Butcher put the car in reverse and backed out before turning the wheel and zooming forward down the street.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, they’re gonna pass us,” Butcher noted as the police car sped down the opposite side of the street.

I leaned forward, but Butcher placed a hand on my head, gruffly pushing me down.

“Oi, scoot your bum down, or else they’ll see ya.”

I whined in protest but didn’t fight him and stayed tucked down in the seat. The scarlet lights flashed aggressively, filling the otherwise dark Cadillac. The bright hue danced over Butcher’s face, but he stayed stoically staring forward, apart from when he glanced in the review mirror to watch the car as it was now behind us.

“They’re pullin’ into the Inn.”

“Good. They’ll take care of Ed.”

“That’s what you think. In reality, they’ll open an investigation for a murder they’ll never be able to solve.”

I furrowed my brows as I sat up straighter. “Well, what was I supposed to do, huh? Just leave him there to rot? He deserves better, and you know that. Besides, he mentioned having a great-niece who lives in Idaho, so this way, he’ll be laid to rest by family.”

Butcher sighed, shaking his head as he slammed his foot down on the gas, throwing me against the dashboard as we sped through a yellow light and entered one of the main roads in town.

“For fuck’s sake, put on your seatbelt,” Butcher scolded me, reaching across my body to draw the protective material across my chest.

“I can do it myself,” I complained, yanking the seatbelt from him and latching it at the bottom of my seat. “Where are we going anyway?”

“Wherever the highway takes us, doll.”

“How terribly specific of you.”

Butcher snorted, not bothering to use his turn signal as he turned onto the first highway entrance ramp he found. “We’re going to Canada, alright? The best thing to do right now is hide out with MM and Hughie.”

“Do you plan on whipping up some fake passports so we can get across the heavily secured border?” I asked skeptically.

“Actually, I already have ‘em right here.” Butcher patted the breast pocket of his earthy green Hawaiian shirt.

My face must have been full of surprise because Butcher chuckled, placing a hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. “You should start trustin’ Daddy more, love. He’ll always take care of his girl.”

I was about to spread my legs, inviting Butcher to move his hand up to a more desirable location, but then his phone rang, and he pulled his hand away to shove it into his pocket, quickly retrieving the device.

“Speak of the devil,” Butcher said before answering the phone. “MM, how lovely to hear from ya. As a matter of fact, we was gonna come visit-“

Butcher was cut off, and I didn’t miss his slight intake of air as he listened to MM chatter on the other end of the line.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Butcher swerved the vehicle, taking us over the small chunk of grass onto the other side of the freeway while the tires squeaked in protest.

“Butcher, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” I warned as we rocked back and forth, going over the soft terrain. One hand was braced against the window, and the other squeezed Butcher’s bicep, both in fear and anguish.

“Hold on to your tits, love,” Butcher announced as the car plopped down onto placement, and he ignored every speeding sign known to mankind, going close to 90 miles per hour.

“Yeah, ok,” Butcher said as he resumed his intense conversation with MM. “Yep, I agree. We’re headed there now. Oh, us? We’re fine. Cool as cucumbers we are.”

“Butcher, what’s going on?” I asked, worried. But he disregarded my question.

“Do whatever you have to do to get across the bloody border, aye? Nuke every single guard there is. All that matters is getting you and Hughie back to the city so we can finish this once and for all.”

With that, Butcher hung up and tossed his phone into the backseat.

“Billy, what the fuck is going on?” I asked again, with more urgency.

“Turns out, they’ve all been burned as well. Even Frenchie and Kimiko.”

Butcher’s voice rose as he cursed several times, hitting the steering wheel and making the car swerve into another lane.

I yelped as I grabbed the wheel myself to steady the car, my heart racing at Butcher’s outburst.

“Christ, I’m sorry, darlin’. M’sorry. Didn’t mean to lose me temper like that,” Butcher apologized, drastically slowing down until the Cadillac was going a reasonable 65 miles per hour.

“It’s fine,” I mumbled, peeling my hand off of the wheel as Butcher regained control of himself and the car.

Butcher’s eyes bounced between my face and the road ahead as he continued his apology, dwelling on his loss of temper. “I really didn’t mean to do it, doll.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” I waved my hand dismissively.

I didn’t speak again until the feeling of Butcher staring at the side of my head became too much.

“Honestly, Butcher, it’s fine. I promise. Besides, it’s not like you’ve never gotten angry before.”

“But that’s just it,” Butcher replied, despair lacing his voice. “I don’t wanna get angry no more. I don’t wanna be known as some manky wanker who loses his shite at the drop of a hat or drowns his sorrows in whiskey.”

Butcher slowed the car even more so he could look at me.

“I wanna be someone who is deservin’ of you. When we go out together, I don’t want ya to be ashamed to be seen with me.”

“Butcher, where is all of this coming from?” I inquired, concerned as I shuffled in my seat to better look at him. “Why on earth would you ever think I’d be ashamed for people to see us together?”

When Butcher didn’t respond and instead plastered his eyes on the yellow and white lines ahead, I resumed talking in an effort to convince him of his delusions.

“Butcher, I love you, ok? I would be proud to be seen with you. In fact, all I want is to go out with you and watch every girl as they glare at me with jealousy because they know you’re mine.”

Butcher kept up his silence, but I didn’t blame him. He wasn’t very good with expressing his emotions, and after everything he’d shared with me lately, including in this conversation, I knew he had reached his limit on disclosing his feelings.

But in his own way of accepting my declaration, he placed his hand back on my leg, and I placed my hand over his, running across the prominent veins that I loved so much.

I turned on the radio, and the speakers roared to life— producing a song that felt a little too relatable at the moment: Living on a Prayer by Jon Bon Jovi.

The irony was too intense, and I was thankful when the melody changed, transitioning into Piano Man by Billy Joel. A smile crossed my face as the familiar sound of the harmonica filled the air, reminding me of my closest friend, Hughie.

It felt like an eternity since I last saw him, and I was anxious to end the streak. I desperately needed someone to talk to about everything, and Hughie was always so willing to listen and offer advice that he hoped was helpful.

“So, where exactly in the city are we meeting?” I ventured, hoping to get a little bit of information about our destination.

“Don’t know yet, but MM said that since Frenchie is the closest, he’ll be the one to scope some places out.”

I made a simple noise of acknowledgment before focusing on Billy Joel’s voice as I leaned my head against the headrest, staring at the dark pavement that was illuminated by Butcher’s headlights.

According to my phone, it was almost three in the morning, and I couldn’t ignore the intense Deja vu I felt. It was only a few weeks ago that Butcher and I had jumped in the car and headed to an unknown location in the middle of the night.

“Everythin’ will be ok,” Butcher pledged quietly.

“I know.”

I let my eyes shut, falling into a light sleep as the wind blew outside the window, and I hoped that whatever safe house Frenchie found this time wasn’t below a pawn shop.

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ihavemanyhusbands · 1 year ago

Text

The Wine of Your Blood

Also on AO3

A/N: As usual, thank you to G <3

Pairing: Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Summary: After Father Paul's transformation, he is tormented by a hunger only you can quell.

WC: 5.1k words

Warnings: 18+ ONLY!, vampirism, blood drinking, religious imagery and symbolism (I'm not a religious expert tho I grew up catholic, sorry if I used wrong terms), canon divergence, hierophilia, corruption, graphic depictions of sex and some violence, unprotected sex (do not try at home), cunnilingus, ummm let me know if I missed anything pls!!

------------

The silhouette was there again, shrouded in a thick fog that rolled in from the tempestuous sea. It was tall and statuesque, like the guard of some mythical place – monstrous and terrible. Golden light blazed behind it, flickering like an ardent flame. Or like a beacon, slicing through the night’s darkness and calling you home.

You could not see its eyes, and yet you could feel the prickle of an assessing gaze. The siren-like lure was undeniable, and for a moment you could understand why sailors jumped into the sea with total abandon.

But you were not afraid. You’d seen this apparition for various nights now, like an omen, even if you didn’t really believe in that sort of thing.

The real questions were: What was it presaging?

And why, especially, did it feel so inevitable?

————-

You awoke, as you often did in the late fall, to a gentle rain. As the day progressed, you knew it would grow in intensity, but for now, there was peace and quiet.

You stared at the drops trailing down your window like glistening tears of melancholy. The milky white early morning sky was the same as it ever was, casting a thin, watery light on everything.

When you finally pulled yourself out of bed, you peeked into your grandmother’s room to find her still out, snoring softly. Her breaths no longer sounded like wet, raspy gurgles, which made you sag with abundant relief.

Sarah had diagnosed her with a mild case of pneumonia the previous week, but even so you knew things could turn for the worse on a whim. Your grandmother was nearing ninety, and while she had always been a sturdy woman, her body could only take so much now.

For a minute, you were seriously starting to consider getting in touch with the new priest, Father Paul, once again to talk last rites. For your grandmother’s sake, you wished Monsignor Pruitt could have performed them, but he was still recovering in the mainland.

But that all would be a problem for another day, given that she was doing much better.

Still, she had adamantly refused to miss mass, and while she wasn’t strong enough to leave the house, Father Paul had been gracious enough to swing by for a house visit on Sunday.

He seemed like a fine man, soft-spoken, amiable, and welcoming. Not to mention, he had quite a charming way about him, especially when he laughed. Perhaps you shouldn’t be taking notice of that, but you couldn’t help it, despite how conflicted you felt in his presence.

There was something vaguely familiar in his dark eyes you couldn’t place — something that seemed far older, perhaps wiser, but definitely weathered. At times, prolonged eye contact with him seemed daunting, but you attributed it to your general wariness of strangers.

He hadn’t been at Crockett for very long, but you appreciated the effort he seemed to be making with everyone on the island, but especially with your grandmother. There had to be some way you could repay his kindness… perhaps in the form of a homemade treat.

You padded over to the kitchen to make some coffee, rummaging through the cupboards to see if you had all the ingredients to make some banana bread.

You spent the rest of the morning cooking, your grandmother’s small house warm and permeated with the sweet, enticing smell of baking bread. You got ready after that, making sure your grandmother ate some breakfast and took her medicine before you headed out.

Gravel crunched under your rain boots as you trudged over to the Monsignor’s house, where Father Paul was currently residing. You nodded in greeting at passerby, stopping only to spare a few words with Leeza Scarborough, who was on her front porch reading.

When you arrived at the house, the curtains were drawn and there seemed to be no lights on inside. You frowned in slight confusion, given that it was past noon. Perhaps he was out and about, but with so few residents on the island, you surely would have seen him.

You stepped up onto his porch, hesitating for a moment before knocking on the door.

“Father Paul?” You called tentatively.

No answer. You tried knocking again, waiting for another few minutes.

When you were about to give up, you kneeled to set down the tupperware, and the door suddenly opened to reveal Beverly. Her eyes widened slightly upon seeing you there and you quickly straightened.

“Oh, Beverly,” you said as a form of greeting. “Sorry, just wanted to drop something off for Father Paul. As a thank you.”

She cleared her throat, hands clasping in front of her. “I’m afraid Father Paul has fallen ill and is currently indisposed for visitors…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you said sympathetically, further confused by the slight worry you felt at the news. “I can just give this to you, then. I’ll talk to him when he’s better.”

“How nice of you to do this,” Beverly smiled tightly, eyebrows raising just a little. “I’m sure he’ll really appreciate it, though I’m not sure if his stomach will be able to take it right now… Oh, I just hope it doesn’t go bad.”

You gave her a wry, uncomfortable smile in return. “It’s the thought that counts, right? Erm… I’m just glad he’s got someone to take care of him.”

“He’s in good hands, I assure you,” she nodded. “Mine, and the Lord’s, of course.”

You nodded in return, starting to back away slowly. “Right. Well, can you tell him my grandmother sends her regards?”

“Of course, I will let him know. Good day now.”

And with that, she shut the front door. You shook your head and let out a sigh, glancing only once back at the house as you walked away.

—————

For once, the night was clear. The stars and the waxing moon were visible, keeping you company as you stepped off your porch. The air was fresh and crisp, smelling faintly of petrichor.

You stretched a little as you looked up at the sky, thanking whoever was up there for letting the rain cease for the time being. It seemed like forever since you’d last been able to go out for a nighttime jog, no one around to talk to or look presentable for. It was the perfect time to clear your mind, now that a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

You started down the gravel road, the wind whistling in your ears. Your legs kept a steady rhythm, the old houses of all your neighbors whizzing past your field of vision. You passed by the school and the convenience store, winding away from the main town area towards the harbor.

The moon’s reflection made the black waves glitter, endless, ominous, and hauntingly beautiful. You stopped for a moment near the pier, looking beyond the water at all the distant lights of the mainland. So close, and yet so far.

Sure, you yearned for all the mainland had to offer – an entire world that wasn’t just bite-sized, predictable, safe. But you could not yield to those selfish fantasies, not while someone who gave you so much throughout your life now required your help. You closed your eyes and breathed in the salty breeze.

Perhaps someday…

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The familiar voice made you almost jump out of your skin. You whirled around to find Father Paul a few feet behind you, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. Maybe you’d been so distracted that you hadn’t heard him approach, but it still felt eerie.

“Oh, I’ve startled you, I’m so sorry,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

You placed a hand on your chest as if to placate your racing heart. “It’s okay, Father. I just wasn’t really expecting to see anyone, is all.”

“Especially not the priest, right?” he raised an eyebrow, which made you huff in amusement.

“Guess I just thought you didn’t come out at night.”

He smiled lopsidedly, looking down and clearing his throat slightly. “You know, I think I’m becoming more partial to nighttime. I guess you could say I’m an insomniac.”

“All that weight on your conscience?” You said as he approached, standing next to you.

“Something like that,” he sighed, now looking off into the distance. “Thank you for the bread. It was delicious.”

You shrugged it off modestly. “Grandma’s recipe. I’m just glad she’s right as rain again. Maybe… Your prayers helped. It’s what she insists on, anyway.”

He shook his head, a loose dark curl brushing his forehead. “That’s much too kind of her.”

You assessed his profile for a moment. “How are you feeling, Father? You were out for a few days, too.”

“I definitely needed some fresh air. Now, I’m much better,” he said with a smile, meeting your gaze. “I could not stay cooped in that house any longer. I’m really looking forward to our next mass.”

You said nothing, unsure of how to respond. Despite the fact that you’d grown up religious, you weren’t really practicing anymore. Sometimes you’d accompany your grandmother to sermons, but you often tried to find excuses to skip them.

So far, you had only been to one of Father Paul’s, and you had to admit there was something rapturous about his speeches. They were not only engaging, but the passion behind them was sort of infectious. You even caught yourself leaning forward in your seat, which you quickly corrected.

It only added to the confusion of how you felt about this man, but such a mystery was undeniably alluring.

“Will you be joining us?” He asked. “No pressure if not, but it’d be nice to see you there.”

“Ah, is that what this is? You’re trying to convert me or something?”

“You’re very clever,” he observed, his grin broadening. “But no, that's not all it is. Part of it, sure, but I don’t want you to miss out on something really special.”

You couldn’t help the slight blush that spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat suddenly spiking once again. His easy, confident smile faltered for a moment, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The bestial hunger that had been tormenting him for days, rendering him weak and sickly, flared inside of him.

“T-think on it, but like I said, no pressure on my part,” he added quickly, gasping a little as if he lacked air.

You nodded, failing to notice how he slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. His muscles were taut with self-restraint, rooting him to the spot. Luckily, you moved first, taking a step back.

“Alright, thank you for the invite. Um…I should probably finish my jog and head back home,” you said, gesturing behind you. “Don’t get in too late, Father. You don’t want to catch another cold.”

————

Despite the fact that he was a passionate speaker, you had never seen Father Paul so worked up.

He started by speaking about eternity and how hard it was to visualize it. The fire inside him was stoked as he spoke of God’s gifts, his miracles and his mysteries. How they were something tangible, something within reach of every grasping hand… even if one couldn’t understand them.

Then the fire turned into a feverish glint in his eyes, his skin paling considerably. He stumbled over his words, pausing to keep nausea at bay. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little dizzy spell, but I’m fine now.”

Still, he braced his hand on the pulpit. You noticed Beverly was also leaning forward in her seat, ready to spring to action if need be. That was all the confirmation you needed that something was wrong.

But for a moment, as he continued talking, things seemed to settle. You relaxed in your seat, folding your hands on your lap.

“No abstracts. No colorful exaggerations. No. ‘Rebirth’, ‘Second chances’, ‘E-eternal li…’”

His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as his words faded into a shuddery exhale. He collapsed onto the floor, thudding heavily down the steps as the panicked voices of the congregation rose in volume.

Beverly reached him first, of course, but you knelt at his side only moments after. You hadn’t even registered you were running until you got there, cradling his head in your hands.

And even if he was unconscious, you could’ve sworn he leaned closer to your touch.

—---------

It was an audacious plan, you knew that well enough. Still, that clarity didn’t stop you from attempting to go through with it.

As soon as Sarah Gunning arrived to attend to Father Paul, Beverly had kicked everyone out, holding firm even as you insisted you wanted to stay. Her stubborn will was infuriating, but perhaps also commendable, in a way. You had to bite back a few bitter words as you left, but that didn’t mean you intended to stay away.

You waited for her to leave Father Paul’s house, which didn’t happen until after the sun had set. Even when you couldn’t hear her receding footsteps any longer, you waited a few more minutes before approaching the front door.

You raised your fist to knock, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a haggard-looking Father Paul. There were dark crescents hanging from his eyes and his skin was so pale it was almost translucent.

For his sake, you held back from gasping, but he could still see worry written across your features.

“It’s like you knew I was coming,” you said with a small smile.

“Keen senses,” he said softly. “Would you like to come in?”

You hesitated, despite the fact that a ‘yes’ was on the tip of your tongue. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Gave us a real scare earlier.”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment as if staving off an ache deep within him. In the dim light, you noticed the corners of his lips were a dark red. For a moment you wondered if he’d been drinking the sacramental wine.

“It may not seem like it but… better,” he said, mustering a small smile. “I fear I-I may owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, Father Paul, you don’t…”

“Please, I insist. I can make us some tea, if you’d like,” his voice dropped into the faintest whisper. “Just, stay. Please.”

The desperation in his voice gave you pause. You searched his face for the answer to a question you didn’t dare ask, and perhaps you deluded yourself into believing you found it.

You nodded, crossing the threshold and taking off your shoes. You heard him shuffle about in the kitchen, and you wrung your hands nervously as you glanced around the small, austere rectory.

This was wholly improper, you knew, but you felt a magnetic sort of pull towards him that was getting harder to resist. It was easy to deny it at first, brushing it off as curiosity and excitement over having a newcomer on the island.

Most were wary, but you… you wondered if he could be your link to the rest of the world. Your appetite for that dream was only whetted, closer to your fingertips than ever.

“Water’s boiling,” he said as he came into the living room. “Sit, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Obediently, you did as told. There was a palpable tension in the atmosphere that made your skin prickle. He sat across from you, gripping the armrests of the chair as he adjusted himself, unable to find a comfortable position.

“I have to insist that you owe me no explanation, Father. I just worry about your… condition,” you said.

“It’s no ordinary ailment. I think you’ve sensed that already, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unsure of where he was going with this, but willing to listen.

He continued. “You have witnessed miracles here on the island. Things that you can’t explain and yet are so clear to your eyes. Were you listening to my homily earlier?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, even if you’d only been half-listening.

But he was speaking the truth, if Leeza Scarborough was any indication. She had risen from her wheelchair just a few days prior, no longer in need of it. Since then, you’d seen other changes around Crockett, some of them more subtle than others.

You clasped your hands on your lap to keep from moving them. “You mean to say you’ve brought about these miracles?”

He smiled patiently, indulgently. In this light, his eyes seemed darker than you’d ever seen, like two chasms you could get lost in.

“No, not me. God. I am merely a vessel for His glory, and all of the gifts He wishes to impart on us,” he said, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on his knees. “On you in particular.”

“Me?” You blinked, genuinely surprised. “What sort of gift?”

“The gift of life anew. Rebirth. A holy transfiguration, if you will.”

His gaze was fixed on the way your throat worked as you swallowed hard, on edge despite your curiosity being piqued.

“You see, I was visited by an angel. Larger than life, with a greater wingspan than even an albatross. It was utterly magnificent… as well as horrifying. I was afraid at first, of course, for we all fear things that are unknown to us. I was on the brink of death regardless, but see me now, restored, in my prime!”

You frowned, a myriad of questions on the tip of your tongue, but then Father Paul doubled over, clutching his stomach. His dark brows were furrowed from the influx of pain and you instinctively rose to help, but he lifted a hand to stop you.

“But to be reborn, the old self must be destroyed, and thus… and thus it is not an easy road to walk,” he rasped.

You knelt beside him, concerned and abundantly confused all at once. “What do you need? How can I help you ease this pain?”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, pleading, desperate. Like a wounded animal, almost. You wondered if he, too, might bare his teeth in warning.

“There is this hunger inside of me that I cannot seem to dispel. I-I fear it threatens to consume me,” he swallowed hard, straightening into a sitting position once more. “God asks terrible things of us sometimes, but I cannot help but think this is a test of my strength. My will.”

“I want to help,” you said softly, so softly, daintily placing a hand on his knee.

But his ears were keen, as he’d said, and he heard you perfectly fine. Still, his eyes – glazed over in pain and hunger and desire – searched yours for any sign of doubt. Instead, he found resolve, as well as a very clear distress at seeing him suffer so much.

Oh, pious, gentle little lamb. What a good heart you had. The idea that your blood might taste just as sweet made his head spin, his beastly hunger lashing out inside of him.

His hands cradled your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone ever so slightly. You found yourself leaning into his touch, too entranced by him to think objectively about the morality of the whole thing. The charge in the atmosphere changed into something more taut, all too close to snapping.

“You do not know what you are offering,” he said, holding fast to his self-restraint even as his mouth watered.

“Maybe you could show me, then.”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips at your eagerness, one of his hands leaving your face to pat his thigh. “Come, would you like to sit here? Perhaps I shall whisper it in your ear.”

You started to lift yourself, but then hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I’ll ever be of anything, my dear,” he assured, his smile momentarily taking on a certain edge, like that of a wolf’s.

You situated yourself on his legs gingerly, closer to his knees, but he brazenly grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer. You gasped, a tingle forming between your shoulder blades and slowly crawling down your spine.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he relished the feeling, his arms circling your waist to keep you from squirming. “I hope you didn’t catch a fever from me.”

“I-I didn’t realize this was the sort of hunger you were referring to, Father,” you said tremulously, more heat sparking in your lower abdomen.

He traced his nose against the bare skin of your arm. “Not quite, but it’s making your heart race, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the blush that crept to your cheeks, silently willing your heart to slow as it hammered insistently against your ribcage. Tenderly, he brushed your hair off your shoulder, exposing your neck. Instinctively, you tilted your head back, showing more of it.

He hummed in approval, licking his lips. “Here, just a little taste first.”

He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his face. He kissed the tip of your index finger before taking some of it into his mouth. His inky black eyes held your gaze as you suddenly felt a painful prick on your digit that made you gasp once more.

He groaned softly, holding your wrist as he lapped at the thin rivulet of blood. The mere sight paralyzed you for a moment, but it’d be a lie to say it didn’t make your cunt throb.

And to make matters worse, the small rush of shame that followed this realization only seemed to turn you on more. Without thinking, you raked your free hand in his hair, tugging his head towards you.

“Do it,” you rasped, your tone dangerously close to begging. “Please.”

“God bless you,” he said deliriously, clasping you tighter against his chest. “Oh, God bless you. I-I want to make it good for you, too.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in and letting out another weak sound at your dizzying warmth. You shuddered and he scented a small note of fear as you tightened your grip on his hair. He shushed softly, soothingly, his lips ghosting over a quivering vein.

When his teeth first pierced the sensitive flesh, you let out a pained mewl as all of your muscles seized. Then — as fast as it had come — the pain vanished and you went slack against him. Stars danced in your vision as you felt the vibration of his groan against your throat.

Every single one of your nerve endings was alight with pleasure, which only seemed to grow in intensity.

Without you really noticing, your hips rocked back and forth, clothed cunt dragging against his leg in short, desperate movements that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. He gripped one of your hips tightly, guiding your movements with urgency.

In the kitchen, the kettle started whistling loudly just as an orgasm hit you like a freight train, rattling your very bones. You felt yourself melting in a way you never had before, toeing the line between life and death. You’d have gladly gone to heaven in that moment – or hell, for that matter – if fate so decided. He held you steady throughout, running a soothing hand up and down your spine.

Just when exhaustion began to creep in from the blood loss, he painstakingly pulled away, his mouth stained crimson. He looked drunken and dazed, like he was caught in between dreams. But he also seemed less frail, and definitely more alert, pupils fully dilated.

“Thank you,” he breathed, gazing at you adoringly. Reverently, even.

Diligently, he lapped at the weeping puncture wounds. His lips left a smear behind as he kissed your collarbone, hands ripping at your blouse to expose more flesh. Panting, you tried to undo the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers, but he stopped you.

“Lovely, eager thing. We’ll get there. Let me take care of you first,” he murmured against your sternum.

He tore any garment that stood in his way fervently, until you were practically naked in his lap. Your back arched, taut as a bow, as he continued leaving sanguine kisses in his wake. He hauled you into his arms with preternatural strength as he stood up. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you into his bedroom, laying you down on the bed gently.

There, standing over you, he seemed every bit the statuesque figure that plagued your dreams. His eyes glinted in the half-dark, reflecting the moonlight spilling in through the window. He sank to his knees as if preparing for prayer, his grin hungry as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed.

“Come here, little lamb. My most precious sacrifice. My hunger for you has not nearly been sated,” he said, licking his lips. “I am yet to make a feast of you.”

A kiss on your navel that had you shaking all over again. If you had come so hard without so much as a caress, you couldn’t imagine the delirium of his mouth where you ached for it most. Perhaps then, you would truly cross the line for good.

He discarded the last garment covering you, revealing your glistening, slippery cunt for his appraisal. He made an agonized sound, ducking his head immediately to kiss your inner thigh. The tip of his tongue traced your skin just a little bit, getting a taste of your divine essence.

He knew then and there that he was utterly lost; That he would no longer know a greater devotion than this. What a perfect altar for him to worship you, the cradle of your thighs. It took all of his willpower not to sink his teeth into your femoral artery and drain you further, until all of your blood mingled with his.

Another day, perhaps, when you’d recovered some.

Instead, he finally licked a long, languid stripe through your soaked folds. With a low moan, his mouth latched onto your overly sensitive bundle of nerves, making your entire body jerk. He gripped your thighs harder as you squirmed, your fingers burying in his dark curls and holding on for dear life.

You hadn’t expected him to be so good at it, but then again, it was a night of surprises. Not that you could ever complain, anyway. Your wanton moans only encouraged him further, his lips and tongue and even the slightest graze of his teeth making you buck and arch on the mattress.

Once more, you felt a tidal wave begin to form, making your breath come out in sharp little exhales. But you didn’t want to let go again quite yet, at least not like this, with so much distance between your bodies.

You resorted to pleading, attempting to pull his head back. “F-Father wait, please, I want—”

“Don’t hold back from me,” he urged hoarsely, between licks. “Come on, give me one more. I’ll reward you doubly, I promise.”

You began to protest once more, but with an expert swirl of his tongue, the wave finally crested. Violently crashing against the rocks of your sanity. Your eyes searched for heaven again at the back of your head, mouth falling slack in rapture. He made sure you rode it all the way through, softly murmuring praises.

You lay there spent, chest heaving with great, deep breaths. He chuckled, both amused and inexplicably fond at the sight of you so undone. He pulled back to make quick work of his clothes, smears of dry blood further darkening his black shirt.

“I fear you might be turning me into a glutton,” he said, removing his collar and setting it down on the nightstand.

Your eyes trailed his fingers as he unbuttoned his shirt, and you gave him a weak, teasing smile. “You are not the only insatiable creature here, Father.”

“I see that now,” he grinned, his canines all too sharp. “What a great gift He has bestowed upon me, bringing you here.”

His jeans were next to go, merely kicked to one side, and his body slid over yours in a warm embrace. Then finally, mercifully, his lips found yours in a slow, searing kiss. It was the last piece missing from the puzzle that connected you; The last nail on the coffin of your fate.

You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as you cupped the back of his head. Ankles crossed behind his back, pressing down, silently urging him closer. He guided himself into you, moving slowly so you could get used to the stretch. There was a growl low in his throat as he bottomed out, and his kiss became fiercer. Possessive, even.

The only sound in the dimly lit room was that of flesh slapping together lewdly as he quickened his pace, your sharp breaths and wistful sighs. The way he whispered your name like a prayer as he nearly dissolved with passion. It was then that you broke the kiss, tilting your head to the side as his lips chased yours in a dreamlike, desperate state. You shifted, baring your throat for him to ravage once more.

“Just like this,” you murmured, eyelashes fluttering over your cheekbones as you readied yourself. “I’m yours.”

“Only a little more,” he promised, kissing the base of your neck before tracing his way up with his nose.

A gasp, and then you were submerged in that languid, morphine state. Ecstasy hit him like lightning, and he was no longer able to hold back. He trembled against you as he came, crushing you tighter to him, buried to the hilt. You felt heat flooding you as he sealed the puncture wounds again, lips finding yours right after.

He rolled off of you only to tuck you both in, drawing you close and kissing the top of your head. His onyx eyes scanned your beatific features, wonder and amazement written all over his own.

“The night suits you, my dear,” he said, wiping strands of your hair away from your sweat-dotted face. “Perhaps it would be less lonesome with you around...”

He seemed truly vulnerable in that moment, smaller, entirely human. Eyebrows pinched together in consternation, lips pursed with some guilt at his actions. You snuggled even closer, leeching off his body heat. If anything, seeing this side of him, complex and familiar in a way you instinctively understood, reassured you.

“Will you take my hand and guide me through it?” You asked, voice low and wistful.

He nodded, lacing his fingers through yours. “Through the valley of the shadow of death and beyond. There is still so much for you to see, and the gift of time is at our disposal. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”

Yes, yes it was. Comforting enough to finally drift into dreams of the stars beyond the horizon.

#midnight mass fanfiction #father paul fanfiction #father paul x reader #monsignor pruitt fanfiction #monsignor pruitt x reader #minors dni

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ninibeingdelulu · 6 months ago

Note

heyy could you write any headcannons you have in mind about Levi in a “relationship” with one of his female scout? Whatever you have in mind cuz i like the way you picture him

headcanons ft. levi ackerman

a/n: hii ty for requesting I LOVE this

At first, dating humanity's strongest and most renowned soldier feels utterly surreal. You go through bouts of imposter syndrome wondering how someone as incredible as Captain Levi could desire an ordinary scout like yourself.

His icy demeanor and prickly standoffishness in public make it easy to forget the softer side he only allows you to witness behind closed doors.

Levi is an incredibly private person, so keeping your blossoming relationship on the down-low is a must around the scout regiment.

No overt PDA or unprofessional doting - he maintains strict boundaries while on duty. Only in fleeting moments does the faintest hint of tenderness shine through his steely facade directed solely at you.

Perhaps his hand lingers electric against the small of your back as you salute and depart his office after filing reports. Or you notice his piercing gaze following your movements a beat longer than necessary across the grounds.

Each covert caress and weighted look reminds you this guarded man longs for you just as desperately.

While out beyongdthe safety of the walls, however, a transformed sort of protectiveness takes over Levi. His hyper-awareness of your positioning and safety borders on smotheringly paranoid at times.

He simply cannot fathom losing one of the few tethers still binding his soul to living.

You've lost count of the number of times Levi has abruptly extracted you from the heat of battle using his ODM gear like a ragdoll - eyes blazing with frantic fear.

Only once you're tucked away in some temporary haven does he finally allow himself to cup your face tenderly, scanning you over for injuries through trembling palms.

Harsh words laced with worry always tumble from his lips during these fraught reunions. "Foolish brat...always taking unnecessary risks...would never forgive myself if—"

Whatever self-recriminations Levi begins spitting will instantly evaporate as you surge up on your tiptoes to silence him with a searing kiss. Your reassurances that you're perfectly unharmed gradually smooth down those worry-lines etched across his brow.

Assuming you survive each expedition unscathed, Levi becomes almost insatiable for your affection whenever your boots hit headquarters ground again.

As if proximity to death's cold embrace reignites the urgency to savor every possible second with his greatest source of warmth and comfort.

He'll stride directly up to wherever you're stationed, seize you by the elbow and all but frog-march you both down the halls to his personal quarters.

Once the door bangs shut, Levi finally releases that ragged groan you've come to recognize as pooled tension seeping out like a valve opening.

All it takes is your delicate fingertips cradling his face and lips seeking out the jump of his pulse in that elegant throat...and suddenly you find yourself pinned flat against the nearest wall.

Every sacred inch of your body abruptly scorched and worshipped with ardent, possessive fervor.

Long after the afterglow of your frantic lovemaking has faded to drowsy embers, Levi's stormy gaze still rakes over you with mingled awe and disbelief.

As if whatever deity charged with spinning the threads of this cruel world saw fit to weave this small but brilliant spark of solace into the tapestry of his life.

Each time he rediscovers you lying sated and tousled beside him, you become the gravity lashing his heart into orbit anew.

On nights when memories of carnage past seep like toxic fumes into blacking out his dreams, Levi clings tighter to your sleeping form than he's ever dared to anything else.

You are his lighthouse, hearth and sanctuary against the darkness continually attempting to extinguish his faltering flames.

Enduring the loss of so many admired comrades has made your captain extraordinarily skilled at donning an impenetrable mask.

Only when your hands and lips and limbs entangle with his does Levi's stillness gradually erode back into the fiery embers burning hot at his very core.

No words need transpire for him to silently thank you time after time for slicing through the ice barricading his war-torn soul.

One look from those stormy greys conveys everything he can never find the breath to articulate before crushing you tight against his rapidly thundering heart once more.

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nectardaddy · 6 months ago

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grim reaper - levi ackerman

levi ackerman x reader

cw: use of death/dying and burning as a metaphor, some graphic descriptions, mention of blood

notes: inspiration from flames by tedy, canon adjacent, not angst despite the warnings, honestly pretty sweet if you read into it

Loving him was a death sentence. A sick, twisted way of giving your life to the other side of the veil - a veil of which he guided others to with a languid heart. A path he didn't willingly chose to partake in, but one assigned to him; unforeseen entities handing him the role of extinguish flames until his own was finally snuffed out.

It wasn't as if he was incapable of love. The feeling often hammered at his soul, knocking and banging, but too often being left out in the cold. It wrecked him, shattered his being until only shards remained of him - if he loved, it would sting. A sting that would turn into burning, singeing his veins and arteries, charring his mind into ash. He was careful, calculated, meticulous as to where he placed his devotion. If he wasn't, it would crumble around him in means to mock him.

But you were able to take the pain and sear of his heart on the chin, pushing past his heavy, morbid soul and cradling it. Caring for it, nurturing it, soothing every uncanny bump or groove before returning it - as it wasn't yours to take. A soft smile in return, although set alight, that struck the match and lit the blaze.

The emotion dizzying and nausea inducing, mind reeling every second he thought too much of it. The rush of the feeling being painful, making him ill to even mention. He would leave you smoldering, extinguish any and all light you gave off in a instant if he were to placate to the feelings. Sucking the life out of you until you were nothing but a shell - a corpse.

Love was a testy and precarious emotion, of which you fervently, stubbornly, offered to him. A stubbornness he usually brushed away, dusting off such feeling away to the wind. Letting it drift away into the horizon; but as soon as he did he hopelessly grabbed for. Grasping such stubborn love in desperation and greed, surprising even himself as he clung to it in feverish need.

Love that made his stomach go to his throat, the dreadful feeling of falling, collapsing under such an intense weight, that he believed, occasionally, was extravagant. Haunting his mind with an image of you holding a gun and him, senselessly, pulling the trigger. Blood spilling right before his eyes in horror - believing himself a monster. A grim reaper of a man who was destined to see all those around him die.

But he selfishly, ardently needed the love - in all its debauchery. Doting on it, fanning the flames of such an endearment recklessly. Willingly allowing himself to slip farther and farther until it all but consumed him, the internal inferno licking and biting, blazing until there was nothing left. Making a mess of himself that he thoroughly enjoyed, relishing in the warmth of every embrace, every fleeting touch, every smile, every kiss.

He wouldn't allow himself to cast you into darkness, an endless battle within his own mind. Until the bitter end, he would always light your match and hold a candle to your existence.

#Spotify #aot #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyoujin #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #snk x reader #shingeki no kyoujin x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader

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autisticlancemcclain · 2 years ago

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Keith is good at compartmentalizing. Always has been. Sure, he’s not always great at emotional regulation, but when the serious shit pops up? Under lock and key it goes, to be brought out only late at night when he’s feeling sorry for himself and wants to make things worse.

(Okay. His coping mechanisms could be better.)

(He’s doing his best, alright? Life is hard.)

But sometimes, his compartments get too damn full. His brain just gets so cluttered with shit that he has no boxes left to shove the hard shit into, and he just has to handle it. It always sucks. It’s always a million times worse than his late night freak-outs.

This one in particular, though?

This one takes the cake.

If one were to steal a probably-dusty manila file from the desk one of the social workers for the State of Arizona, labelled ‘Keith Akira Kogane’, they would see, clearly labelled, a section called ‘ORPHAN’. Under that section would be a subheading — ‘Death of Father’. If this person were to read further, they would discover that officially, according to the Arizona State Reporting District, Texas Kogane died tragically trying to put out a house fire in the line of duty. His son waited three days for him to return home before walking to the fire station and demanding to see his father, and was then swiftly picked up and brought to the Grass Hills Region Arizona State Social Services Office, and assigned a group home after speaking to a child psychologist and social worker.

That story is, almost entirely, false.

Keith’s father did die tragically and heroically in the line of duty. It was a particularly brutal house fire, and Texas did manage to save the family that was trapped, at the cost of his own life.

What the story fails to mention is that the house was, specifically, home to Keith’s closest friend at the time. The file also fails to mention that Keith’s father often worked long hours, and so Keith frequently spent time at that friend’s house.

The article fails, perhaps most ardently, to mention that the day of the fateful fire, Keith was present at the house. The day of the fateful fire, Keith watched the house go up in flames faster than he could comprehend. The day of the fateful fire, Keith cried for his father, curled up in the corner of a room with a wet t-shit over his face, soot covering his hair and smoke lining his lungs. The day of the fateful fire, Texas Kogane kicked open the door behind which Keith was trapped in a blaze of glory, scooping up his small-for-his-age son in his arms and rushing him safely out of the house, hugging him tightly and pressing the briefest of kisses to his dirty hair before rushing back into the house to save the rest of the family that was trapped inside.

The file fails to mention that on the day of the fateful fire, Keith watched his infallible father sprint into the house, and never make it back out.

Keith doesn’t much like fire. The file doesn’t mention that, either. (Keith knows. He stole it, one day, and read it. It had to be locked away in a little box in his head, too.)

Space happens so goddamn quickly.

One day he’s chilling in his stupid shack with a couple cool lizards, dicking around on his hover bike and tracking some weird energy, and the next he’s flying through a real-life wormhole on a sentient lion piloted by a boy with startlingly striking brown eyes that he kind of vaguely remembers if he squints. And then that wormhole leads him to a real-life alien castle, and real-life aliens (he knew it, Keith knew it, he was right all along, his Pa was right all along, they both were —) and he’s informed by a real-life alien princess that he’s the Paladin of the Red Lion, the Universe’s Guardian of Fire.

And oh, does the bitter taste of irony flood his tongue.

He swallows quickly, desperately shoving the box closed, adding as many mental strips of duct tape that he can. He forces his face into a mask of stoicism (practiced to perfection from years of home after home after home) and prays that no one was looking closely enough to see the lick of terror flash through his eyes.

He’s lucky, that way. No one ever is.

He keeps that dangerous box closed as he frees a petulant mecha lion from a Galra ship that he navigates too easily (yet another box), keeps it closed as he argues and fights with the boy with pretty brown eyes (rival, his rival — his shadow?), keeps it closed as he fights a dictator and the dictator’s general and holds the hand of the same boy who smiles and says they make a great team. Keith holds that box shut with both hands as he nearly fights an alien who tries to take his knife at a space mall and trains with the man who’s like a brother to him, along with a brand-new team he’s supposed to trust with his deepest secrets.

Keith squeezes that box shut with every ounce of mental strain that he has, and then some. He grits his teeth and tells himself that fire is good and warm and powerful and life-ending and frightening and —

His bayard unlocks a blazing canon, flames sweeping out and brightly illuminating the stifling emptiness of space, burning everything in its path, and the box bursts open.

“Holy shit, Keith!”

“Yo! Is that a flamethrower?”

“Excellent work, kiddo.”

“‘About time you caught up, Mullet.”

The words are distorted, far away. His team’s transparent excitement fans the flames wreaking havoc on every carefully sealed box in his head, turning strict lines to ash and reducing his head to embers. His skin burns as bright as a sun, sweat dripping down his forehead, and smoke fills his lungs until he’s coughing, wheezing, choking to death —

He has no idea how the rest of the training goes. He has no idea how he manages to keep upright, with his vision swimming in and out and his hands slipping off the controls. He has no idea even how he manages to stay alive with flames licking him from the inside, burning him to a crisp from his bones out to his skin. He has no idea how he manages to land Red in her hangar, how he keeps from turning to ash in the pilot’s seat. How he manages to rip off his seatbelt with hands that have turned to burnt coal and rush down the ramp on legs that are simmering flames.

“Ay, Greñudo! What’s keeping you? You’ve been locked in here for half an hour, Shiro’s got a firecracker up his ass worrying — Jesus Christ, Keith, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Can’t he see? Can’t he feel the flames that lick up Keith’s skin and burn him up? Can’t he feel the heat of Keith’s destruction? Do his eyes not burn from the brightness of the fire?

How is Keith alive? How is he standing when his lungs have stopped working, cooked in his chest? Keith tries to inflate them, to force them open with clean air, but it doesn’t work, they don’t work, the smoke is choking him and killing him and there’s no Pa to save him —

A shock of freezing cold gently touches his neck, his cheek. A breath is startled into his lungs.

They work again.

“Smoke’s cleared,” Keith croaks, because it must be, now that he can feel the cool air trickling down his throat again. He takes large, gulping breaths, taking in as much air as he can before the smoke returns and he suffocates again.

“That’s it,” Lance soothes. “In and out, starboy. Your lungs are clear, yeah? There’s no fire, no smoke. Feel that air. In and out.” The coolness on Keith’s cheek spreads, following the shape of his cheekbone, back and forth, again and again.

Lance’s thumb.

His hands, on Keith’s cheek and on his neck.

“Y’r hands’re cold.”

Lance cracks a smile. “Iron deficiency.”

“Oh. You should —” Keith’s breath shudders as it regulates. He realises his hands are clenched on Lance’s wrist. “—you should eat more red meat.”

What is he even talking about?

Lance smile gets a little wider. It softens his eyes again, deep and brown and dark, like they looked after Sendak. Keith likes it when he smiles at him.

“I’m a vegetarian. That’s cute of you, by the way.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” It takes Keith a moment to process Lance’s other sentence.

This time, his face gets hot for a whole different reason.

“I didn’t — I didn’t mean —”

“Hey. Cool it,” Lance orders, tapping Keith between the eyes. His lips are still curved into a smirk. “You’re coming down from a gnarly-ass panic attack. The last thing you need is to freak out again. Keep matching my breathing, okay? You’re doing great.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Keith manages between his still-heavy breaths. The redness has yet to recede from his face, but he’s pleased to hear Lance’s quiet laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, Greñudo. Treasure it, ‘cause I’m not saying it again.”

Keith swallows, tightening his grip on Lance’s wrist. Greñudo. That nickname again, but it’s not malicious. Teasing. It’s the softest he’s ever heard Lance say it.

“What’s that mean? Grendo?”

“‘Grendo’ means nothing,” Lance replies, amused. “But Greñudo means disheveled. Messy. Slang for —” he tugs gently on the hair at the back of Keith’s neck — “mullet, like this travesty.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.”

Keith slowly moves his hand up Lance’s arm, from his wrist to his elbow. He stops when Lance’s breath hitches, simply resting on the smooth skin, but continues on when Lance doesn’t stop him, slowly tracing the lean muscles and bony joints down Lance’s bicep, his shoulder, his side, settling at his waist. Lance’s hands have stilled, but remain on his cheek and neck, cradling his face.

“You channeling your Gomez, huh, Mullet?” Lance asks, but his voice isn’t it’s usual barbed wire, but soft; quiet and stuttering.

“I liked Starboy better,” Keith says quietly. All the burning pain has quietly slipped away from his body, leaving only a soft, tender glow behind, like the amber embers from the campfires he and Pa used to have on late nights.

It’s not scary. It’s — warm, even. Comforting.

“I bet you do.”

Keith says nothing. He stays right where he is, pressed to Lance in three different places, the coolness of Lance’s skin pulling the burning heat from Keith’s bones.

“Are you always this cold?” Keith asks. It’s not what he wants to say — what does he want to say? — but it’s what he can manage, standing so closely to Lance, the quiet scent of his floral shampoo pushing out the smell of smoke caught in Keith’s nose.

Lance hums. “You always feel like you’re running a fever?”

“Yes. Worse since I started piloting Red.”

“Guess I’ll have to help you cool down, then.”

“Guess so.” Unbidden, a smirk fights its way on Keith’s face. “That would make us a pretty good team, huh?”

It takes Lance a moment to react, but then he does, pulling away with a groan and a smack to the back of Keith’s head.

“There you go,” he admonishes, “bringing up fake bonding moments are ruining the real one we were having. Can’t let things go, huh?”

Keith shrugs, but the smile stays out on his face. “Can’t let your lying ass keep getting away with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. He hesitates a moment, then darts forward and grabs Keith’s hand, yanking him towards the door as he power walks out of Red’s hangar. Keith stumbles after him.

“Let’s go,” Lance says, once Keith’s got his balance. He glances back at Keith, small smile showing the barest hint of teeth. “Starboy.”

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