#i want that man psychologically tormented

[minnadekanpai]

if alan does not end up covered in blood during this chapter like he always does i will crash out

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 7

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky’s gut had been gnawing at him for weeks, a familiar, nagging feeling whenever Ian was around. Something about the man didn’t sit right, and Bucky couldn’t shake the sense that he’d seen this behavior before. His instincts kicked in, and he ordered someone to dig deeper into Ian’s past.

The brown envelope arrived the next day. Bucky sat at his desk, his eyes narrowing as he tore it open. Inside were the results of the investigation—pages that painted a much darker picture than he’d anticipated. As he skimmed the documents, his jaw clenched, and a low curse escaped his lips, “Shit.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next day, you and Bucky arrived at a shelter for single mothers, a stop on the campaign trail. The women inside had experienced hardships most people couldn’t imagine, fleeing from abusive partners and trying to rebuild their lives. Their stories of survival hung in the air, unspoken but palpable in their tired eyes and wary smiles.

You moved through the room, serving food and making small talk with the women, trying your best to offer some comfort. As you handed a plate to one woman, you said softly, “I understand what kind of psychological torment you’ve been through. I hope you stay strong.”

The moment the words left your mouth, what you’d meant as a word of encouragement didn’t land the way you’d hoped.

Later that night, a video of the conversation went viral. It was clear someone had recorded the interaction and released it online. Bucky knew this had to be the work of his opponents, seizing the opportunity to discredit you—and by extension, him.

You watched the video, feeling a pit form in your stomach as the comments poured in:

"Stay strong? She doesn’t seem like someone who’s ever been through what we have."

"She wouldn’t understand. She lives in a happy home. How could she possibly know what it’s like to run from someone who’s supposed to love you?"

Their words cut deep, slicing through your carefully constructed image. They didn’t know the truth—that your marriage to Bucky was its own kind of prison. Pretending to be the perfect wife had taken a toll on you, but no one saw behind the curtain.

You froze, feeling exposed, as if they’d somehow sensed the cracks in your façade. You had become so good at lying, at convincing the world that you and Bucky were happy, that now, faced with these women who had lived through real pain, you felt like a fraud.

Furthermore, you wanted to tell them that you understood, that you too had felt trapped and powerless. But the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you smiled for the cameras, playing your part, knowing that your life was being documented as an example of “happiness.”

Then your eyes landed on a comment that sent you reeling:

"If they’re so happy, wouldn’t they have a kid by now?"

The question hung in the air, mocking you. They didn’t know the truth—how could they? And yet, their words seemed to pierce through the mask you’d been wearing for so long.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The silence between you and Bucky was heavy, almost suffocating. You hadn’t said much since the shelter incident, and Bucky could sense your stress in the way you barely touched your food or drank any water. You sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the untouched plate in front of you.

Bucky watched you for a moment before stepping closer, his brow furrowing with concern. He gently touched your forehead, his fingers warm against your skin.

“You have a fever,” he said, his voice low with worry.

You immediately pulled away from his hand, your body instinctively recoiling. Your stress had a way of manifesting physically, and whenever you were overwhelmed, your body shut down. This was no different.

“Don’t touch me,” you muttered, your voice hollow.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew this would happen, knew how your body responded when you were pushed too far. Without a word, he slipped his arm around you, supporting you as he guided you toward your room. You didn’t resist, too tired to fight.

“Just leave,” you said once you reached your room, your voice barely above a whisper.

But Bucky ignored your words. He sat you down on the edge of the bed, gently lifting your feet into his lap. You stiffened in surprise as his hands began to massage your aching feet. The familiarity of the gesture caught you off guard—he used to do this all the time when you were together, especially on nights when you came home exhausted, too tired to even think.

Your face grew warmer, though not just because of the fever. The tension between the two of you was palpable, a mix of unresolved emotions and unspoken words hanging in the air. Bucky’s touch, once comforting, now felt like it held the weight of all the things left unsaid.

“I’ll bring the medicine,” he said after a few moments, his voice softer now.

You didn’t respond, too lost in the swirl of emotions flooding your mind. The way his hands moved, the care in his touch—it was all too familiar. It made your chest tighten with memories of when things weren’t this complicated.

As Bucky stood to leave, you finally spoke, your voice quiet and raw. “Why are you doing this?”

He paused, turning back to face you. “Because I care. I always do” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it was as if the walls you’d built between you both cracked, if only just a little.

You didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. You could feel your eyelids growing heavy as the exhaustion of the day and the fever pulled at you. Bucky noticed, his eyes softening. Without another word, he pulled the blanket over you and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You lay there, your mind racing despite your body’s exhaustion. His touch, his words, they lingered long after he’d gone. You hated that he still had this effect on you. And yet, deep down, there was a part of you that wanted to believe him, wanted to let your guard down. But after everything, how could you?

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You woke up, feeling the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, but something was different. The fever that had clouded your mind the night before was gone, leaving you with a sense of relief. Slowly, you sat up, glancing around the room. Bucky wasn’t here. It was the first time you’d been alone in the apartment since arriving.

The quietness felt strange, almost eerie. For a moment, you simply sat there, trying to shake the grogginess from your mind. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to explore the space. The apartment was large, meticulously designed, but there was a personal touch to it that reflected both of you. You wandered through the rooms until you stopped at his office.

The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open. His office was a mess—papers and law books were scattered across the desk and shelves, as if he’d been too busy to organize anything. But something caught your eye, an area that was surprisingly tidy amidst the chaos: his vinyl collection. It was neatly arranged, displayed with care, each record in perfect order.

Bucky loved collecting vinyls. You remembered that about him. As you approached the collection, your eyes scanned the spines of the records. Most of them were from artists both of you used to listen to. Your fingers grazed over the albums, a nostalgic pang in your chest.

Then, something unusual caught your attention. Tucked between the vinyl sleeves was a piece of paper, slightly worn. Frowning, you pulled it out and realized it wasn’t just any paper—it was a letter.

You stared at the handwriting, your heart skipping a beat. It was Bucky’s handwriting. Slowly, your eyes widened as recognition dawned on you. It was a letter he never sent. A letter to you.

Your pulse quickened as a rush of emotions hit you. Should you open it? Guilt twisted in your stomach, but then that familiar voice—the devil on your shoulder—spoke louder. He wrote this for you. He never sent it, but it’s yours.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you quickly hid the letter under your shirt, glancing around the office as if someone might walk in at any moment. Your heart raced as you hurried back to your room, the letter burning against your skin like a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

Once in the safety of your room, you sat on the bed, staring at the letter in your hands. The room felt smaller, your breaths shallow. Was this right? Should you be reading this? But you couldn’t stop yourself.

With trembling fingers, you opened the first letter.

It was short, written in Bucky’s familiar scrawl.

"I’m sorry. I know everything we went through must have been painful for you, more than I ever realized at the time. We were close, but we never truly communicated. I knew you were hurting, and I did nothing to stop it. That’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.

One day, if we ever meet again, I hope you’ll give me another chance. You deserve happiness, and I wish you the best of luck in finding it, even if it’s not with me."

You blinked, feeling a lump form in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. An apology. Words you thought you’d never hear—or read—from him. Your hands shook as you carefully unfolded another letter.

"I read your article. It’s really good. I always knew you’d make a great writer. You’ve always had a way with words. I’m proud of you. I hope you have a safe journey."

The words blurred for a moment as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You never knew he was following your work, that he cared enough to read what you wrote. It felt like a secret window into a part of him you thought had closed off to you long ago.

With a deep breath, you opened the final letter, bracing yourself.

"I’m worried about you. Going to a war zone as a journalist—it’s dangerous, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Please be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I pray every day that you’re safe."

Your chest tightened as you finished reading, the rawness of his words washing over you. Bucky had been worried about you all this time. His concern, his pride—it was all there, hidden in these letters you were never supposed to find. And yet, here you were, holding the pieces of his heart in your hands.

It was overwhelming. You didn’t know how to feel—angry, confused, touched. All you knew was that the walls you had built to protect yourself were starting to crack, and you weren’t sure if you could put them back together.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You and Bucky met Greg again to prepare before heading to the TV station for the debate. Greg, always thinking ahead, was pacing as he went over the final details. His sharp gaze darted between you and Bucky, trying to ensure everything would go smoothly.

As the minutes ticked by, Greg suddenly paused, his face lighting up with an idea. "Perhaps," he suggested, "before Bucky heads out for the debate, you could give him a peck on the cheek. You know, for the cameras. A little show of affection can go a long way."

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, your expression neutral. "Okay," you agreed simply. The decision seemed easy enough—just a small gesture for the public eye. However, from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bucky’s brow arch slightly, a glint of surprise crossing his features.

Bucky glanced at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "How about a kiss on the lips instead?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your exasperation. "Shut up," you muttered, though the warmth of the moment lingered between you. Bucky chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the brief banter as Greg scribbled down notes, already planning how to work this into the media strategy.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The day of the debate finally arrived. The room buzzed with tension as cameras were positioned, reporters whispered amongst themselves, and the stage was set. You stood backstage with Bucky, watching as the other candidates made their entrances. Edgar, running for president, was calm and composed, the very image of a seasoned politician.

Then there was Brock, another candidate for vice president—and Bucky’s long-time rival. The two had been at odds for years, their competition fierce and personal. The air between them crackled with animosity as they took their places.

As the debate began, the moderators threw sharp, pointed questions at the candidates, each probing their policies and character. Bucky was in his element, answering each question with practiced ease. His words were clear, his tone confident, and his delivery flawless. Every question thrown at him was met with a precise, well-thought-out response.

Moderator: "Mr. Barnes, what would be your first priority in office?"

Bucky: "My first priority is to address healthcare. Ensuring affordable and accessible healthcare is the cornerstone of a strong nation. We must invest in preventive care and make it easier for families to access the support they need."

The audience nodded in agreement, and even the other candidates seemed to respect his answer. Brock, however, was struggling. Every time he tried to match Bucky’s eloquence, he stumbled, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to make a point.

Moderator: "Mr. Rumlow, what is your stance on education reform?"

Brock: "Well, uh, we need to… to invest in schools, yes, but we can’t just throw money at the problem. We need accountability, and we need… um, better results."

His answer lacked the conviction and clarity that Bucky’s did, and you could see the frustration in Brock’s face as the debate went on.

The tension between the two men simmered, especially as Bucky continued to outshine him with every answer. But just when it seemed like Bucky had the upper hand, Brock saw an opening—and took it.

At the height of the debate, Brock's voice cut through the air, sharp and malicious. "You talk a lot about honesty and integrity, Barnes. But what about your brother? Didn’t he hit someone and never face any punishment?"

The room fell silent, a heavy, uncomfortable stillness filling the space. From your spot backstage, you could feel the tension roll off Bucky in waves. His muscles tensed beside you, his jaw clenched tight. This was his darkest family secret, one he’d hoped to keep buried. But now, here it was, dragged into the spotlight in front of a national audience.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes narrowing as he shot Brock a cold, hard glare. For a moment, it looked like Bucky might lose his composure. The silence stretched on, the entire room holding its breath, waiting for his response.

But then, with a deep breath, Bucky straightened, his voice steady but laced with restrained anger. "My brother's actions were reprehensible, and there is no excuse for them. But unlike my opponent, I believe in accountability—and my family has taken steps to address that privately. This debate is about the future of this country, not digging up personal attacks to avoid talking about real issues."

The room shifted as Bucky’s calm yet pointed response cut through the tension. Brock, visibly thrown by how easily Bucky had deflected his attack, fumbled for his next words, but the damage had been done. Bucky had taken control once again, leaving Brock at a loss.

Backstage, you watched the scene unfold, a mixture of relief and pride swelling within you. Bucky had handled the moment with grace.

But you knew you couldn’t rest. With Shawn’s dark secret now exposed, it meant that your marriage to Bucky could be the next scandal to surface.

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[redvexillum]

I feel like the way I portray Alastor is all in the spectrum of Yandare. So, I tried my best to write...yandare Alastor in a way it makes sense for my head canon of him. I want to give a quick shout out to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe ! I thought the best way to welcome her is dedicating this unhinged Alastor story to her!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, dub con, obsessive!alastor, p in v, gentle sex, gaslighting, entrapment, breeding kink, psychological, dark, mental torment, unhealthy relationship, orgasm denial, power dynamic, unhinged!alastor, reader is not okay, implied cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, depression, reader is delulu, alastor is delulu, extreme co-dependency, extreme denial, yandare!alastor

🙏 please mind your mental health before you read 🙏

The thought curled through you like poison, clinging to every corner of your mind: you wanted to die.  

It was a siren song, cruel and haunting, a whisper that slithered deep into the crumbling fortress of your mind, eroding the defences you’d built to keep it out. Your hands shook as exhaustion seeped into every crack; bones weary from a battle that felt endless. It wasn’t just tiredness – it was a soul-deep weight, a leaden heaviness that hollowed you out.  

In the background, soft jazz played from the kitchen, each note swirling with a warmth that felt so alien in the cold void within you. Sunlight poured through the window, a golden river that washed over everything it touched, indifferent to the shadows lurking within.  

You noticed the knife on the counter – a sharp gleam that seemed to pulse with a dangerous allure, its polished blade catching the light with a slick, almost wet shine. It seemed to call out to you, offering a quick, dreamless eternity.  

But even as your gaze lingered, your heart resisted, tethered stubbornly to someone who’d become both your prison and sanctuary. 

Alastor.  

A man you never should have crossed paths with. A man you should never have fallen for.  

You sighed, holding the knife as you turned back to the chunk of meat. Its once bright crimson flesh changing to a dull, dead brown. The raw smell was overwhelming, thick and nearly spoiled in the oppressive Louisiana heat. Alastor left you with some tasks today, after you had begged him to give you something to do as you wait for his return. Your task was to package the meat, clean up the kitchen, polish the floor while you waited for his return.  

The smell of raw meat brought images to flicker through your mind: men and women, faces frozen in terror as Alastor dragged them down to the cellar. A shiver ran down your spine, and a small whimper escaped, a whisper of fear against the tears that threatened to fall. You tore your gaze away from the knife and forced yourself to look outside. The bayou stretched out beyond the window, a bleak expanse of gnarly trees and dark water – silent, desolate, and as inescapable as him.  

You took a steadying breath, mentally reciting the day’s tasks like a prayer to keep you grounded. Finish the meat, scrub the blood stains, bleach the floor, and when the last crimson smear was gone, he’d return. By then, you’d be ready, composed. With a sniff, you shoved your feelings back, burying them under the monotony of chores.  

Finally, when every trace of red erased from the floor, you heard the front door click open. The sound echoed, a rhythmic click-click-click, each lock sliding free, the metal grating sharply against the silence. Your heart skipped as the door creaked, and there he stood – Alastor, haloed in the setting sun. His smile was gentle, but his eyes gleamed as he opened his arms.  

“My love,” he murmured, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat with an air of practised ease.  

You scrambled to your feet, the memory still fresh from the last time you hadn’t been there to greet him. He had panicked, refusing to leave your side for days. He held you then, whispering sweet words of devotion, his arms an unyielding cage, each word sinking deeper until it was all you knew. You didn’t know if he knew the truth – that every word bound you closer even as you longed to escape.  

Fear wrapped around you, yet somewhere deep within, in a place even you struggled to reach, you needed him. The years of isolation had stripped you bare, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange dance.  

Five years – five years of him as your only constant, your only company in this void. That had to be love. It was the only way to make sense of why you stayed, why you remained bound to him by something more powerful than chains.  

It had to be love.  

“Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, legs shaking from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing away every crimson stain. You took a step forward, the chilling clink of metal grazing the wood beneath your feet with each uneven, hesitant step. The floorboards seemed to pulse below you, each creak an echo of your own heartbeat, until finally, you stopped, frozen four steps away from the exit.  

He chuckled – a warm, resonant sound that should have been comforting but only heightened the chill trickling down your spine. With graceful steps, Alastor closed the distance between you, his arms circling around your shoulders. His chin rested gently against your head, the weight of him grounding you in place, his presence washing over you like a tide you couldn’t escape.  

“I missed you,” you mumbled against his chest, nuzzling into his embrace. The heat of him, the solid reassurance of his touch, brought you back to yourself, to the one undeniable truth of your existence: you were here, alive, because he held you tethered. “Did you have a good day at work, my love?” you murmured, soft and tentative.  

His hand slid over the back of your head; fingers gentle as he stroked you. He breathed in deeply, a wistful sigh slipping from his lips. “My love, you never left my thoughts for a single moment.” His voice was soft, warm, and his arms tightened around you, so tightly that for a second, you felt as though the air was slipping away.  

Finally, he parted, just enough for you to breathe again, his fingers grazing along the warm curve of your cheek. “Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” His voice was gentle, and his whisky-brown eyes glittered with a kindness that made your chest ache.  

A swell of relief surged in you, and you threw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Alastor, thank you!” Laughter bubbled out of you, bright and involuntary, stretching your lips into a smile that felt foreign, almost unbelievable after everything.  

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength both exhilarating and terrifying as he carried you toward the couch. Each step sent the faintest clinking of metal into the air, a reminder of the bond that held you captive.  

As he set you down and took a step back, you could feel his gaze moving over you, slow and deliberate, like he could peel back each layer with a single look. You flushed under his scrutiny, your shoulders curling inward, a strange blend of shame and need warring within you. Despite your clothes, under his gaze you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could read every thought you’d ever dared to keep from him.  

“Cher,” he murmured, his hand drifting over the outside of your calf, fingers tracing a path until they reached your ankle.  

You heard the fabric rustling, and then – there it was, glinting between his fingers: a silver key. Your eyes focused on the key, and your heart skipped, hope blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. The promise of freedom lay in that tiny object, so close and yet, a lifetime away. You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he took your ankle in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your bare foot. It was a reminder of the first time he’d ordered you to go without socks when you first escaped from this manacle.  

He slid the key into the lock, and with a single twist, the manacle opened with the same familiar click that marked his return home every day. The cool metal fell away, clattering weakly to the floor. A rush of air hit the skin beneath, and you winced as blood surged back into your ankle, a dull ache flooding back into limbs so long constrained.  

The shackles lay there, lifeless on the floor, the physical proof of your captivity now nothing more than a scrap of metal, stripped of its power. And yet, as you looked up at him, his eyes shining with something both possessive and achingly tender, you realized you could never truly cast off the chains that bound you to him.  

Not as long as you believe you loved him.  

“Oh, my poor cher,” Alastor murmured, his voice thick with a twisted blend of regret and possessive tenderness as his eyes traced the dark bruises wrapping around your ankle. His lips brushed softly over the tender skin, lingering in a gentle, reverent kiss before his forehead rested against your leg.  

With his eyes closed, he sighed, pressing warmth into you. “It pains me,” he whispered, “to see even the slightest mark of discomfort on you.” His lips began a slow journey, grazing from your ankle upward along the sensitive skin of your inner calf, each kiss stealing a shiver from you. “But you understand, don’t you, cher? It’s a necessity.” 

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, their intense gaze sending a shudder through you. His position – kneeling between your legs – made it impossible to think straight. Despite being in a servile pose, he was still the master of your heart.  

“Yes...I understand,” you managed, your voice raspy and barely audible. His lips continued their climb, each kiss leaving a cool, tingling path against your skin. “But I’ve been good, Alastor.” Your breath hitched as his head came to rest in your lap, his fingers tracing languid circles along your thigh.  

He chuckled softly, low and indulgent. “You have been,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “Perhaps if you continue to behave...I might let you roam freely around the house when I’m not here.” He looked up, giving you a small, playful smile that made your heart stutter.  

The thought of moving freely, without the heavy, omnipresent clink of the chain dragging behind you, sent a thrill through your veins. You clenched your hands into fists, desperate to keep your excitement contained.  

“I can be good,” you whispered, fingers drifting to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you stroked his head. “I can be good for you, Alastor...” 

A groan escaped him, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into your touch, savouring the sensation like a man starving. Emboldened, you took a breath, letting words slip out – words you’d held back for so long, daring to hope he might grant them.  

“Maybe...” you hesitated, voice barely a murmur. “Maybe sometimes in the distant future, I could go into t-town with you?” Your fingers froze in his hair as his body tensed, muscles stiffening under your touch. You held your breath, dread and hope tangling within you, afraid you’d crossed some unseen line. Alastor’s overprotective streak was ironclad – whenever he sensed a threat, real or imagined, his vigilance would lock you down even more tightly than before.  

A heartbeat passed before he spoke. “Perhaps...” He rose to his feet slowly, drawing you up with him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Perhaps one day, cher.” His hands slid under your legs, lifting you from the couch, his grip firm and desirous. “But for now...” he trailed off, leaving the sentence open, thick with suggestion as he carried you up the stairs.  

The scent of him, rich and intoxicating, filled your senses, mingling with the sharp, metallic undertone of old blood. Recently, he had brought up the idea of family, his eyes lighting with a dark kind of joy when he saw your loneliness. The house felt hollow most days, empty but for him, and he’d suggested a child - a little soul to fill the silent rooms.  

At first, the notion had left you reeling, uncertain, but the longer you were left alone with only your thoughts, the more the idea began to take root. Its appeal started to bloom uncontrollably like weeds in your mind.  

Now, Alastor and you spent every waking moment together in his bed, until your wishes took fruit.  

He lowered you onto the bed with an almost reverent tenderness, as though each touch was sacred, each look a silent promise. He shed his clothes slowly, his eyes never leaving you as his skin emerged, bare and raw. By the time he climbed onto bed, leaning over you, his desire was unmistakable – his cock hardening just from watching you laid out beneath him.  

He hovered for a moment, his face close to yours, and his gaze softened as his hand brushed along your cheek. “Cher,” he murmured, a plea woven into his tone, his voice low and thick. His fingers traced down the side of your face as though memorizing you by touch alone. “Will you let me...feel you tonight?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, each word like a promise. “For the rest of the night?” His hips lowered, pressing himself against your thigh, his warmth branding you.  

Heat flared through you, your body’s response instant and shameless. Every part of you remembered him – his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed you until the world slipped away. Your body answered before your mind could, a warmth pooling low in your stomach as he lifted the hem of your dress, slowly baring your skin. You sat up, letting the fabric fall away, and his eyes flickered, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. Your only cover now a thin piece of cloth hiding the most intimate part of you.  

Alastor’s grin widened, his gaze roving from the pebbled peaks of your nipples down to the damp fabric between your thighs. His hands traced down, catching the waistband and tugging it free. His touch lingered over each inch of exposed skin as he pulled it over your thighs, past the bruises on your ankle, until you lay just as bare before him.  

Your legs fell open, your slick folds glistening in invitation, your body traitorous in its eagerness. Alastor’s eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his cock as he gripped himself, slow strokes stoking his own arousal as he stared, captivated by your wetness. 

“The thought of you carrying my child, cher...it drives me mad.” His voice was a rough whisper, his breaths shallow as he stroked himself harder, faster, his eyes on your throbbing core. “It drives me to the edge,” he murmured, his grin feral as he leaned closer, his gaze smouldering with dark intent. “Drives me to the point of bloodlust,” his adam’s apple bobbed up then down, his grin trembling as it couldn’t stretch further lest it tore through his cheeks.  

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the edge of his words, at the memory of the shadows he kept hidden – the bloodstained cellar, the bodies you helped him to clean. Whether you were here or not, you knew he would continue to kill, as relentless and ruthless as ever.  

"Ah, cher,” he sighed, settling his body over yours, his hard length pressing flush against your entrance, teasing you with his warmth. “Cher, cher, cher,” he murmured, his voice a low chuckle as he brushed his fingers through your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Why do you have to be so lovely?” His nose skimmed your hairline, nuzzling his way to your temple, where he pressed a slow, heated kiss. “Why do you tempt me like this?” 

“You’re all I think about, dream about,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet as he pressed his mouth against your skin, each word a whisper trailing down your cheek, your neck, and finally, open-mouthed and lingering on the curve of your breast. “So much so, cher, that I sometimes imagine killing you.” His tone was soft, unsettlingly jovial as though he’d confessed a secret desire, his hands tracing delicate patterns over your skin.  

Your heart pounded, memories flashing across your mind like dark, haunted snapshots – the cellar door muffling desperate cries, the hollow silence that followed. The scent of blood hung thick in those memories, the darkness swallowing up the faces that haunted you. Your hands trembled, a pulse of fear mingling with something deeper, something you could barely acknowledge.  

“But I won’t,” he murmured against your skin, pulling you from the spiral of those memories. He lifted his hand to catch a tear that had slipped from your eye, his thumb brushing it away softly. He gazed at the glistening drop before licking it from his fingertip, his eyes darkened as he held you captive in his gaze. “I would never hurt you, cher. Have I ever hurt you?” His voice was quiet, coaxing yet intense, his question leaving no room for escape.  

His eyes burned into yours, searching, unwavering. “Tell me, cher,” he pressed, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with a demand that made your pulse stutter. “Do you see me as a bad man?”  

There were moments when Alastor felt so delicate, so gentle that he might as well have been made of glass, every touch featherlight. But there were others, moments like this, when he shifted – his possessive grip, his words, his gaze – all dark and consuming. When he asked these questions, you felt like a bird trapped in his cage, heart fluttering as you tried to find the right words.  

Your lips quivered, unable to form a reply, the silence thick as more tears slipped down your cheeks. Alastor’s gaze softened just slightly, and he gathered you close, arms wrapping around you as he rocked you, as if you were a fragile, precious thing in his hold. “Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your hair, “I love you, cher. I love you, I love you,” he repeated, his voice lilting like a lullaby.  

Your mind fractured, the edge of your memories sharp, each fragment glinting in the dark recesses of your mind. You reached out within yourself, searching, groping for the piece of you that had loved him first – the man you’d met one hazy night at the speakeasy, the man who seemed to light up the room just by existing.  

Slowly, you let your hands drift to his back, your fingers pressing against the warmth of his skin. Your eyes closed, more tears slipping free as you tried to remember the feeling of joy, of laughter that you’d felt with him. Your lips brushed against his shoulder, a tentative sign of trust as he sighed, his body relaxing under your touch.  

You dug deeper, sifting through memories of that laughter, of your first dance, your first kiss – all those quiet, gentle confessions that had once coloured his eyes in soft brows. You found yourself on your knees, clutching at those fragments with desperate hands, determined to recall the moments when his touch had felt safe, cherished.  

“Shh,” Alastor’s mouth hovered over yours, his lips ghosting against yours, a barely there whisper of warmth. “It’s alright, cher. I have you.” He guided himself against you, pressing gently, his cock slipping slowly into your wet, pulsing heat. His mouth melded to yours as his tongue traced along the seam of your lips, savouring each taste as his low moans mingled with your soft gasps.  

A hum escaped him, rich and satisfied, as he sank into you, his body pressed to yours, filling you with a quiet intensity that left you breathless. The salted trails on your cheeks lingered as your lips curved into a slow smile, your legs parting, welcoming him deeper, your heart opening despite everything, the echoes of his whispers filling the night.  

“Good girl,” Alastor groaned, his hips pushing forward, stretching you around the hard, unyielding thickness of him. “Oh, cher, you’re perfect for me,” he murmured, his words a deep, reverent moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped. His hands settled possessively on your hip, his eyes devouring the sight of you.  

“I’m going to fill you with my seed all night, love,” he purred, rolling his hips with a languid, maddening rhythm. “After all, your body is begging me to take you – wouldn't you say?” His voice rose with playful amusement, the bed creaking beneath you as if echoing his delight.  

“Yes,” you gasped, breathless, the sensation of him making you tremble. “Please,” you whispered, your nails pressing into his shoulders, urging him closer. Alastor drew his hips back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip of him remained, only to push back in, the pace deliberate, every inch of him dragging against you with intent. Each movement seemed to ignite a new flame within you, stretching your pleasure, drawing it out until it was almost unbearable.  

“Look how good you are for me,” he whispered against your flushed cheek, his lips tracing his words into your skin. “Look how perfect you are,” he breathed, sinking deeper as he tightened his arms around you, locking you into his rhythm. “No one will understand you the way I do. You were destined to be mine.” His voice was rich, warm, but tinged with darkness that was both thrilling and terrifying.  

“Al-Alastor,” you whimpered, each thrust stoking the tension building inside, reaching deeper, pulling you into a spiral of desire and delirium. His moans, his heated words, his relentless pace – all of it washed over you like a fevered dream. Each breath, each sigh and whispered praise tangled together in a symphony of need.  

The creaking of the bed became louder, and with a sudden surge, he lifted himself, teeth gritted, and drove into you harder. His hips snapped against yours; his pace relentless.  

“Cher...cher...” he growled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he focused on you, his gaze hungry. “That’s right, cher,” he chuckled breathlessly, each laugh broken by the sound of his hips smacking against your own. “Oh, you’d make a perfect mother,” he panted, his words nearly incoherent as he picked up his pace. The final thrust left you both gasping, his grip on you tightening as he finally reached his own release, filling you with powerful, pulsing bursts of warmth.  

You moaned in frustration, your pleasure still simmering, unsatisfied, leaving your skin taut with need. You tried to move, but Alastor held you firmly, pressing himself deep inside, his body still wrapped around yours.  

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he slowly softened within you, the warm rush of his seed starting to trickle down. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slipped to your entrance, pressing lightly to try and keep every last drop inside, as if marking you as his.  

Lying on his side beside you, he gazed at you, his expression gentle as he took in your flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, still needy with unfulfilled desire. A smile tugged at his lips when you also turned to your side to face him. His eyes drifted down, and you knew he was watching his own essence escape, sluggishly slipping down and pooling on your inner thighs. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.  

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said quietly, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take care of you, again and again, tonight.” He withdrew his fingers, now slicked with his and your arousal. “Until your��body takes my seed, we’ll keep trying,” he promised, his gaze flickering down between you both before meeting yours with a playful, boyish grin.  

With a breath that finally began to steady, you raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek tenderly. He turned to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a quiet moment of warmth shared in the aftermath.  

In moments like these, in the field of fractured memories, you saw one shard glinting brighter than the rest, pulling you toward it. It was a piece of you – something essential, something more truthful and dangerous than anything else. It shimmered with dark clarity, cutting through the shadows of doubt and lingering despair. 

You drifted past the memories that still haunted you, not quite registering the images that flooded your mind. Alastor’s eyes, once warm, turning nearly black with fury the night you tried to leave, his grip like iron as he vowed you’d belong to him. You passed by the moment he chained you to the cellar walls, his victims mere echoes in the darkness, his voice soothingly venomous, telling you that no one else could ever understand you as he did.  

Each scar those memories left on your soul was still fresh, a raw edge in the depths of your mind, fragments of yourself that would never heal.  

But in this one shard – this singular piece of undeniable truth – you saw something more. It was in these quiet, raw moments after he’d loved you, held you close, his breath mingling with yours. It was here, next to him in the aftermath, that you could almost believe he was the only soul in this world who would ever love you with such consuming fervour.  

You dragged your body closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, as his arms immediately circled protectively around you. His eyes softened as you leaned closer, drawing him into a gentle kiss. Your lips grazing his in a tender, slow exchange that felt achingly real. His fingers traced up and down your back, as if branding his name on your skin.  

In this quiet, lonely world, he was your guiding light, a burning soul who consumed all but left you somehow whole. You wanted to hold on to him, to keep him by your side. You feared whatever darkness lurked beyond Alastor, the fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of leaving the one person who had vowed to love every fractured, scarred piece of you.  

He needed you, just as much as you needed him.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[luxaofhesperides]

Wings AU ; requested by @justwannabecat!

“Are you sure it looks good?” Duke asks for the sixth time in an hour.

Tim sighs and says, yet again, “It looks fine. Just give it to him! If he doesn’t love it, I’ll beat him up for you.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I could! But you’re right, I wouldn’t. I would just psychologically torment him until he broke.”

“Don’t do that, please. I’d like to actually have a chance with him, even if he hates this.”

“He won’t,” Tim says. He actually stops typing to give Duke a severe look. “Go and give it to him. If you don’t go now, he’s going to think you bailed.”

Duke glances at the time, then jumps. “Shit! Thanks for your help, man!” He’s out of the door before Tim can say another word. He doesn’t bother with the front door, or even going down the hallway. Instead, he opens the nearest window and flings himself out of it, unfurling his tawny wings to catch the wind beneath them and ride them into the city proper.

He briefly considers stopping for a moment to change into his Signal outfit so he can fly above civilian jurisdiction, then decides that it’s far easier to just bend the light around him so he’s invisible. He wouldn’t want to be late meeting Danny, after all. Especially not for this.

He hadn’t been expecting Danny to be into traditional courting methods. Most people tend to go the more modern way of dating, but Danny had mentioned once or twice that he thought it was romantic. He had blushed, mumbling the words, but Duke heard them and went into researching courting methods to see which ones Danny might like best.

Sure, he could just ask Danny out on a date like he normally would if he liked someone, but if Danny wants to be courted, then Duke is going to court him!

It’s why he’s been planning this out carefully, gathering his primaries after his wings molted a few months ago so he could string them together into a thin wing covering. 

Admittedly, this courting method isn’t super common, but the thought of giving Danny his feathers, making it look like their wings are one and the same, has kept Duke up some nights, wanting it so badly. 

Besides, he thinks Danny will like it. Considering the state of his wings after the Accident…

Duke holds his handmade wing covers closer to his chest, flier lower as he leaves Bristol and enters Diamond District. The streets are busy, full of people. Most tend to stay on the ground, wings tucked close to their bodies, but there are plenty still flying above cars and buses that Duke has to carefully fly around. 

It takes another twenty minutes to get to Robinson Park, where Duke drops down to the ground and takes a moment to make sure all his feathers are straight and neatly displayed. Then he walks into the park, heading towards their usual meeting place.

For once, it’s a nice, sunny day in Gotham. Everyone’s taking advantage of it. The park is full of couples and families, walking around slowly, and kids dart through the air, still unable to go very high with their wings not yet fully grown in. It’s nice to hear the laughter and general chatter of people wandering the park. 

Duke doesn’t spend too long walking the paved paths through the park. He steps off of it near the second water fountain on the path, then heads into the trees, passing two moms on a picnic with their three kids rolling around the grass nearby. 

Tucked away in this corner of the park is a small clearing surrounded by thin trees. The tile is dirty and cracked, no one maintaining it at all with it hidden away. 

He sees Danny’s wings first, with long feathers that trail onto the ground, a black that shines dark blue in the light. He follows the lines of his wings back to his body, where Danny sits on a bench, leaning his weight back against his hands as he lifts his head up into the sunlight, basking in the warmth.

He really is so pretty. He insists that he isn’t, but Duke regularly spends time with the Wayne family, all who have modeled before, so he’s got a better idea than most about what pretty  looks like, and Danny fits the bill. 

“Hey,” Duke calls out softly, watching as Danny slowly blinks his eyes open and turns to give him a warm smile.

“Hey! I’m free for the rest of the day, which means we have so much time to complain about things today.”

“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”

“Nope,” Danny says. “I wouldn’t mind waiting, though. I like hanging out with you.”

Heart pounding in his chest, Duke walks forward. He doesn’t know if there’s something specific he has to say when presenting his gift, if there’s a courting tradition involved that he didn’t learn about. He’s terrified Danny’s going to reject it. He’s praying that Danny accepts it.

“Are you okay?” Danny asks, standing to get a better look at him. “You seem tense…” He trails off as he catches sight of what Duke holds in his hands, breath stuttering.

“I’m fine. I, um.” Duke steps into the clearing, entering the sunlight, and holds out his wing covers. “I made them for you. You mentioned before that you thought courting traditions were romantic… I don’t know if you like wing covers, but I thought you’d look good in my feathers… Only if you want it though!”

He’s trying so hard not to cringe away in embarrassment. He’s flirted with Danny before, half jokes and half serious, always playful. Duke was smooth then, delighting in how flustered it made Danny before he hit back with his own flirting. Now he’s a hesitant, stuttering fool, tripping over his words and struggling to find the perfect things to say. Maybe he should have thought up a speech, or something. Memorized a few lines to speak his intentions with this courting gift. Done literally any prep for giving the gift instead of focusing only on making it.

Danny doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either. He just stares, wide-eyed at the wing covers in Duke’s hands.

That’s a bad sign, isn’t it.

His hands lower just a touch, and he quietly prompts, “Danny?”

Just as he’s about to pull back, step away and try to fix things, messily attempt to salvage their friendship because clearly Danny doesn’t want to be courted by Duke, Danny’s hands snap out whip-fast and latch onto his wrists.

“This is… for me?” he whispers, awed.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s for you.”

“And you’re courting me? Like, for real?”

“Yeah, definitely courting you for real. Do you accept?”

Danny throws himself into Duke’s arms, careful not to crush the wing covers between them. “In what world would I say no?” he laughs, bright with joy. He pulls back a second later, not giving Duke time to hug him back, and turns around, carefully stretching his wings out. “Put them on for me?”

“Of course.”

He starts by smoothing out some of Danny’s feathers. He doesn’t get to do this often; Danny hates having his wings on display for anyone, with how they spasm occasionally, and have empty patches where feathers will never grow in again. The Accident, all that electricity coursing through him, it permanently damaged his wings. There is no healing to be done. 

His wings are lacking too many flight feathers and primaries for him to fly. He’s stuck on the ground now, unable to use his wings for more than a minute. Old burns are still visible closer to his spine. 

Danny prefers hiding his wings away. He hates thinking about the Accident, hates how it’s taken his wings from him, how it’s changed him completely. 

But Duke loves his wings. He loves the softness of Danny’s lower feathers, how they shine in the light, how they always puff up when it gets windy. He’s only gotten to preen them twice before, and he treasures those memories more dearly than anything else.

This easily outshines both those moments.

He gently combs his fingers through Danny’s feathers, straightening them out, then lays the first wing cover over his right wing. His own brown feathers drape over the top of Danny’s wings, hiding the featherless patches from view. He does the same to the other wing, then adjust both until they lay perfectly on Danny’s wings.

As soon as he lifts his hands away from Danny’s wings, Danny is spinning around with a grin, flaring his wings out.

“How do I look?”

“Perfect,” Duke answers. He was right; Danny looks good in his feathers.

He watches, fond and amused, as Danny spins, keeping his wings flared, admiring his new look. “I’m never taking these off,” he says. “I love them so much. I can’t really make one for you, though…”

“You don’t need to.”

“I can’t just accept this and not give you something in return!”

“Well… There is one thing you could give me. Something I’ve been wanting for a long time.”

“What is it?” Danny asks, leaning towards Duke. He’s eager, ready to please, so delighted to be courted. 

Duke smiles. “A kiss.”

“Done.” 

He doesn’t have time to react before Danny is pouncing on him, hands fisting the collar of his shirt as he tilts his head up and kisses Duke. He pulls back before Duke can kiss back, blushing and unbearably cute.

And all Duke manages to say is, “Cool.”

He’s so good at this.

Danny rightfully laughs at him, then grabs his hand and pulls him down to the bench. “Come on, I promised to complain about my teachers today and I intend to deliver. And maybe later, I could take you out on a date? If you want.”

“Danny, of course I want to go on a date with you. I’m courting you! I thought I made my feelings clear!”

“I’m just making sure!” Danny shouts over him, and Duke can’t resist the urge to pull him closer and pepper kisses along his cheek. “Okay, okay, I got it. You’ve made your feelings clear. I’m going to date you so hard.”

“You better. It’s about time you put some work into our relationship.”

“Excuse you?!” Danny gasps in mock outrage, and they start bickering lightheartedly as they always do.

Even with their feelings come to light, even with a courtship started and a date promised, it doesn’t feel like anything between them has changed. 

It’s just them. Just as it always has been.

Duke couldn’t be happier.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

An Altar For Our Sins

Part 8 // Masterlist

Demon!Billy Russo x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral (both f and m receiving), fingering, edging, bondage, cum swallowing, heavy angst, talks of murder and (mild) decapitation, mind control, psychological torment, mentions of toxic and manipulative friendships.

Your arousal burns through him.

It’s not like your pain, it doesn’t slide like a needle between the layers of his skin, awakening discomfort that makes his heart beat in a worrisome rhythm.

Your arousal is different. New to him, and still a little unfamiliar, but he knows it when he feels it. It’s like a soft hand on his skin, the ghost of your touch trailing from his ear down his neck. It’s the sensation of your fingers drifting into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and makes the hairs on his arms stand on end.

That’s how he knows you’re aroused, when it feels like you’re touching him all over all at once, when realistically, you’re currently just holding his hand.

He finds great appreciation for the feeling, as you tug him through the busy streets. He doesn’t know what you’re looking for, too caught up in your emotions to focus on the destination. 

It’s odd, he’s never felt someone else like this before, never given anyone the opportunity to. 

A strange pleasure courses through him, that he’s the one responsible for your arousal, that his earlier actions have made you excited, and desperate for him. 

His mistress wants him.

He’d do anything to please her.

.

.

TEN MINUTES AGO.

Billy has seen his fair share of assholes to know when he’s looking at one.

He’d almost wiped the six-foot tall man clean off the face of the earth for trying to hug you, before absently remembering he was in a public place.

If that wasn’t enough of a reason, he could see the way you were discomforted by the brunette’s appearance, the faux pleasantness of your smile, the stiffness of your shoulders. Billy was aching for blood just at the idea that you might not want to interact with this human at all.

When the man had asked about him, you’d glanced back with that same forced smile.

“Oh, this,” you'd said with barely any hesitation, “This is Billy, my boyfriend.”

The words echo in his head. He looks down at you, feeling his mind rage with the desire to take you. He’s surprised he’s still able to formulate a thought with the way he wants to drop to his knees and sink his tongue into your cunt.

He feels something expand in his chest. His mistress, claiming him in front of others so easily, so readily, made him into a beast of a man, filled with so much want for just a few moments.

The man extends his hand to Billy, and Billy at least musters the courtesy to shake his hand without shattering all the fragile bones beneath the skin, introducing himself.

“Dimitri, I’m the former best friend.” 

He nods in acknowledgement, thinking that it’s a little odd to go around introducing yourself like that.

He looks at you, takes a deep breath.

“Wow, you look amazing.” Dimitri says, and Billy wants to rip his eyeballs out of his skull for even daring to look at you.

.

Your skin crawls at his comment. You swallow, smiling and try to accept it, wishing for this interaction to be over with.

“Thanks, Dima.” You whisper softly, using his nickname accidentally.

His smile widens.

“We should hang out sometime, catch up, you wouldn’t believe the things I have to tell you.”

You blink, wondering why he was so friendly to you, as if the last time you’d spoken had never happened.

You try not to think about it.

“That might be nice,” You say politely, “But, I’m so swamped with things I have to do, and I might be travelling soon too.”

“Really? Where do you work now?”

Fuck, how do you get out of this one?

“I’m not really working anymore, just sort of… freelance.” You hoped it was enough to deter him from asking any more questions.

Dimitri only tilts his head in confusion.

“Really? That’s a bold move. I remember how much you used to struggle with being independent back in college.”

You swallow forcefully.

“Yeah, well, not anymore.” You say softly, feeling smaller and smaller under his gaze. You take a small step back, and you feel Billy’s hand find a spot on your back to remind you that he’s here.

Dimitri looks up at Billy, and you can almost tell that something awful is about to be said.

At the same time, you notice the woman helping you from before approaches, and it somehow helps to see her coming your way.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says with an easy smile, “I just need confirmation of a contact number?”

You nod at her, knowing that Billy doesn’t have that information.

“I can help,” You offer, following when she angles her body to head back to her customer help desk. 

“Bye, Dimitri.” You say quickly, hoping he takes the hint and leaves. 

.

Dimitri doesn’t leave.

Instead, he turns to Billy.

“I don’t know how long you’ve been with her, but I have to warn you. Honestly, I wish someone had warned me before I put so much effort into getting to know her.”

Billy sucks in a deep breath, glancing at you, before looking back at the man in question.

“Warn me about what?”

“She’s got… issues, big ones, and she leads people on and then gets upset when they… respond… if you know what I mean.” Dimitri says.

Billy’s trying hard not to lose his cool.

“I thought you were just her friend.” He says easily.

“I was,” the other man states, “but she’s got some problems and I just wanted to give you a heads up, man to man.”

.

You’re waiting patiently for the woman to enter your number into the system when you feel uninhibited rage swell in the back of your throat.

Your mouth falls open in surprise, breath halting in your chest as raw anger claws its way into your head.

You turn your head quickly to glance at Billy, who’s got his eyes fixed on the shorter man, the look on his face is calm rage, like a snake, coiling tight before an attack.

The woman at the counter, having no idea of the rage swarming your system, smiles at you and thanks you for your time. 

You can only give her a distracted nod, walking back to Billy quickly. He looks down at Dimitri, raising an eyebrow casually.

“I don’t see much of a man.” Billy says, and you blink in surprise, wondering what was said when you weren’t there.

Dimitri, not one to swallow insults easily, straightens, squares his shoulders angrily trying to make himself look bigger, more intimidating. You stand a small distance away, too stunned to interrupt the conversation fully.

“Go to hell. I was only trying to give you a heads up. She’s going to smile at you, and beg for comfort and make you think that she’s in love with you, and the minute you take her seriously, she’s going to push you away.”

You blink, looking away, a sharp spear in your chest at the reminder of the things he’d said all those years ago.

It’s the look on Billy’s face that holds you transfixed. He’s angry, his body completely still and for the first time you’re not sure about what he’s going to do next.

Shamefully, the look in his eyes goes right down to your core. This was the man that was capable of taking lives, and though you had somewhat domesticated him, this was what lay beneath the surface at every waking moment. This was the oncoming devastation, and you could feel the rage, his rage, hit a breaking point inside of you.

“Go home and cut your arm off.” Billy says, watching the man’s eyes widen in shock.

“Billy, no.” You murmur, finally finding the words to interrupt him.

He huffs, looking down at you for a second.

“One hand?” Billy offers, and receives a shake of your head.

“Two fingers?” he tries again with the same reaction.

“Fine,” Billy sighs, “One finger, but that’s as low as I’m going.”

“Billy.” You admonish.

He looks back at Dimitri angrily.

“You have no idea how amazing she is.” he says, anger rolling heavily in his words, the colour of his influence cloudy in Dimitri’s eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with her. There never was, and there never will be and you’re lucky that she’s so kind cause I’m ready to make you eat your leg off for her entertainment.” He watches Dimitri swallow.

“So go home, cut your finger off, wrap it, and go to a hospital, and you better thank whatever god there is, that she doesn’t hold grudges.”

When Dimitri is two steps away, Billy speaks again.

“Oh, and Dima?” Billy says mockingly, watching the man turn back with a terrified expression on his face.

“Let’s forget about this, yeah?”

He only nods before scurrying away.

.

.

Perhaps you should have been angry with him.

But there was something about the coolness of his anger now, the way you could almost feel the fire burning inside of him, like red hot steel being plunged into frigid water. 

The way he’d acknowledged your protests, but still finding some way to punish your old friend, like a balance being struck between your disposition and his. 

In truth, you knew it was a very wrong thing, but you also found yourself barely caring as you reached for his hand, and pulled him out of the store.

You try to be reasonable in your head about it, Billy could have killed him out of your sight and you would never know, so this had to be a better alternative…

…right?

Or was this just you trying to excuse your involvement in Dimitri’s punishment?

Regardless, you couldn’t feel your morality at the moment, all you could feel was the empty space inside you, begging to be filled, to be used by him.

And you needed it now.

.

You tug him into the first cafe you find. 

With a lovely outdoor theme to the interior, earth tones and the smell of coffee in the air, you definitely make a little note in your head to come back later.

You’re not thinking too much about anything though, simply following the signs that point to the bathroom.

Billy doesn’t even question when you tug him into the ladies’ room and then into a spacious stall with a door that goes all the way down to the floor.

The stall door barely has any time to close, before you’re pressing your body against his, rising onto your toes and holding on to the back of his neck to bring his face down.

Your eyes close as your mouths mesh together. You hear a little groan slip from the back of his throat.

His hands grip your hips, and when it’s not enough, his arms encircle your waist, crushing your body to his in one swift move.

You can't help the little laugh of surprise that leaves your mouth at his display of enthusiasm, grinning against his eager mouth for a moment. He returns your amusement with a smile of his own, and a dark promise in his eyes that reminds you of who he is, and what he's capable of.

It happens like a switch flipping inside of you, in one second you’re eager to kiss him, blissful with the idea of finally getting his mouth on yours. But it’s the way his mouth feels, the way his hair catches on your fingertips and his beard scratches your cheek that turns gentle need into something indescribable.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, leaning into him, little whines slip from your mouth when you feel like he’s too far away.

Like a burning in your head that demands him, in every way possible.

As high on your toes as you can get, you wobble a little when you try to get even higher, feeling his tail reach out in response to that, wrapping around your leg in an attempt to keep you steady. You groan when his tail brushes between the apex of your thighs. Pulling back for a quick breath, you raise one leg to wrap it around his hip, his hand sliding under your rear smoothly to support you. 

His mouth is hot against yours, matching your fervour, an amused chuckle against your mouth when you whine. 

He moves so passionately, fingers on your chin to tilt your head up so you can feel the searing heat of his desire for you.

You finally build up the courage, gripping his jaw tightly, encouraging his mouth to open so that you can press your tongue into his mouth teasingly.

He lets out another low groan that goes right to your core, shredding at your sanity when he pulls you even closer.

"Mistress-" Billy attempts to speak, trying to inquire about doing this in a more comfortable spot, instead of the bathroom stall of the cafe you'd just tugged him into.

You're not having any of it though, hands gripping the back of his neck roughly, tongue delving into his mouth with so much wanton need that he can't think to deny you.

You can't seem to stop, or focus, your only desire is to show your appreciation, despite how empty your cunt feels.

You move from his mouth, kissing over his cheek and over to his neck, delivering open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin, hearing the heavy labour of his breath increase.

“Does that feel good?” You ask, teasing him, daring to press your teeth into the column of his neck. 

His hiss delights you, hands tightening their grip on you, showing you how much he really likes what you’re doing to him.

When the edge of his shirt gets in the way, you huff angrily, tugging at it so that you can bite down on his collarbone.

"Take this off." You command , tugging at his shirt.

“Mistress,” He tries to protest again.

“Billy,” You hiss, “Now.”

His shirt disappears in a puff of purple.

You drag your short fingernails against his skin, groaning in delight at the opportunity to have him, rubbing your face into his chest, appreciating the feel of his hot skin on your cheek, touching his body the way you always dream of. When you want more balance, you drop your leg from around his hip so that you’re on your own two feet.

You reach for his belt next, tugging at the leather, before reaching a hand down to cup at his erection through his pants.

“Wait.” He sighs, and it stops all your movement. You look up at him with wide eyes.

It takes you back into your head for a moment. Were you going too far?

He’s leaned back against the door,  breathing in large heaves of air.

His hands cup your face, fingers tingling against your cheek, you wait patiently for his words.

“Are you sure?” He asks, dark eyes studying you.

Oh. Oh.

“Very.” You reply, “Are you?”

He inclines his head.

“Good.” You utter, keeping your eyes on his as you drop to your knees in one swift movement.

His eyes go red.

You reach for his belt again, and this time he doesn’t stop you. You undo his button and zipper in record time and gently tug his boxers down, salivating at the first sight of his cock.

Billy groans, he senses the increase in your arousal, feels it like you’ve got your tongue dragging on his neck while you’re eye level with his cock.

His breath stutters when your mouth seals over the head of his cock.

“Mistress.” He shivers, head hitting the door as he drops his head back.

You take your time, moving slowly, remembering the way his cum makes you feel, thinking about pleasing him this way, your cunt sticky under all your clothes.

Jaw open wide to accommodate his girth, you hum, taking him down as far as comfortable, listening with delighted ears at the sounds he makes in response.

He’s perfection, you acknowledge, he’s yours.

You take your time, bobbing your head slowly to a quiet drumming inside you, keeping a steady rhythm that you hope he likes.

You raise a hand to pump the rest of him slowly, as you angle your head to slide your tongue along the underside of his cock.

A soft sound leaves his mouth, and you keep looking up at him when your tongue dips even further to touch his balls.

He looks down suddenly, hair askew with the sudden movement, eyes shining red as you sway your tongue from side to side at the base of his cock.

Billy reaches down, and grips the back of your head harshly.

“Mistress.” He utters breathlessly, bending down, he tugs a little painfully on your hair to bring your mouth to his.

Your lips against his feels so sinful, you straighten as much as you can from your position on the floor, humming, delighted that he’s interested in kissing you like this.

You keep pumping your hand on his cock, eager to keep him in that blissed out state, but you realise he might be stalling you when he refuses to release your hair.

You pull away from him, and when he tries to bring you back for a kiss by tightening his grip on the back of your head, you raise your free hand to uncurl his fingers from your hair.

“You’re distracting me.” You complain, looking between his cock and his face.

“Let me take you home. I’ll let you ride my face till you can’t breathe.”

“Later,” you hum, “I want your cum on my tongue.”

He grunts, straightening to allow you more access to his cock.

You immediately take him into your mouth, more eager than ever, need pulsing inside of you, pumping the rest of his cock that you can’t get your mouth on with your hand.

He groans, and it goes straight to that spot inside of you that aches for him.

Something shifts inside of you, and acutely, you’re aware of something else you can feel.

It glides through your body, like two fingers tracing itself over your skin, beginning at your core, it slips over your clit and upward to your ribs. You moan around his cock at the phantom sensation, pushing your head down until he’s at the back of your throat.

Up, over your breast, to your neck and over your cheek, you hum around his cock, as the touch tingles over your scalp.

You don’t know what you’re feeling, not sure what caused the sensation of this invisible touch so you pull back for a moment, looking around for his tail.

When you don’t see any presence of his tail, you look up, searching his eyes for an explanation.

“I feel… what is that?” You ask.

He tilts his head, red eyes flashing purple for a second.

You watch him swallow.

“My pleasure, mistress, you can feel it.”

Your lips part in surprise. The ghost sensation traces its way down your back.

A small smile graces your lips, before you kiss the tip of his cock.

“I like it.” you say to him, licking teasingly at the head of his cock and feeling the way the sensation travelling along your skin heightens.

You close your eyes, and hasten your rhythm, the smooth head of his cock gliding along your tongue and you think you’ve found a little bit of heaven at his feet.

“Mistress.” He groans, a little too loud for the space you’re in, and you think that might be his way of warning you that he’s on edge.

You only hum on his cock, hearing his breath stutter as you hollow your cheeks while taking him down as deep as you can.

You feel his body tense, the muscle of his thighs hardening until it’s stiff as a rock, and then his cock twitches, a small movement, before he begins to spill into your mouth.

You feel it, his orgasm, it rattles through you, makes your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation. It’s like the rush of a heated wave, originating from the deepest spot inside of you, unfurling all the way down to your fingers, and the very tips of your ears. 

He moans, it’s a low, euphoric sound, that makes your body tingle from the experience of it.

You swallow his cum eagerly, milking every drop from him, making sure he’s got nothing left to give you before you release him from your mouth.

You can still feel his pleasure, the aftermath of it is just as strong as it was during, and as it settles inside of you, you can’t help the little giggle that leaves your lips.

His eyes still red, your legs wobble as you do your best to stand. He extends his hands to help you, and you grip his forearms tightly for balance.

“Did my lovely demon like that?” You ask, feeling your head begin to swim peacefully, the effects of his release beginning to affect you.

He studies you closely, hands cupping your cheeks to look into your eyes. You can only chuckle more.

Absentmindedly, you lick your lips, savouring the taste of him on your tongue, closing your eyes in bliss, swaying in his arms.

With your eyes closed, you feel him guide you into a very deep sway, and the next thing you feel is your back being pressed against cool, soft sheets.

You sigh happily, your skin sensitive, head lost in a daze.

“Mistress?” Billy whispers softly into your ear.

You smile, eyes still closed, raising a hand to cup his bearded cheek, the wiry hairs tingling along the palm of your hand.

“Yes, Billy?” You hum easily.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to lick your little cunt now.”

Your eyes peek open in confusion, feeling something smooth wind its way around your wrists, pulling slowly at your arms until they’re pinned beside your head.

“What?” you ask in surprise, not fully understanding where this is going in your semi-inebriated state.

“And I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stop until I’m satisfied.” He continues, as if you haven’t spoken.

You can’t do much in your state, relaxed as you feel him carefully tear your shirt in two, exposing your warm skin to him. He snips the straps of your bra, tugging the material down so that your nipples are exposed to the cool air.

You gasp, whining as you pull a little on your restraints, a muted fire burning inside of you from the way he treats you as if you’re his plaything.

His hands are on your pants next, and he at least takes his time to unbutton them, peeling them off your legs, before something begins winding around your ankles too.

“What're you doing to me?” You whine, body aching more and more for each touch.

You turn your head to the side, noticing that the things holding your arms in place are just soft purple ropes. You give another tug, you feel your desire increase as you become aware of your inability to move.

You pant as your legs are pulled apart, you whine pitifully as you realise how exposed, open, and vulnerable you are to him. There’s a sweetness to it, something that makes your body yearn. It’s the thought that he could do anything he wanted to you at the very moment, and you would be helpless to stop him.

Usually that would scare you, but with your demon, you trusted him, wholly, maybe more than you should have.

Finally, you look up at him. His large frame hovers over you, between your legs, looking down at you with something fierce behind his eyes.

He takes a deep breath, and a pleased smile rises to his lips.

“Poor mistress,” Billy hums, raising a hand to flick gently at your nipple, making you gasp in response, “All wet and helpless and at my mercy. Do you want me to stop?”

Your head shouts the answer, but your mouth can only whisper.

“N-no.” You reply.

His other hand raises to touch your next breast, both hands toying with your nipples easily. You hiss, dropping your head back in bliss.

“No?” He mocks, “You want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please.” You breathe.

His grin deepens.

“You really trust a demon like me that much? Do you have any idea how badly I want to ruin you?” 

“I want you.” You whine, closing your eyes eagerly when he brings his face in close, hoping that he’s going to kiss you.

“I’d let you ruin me.” You continue, hearing a little grunt leave his throat in response.

“Open your mouth, mistress.” He says darkly, and you obey, parting your lips for him.

He hums, before sealing his mouth over yours, his tongue immediately meeting your own.

You moan, flicking your tongue upwards, delightfully rubbing your tongue eagerly on his, unable to move in any way. 

Your head fills with the worst ideas, that if he wanted, he could keep you here, bound, and still somehow you find that appealing. 

There’s a drumming in your head, a heat on your skin, the taunting ghost of a phantom touch as his pleasure swells within you.

He begins kissing you softly, his mouth fixed to yours as one hand flicks at your nipples, the other hand supporting his weight so that he doesn’t crush you.

He drops his hips, so that he can press his stiff erection between your thighs. You clench involuntarily, angling your hips as best as possible to feel him.

When you whine against his mouth, raising your head to increase the pressure of his lips on yours, he stops touching your breast to grip your jaw harshly. He squeezes, keeping your head still as he kisses you hard, his rough tongue delving into your mouth easily.

He pulls back with a grin, looking at you with red eyes as you pant.

“Are you still cum drunk, mistress?” He asks.

You swallow, nodding your head.

“Good.” 

Without any further words, he kisses your neck.

You hum, tilting your head to the side in a silent plea for him to keep going, a sharp gasp when his teeth drag along your sensitive skin.

You wriggle, but you’re unable to move, your bra is uncomfortable on your skin, and you hope he tugs the material off of your body soon. 

His tongue is wicked, sliding over each collarbone, before they connect with the stiff peak of your nipple.

Billy moans, the flat of his tongue gliding over the underside of your nipple, before being flicked meaningfully by the tip of his tongue.

He repeats the motion several times, before tearing the ruined fabric of your bra off your skin, and circling his tongue around your other nipple.

You cry out, blubbering, his arms sliding under you to encourage your back to arch, making it that much harder to move as he circles his tongue around each nipple.

“Mine.” Billy growls, and you feel your eyes almost roll back in your head at the way you feel- debauched and desperate, for him and all the wicked things he does.

He’s not very nice, his tail sliding around your thigh and pressing gently against your panties, rolling in gentle waves over your core, tormenting you, making sure you feel each caress. 

You feel his pleasure increase, like a breath over your skin, telling you that he enjoys this, having you helpless at his mercy below him and you crave the feeling of that like never before.

You know from past experience that if he wanted to ease your ache, he could easily increase his pressure to help alleviate your need, instead he only makes it worse.

After a moment, you gasp in surprise as you feel his tail work its way under the fabric covering your cunt.

You whimper, tossing your head from side to side, trying to find a way to get him to touch you where you need it most, but being unable to do much with the way you’re bound. 

When you try to close your legs, you feel his ropes snake higher up your ankles, and loop over your calves, stopping right above your knees.

“Billy.” You beg, “Please, I need you.”

“Shhh, mistress,” He soothes, “This is what you get for riling me up so badly.”

“I didn’t-” You try to argue.

“No?” he asks, his tail skirting your slit, offering only a small amount of friction, “Getting down on your knees, licking my cock like that, swallowing every drop of my cum- that wasn’t supposed to make me feverish with desire for you?”

“I only wanted to thank you for sticking up for me.” You whine, trying to argue as he presses his face to the plush underside of your breast, beard scratching deliciously over your soft skin.

“Thank me? Do you have any idea what seeing you like that does to me?” His hands cup your face, and you part your lips as he kisses you softly, “On your knees, looking up, that sweet mouth sucking on my cock like you need me?”

When you don’t answer him, he hums, biting softly on your bottom lip.

You groan, struggling against his bindings for show, knowing that you’re not getting free unless he wills it. 

“I’ll show you what it does to me.” He says softly, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You feel his tail drag upwards under your panties, hovering over your clit, and you sob desperately, yearning for him to touch you where it hurts.

Your thigh twitches involuntarily, body shuddering at how close he is.

“Please.” You gasp, tilting your hips up, sobbing as he moves his tail back too.

“Aw mistress, am I being mean?” He teases rhetorically.

You open your eyes, looking at him, his eyes have remained red the entire time. You think about what you could possibly say to get any semblance of relief.

“I loved sucking your cock, Billy,” You mumble, watching the red in his eyes darken, “I’d do it every day if you let me.” 

His mouth parts, and you note the sharpening of his teeth for a brief moment.

Before you can even focus on any one thing in particular, his tail begins to slide easily between your thighs.

Your breath catches in your throat, feeling the appendage slide up and down, catching on your clothed clit, using the slickness of your arousal to move. You clench around nothing, gasping, aching for more, aching for it faster, and getting nothing but his slow, steady pace in return.

Suddenly his tail pauses, and you almost want to cry, only having a moment to open your mouth to beg when you feel his tail wrap around the waistline of your underwear, and pull it harshly till it rips.

“That’s better.” He murmurs, ridding you of the flimsy material, keeping his eyes locked to yours as his tail goes right back between your legs, grinding more purposefully on your cunt.

You drop your head back temporarily in defeat, arms and legs bound, unable to do much moving, all you can do is try your best not to squirm while his tail makes a mess of you. 

You’re forced into looking at his gorgeous visage, his arms braced on either side of your head, he looks at all the expressions on your face as you struggle against his bindings, failing miserably at your attempt to stay still.

He speeds up, and your mouth falls open at the delicious feeling, the steady touch on your swollen clit.

Your pleasure swims in his head, drunk on the power he has over you, enjoying every moment of watching you. There is nowhere he'd rather be right now than right here, not even the promise of Heaven could tear him from you.

He slows his tail not long after, watching the torment cross your face, feeling delighted that he can do this to you, that he can make you want like this.

“I should’ve left you hard,” You grit out angrily, groaning inwardly when his only answer is an amused chuckle.

“You talk too much, mistress,” He taunts, before taking his tail away from your dripping core to press it against your lips.

You only hesitate for a moment, opening your mouth easily, and letting his tail, wet with your own arousal into your mouth. 

The taste of you is tart on his tail, and you wrap your lips around the leathery appendage, giving it the same treatment that you gave his cock not too long ago.

“You look beautiful like this,” He breathes, red eyes memorising you, “Mouth full like a good mistress.”

Your chest flutters, but you can’t say or do anything except continue sucking on the tip of his tail. It helps distract you from the raging firestorm of desire inside of you.

He drops his head once more, and you gasp around your mouthful of tail as his rough tongue ambles over your sensitive nipples. 

You feel the vibration of his groan against your breast, and suddenly you let out a sound of surprise when the rope wrapped around your legs begin to pull them up and further apart.

He raises up, pulling away, his tail leaving your mouth empty as he leans back to look at you. The remnants of his saliva cooling on your breast, the lips of your cunt spread with the further parting of your legs. 

Vaguely, you’re aware that he can see every intimate inch of you, and you think you love that. You keep your eyes on his face, making sure he’s looking at your centre when you clench your inner walls. 

He looks up at you, his gaze is full of something familiar, something you’re acquainted with intimately at the back of your head, where all your sacred thoughts lie. It’s a look that promises pleasure, above all else.

He leans in slowly, and you watch carefully as the six-foot tall demon bound to you for eternity, dips his head to place a gentle kiss between your breasts.

Your mouth parts in surprise. 

He kisses over your stomach, over your belly button, scratching his beard along your skin, teasing you with the sharpness of his teeth.

It feels like nothing before, the careful attention he pays to each inch of your skin, feels like nothing short of worship to you. 

You shake, gasping, desperate, tears pooling in your eyes on the brink of crying.

He trails a line of kisses between your hip bones, your body screaming with need and your inability to touch him. When he's not satisfied, his rough tongue retraces the path, your stomach tightening as he leaves pleasure in his wake.

How was he doing this so easily? Playing with you? Toying with your body as if he'd been doing it for all his life?

You make a little sound when he kisses the inside of your thighs.

He hums, drawing away from your thigh to press his lips to the seam of your cunt, staying like that for long, torturous moments.

“Billy please.” You beg on a meaningful breath, desperate for him to do something after he continues to place soft kisses on your pussy for longer than you like.

“I love hearing you beg.” He hums, kissing over your mound gently, slowly, as if there is no rush. You can feel the truth of his statement through your connection, feel the way his pleasure heightens when you make any kind of sound.

Your breath catches in your throat, unable to form a coherent thought in your head that would be enough to push him into pleasuring you the way you’re desperate for. All you can do is lie here, with your arms and legs bound while he places delicate kisses onto your wet pussy.

Your body burns with desire, something dangerously hot, that can only be soothed by his touch. You can feel yourself clench, feel the breath of his laughter on your skin, the way your demon loves tormenting you.

You close your eyes, and you focus on him, you think about all the things you want him to do, all the ways you need him, you hope that the bond between you will help persuade him to have mercy on you.

You imagine him over you, cock pumping between your thick thighs while his tail fills you up. You think about the way you’d kiss his beautiful form. You think about exploring his broad chest with your mouth, tracing the veins on his hands, the way his cock feels, heavy and unapologetic on your tongue.

Between your legs, he lets out a low groan. His skin is hot with your desire, he feels it, the way you need him, the way you ache for him, and he can’t get enough of it.

He’s never felt anything like it, in his centuries of existing, he’s never felt someone as much as he feels you. He knows that he never wants to feel anyone else like this, like he can’t tell where the essence of your soul ends and his begins, or maybe there’s an overlap, a blending of the two of you.

He darts his tongue out, sinks it into your cunt, trails upwards until he meets your clit, savouring the way you taste, your arousal on his tongue, all for him. 

You gasp, tugging on your restraints, fighting his hold, and wanting to fight the featherlight touch of his tongue as well. Delight explodes behind your eyes, but it’s not yours you realise, it’s his. He gets enjoyment from tasting you. It makes you whimper, makes you need.

He torments you with his coarse tongue, like the demon you know him to be, gently moving across your clit, exciting your senses, winding you up like an object for his play.

You whine at the very idea of it, being used like this, giving yourself into the reality that he’s in total control of you, that it doesn’t matter what you want, your only purpose is to please him, to let him lick your cunt for however long, however roughly he wants.

It makes you that much wetter.

He takes his time, tongue slowly increasing its speed, moving in every angle over your clit, his careful precision to working you up, ensuring that your body feels good but not too good, a desperation being seared into your bones, or maybe even deeper, a place inside of you that belongs to only him.

His hands trail up from gripping your hips to explore the space beneath your breasts.

You gasp, feeling the tips of his long fingers tease the underside of your breasts, roaming even higher till he can roll your nipples between his fingers.

You say his name, pulling half-heartedly at your restraints, skin searing with open desire, gasping at the way he trails his hands lower once more, his fingertips ghosting over your skin, savouring the way you feel.

The phantom touch of his pleasure is all around you, trailing over your bound hands, up to your shoulders and neck, lingering on your lips.

You gasp, eyes rolled back in your head, lost in the feeling of his tongue when you realise you’re experiencing a clarity that you weren’t before.

You groan sadly, registering that while you’ve been captured in endless bliss, the effects of his cum had worn off.

You try to think about what it means, and what you want Billy to do about it, but it’s hard to focus when his tongue licks over your clit so often. It’s like he’s found the spot on your body that scrambles your thoughts and he’s been abusing that knowledge.

“Billy.” You sigh, calling for your demon, in hopes that he can pull himself from your dripping cunt for long enough to allow you any semblance of thought.

He only moans, rough tongue continuing its constant pace.

You shiver, raising your head, trying to get his attention away from your centre. You watch his head move down, the flat of his tongue connecting with your entrance before his head glides upward, pulling his tongue to meet your clit. He glances up at you with half-lidded red eyes, and as you look down at him between your thighs, he pauses, sliding his tongue slowly from side to side over your clit.

He looks lost in you, nothing registering behind his eyes except the taste of your cunt. You bite down on your lips at the sight of him like that.

You forget what you were thinking about, pulling your restraints taut in desperation, keeping you eyes locked on his as he continues to work his tongue sideways over your clit. A tilt of his head, and you watch his eyes close momentarily as he focuses solely on your clit, giving it soft attention, the perfect combination of right there and not enough.

You make a sharp cry of desperation, and he still doesn’t stop, his tongue speeding up, your toes curling as you begin to feel the burn of a slow oncoming orgasm.

He feels it, because he can feel everything you do, feels how badly you want him and he’s incapable of denying you anymore. He’s eager to taste your orgasm, feel you shiver on his tongue, he can’t stop thinking about it now, but he knows he has a point to make and he’s not stopping until you understand.

His pace doesn’t slow, licking you effortlessly, plump lips pressed together to trap your clit between them, using not just his tongue, but his lips as well to heighten your pleasure.

You shudder out a gasp, and then a little sob, dropping your head back, unable to think anymore. You take what he gives happily, because you have no choice in the matter, you’re at his mercy, despite how badly you yearn for release.

He hums, lips pressed to your clit, your body pulls tight in warning, mouth dropping open. 

You only feel a puff of air on your mound, as if he just let out a little breath of amusement, at the way your body begs for him.

He flattens his tongue harshly to your clit, rolls his tongue quickly from side to side, listening to the sound of your whimpers increase. 

You want to tell him how close you are, how desperate you are to come all over his tongue, almost ready to cry if he stops. The only thing that leaves your mouth is unintelligible sounds of insanity.

He knows though, he wants it too. To please you, to be owned by you.

Your toes curl, back bowing off the bed, everything held taught by the whims of your demon’s tongue.

And then he stops, detaches his mouth from your dripping heat and listens to you cry out in denial.

You open your mouth to beg him, but he’s already hovering above you, blunt fingers pressed into your jaw to turn your head to the side so he can whisper in your ear.

“Do you feel that?” He hisses, his lips right against the shell of your ear, “Do you feel how desperate you are? How bad it burns in your chest? That’s how I feel every second I’m not touching you, mistress.”

You gasp, trying to wrap your head around his words.

“That’s how I feel when you look at me, that’s how I feel when you kneel for me.”

He leans in even closer, till his nose is pressed to your temple, his lips right in your ear, his voice is a low grovel that thrums against your skin.

“Every time you wrap those perfect lips around my cock, you make me burn.”

“I’m sorry.” You finally say.

He raises his head, turning your face back to his.

“You are?” He asks.

You nod, trembling.

“I d-don’t mean to torment you.” You whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifts, you can see some semblance of sanity reappear.

“You don’t.” he states, as if this is news to him.

“I don’t.” You confirm, “I just want to make you happy.”

He grips your jaw tighter, leaning in.

“Why?”

Was that what this was? Insecurity?

“You do so much for me, Billy, and I like doing things for you too.”

“And if I couldn’t give you anything. Would you still…” His voice trails off, looking away.

“Yes.” You say swiftly, confidently, not letting the fear inside of him take root. “I’d want you even if you had nothing to give.”

Obsidian- the colour his eyes go next. You swallow, a tightness in your throat at the way he looks.

He looks back at you, eyes fixed on yours, dark veins spreading out from around his eyes as he tilts his head slowly.

He looks a little scary, the darkness of his eyes spreading out over his face, but like before, your body holds no real fear of him.

You don’t get a chance to say anything, before he’s leaning forward to kiss you hard.

You tilt your chin up, returning his fervour with need of your own, desperate to show him that you were his, just as much as he was yours. When you can see his face again, the black veins framing his eyes have receded, leaving just his dark eyes.

You wanted to touch him, you pull at the ropes with all your strength.

You don’t get a chance, he moves down your body once more, his head buried between your thighs in seconds.

You gasp when you feel his tongue again, you want to cry with relief.

“Oh god, Billy yes.” You moan mindlessly, tossing your head from side to side.

You tremble, hot tears spilling from the corners of your eyes, every nerve in your body on overdrive, trying to process how one person's mouth could have so much of an effect. He licks over you slowly, kissing your clit, wet sounds of his dextrous tongue filling the room.

What’s worse is the physical need for him, to touch every inch of his skin, to feel him, really feel him, and try to wrap your head around having a person to call your own.

He grips your thighs, squeezes your hips, makes you look up at the ceiling and feel the thoughts drain from your head like it’s a real, physical sensation.

He delves lower, tongue against your entrance a low groan from him as you endure the slow glide of his wet tongue against your walls, shallow, and yet desperate to get as deep into you as possible.

Your hands curl into fists, your eyes screwed shut as your shallow breaths grow loud in your ears.

You say his name but you don’t think he’s capable of hearing you, of pausing the motions of his tongue on your wet cunt.

He holds your pleasure hostage, and once more you feel the fight build inside of you.

You pull at your restraints, crying out when his tongue punishes your sensitive clit with a harsh lick, followed by tender kisses, right on your aching bud.

“I’m sorry.” You gasp, wriggling on the bed, “I’ve learnt my lesson I swear.” You say, trying to bargain with him.

He doesn’t answer, he just keeps going, hot tongue swiping over your clit, again and again, plump lips both a blessing and a curse.

He licks you for long minutes, until you lose control of your limbs, until they ache from being still, until you tremble, desperate to come.

“Pl-ease.” You draw out, voice shaking, your body begging, a roaring in your head that aches so badly you could almost cry.

Your mouth drops open when you feel two of his thick fingers press against your entrance. It hits you like lightning, and all of a sudden, you’re no longer in burning desire, but in a hazy rapture.

“Billy.” You cry, as he takes his time, working his fingers into you. You can hear and feel how wet you are, your head filling with absolute bliss, washing away any semblance of need you once had, any frustration that was being nurtured inside of you.

He keeps his strokes short, drawing out the pleasure you feel each time the thickest part of his fingers threaten to stretch the rim of your cunt, moving so rhythmically, lulling your body into a placid state. He gives you exactly what you need, filling you, licking you, delivering absolution from your burning.

You can’t feel anything except this pleasure, and a connection somewhere deep inside of you, that pulls you to him, draws you near, begs to be each beat of his heart, yearns to be each breath he takes, all paired with the feeling of his tongue lapping softly at your aching clit.

There’s a stuttering in your chest, one that you can feel pulsing in your nether regions as his pace increases. Your body gives no resistance to him, accepting him greedily, wanting more and more and more.

He’s there, giving it all to you, licking you to his heart’s content, pressing his fingers ever deeper, curling them a little, massaging the deepest parts of you, making sure you know that no one will ever make you feel like this.

You gasp in a big breath of air, pulling on the ropes still holding you firm, he lets out a low groan below you and you raise your head to look down at him.

His eyes are still wholly black, a void that pulls you in, the longer he holds eye contact with you.

Billy’s fingers hasten, and all of a sudden you’re right there, on edge again, losing any approximation of time, little whimpers leaving your mouth as you lose all semblance of sanity.

“I- I’m-” You whimper, trying to warn him that it’s all too much, that his touch is unravelling you in the best way possible.

Eyes rolling back into your head, unable to think or breathe for a few seconds, locked in a sharp stasis, balancing right on the brink of euphoria.

And then on your next breath, a release like no other. You hadn’t even realised how tightly you were wound until your orgasm washes over you. You can’t stop the sounds that leave your lips, or the very first squeeze of your cunt around his thick fingers. 

One wave of bliss triggers another, and another, until you fall apart completely against his perfect, rough tongue, no hope of keeping your sanity amidst the oncoming flood of pleasure.

It takes you a moment of floating, before you can come back into your body again, only to realise that he hasn’t stopped licking you. You’re almost obsessed with the sensation of his touch, the deep press of his fingers inside of you, soft and languid, bringing you down almost as slowly as he’d lifted you up.

And then there’s the feeling in your head, pleasure swimming through your brain, tingling deep in your bloodstream, wave after wave of mindless, hazy bliss.

The ropes from around your arms and legs loosen, withdrawing, giving back the autonomy it had taken. You sigh with ease, squeezing your hands into fists, to remember how to move once more.

You can’t do much more than little flexes of your muscle, your body is too relaxed, unwilling to move.

He licks you one last time, before you feel his fingers withdraw, his mouth departing from the apex of your thighs.

His eyes are back to their regular red, and you sigh happily as he moves his way up your body.

“How was that, mistress?” Billy asks softly, his body over yours, his fingers sinking into your hair.

“Amazing, Billy, thank you.” You respond in a soft whisper.

He smiles, brings his head down to meet your lips with his.

You get a taste of yourself on his lips, and you make a sound of discomfort when his wet chin touches yours.

You press against his shoulder, breaking the kiss.

“Gosh Billy, your chin is so wet,” You complain, wiping what you assume is a mixture of your arousal and his saliva off your own chin, “We could really use a bath.” 

He gives you a slow smile, a potent delight in his eyes that makes you so happy in return.

“Yes, mistress,” He agrees, sliding his other hand below your body, beginning to apply a little force to pull you up toward him.

“One bath coming right up.” Is the last thing he says before he pulls your face up to his. 

His kiss distracts you, enraptures you, you hum happily against him, eyes closed and trying to ignore his sticky chin.

He dips you again with a smile against your mouth and the next thing you know is that your bodies are submerged in tepid water.

You don't startle, continuing to kiss him under the water, hands raising to grip his shoulders automatically.

You gasp when he pulls you up, and right into a sitting position on his lap.

He keeps the back of your head gripped in his palm, kissing at your cheek and jaw while you turn your head to the side with a little laugh.

You blink in surprise when you notice unfamiliar surroundings. You're seated in a moderately sized pool, right beside a beautiful open concept house. You turn your head the other way, feeling Billy's lips adapt to kiss your other cheek, noticing that the house is surrounded by thick jungle vegetation.

“Billy?” You ask, feeling his mouth kiss its way down your neck. His only acknowledgement that you've spoken is a curious hum.

“Where are we?” 

“Phuket.” He says, voice muffled against your chest.

“Thailand?” You say in surprise.

His only response is another hum.

You grip his face between both your hands, tilting his head up to meet your eyes. He gives you almost the same look that he was giving you before- when he was looking up at you from between your thighs- half lidded, calm.

“Why are we here?” You inquire softly.

“Bath.” Is all he answers, leaning in to kiss your chest again.

“Are you okay?” You whisper, looking down at him, trying to figure out why there was such a spaced out feeling in the back of your head.

“Mhmm.” He replies, lips on your breast, kissing your nipple gently, “Happy.”

Happy. That’s what it was. Like a flutter in the back of your head, behind your eyes, you could tell he was drunk on his contentment.

“Why happy?” You whisper, hoping not to break into his haze.

“Happy to… provide, mistress.”

You feel a tightness in your throat, an inundation of emotion, threatening to choke you with the fierceness of it.

You tilt his head up again, looking into his glassy eyes, before kissing him with all the fire you have inside of you.

You know if you could, if you weren’t afraid of the pain of it, you would slide onto his cock right then and there.

He moans against your mouth, probably receiving some indication of where your thoughts have taken you.

Your hands smooth over his neck, down to his shoulders, fingers feeling over his collarbones. 

“I’ve never swam naked before.” You say against his lips, feeling him laugh in response.

“Me neither.” He answers.

You push away from him playfully, smiling as you turn around to dip your entire body below the water, feeling the way the water moves around you. When you break the surface of the water for a breath, pushing your hair out of your face, you look back over your shoulder at him.

He’s in the same spot for just a second, before he’s in front of you, moving at speeds beyond your understanding.

You gasp in surprise, his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you against him. He lowers himself, pulling your legs around his hips, you let out a surprised gasp when his cock slots right between your thighs, tapping against your sensitive clit.

He kisses you again, mouth eager on your own, turning you and walking you to a place you can’t see, his hand gripping your damp hair, angling his head to deepen your kiss and leaving you struggling to catch up with his fervour.

He lifts you, resting your naked body on the edge of the pool, your bare ass warmed by the sun-heated wooden deck.

“Need another taste.” He says against your mouth, his tail wrapped around your thigh, gliding gently along the seam of your cunt. You gasp in amazement at his desperate display.

“What?” You ask, not understanding what he’s saying with the way you’re exposed, naked in the open air. The only thing stopping the sun from hitting you directly in the eyes is an overhead umbrella.

He pulls you forward a little, tossing your legs over each of his shoulders, muttering something that you can’t make sense of.

A quick kiss to your inner thigh and then his rough tongue sinks into the seam of your cunt once more.

His tongue moves a lot more meaningfully this time, no attempt to torment you, his only goal is tasting you.

You gasp, arms buckling from where you’re trying to hold yourself up, his tongue once more attempting to make quick work of you out in the open beside the pool.

You don’t try to stop him, or resist him, simply keeping your thighs parted so that he can have his fill of you, willing to give your demon anything he desired.

.

He hadn’t stopped until you were boneless, barely able to keep your head up, almost on the brink of passing out. 

It had been a really long day, and at the end of it, after he’d cleaned you up and tucked you into bed beside him, he’d hand fed you fruits while you were close to sleep.

“Thank you,” You breathe, face tucked into his chest while you chew on a grape, the sweetness of it is delicious.

His tail flicks happily against your thigh, swaying while your legs are tangled in the sheets of the bed.

“You’re welcome, mistress.” He says softly, kissing the top of your head.

You sigh, closing your eyes. You want to tell him about Dimitri, but you decide that maybe tomorrow would be better. You didn’t want to interrupt the peace right now with those stories.

Sleep comes easy, when you don’t know exactly where you are, and you don’t even have to worry about it.

.

You're not sure what wakes you. If it's the lack of his heartbeat, or the coldness that seeps into your skin.

Maybe it's something else, a feeling, deep in your chest that something is not quite right.

You're immediately alert, blinking and looking around as if you hadn't been asleep at all.

You take a deep breath, let out a little hum, checking the time.

A little after one in the morning.

You look around for your demon, unable to find him.

You want to call out for him, but something in your head says not to do it.

He’s nearby, you can feel that too, in some kind of distress.

You look around for something to pull on, sighing when you can only get a hold of a satin robe, tugging it on quickly and also grabbing the folded blanket at the base of the bed and throwing it over you.

As expected, outside is cold, and you tug the blanket tighter to you, making sure it’s not dragging on the floor as you try to quietly look for Billy.

He’s not in the immediate vicinity, so you close your eyes, and you reach for him in your head.

Suddenly you feel a connection, like a tether in the air that guides you in his direction. You follow where it leads, taking you down a flight of wooden stairs, illuminated only by the light of the moon. 

With the forest on either side of you, you try not to focus on the possibility of any critters showing up, not wanting to think about what you’d do if you saw a lizard.

Or worse yet, a snake.

You take a deep breath, squashing your fears, determined to find him.

The stairs take you down to a little beach, with soft blue lamps at the end of the stairs. It’s so dark here that the stars shine brighter than you’ve ever seen.

There’s a jetty, stretching out onto the open sea, and a small open air hut at the very end, with a roof of something you think is straw above.

You take your time, stepping onto it, appreciating how sturdy it is, watching a little crab skitter away as you approach.

You can see him now, his hunched figure seated on a wooden bench looking out at the dark sea.

He doesn’t turn his head when you approach, and you worry that you’re encroaching on his personal space.

“It’s cold out here.” You whisper, referring to the chilly ocean breeze that washes over you both, you sit beside him, raising the blanket to rest one side of it on his shoulder, hoping to warm him up.

He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t say anything.

You want to speak, to say something to comfort him, but you're so caught up in saying the wrong thing that you say nothing at all.

Instead, you rest your head against his arm, breathing in the dark sea air with him.

The crash of waves calm you, rids you of any lingering worry and fear you once had.

You can feel his though, something whirring like a broken clock inside of his head, a fear he's too scared to talk about.

You take slow calming breaths beside him, pressing on that connection in your head, soothing over it like it's a knot in a muscle that you're trying to unravel.

“Hell,” Billy finally says with his voice shaking imperceptibly, “Is not hot.”

You smile thinking that this was an odd way to begin a story.

But you don't speak, you don't want to distract him, or break the cadence of his thinking or his words.

“From the second I died, I woke up in the same spot Frank had killed me in, except I wasn't really there.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I went straight to Hell, and I stayed there for a long time.”

You raise your head to look at him, to watch him as he stares out at the dark ocean.

“My punishment was, understanding exactly what I had done, from every point of view that I had wronged. I lived through all of their lives, I felt their pain, their fear- so much fear, I watched myself kill them, I felt the helplessness of each life I’d taken. Maria, Frank Jr., Lisa, and the countless other people I’d killed- I relived their deaths, over and over again until I could only see a monster where I once saw my face.”

“I guess that’s how it starts, Hell shows you who you are, and by the time the punishment comes around, you know you deserve it with every atom in your body.”

Your lower lip trembles, sad, for your demon.

“They made me relive that night so many times, I can still feel the fear in Lisa when I found her, like lightning running down my spine, freezing my limbs in place. She was just a little girl, and I took the rest of her life from her without a second thought.” 

It gets hard for you to breathe at the very thought of it, your heart breaks for the people he’s hurt.

“Maria had only ever been kind to me. She’d taken me in like her own brother without a second thought, she’d given me a home, and I’d torn hers to pieces.”

You feel hot tears slip down your cheeks, unable to speak now, listening to him.

“What would you do to a person like that? A traitor, in every sense of the word. Frank was the closest thing I’d ever had to family, my brother, my best friend, he would have died for me. How would you punish me?”

You don’t want to say it, you don’t want to speak it into existence.

You stay silent.

“I’d tell you how I’d do it. I’d give that monster hope. I’d make him believe in something, believe that he could be better, that he could change. I’d show him what being wanted could feel like, and then when he was at his highest point, just as he believes that everything he’s ever wanted could be his, I’d take it all away.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pain of his words is almost too much to bear.

“Is that what you think I am?” You ask softly, “A lesson to be learned? Something to be taken away from you?”

“What if you are? What if I’m still in Hell?”

“Which one are you more afraid of? That you are… Or that you aren’t?”

He shudders out a breath, unable to answer.

You wipe at your tears suddenly, sitting up.

“Billy, I can promise you that I’m a real person. I’ve lived through so much pain, and heartbreak, and loss and betrayal. It haunts me all the time. I don’t know if I’m a good person, but I definitely think I’d know if I was being used to punish you.”

“This is real, those stars up there are real, that moon, the ocean, the wind, the island- all of it is real and I’m real too, so are you and I know that because when I touch you,” You move your hand, reaching for his, “When I put my hand in yours I can feel you-” You suck in a breath, your watery vision meeting his.

“-I can feel you in my head, in my chest, under my skin and I know that you’re real because I know you can feel me the same way I feel you.”

He blinks, his hand tightening its grip on yours before he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours harshly.

A cascading ripple of desire in your head, you raise your hand to cup his cheek.

“You have to remind me.” He says in between kisses, “That I’m real, and this is too.”

You smile into his mouth, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck.

“Of course, Billy. I will.”

He sighs, pulling you tight against his chest, his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

“My mistress.” He sighs.

My demon, you think.

.

You lie beside him, fingers tangled together while you look up at the stars.

He'd used his influence to get a cozy mattress onto the jetty, and you'd taken up a space in it easily after sitting on the wooden bench for so long.

The ocean makes its relaxing sound below you, rhythmic and soft, daring you to have any bad thoughts here.

“Will you tell me about… Dimitri?”

A sad smile pulls onto your face, you nod, knowing that at least your bad experiences will help ground him.

“We met at the start of college. He was a friend of my roommate, so he was kind of always around, and we just became good friends over time. I never really… liked him like that, but I guess he must have seen things a different way. He was really interested in the fact that I'd never had sex, and he always asked me about it… about my plans for losing my virginity. I didn't know at the time, but I guess looking back at it now, there were a lot of conversations we'd had that had made me super uncomfortable. I thought I was uncomfortable because I was inexperienced, but I think that those were uncomfortable situations to begin with.”

“What do you mean?” Billy interrupts.

“Well, he asked about porn preferences, and odd things like if I'd ever used my fingers- and we've spoken about the same things, you and I- but the context, the situations were totally different. I just wasn't interested in him like that, and he would just keep pushing me more and more each time.”

You shudder, remembering some of the ways Dimitri had made you uncomfortable.

“It wasn't… all bad, he really was a good friend at times, helping me out, being a real friend when I was sad, he even brought medicine for me once when I was too sick to move. But… one night we'd been hanging out, and he leaned over and he'd kissed me. I was so shocked, and I didn't really know if I'd wanted to do this with him or not, and it took me a little too long to figure it out. He was, on top of me, reaching for my jeans when I'd made up my mind.”

You pause, blinking, trying to stop the tightness in your throat.

“He got angry. He told me that I'd just been stringing him along this whole time and that I was a shitty person for making him try so hard to be my friend to get nothing in return.”

You take another slow breath, running your thumb over the back of Billy’s hand.

“It wasn't a scary kind of angry, he was just talking loudly. I just kept saying I was sorry, but I wasn't interested like that. Eventually he stormed off. But… in the aftermath, he'd made it seem to all our friends like I was some girl that enjoyed getting attention from boys, and enjoyed hurting them by making them invest time into getting to know me, only to reject them. Some of them didn't believe him, but the ones that did convinced the others to stay away from me and my roommate got so hostile that I ended up finding another place in the middle of the semester just to get away.”

Your stomach twists, not enjoying having to relive this.

“We'd been such good friends too. I could tell him anything at one point and he'd understand me, that just became another weapon used to alienate me.”

“I should have killed him.” Billy finally says, and when you finally meet his eyes, you see them red, angry on your behalf.

You let out an amused breath, followed by a little laugh. You lean in to press your face into his chest.

“Nah, killing him would be too easy. Having him live to see me happy would be way worse outcome for him. People with those kind of mindsets, well, they have ways of making their lives worse all on their own.”

He cups your cheek, his hands are warm, holding you so gently, tender in a way you've only ever dreamed of. He tilts your head up, so that you can look into his eyes.

“I'm sorry this happened to you.” He murmurs.

“Thank you, Billy.” You lean up to place a little kiss on his lips.

“And I'm so angry on your behalf, mistress. Believe me when I say that you're the only thing keeping him alive right now.”

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him again.

You toss an arm over his body, pulling yourself closer to him, his tail adjusts itself around your thigh as you move. 

“Tell me something nice.” You murmur into his chest, breathing in his scent, wishing it would stick to your skin, “Tell me about your childhood.”

It's uncomfortably silent for a long moment, you get the feeling that maybe you've said something wrong.

“You can have something nice, or something about my childhood,” he makes an amused sound, “Not both.”

You groan, squeezing him tightly.

“That bad?”

“I'll put it like this, Hell could have punished me by making me relive my childhood and it didn't.”

“Oh.” You hum sadly, “I'm sorry.”

He sighs, reaching to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back so that he can place a soft kiss on your lips.

“Don't be sorry. I'll tell you about it another time. But right now I have a surprise for you.”

“Yeah?” You ask, smiling as he kisses your mouth again.

“Of course. Look.” He says, angling his head in the direction of the ocean.

It's dark, and you have to squint your eyes to focus on anything. You wait for a moment, seeing absolutely nothing.

It's just the dark ocean, and the pretty stars in the sky. You feel your eyes adjust to the almost pure darkness that you were looking at, you swear you could almost see a very subtle cloud of light in the sky that you think might be the milky way.

“It's very beautiful, Billy, I love the stars.” You state, studying them as best as you could.

He chuckles beside you, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

“So cute, mistress, but I meant the water.”

You blink, confused, you look down.

Suddenly, a streak of blue lights up in the ocean quickly.

What the hell was that? You think, pushing the sheets off your shoulders to stand, walking to the edge of the jetty and looking over.

Your mouth drops open.

Like the sky, the ocean is filled with twinkling light, but it's not a reflection of the stars, but the presence of something bioluminescent in the water.

“Oh my god.” You say excitedly, kneeling on the cold wood, leaning over to see as much as possible.

Any kind of disturbance in the water makes the organisms light up for a small moment. There's a ring of cerulean around the pillars of the jetty, glittering like living stars in front of your eyes.

Another streak of blue illuminates, and you gasp in surprise. You realize that they're fish, lighting up the water as they pass by.

You sit there, hypnotized by the look of the water for a long moment. Billy steps up beside you, and drops a pebble into the water, disturbing the surface so that it glows for you.

You giggle, looking up at him, extending your hands for pebbles as well so that you can toss them in.

He uses his influence to manifest a bag of pebbles that fit perfectly into the palm of your hand.

You feel like a child, transfixed with wonder as you dig into the bag for a few stones to toss into the water.

The ocean ripples with blue light whenever you drop a stone in.

The waves look alive with lustre, and you feel so small under the stars, staring out at all of it, feeling something deep in your chest that you've never ever felt before.

You finally find a way to ask a question that has been on your mind for a while.

“Matt… said that you were trying to corrupt me. Is that still true?”

“Yes.” He says with no hesitation, making something deep inside of you pulse.

“Why?” You ask softly.

“I told you before, I want to own you, the way you own me.”

You find that your arousal is more potent than your fear.

Your lips part, hesitant to ask.

“So, h-how do you intend to do that?”

You feel amusement cascade through your bond.

He leans in, his mouth pressed against the shell of your ear.

“You don’t need to worry your pretty little head, mistress. It’s all going according to plan.”

Your eyelids flutter, your core tightens with excitement.

Perhaps you should be more afraid than you actually were… but where was the fun in that?

.

.

.

[hotvintagepoll]

Donald O'Connor (Singin' in the Rain, Francis, Call Me Madam)— LOOK AT HIM. Those giant blue peepers. Those tappy tappy little feet that don't quit. The ears that stick out like little wings, ready to lift him up to goofy heaven. The way his face contorts into the strangest yet most endearing expressions. His ability to sing and dance alongside the hunk that is Gene Kelly and yet pull all attention away with his big-eyed buffoonery. The way his energy is unmatched in songs like "Make 'em laugh" - bouncing off the walls and tumbling through the air straight into my cold cold heart. Who else but a true scrungly lil guy would sit upon the witness stand and defend a talking mule with all the love and affection in the world - staring out into the court room with his bright wide eyes and eternally mouse-like expression, openly admitting that the mule is his best friend?!??! I see him and I want to pull him from the screen into my hand and just squiiiiiiiiiiiiish with all my might. I want to pinch his cheeks and have him bat those eyes at me. He just makes me go "eeehehehehehe" every time I see him and his silly little self. He is pure chaotic, ridiculous, scrungly perfection!

Mantan Moreland (Mr. Washington Goes to Town, Cabin in the Sky)—i love mantan moreland SO. MUCH. and he is the pERFECT scrungly little guy!!!!! like a lot of black actors at the time he was always getting sidelined into small parts, but unusually he also managed to become a star in his own right and was almost one of the three stooges! he was a groundbreaking comedic actor known for his distinctive stare (very good for the horror movies he did), and he always is way more fun to watch on screen than anyone else. he had a famous double-act where he perfected this technique of non-conversations (where both people keep finishing each other's sentences before any actual information is conveyed). a lot of his movies are free on youtube and i really enjoy seeing him do his silly little guy thing in all of them!!! anyways yeah please include mantan he deserves some recognition as peak scrungle

This is round 3 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Donald O'Connor:

My silliest little guy. My funnyman. My horsie. I have watched many a bad movie for this man. The scrungliest fact I know about him is that he was supposed to star as Danny Kaye's role in the iconic White Christmas (1954), as he had known Bing Crosby since he was a child, but couldn't because he caught a mule disease while working on those Francis the Talking Mule films Universal endlessly made him do. I wouldn't exactly recommend those movies, but Don's character getting psychologically tormented by a sardonic mule does make for quite a good movie night, if you know what you're getting into. Are You With It? is another one I don't exactly recommend, but it does open with Donald as a math genius actuary who is about to kill himself over a displaced decimal point before getting taken in by a traveling carny instead. His more well-known and beloved roles have plenty of scrungliness too, in my opinion. This man slapsticked so hard he wound up bedridden for his physical exertion! Rather than submitting Make 'Em Laugh, which the electorate has likely already seen (I hope), I'm submitting an underrated dance number of his, where he explains maths through tap dance. That movie is Not good, but god do I love him in that role.

I think it's arguably very scrungly to seemingly be a real life cartoon character made out of rubber, as proven by how slapsticky the list of scrunglies is so far. In which case, Donald O'Connor? He scrungles supremely. He even played Buster Keaton in a movie (that apparently can't be recommended, but still).

Mantan Moreland:

here's his double act in action!! [editor's note: Benson Fong cameo too!]

He just had a scrungly look about him and he played big with his roles so any of it became especially scrungly. Plus he was very funny in the way only scrungly people can be.

the FUNNEST GUY TO WATCH ON SCREEN. he was an immensely gifted physical comedian, able to convey loads with his eyes, and while some of his parts are so sad and cringeworthy, I feel like he always brought a humanity and humor that lifted them beyond cheap stereotype.

[fangdokja]

He’d rather destroy you than let someone else touch you—because if you’re not his, you’re nothing.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Vigilante x Reader

♡ Headcanons. #2

♡ Word Count. 1,128

Jealousy: A Catalyst for Madness

For him, jealousy isn’t just an emotion—it’s a violent, all-consuming force that drowns every rational thought. He doesn’t see rivals; he sees threats. And threats must be eradicated.

The idea of someone else touching you, even brushing against you in passing, ignites something primal in him. His grip tightens, his breathing slows, and his gaze sharpens to a deadly focus.

He doesn’t trust you, not because you’re untrustworthy, but because he knows how irresistible you are. To him, you’re an object of perfection, a treasure others are foolish enough to covet.

“You don’t even realize, do you?” he growls one night, his voice gruff and venomous as he corners you. “The way they look at you. Like you’re theirs to take. I should kill them just for the thought alone.”

Possession Through Pain

Jealousy turns his love into something dark, something sharp and brutal.

When he’s jealous, his touches are rougher, almost bruising. He presses himself against you, trapping you in his arms, forcing you to feel every inch of his strength. “Do they make you feel this way?” he snarls against your ear, his breath hot and uneven.

He marks you in ways that are both physical and psychological. A hand wrapped tightly around your throat, teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder, leaving bruises in places only he can see. He needs you to remember who you belong to, especially when you’re apart.

His voice is soft, almost a whisper, as his hands trail down your body: “When they see these marks, they’ll know. They’ll know you’re mine.”

Unleashing Sadistic Desire

His jealousy doesn’t just lead to violence against others—it seeps into the bedroom, where his need to claim you turns feral.

He doesn’t just want you to feel his touch; he wants you to feel his absence when he’s gone. His lips, his hands, his teeth—they all become instruments of torment, leaving trails of pleasure and pain that linger for days.

When his jealousy reaches its peak, he becomes ruthless. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, your voice hoarse from screaming his name. “Do they make you sound like this?” he orders, his voice a gruff growl. “No, sweetheart. Only I can do this to you.”

The room is filled with the sound of heavy breathing, the soft sounds he drags from you, and the quiet, almost heart-gripping words he murmurs against your skin: “No one will ever love you the way I do. No one will ever destroy you the way I can.”

Eliminating Rivals: The Horror of Possession

Anyone who dares get too close to you is a dead man walking.

He doesn’t just kill them; he makes an example of them. Blood is his love letter, written in crimson strokes that stain his hands and clothes.

When he returns to you after eliminating a rival, he’s still charged with adrenaline, his movements wild and desperate. He pulls you into him, his lips crashing against yours with bruising intensity. “Say it,” he demands, his voice rough. “Say you’re mine.”

If you hesitate, even for a second, his grip tightens. “I’ll kill them all,” he promises, his eyes dark with madness. “Every single one. Until there’s no one left but you and me in our world.”

Dialogue: Words Like Chains

“Do you really think they could love you like I do? Hurt you like I can? No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to have you.”

His jealousy is a wildfire, scorching everything in its path, leaving behind ashes and scars. It doesn’t just consume him—it consumes you.

“I should break every finger that ever brushed against your skin. But I won’t. Because you’re the only one I want to ruin.”

When he touches you after a fit of jealousy, it’s as if his hands are dipped in blood, the heat of his rage seeping into your skin. His grip is both a warning and a promise: no one else will ever have you.

“You smile at them. You smile. Do you actually know how that makes me feel? Like ripping their throats out just to see the terror in their eyes.”

His love is a noose, tightening around your neck with every passing day. It’s suffocating, inescapable, yet you find yourself clinging to it, unable to let go.

“You think you have a choice, don’t you? You think you can walk away. But you’re wrong, sweetheart. You’re mine until the day you die. And I’ll make sure it’s me who decides when that day comes.”

The air grows heavy when he’s near, thick with the scent of copper and the weight of unspoken threats. His eyes bore into you, dark and dangerous, as if daring you to deny him.

“I’d rather see you dead,” he says one night, his voice quiet but unwavering, “than let someone else have you.”

Moments and Memories With Him

The Confrontation:

He finds you talking to someone else—a harmless conversation, a passing exchange. But when you return home, his mood is anything but calm.

He shoves you against the wall, his hands rough as they grip your waist. “What were you thinking?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Do you want me to kill them? Is that what you want?”

His lips crash against yours, desperate and punishing. His jealousy is a storm, and you’re caught in its eye.

The Aftermath:

He comes back late, his clothes splattered with blood. You know better than to ask where he’s been. Instead, you try to retreat, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you into him.

“They’re gone,” he whispers, his voice low but chilling. “You don’t have to worry about those fuckers anymore.” His hands slide down your body, controlling and unrelenting. “You’re safe now. You’re mine.”

The Breaking Point:

He sees you smiling at someone else, and it’s the last straw. That night, he ties you to the bed, his hands trembling with barely restrained rage.

“You need to understand something,” he says, his voice baritone and deadly. “You belong to me. Your body, your soul—everything. And if I have to break you to make you see that, then to hell with it.”

Closing Thoughts

His jealousy is an armed weapon, a double-edged blade that slices through both of you. It’s dark, terrifying, and inescapable—a testament to the twisted love he feels for you. “You’ll never leave me,” he murmurs, his voice soft as his hands tighten around your throat. “Because you can’t. And deep down, you don’t want to.”

[ruvaidwani]

Schizo Ruvaid :

I once read in a psychology book that the earlier in life that one appears odd, the more severely they’re likely to be impacted by their mental illness later on in life. I guess you could say that’s the case for me. I can trace certain thoughts back to as early as 6 years old. I had crippling social anxiety and would become fearful of totally irrational things. Irrational even for that age. I was freaked out constantly and didn’t even like walking to the bathroom in my own house during the day time. I had this sensation that someone was right behind me all the time. I never felt alone.

My psychotic symptoms appeared when I was 12. They were brief and very spread out then. The first hallucination I ever remember was seeing a black hole or portal in my yard. By 14–15, I was having visual hallucinations nearly constantly. Mostly when I was by myself though. They really scared me . My parents didn’t wanna hear it because it upset them.

Around that time I also started having delusions that stalkers from my old school were crawling in my air vents, so I’d always close the vents. I believed I had to punish myself to absolve the world of its pain and sins and that was my duty on this earth. This led me to hurting or torturing myself in various ways. I believed I had a sort of gift to communicate with the ghost world but I couldn’t brag about it or else I’d be a pompous sinner like all the rest.

I also would hallucinate glowing quotation marks and I thought that was the spirit world quoting my thoughts. Whenever that would happen I’d focus extra hard on whatever I was thinking because I thought the spirits were trying to tell me it had a deeper meaning about how to punish myself for the world. I would also think random things were making vague references to my thoughts and that was a punishment toward me to make me suffer and go crazy.

There was also this delusion I had that my bathroom mirror was a two way mirror and I didn’t shower often because I didn’t want whoever was on the other side to see me naked. And I would see this caterpillar man on the bathroom door and I don’t know why but I believed he was the spirit of a criminal.

When I was 18 I started having more vivid hallucinations as well as nightmares where I’d wake up and see visions. I got these new visuals where shadows would commit suicide in front of me. I also started hearing voices at this time, usually at night. I would hear static and a lady calling me rude names and just repeating words. And I heard a man’s voice saying the name of a TV character. I also began losing my train of thought mid sentence or text or forget what words I’m trying to say. Or I will misread words on paper.

Despite the toll this takes on me, I keep it mostly to myself. I know deep down I am either gifted with the ability to see the forces around us, or I genuinely have schizophrenia.

I stay to myself as much as I can in my room. I do have to study and I manage to get through it. I’d say I’m pretty functional though I am constantly tormented with fears and thoughts. I can never truly chill out because it’s always going on and I can’t just fully ignore it or get used to it. I just hope that it doesn’t progress past this point.

It got worse when I was 18 I started to hallucinate more but it got better after I overcame my addiction but now it's happening again

[katerinaaqu]

What's your opinion on how Telemachus was handled in Epic (so far) ? I'm curious 😀.

And what is different from his Odyssey portrayal ? Not counting the fanart that infantilizes him, I'm strictly talking about the musical itself.

Hahahaha you guys definitely wanna put me against a wall one of these days! XD But I absolutely LOVE this question! Hahaha okay here goes;

Absolutely I wasn't gonna talk about the fanart and all that is part of the designing process and arguably that is part of every person to do. They could easily choose the depiction more Odyssey-accurate and still use the musical sound so yes you do well to mention it because yes I myself wouldn't touch the design part in this ask

Anyways long story short; I don't like it.

Storywise it is overly-simplified and shows only one portion of his possible emotions; the one that tries to connect with his father. That part is genuine and I see where the portrayal such as the song "Legendary" came from. Arguably Homer himself also touches the subject of glory through one's deeds and I see where the musical came from when Telemachus says what he says but the song was too bbbly, too naive portrayal of Telemachus and in a way completely disregarded the true depth of sadness and depression in Telemachus.

In the Odyssey Telemachus never connected to his father because his father was never there. To the point where he was even doubting whether he was his son or not. He basically says that "everyone calls me that but how can I know? The dude was never there. Possibly never will be here again". His whole energy was the total opposite than Epic.

Epic portrays Telemachus in a manner that reminds me of Disney's Little Mermaid in "Part of your world"; a bubbly teenager who dreams to start his life or to be making a legendary name for himself like his father and in childish naive energy says "bring me all these monsters to fight them!" while in his childish naive nature was also making him afraid or worried to face the bullying of the suitors (the way the suitors were portrayed as if Jorge wanted to make them EVEN MORE evil also had me cringe like Antinous calling Penelope "tramp". Antinous called Penelope more or less "divious" because of her scheme against them but that was all. In here they are competing for her hand while calling her names without reason? Yeah right....). He seemed like the average teenager that needs the adult to get him to realize video games is not the life and that he needs to do something about his future! Does he also seem low-key sad? Yes. But just like Ariel in the Disney movie was pictured as a dreamer that wanted escape from his confided situation through bubbly and childish dreams.

Odyssey Telemachus was both emotionally and psychologically exhausted; his mother was taken down by grief and endless waiting and had confided herself in her chambers, trying her best to avoid the suitors that were at her home for FOUR YEARS, constantly crying at this point. Telemachus also saw his grandfather lose his mind in sorrow and his grandmother melting away by desperation and sadness and dying or potentially killing herself by it. The last thing he wanted was "to be legendary". In fact Telemachus gave me the exact opposite energy than a dreamer. He was very down to earth and his main goal was to get out of this nasty situation, trying to grow as a person to set himself free from this torment. He had so much in his plate that the last thing he wanted was to dream. In fact he gave me the impression of a person with no more the luxury of dreaming. He almost seemed crushed to the point of breaking himself almost like every other member of his family. (He gives me the impression of a person that after spent years of trying and fulflling their dreams now they are forced to work in a work they hate for survival and think that "dreams are for fools. No luxury for them!")

Like I said Menelaus described Telemachus as a spitting image of his father including his eyes, which is something I find the most important. Menelaus compared Telemachus's gaze to Odysseus; a man that fought a war with him! A man exhausted by the evil he saw and caused. Telemachus's profound grief was so intense that his look was equivalent to a man Menelaus fought a war with! He was the opposite of what we see in Epic! In fact we know that Telemachus was also very much silent and tried to keep a low profile so he didn't need to face the humiliation of the men that were literally plundering his wealth and harassing his mother and himself. The last thing he had in his mind would be to "be legendary". He was also plundered by the fact that not only was he doubting that Odysseus was his father per se but also he was in doubt that this Odysseus that everyone named his father would be alive or dead. He didn't know that. He was actually almost certain that Odysseus was dead but that part in the back of his head was not yet leaving him in peace which is why he needed Athena's guidance

Which brings me to the next part; Athena In Epic Athena appears to...give Telemachus the boost to fist-fight the suitors for some reason and mind you he still gets his ass handed at him! It made it seem as Telemachus's only problem was that he didn't have the guts or skills to fight the suitors and Athena gave him a solution! (potentially a message to stand up against bullies for teenagers? Perhaps but still I felt it massively undermined Telemachis's situation in the book) As I have answered to another person around here, Telemachus's problem was that the suitors claimed the law of hospitality and named themselves ODYSSEUS'S guests. Telemachus could not yet take over as king and he had no power to send them away. Plus he was plundered by doubt about his own inheritence. What Athena did was not to make Telemachus a fighter for he already was (we see how well he stands against them at the side of his father in the Odyssey) she came to encourage him to find out on his own.

Arguably the trip of Telemachus was a mirror counterpart of Odysseus's but instead of a trip that makes you lost like Odysseus was lost, it was a trip for self-discovery. Mind you, both the trip of Odysseus and the trip of Telemachus are cognitive trips; both characters learn in them and come in contact with places. Psychologically the trip allows Telemachus to escape this boarderline toxic grief in his home and explore the world. Also find out on his own information about his father. Now, arguably he never really finds out about his father's whereabouts for certain apart from Menelaus's vision but there is something he definitely gets out of his trip that is not talked about enough;

He finds out he REALLY is the son of his father and he gets information about what kind of man he was!

He hears from friends that fought with him how similar he looks to him; not just from his closed and secluded environment but of people outside his circle and his known people that he looks like him and they also give him information about him. No more the random comments the suitors he hated say or his sad mother who could either idealize his father to escape her grief or the loyal slave Euryclea who adored the family naturally like a mother; now it was also friends and known people of Odysseus that speak about him Telemachus is double-checking his information! Thus coming home much more confident on his inheritence and his own destiny and duty

Arguably the Odyssey is as much Telemachus's story as it is Odysseus's. Telemachus was in one way a spectrum of Odysseus; fighting a different type of war; losing himself in a different type of sadness. His story was a story of coming of age not a story of a goddess that teaches him how to stand up against bullies. Telemachus already does that in the Odyssey by calling the council. Arguably he was alays standing against the suitors but his position did not allow him to do something drastic! I think just like many things Epic missed this by a mile; reducing Telemachus's profound grief, sadness and uncertainty to an average teenage escapism story rather than the fact that Telemachus had no luxury or energy for escapism, Athena's advice for self-discovery to the average "raise your fists and fight your bullies" story ignoring the deep cultural details that led Telemachus to that tight spot in the first place and of course it completely abandoned the importance of Telemachus's trip which could be a subject of a movie on its own! (Quite frankly Telemacheia covers more chapters in the Odyssey than Odysseus's own flashback! It covers 5 rhapsodies of the Odyssey while Odysseus's story covers 3-4)

I hope this answers some questions! I will be happy to elaborate more.

[miley1442111]

remember me.- f.odair

a/n: MY FIRST FINNICK FIC. I love finnick so much, he's such a king. this wasn't intended for a fem! or male! reader so imagine what you like :))))

summary: after being taken by the capital you're brought back to district 13. you remember the real finnick, right?

pairing: finnickodair x reader

warnings: general hunger games topics, feeling broken, mentions of pain and hurt, mentions of wounds and general capital hijacking.

You sat up in your hospital bed, a familiar brokenness in your mind. Who were you? 

You were a victor. You were a capital darling. You were a product. 

You felt the restraints on your wrists and sighed in discomfort. When would you be free? When would you ever be allowed to live? You knew someone had taught you that dream, the dream of being free, but you couldn’t remember who. He had… blonde hair? White teeth? A sweet tooth? You had also been taught that that same man had hurt you, that he’d left you to the capital, left you to die. 

The images and pictures of your broken and bruised body they’d shown you. Shown what he’d done to you. They flashed in and out of your brain, a constant torment. Everyday he visited you, but never came in. You could see him against the glass, watching you cry and scream. Watching you beg and plead for them to take him away. 

You had been badly beaten, at least that’s what you’d heard from the nurses. You had broken bones and stab wounds, and severe mental damage. They assumed you had been sleep deprived, psychologically abused, and ‘hijacked’. 

A woman walked into the room, a kind smile on her face, and behind her was the man. The man who'd left you to the capital. 

“Please,” you begged. “Please don’t let him in, I-I didn’t do anything, I-I th-thought  it was s-safe here. Why is he here?!” Tears streamed down your face as you pleaded with the nurse and he started crying too. Why was he crying? He hurt you. Right? 

“Darling, please,” he pleaded, clenching his hands. “Remember me.”

“Y-you hurt me…” you trailed off, a real memory coming back, one of him and you at a beach. Him running up to you with a surfboard under his arm, the warm sun on your skin, making the swimsuit you were wearing bearable. He smiled at you and kissed you, then brought you to the water and helped you onto his board, teaching you to surf. When you fell he’d held you to him and kissed you, whispering words of encouragement and making bad jokes to bring a smile to your face. His hair was soft, even when it was wet.

 Soft, that’s what he was. Your finnick was soft. 

Then everything came back, all at once. Finnick had fought tooth and nail to save you, but couldn’t get to you in time, he had to be pulled off of the person taking you away, just to keep him safe. “Finnick?” You shouted and his face whipped up, shock evident. “Finnick, you’re ok!” You braced your hands against the restraints and the nurse quickly unlocked them. He stalked over, picking you up in a tight embrace. It hurt, the bruises and wounds on your skin, and the broken bones inside all ached to be left alone. But he wouldn’t put you down. You didn’t want him to. “You’re ok,” you repeated, trying to convince yourself of the fact. Finnick was ok. Finnick was here. Finnick was here to keep you safe. You were safe again. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry darling, I couldn’t get to you in time- I-I shouldn’t have-”

You cut him off with a kiss to his lips. This kiss was a promise. A promise that you would be together no matter what. That any flaws or shortcomings would be forgotten and dismissed. A promise that you loved each other. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he smiled, tears falling from his pretty eyes, you brushed them away and kissed his cheek. “We’re ok again.” 

“We’re ok again,” you echoed, a sense of determination for your dream. Your dream of freedom.

[gladoswantscake]

An Eternity with You - Dracula x Reader (DBD)

Summary: There's only pessimism if you were taken into a realm of lifelong suffering.

Warnings: Psychological distress/trauma, blood, gore, horror

Available on AO3

The hacking, slashings, stabbings, and murder never stopped. Every time your body was pierced with those hooks or killed by the killer's hand; you prayed to whatever deity existed to put you out of your misery for good. But alas, you always wake up back at the campfire.  You were unwillingly taken by the Entity; taken into a realm of endless pain and suffering and stuck in sick games of nothing but pure torment. You dreaded going back to that campfire. It never led to anything new. You never came to terms that this was your new life, and you were never going to see your home again.

You could hardly close your eyes to rest without visions of murder entering your mind or the paranoiac-piercing screams messing with your eardrums. Streaks of your hair were becoming white from the great amounts of trauma, and bags under your eyes took effect from the lack of sleep.

The other survivors you've met had been here longer than you, but they never grew used to it, either. You never truly wanted to die so badly till now.

But then something happened during the times you served your trials.

Your chest grew heavy when there were no sounds of generators being repaired, or a teammate calling out in need of assistance. The air was silent and heavy as you explored the trial. The clicking of your footsteps only gave sound to the dead air. Fog entangled your legs with a step towards a sign of any life within the trial. In the midst of the fog, a silhouette laying on the ground could be faintly seen from a distance. As you approach further, you realize it was one of your teammates with their neck torn open. A small pool of blood lays underneath your dead teammate and soaked into their clothing. Upon further examining the body, the hole in their neck looked as if an animal had done it. Their eyes remained open; a hint of expression of fear remained on their face. It was almost as if they were begging you for help.

Quickly and quietly your teammates were being killed without you realizing. Was it just them or all the others?

"I apologize for leaving a mess for you to see. It wasn't very chivalrous of me." A deep voice startles you from behind causing you to whip your head around to see a rather tall man.

The Dark Lord, or Dracula that some of your fellow survivors refer to him as. Word of mouth went around the campfire that he was a vampire. He held no mercy for anyone who had a beating heart. Except for you. The first impression wasn't the best. You found him towering over you as you cowered beneath after watching him toss your teammate's dead body to the side after draining every drop of blood from them. 

For the longest time, he's felt his dead heartstrings being pulled. He wasn't sure what caused him to feel this way. Maybe if he was not feasting on your dead teammate, he would have looked less frightening.

He's grown obsessed with you since the day he spared you.

He takes his time walking up to you, wiping the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand in the process. "I was afraid I wasn't going to see you again." His hand reaches for your face with a clawed thumb to wipe a streak of blood splattered on your cheek from healing a teammate earlier.

"Is there ever a time you haven't?"

He chuckles at your response. "No, but I must say, it's become a hobby of mine as of late."

Every time you entered his realm, Dracula always saved you for last. Killing off your teammates as fast as possible then finding you. He couldn't have any of your teammates spoiling anything between the two of you. After killing off your teammates, he would take his precious time stalking you from a distance in his wolf form. His dead heart always skipped a beat whenever he found you wandering alone with no one to get in his way.

"I can tell." 

His fingers feather down to your arm until stopping when he notices discoloration on your skin. He pulls your wrist towards him examining a red swollen area with scrapes. The color was slowly bruising into a purplish red. His thumb gently glazes over the scratches allowing his cold touch to calm down the swelling for a bit finally.

"It's nothing. I fell." You reassure.

"My dear, you should be more careful. I'd hate for something so delicate to get into harm's reach."

"If I had a flashlight that lasted longer than ten seconds, I would have been able to see."

"Rather than relying on something so worthless, you should find something that'll do you good."

"Is that your way of saying I want to spend more time with you?"

"Of course. I enjoy indulging in conversations with you." He leans into your face, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not only that, but I also enjoy feeling your warm skin under my hands and hearing the rhythmic pulse underneath your skin." His warm metallic breath hits your face. "It's so rapturous. Wouldn't you agree my dear?"

"I suppose it's better than death." You wince.

It took some time to warm up to him.

The Entity eventually notices the strange behavior of Dracula. He was unable to fulfill his duty because of you. No matter how much the Entity craved and demanded the survivor's flesh and blood he couldn't do it. He could never conjure enough courage to sacrifice you. It decided to remove you from the trials that involved him for it to be satisfied with its sacrifices. He grew angry upon hearing the news, but the Entity didn't care. If it wanted sacrifices, it was going to make sure it got what it wanted.

Now he finds himself in his castle away from the other killers—sitting alone in his throne room staring off into the distance, sulking in his thoughts. He had no regret being taken into the Entity's realm at first; it felt like paradise, but now he's beginning to have second thoughts. He grew madly in love with you that's why. He wanted to take you away from a place that's done you no good. He wanted to spend an eternity with you. If only he could.

Quiet clicking sounds from a distance pull him from his thoughts. He turned his head to where the sound was coming from and there you were just a few feet from where he sat.

If only he saw how his face beamed at the sight of seeing you again. He rushes to you. "I'd never thought I would ever see you again." His clawed fingers stretched outward feeling your hair as his thumbs stroked your cheeks; feeling the warmth that once sought comfort to him "I pray your suffering has not been too utmost for how long I've been away from you."

"Nothing has changed. I hate it so much."

"I'm sorry how things have-"

"I missed you. So. Much." Your voice cracks upon interrupting. He stares down at you as you try to keep your composure. You look away from him to hide your frustrated tears. "I wish I didn't have to go back."

"Please don't grieve." He lifts your face. "No matter what happens, I will always be here waiting for you. And one day there will be no more suffering. I promise you."

Despite you suffering eternal damnation in the Entity's realm; to Dracula, in a certain way he has gotten the happy ending.

An eternity with you.

[blindmagdalena]

I know you're a Homelander-centric blog, but I'm genuienly curious to hear your opinion and thoughts on Stan Edgar as a character. (This badass old man doesn't really gets recognition he deserves, tbh...)

ohhhh stan edgar...

tbh i think he gets heralded as a badass way more than he should be, and it's 100% due to the raw charisma of giancarlo esposito. that man is so goddamn likable! i love his voice, he's a superb actor. i always want to root for him regardless of the role.

but stan edgar is honestly one of the most heinous characters on the show. he's behind the majority of vought's schemes. he's vindictive and petty. he orchestrates the exploitation and abuse of god only knows how many children, plucking out the ones he deems most useful and turning them into weapons with dependency issues.

homelander and victoria ofc being the most standout examples of this. i LOOOVE the evil daddaughter thing he has going on with victoria, i love how she hates him and needs him and resents him and loves him all at once.

i think stan is at his most pathetic when dealing with homelander, though. he gets a lot of praise for standing up to homelander and talking down to him, but especially after s4, i find that laughable. he's talking to a man who's been psychologically conditioned since BIRTH to be afraid of people like stan and desperately yearn for their approval.

throughout s3 he mocked and tormented homelander like he was banging on the bars of a beaten dogs cage. he calls homelander, a man who was tortured throughout his entire childhood, "bad product."

who approved that product, stan? it just doesn't impress me to see him be so confident against someone whose buttons he knows how to press because he had a hand in creating them. he's hyper aware of the extent of trauma, and how to abuse it.

stan edgar is truly a character that i love to hate.

[plutoswritingplanet]

Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader) pt.2

a/n: we're taking a turn for the weirder, next chapter will be slightly more comfort than hurt (you know, as much as i know how to write comfort). for now, all we have is darkness and edginess. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (wow that never fking happens on this blog), Soulmates, Emotional Torture, Biting (not the sexy kind), like...a teeny tiny smidge of cannibalism.

Summary: The psychological torment of being chosen for the Devil tips over as he visits you in your sleep.

PT.1

At first, you're not aware that you're dreaming. A strange haze falls over your vision, as if you've just woken up from a devastating fever. Your limbs sway slowly, like you're treading through honey. It fascinates you, the way the light of a streetlamp flickers over your fingers, as you raise your hand. Bare feet on the concrete, your toes contract, pebbles stuck to the skin. The air feels weird on your skin, like liquid pouring over your form in an invisible cascade. It feels real enough, yet so far away. 

You remember falling asleep on Bobby's guest bed, brought down by the events of the night. What were those events, you couldn't remember, but you can smell smoke swirling in your nose and your eyes are puffy with tears. You sniffle, swipe your hand across your face and feel as if by this simple gesture, your skin has been pulled like fresh taffy. Perhaps you have died in your sleep. The thought is, for some reason, incredibly funny to you, and from somewhere far away you can hear a voice, strangely similar to yours, giggle. It echoes through your skull like a church bell, and you groan at the reverberating sound. 

- Crossroads? Really? - you turn around without any grace in your movement, as another voice rings out right next to you.

Your breath catches in your throat and you can feel all the muscles in your body constric, then relax forcefully, as if some invisible strength was trying to keep you docile. 

There he stands. So human, so plain, it tugs on your heart in a way you were not expecting. Lucifer. His hands clasped in front of him, red spots and abrasions decorating his skin in a grotesque display. Sick, your brain supplies, he looks sick, as if he's starting to rot where he stands, and suddenly, in this strange dream the worst possible feeling comes to surface. You pity him, truly and deeply. Normally you'd jot it down to caring for the poor man he has chosen for his temporary vessel, but here, where reality doesn't exist, you can't force yourself to entertain this lie. Your fingers flex at your sides, a need to heal, to help, pushing at them to come forward, to cradle his face like he did to yours.

God help you, you wanted to help this monster.

Then, his words register in your brain, and you finally look around.

You're in the middle of a cement road, somewhere you don't recognize, and sure enough, there is a crossroad. You haven't been to one in such a long time. Not since Dean got dragged to hell and pushed by grief, you were about to do something unbelievably stupid. You remember begging. Actually begging a demon to take your soul, to save your friend, only to be met with a cruel laughter and emptiness so profound, it nearly broke you. Shame washes through you like a sudden wave, and you try to keep some integrity by encircling your chest with your arms. It does you little to no comfort, and Lucifer cocks his head to the side, as if he's in tune with your emotions. 

- Do you dream of this place often? - Lucifer asks, walking around you at a slow pace.

You don't know how to respond. Do you? Perhaps that is the case, perhaps somehow you've always had some sort of connection to the crossroads, where the most wicked of deals were made. Perhaps it was all his fault, from the very beginning. You nod, once, not trusting your own voice, and the Devil flashes you a quick smile, before his expression darkens, as if he's deeply in thought. There are prominent shadows falling over his face, his eyes sunken even more than you remember. 

- I can't find you - he finally looks up at you, and your heart stops just for a second - You're invisible to me, I wonder, why is that?

Castiel, you immediately think, and you have to look away from him at the memory of your friendly neighborhood Angel carving Enochian symbols into your bones. It's almost like you can feel them, beneath your skin, beneath the muscle and the guts. Not hurting, not really. Just, there. A constant reminder, that you're hunted by a being that feels entitled to your very existence. Being, which is currently taking small steps towards you, looking over your body as if you were a piece of prime meat in a display case at a grocery store.

- You're hiding from something you cannot stop - he says, and you feel the coldness of his breath on your collarbones - It's Dad's will after all. 

That, for some reason, wakes you up from your previous stupor. Shaking your head, you try to take a step back, a litany of "no's" spilling from your lips. To that, he frowns, grabs at your shoulders to keep you in place, and with a sudden wave of horror you realize, you can't move. And you want to move so badly, your body feels as if it's tearing itself in half. White fire, cold burning floods you, when his hands make contact with your skin, fingers skimming over the flesh of your arms, dragging down and down, until they grab at your wrists. 

- I don't want this - there's conviction in your voice you were not expecting, because truly and deeply, you fucking hate this situation, this responsibility which has been placed upon you without your knowledge or consent.

Lucifer laughs an airy laugh.

Gently, as if you're a porcelain doll, he brings your hands closer to his face. He maneuvers your fingers, eyes watching with fascination at the way your knuckles move under your skin. The tendons, the veins, he swallows it all with a greedy gaze, and the coldness of his breath makes hairs stand at the back of your neck. 

- I'm not particularly thrilled by this revelation myself - he whispers to your fingertips - I mean, isn't this insulting? To force me to care for a thing I swore to hate.

You shudder at the sudden harshness in his voice, and his hands dig further into the meat of your wrist. Reminding yourself that this is just a dream, you try to steel your nerves, focus on leveling your breathing, on freeing yourself from his grasp. It's harder than you anticipate, trying to collect any sort of self-preservation, while your mind is cradled by the smothering blanket of whatever dream-magic has been placed on you. 

- But then again, I am a child of an absent father - something akin to mirth flashes through his face, and as he looks up at you, eyes gleaming with something you're too scared to decipher, you're convinced you'll never truly escape him - And such a gift... - he sighs deeply within his chest, pressing the scarred surface of his cheek to your palm - Well, who am I to deny it?

Your face twists into an expression of disgust, and with a whine, you tear yourself away, craning your body as far from him as it is willing to go. Which arguably isn't much. His grip on your body tightens, arms digging into you, as he forces a perversion of a hug onto your unwilling frame.

- I've killed for less - he whispers into your ear, and revels in the way your entire body shivers - You're really lucky, and I don't think you quite realize how much. 

- I don't want to be lucky - painted nails dig into the cotton of his shirt, as you try your hardest to hurt him, force him to back up, or just react to your defiance in any other way than patronizing indifference. - I want nothing to do with you, I don't want you.

To that, he humms low in his throat, and you whimper, as cold lips descent upon the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. You can't truly describe the kind of fear he brings upon you, but your entire body seems to surrender despite your best efforts at doing otherwise. Must be magic, you reason. He must've placed you under some kind of a spell, there is no other explanation.

- Don't you think you're being just a tad ungrateful? - he asks, nose dragging along your artery - I mean, here I am, ready to love you, to care for you, to accept you as the gift that you are... - he takes a long drag of your hair, savoring the scent as your knees start to buckle - And you're ready to throw it all away because, what exactly? Because I'm what my Father has made me?

- Because you're a monster, only capable of hurting others - you seethe through your teeth, and immediately get cut off, when presses your bodies tighter together, something worryingly similar to a growl resounding deep within his chest. 

- Is that what you think?

You've made a mistake, immediately you can recognize that. Playing the tough guy in front of the literal Devil, while having no real idea of the supposed bond tying you both together, wasn't your smartest moment. Cold sweat forms on your forehead, when Lucifer extends his hands out, fingers digging into the flesh of your arms. Then, looking at you from that small distance, he gives you a strangely bored look. Like he has seen everything you've done play out in front of him a million times, like he knows all there is to know about you. 

God save you, you hate that look more than any atrocity he has committed. 

- Don't look at me like that - bravery, or stupidity, you can't decide as words leave your mouth in a snarl. - You don't know anything about me. 

- I know all that's important - he counters - I know God made you for me.

He takes a step closer, and suddenly you've grown very tired of this constant dance. His hands massage their way towards your shoulders, where he grips you tight and drags you towards him. You stumble, nearly falling into his chest, but he straightens you out forcefully, like you're some doll he can maneuver all he likes. 

- I know you're rebellious, just like me - his whisper seeps into your very being, as if you've become infected by his gentle tone - You're lonely, just like me.

You want to shake your head no, you really want to, but he keeps you frozen, enchanted by his sudden closeness, and the barely noticable note of vulnerability hidden in his grey eyes.

 Sam and Dean flood your mind. Your boys, your closest friends. The times you've spent together were few and far between, but you cherish them. You truly do. Which is why, your heart breaks at the realization, that Lucifer is right. Despite the bars, and the hunts, and the long drives, you're lonely. Loneliness follows you like a shadow, too ingrained into your bones to ever leave. But not right now, never when he's around. 

- It's okay, you know - Lucifer sighs, leaning down to kiss right between your collarbones - Sooner or later you'll realize, there's no shelter, no hideout where I wouldn't find you. That's true love, babe.

- Stop - a plea slips between your lips, quiet and pathetic, reminiscent of when you've fallen to your knees, begging a demon to bring your friend back.

What you were pleading for this time, you couldn't really comprehend, all you know is, you don't want to do this. You can't do this, and if this really was true love, wasn't he supposed to understand? 

The beating of your hear escalates, when he moves to grab at your face, hands so perfectly fitting alongside your jaw. He turns your head from side to side, as if wanting to commemorate every angle, etch it into his mind. If it were any other man, you'd be over the moon. If he wasn't a threat of catastrophic magnitude, just waiting to end the lives of your friends and everyone on Earth, you would've craned your neck further, given him access. Accepted your fate.

Yet, when his cold lips press into yours, it's so easy to forget why you've been unwilling all this time. He's gotten better at it, you muse, as he kisses your unmoving mouth, trying to pull some reaction out of you. Finally, you gasp, when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth, and bites down hard enough to draw blood. Immediately he takes advantage, thumbs digging into the hinges of your jaw, until you have no choice, but to open up to him. It's nauseating, the way he kisses you, as if he needs to map out the insides of your mouth right this instance. 

Lucifer pulls away so suddenly, for a second you follow his mouth before steeling yourself. Blood trickles down from your bitten lips, and he launches at the small streak. Tongue laps at the skin of your chin, licking off every trace of red, and the sound he makes is downrigh sinful. Then, emboldened by your taste, his hands push upwards, the muscles of your neck straining, as he moves your head back. 

The skin of your throat is exposed and pulled taunt, and your entire body is ready to collapse, when he presses open mouthed kisses along your trachea. Then, as you let out a  whimper, he moves to the side, kissing and licking a line towards your pulse point. He stays there for a moment, dragging his teeth down the cullumn of your throat, hard enough to make you squirm in discomfort. From gentle coaxing, his ministrations took a sharp turn to roughter territories.  

- So sweet - Lucifer muses to himself, taking another whiff of your scent - I could just eat you up. 

Something in his tone of voice startles you. It's not a cute love confession, a cliche line from a romantic movie. From his lips, it sounds daunting, like a promise he can't wait to fulfill. Your eyes swipe downwards, but all you can see is the top of his head, as he dips down to further abuse your throat. He's not gentle by any means, all teeth and no comfort with the way he nibbles at the skin behind your ear. It's pleasurable, or it would be, if it were any other person, or a person at all. 

Then, the air seems to shift, a sinister streak you're not familiar with crawls the lenght of your back, and you tremble like a caught bird in his unwavering grasp. As if sensing the change, his hands switch the hold on your face, supporting the underside of your jaw and chin, pulling up and up, until you have to stand on your tippy toes. 

- Perhaps I should - ringing fills your ears as tears flood the corners of your eyes - Perhaps that will show you, who you belong to. 

And with that, he pulls back. Like a priest raising his cup at the Holy Communion, he raises your head, eyes roaming across the marks he has made on your throat. And then, he dives down, jaw open, teeth glistening in the darkness of the night. 

You can feel it all, as he tears through skin and muscle, sinking into your trachea as if taking a bite out of a ripe apple. Your scream sounds so far away, so muddled, for a moment you can't recognize it's you that's screaming. Then, he pulls back with a sickening, wet, tearing sound, and your voice dies down in a gargle. Blood floods your mouth, spills through your teeth, a waterfall of red soaking your entire front. Through hazy vision you see him chew and swallow, and the sight churns your insides, as you double over, bile quickly making it's way up what's left of your throat.

Except, it doesn't hit the pavement. It lands on the wooden floors of Bobby's guest room. Confusion barely registers in your panicked state, as you roll off the bed, grabbing at the gaping wound in your throat. A wound that isn't there at all. Phantom pain wrenches a series of shouts from you, like an animal caught in a trap. Begging from help. Knowing it will recieve none. The coarse surface of the floor scratches at your thighs, as you push yourself into a nearest corner, tears mixing with sweat on your face. 

That's when Dean rushes in, Sam right after him. Any other day, you'd consider their company a blessing, but right now all you can think of, is what Lucifer has in store for them. How he can hurt them, to get to you. Castiel teleports into the room soon after, and you wish the floorboards would open up and swallow you whole. 

- He was... - you wince, voice creaking like old hinges - He was in my dream.

That's all Sam needs to cross the room and kneel in front of you, gently pulling at your hands, which are still clutching the non-existent wound on your throat. The skin is red and raw, nail marks trail down from under your chin to your collarbones, but there is nothing else.

- I know - Sam whispers, arms encircling you in a warm hug, that just feels like entrapment - I know, I'm so sorry.

Deep down you know, he understands. The weight of being promised to the Devil, the torment he can bring upon a person, the fear. But right now, all you can feel are teeth, and lips, and hands which are too cold to be anything other than a monster.

Castiel has questions, you can see it, in the way his eyes scan the room, fall on your shaking frame, still pushed into a corner. He doesn't ask them, thankfully, opting to gruffly mutter something about checking the wards around the house. Bobby yells from his office, Dean yells back. You try to focus on the warmth coming from Sam's chest. You stay like that for a couple more minutes, before finally, calming down enough to stand up and wipe your tears off your face with a heavy hand. 

- We'll figure something out - Sam supplies his usual response to anything Apocalypse related.

What used to be a hopeful promise, right now sounds more like a hollow echo.

Dean keeps his opinions to himself, chewing on them as he hands you a beer fresh out of the fridge. Only when the liquid freezes it's way down your pipes, you are certain your throat is where it should be. Your brain is coming back as well, rebellion, loneliness, all the traits Lucifer has read from you. They mix with anger, slowly rising within your chest, because fuck that. Fuck him, fuck God and fuck every single entity responsible for your current predicament.

- Yeah - you force yourself to sound convinced - Yeah, we'll kick his fucking ass.

[velvet4510]

A Rant About the Writing of Jean Grey in the Fox X-Men Movies

Is it just me or is Jean Grey’s entire characterization and storyline in the Fox films unbelievably sexist? I’m just so appalled by it. I have no idea if this is a hot take - I’m brand new to these films, and am totally unfamiliar with the comics - but I really can’t see this as anything other than misogynistic writing.

Between the idea that “woman can’t control her own power” and “woman who two guys are fighting over” … both of those are such dated and regressive concepts but for Jean Grey to embody BOTH of them … and literally NOTHING else? She has ZERO character development outside of these two traits. We don’t explore her friendships with Storm or Rogue or any of the other female mutants. We don’t explore her feelings toward humans, if she entirely agrees with Xavier or if she’s ever curious about Magneto’s view. We don’t get any understanding of her own wants and needs. She ONLY exists to cause pain to all the male characters.

We’re supposed to sob at the end of X2 because all the men are sad. But we are given no reason to care about her for who she is as an individual - only for her ability to make men sad.

Then after it turns out she’s alive in TLS, she goes full-on villain. No psychological complexity, no moral struggles. Just villain. Oh, no, too much power for woman!! Woman can’t possibly control a force like this!! Man must kill her - must kill the love of his life, oh, no, what a tragedy!!! There’s no hope for her; the only way is to kill her.

Then after her death, she is not framed by the narrative in memory as a great X-Man, or as a fallen hero. She is framed as the lost love of a man who she didn’t even love in return. The power that she couldn’t control caused her to kill the man she really did love - Scott - but all the remaining films frame her as no more than the source of Logan’s torment and manpain.

Even when she returns at the end of DOFP, the joy comes from Logan finally getting a second chance at resuming his rivalry with Scott over her.

I haven’t even seen Apocalypse or DP - and I don’t want to - but I already know that those films only make the exact same mistakes all over again!

I guess I should blame the comics for coming up with this BS in the first place, but the movies didn’t even try to improve upon it.

Jean Grey is the most poorly written female superhero film character I’ve ever seen.

[fortpeat]

Thoughts on EPISODE 9

In a way I am glad that this episode ended on a slightly good note I am sure there's more angst coming our way with next episode but it looks like the kind of angst that I very much like 🤭🫣

Also can I say how grateful I am that they didn't make Jak into this big villain and ended his storyline in the most pathetic weak way ! I am sure a lot of us can relate to manipulative parents so I am happy that they didn't have Jak psychologically torture Rak even more than ever just for the sake of having a better storyline. Also thank you for giving us Mahasamut kicking Jak's ass to the ground.

This just shows that all Jak is capable of is using mind tricks and scare the people in his life to give him money. The man is tall and looks strong but one punch and he's on the ground actually shows how weak he is and why he always resorted to mental manipulations scaring Rak and his family into giving him money.

I am also glad that we didnt get Rak and his family suddenly being strong enough to fight back against Jak, sure in a fictional plotwise it would have looked good but I don't think it works like that in real life. You don't suddenly get the courage to fight back against someone that tormented you just like that especially after years and years of mental torture. It would have been too unbelievable also I feel like it would have sent a message like - "if you want to fight back you can, you just choose not to" when it's never that easy especially where a parent is concerned!

Sure maybe some time later Rak would be able to face Jak and not be so scared and terrified of his mere presence but that's not today and that's okay you know. But I know that Rak will get there and that's all I need. The fact that he officially cut off Jak and told him to go to hell is more than enough coz we have seen how haunted Rak is of Jak so this itself is a big step in my opinion.

Sometimes you need a outside person to help us see that the monster that's been threatening us is nothing but weak and for Rak that was Mahasamut! And if that reduced Mahasamut into just Rak's knight in shining armor that's okay you know. Coz Mahasamut didn't just help Rak but he also saved Rak's niece and sister into realising that they hold the power. Mahasamut is the kidn of person who has lots of love to give and just wants to protect the people he care about and in his life thats Rak and everyone Rak cares about and Rak's family has officially adopted Mahasamut as well and for Mahasamut who was thrown away and didn't have anyone this is everything! Unknowingly Rak gave Mahasamut a family and even though we haven't seen much interactions we know that they all adore Mahasamut I mean how can they not !

Maybe I am biased coz this is my babies series and they have given so so much to bring this to life and I love them so very much and yes there could be somethings that can be improved especially the pacing of the show coz I am sure the next episode is gonna be jam-packed! But with how much hard work Fortpeat have give into this series and how talented they are and how much life they give to these characters I can't be disappointed coz at the end of each episode I am so happy and I am gonna be so so sad after this series is over 😭😭😭 coz this was everything and more 😭😭

[madaqueue]

conversations about love

synopsis: as a psychology researcher, your job is to understand the most complex human emotion: love

pairing: choso kamo x gn!reader

a/n: i am...not...doing....good ....anyways here's some sad fluff i wrote in 30 minutes bc i am tormented !

“what does love mean to you?”

your voice is clear as the sound echoes across the room, the question one you had grown accustomed to asking. over the past year you’ve posed it more times than you could count, now a routine part of your research work, striving to better understand the psychology of human emotion. as participant after participant entered your office you always began the interview the same, letting them take the lead on defining one of the most complex feelings the soul can experience.

your current participant, a man named choso kamo, sits across from you, his leg bouncing nervously as his shoes hit the dark green carpet of the interview room. his gaze shifts from yours down to his lap, absentmindedly picking at his nails while the question hangs in the air.

“i think,” he takes in an uneven breath, “i think love means sacrifice.”

tilting your head slightly you write his response in your notebook, hiding any reaction you may have, a skill you’ve been forced to develop as you’ve been working in this field. hearing innumerable answers to this question, choso’s evokes a pause, a novel and deeply personal confession.

“oh?” you hum, implicitly prodding for more.

your eyes are on him as he leans back into the couch, tilting his head and looking up at the ceiling, lost in thought. the sound of the overhead lights buzzing fills the space as he contemplates.

“i think love means being willing to do anything, give anything, for the people you care about,” he follows, his voice deep, soft.

another momentary silence falls between you two. “do you love anyone?”

at the question, one that is nothing more than a standard part of the interview to you, he freezes, breath catching in his throat. it was a necessary one to ask, imperative to investigate how each person views their own relationships with others, but choso nonetheless struggles to articulate a response with the weight of it. tilting his head down he finally makes eye contact with you, his dark irises deep set with tiredness.

“yes,” he states softly. “i love my brother.”

a smile tugs at the corners of your lips at the endearing sincerity. “tell me about him.”

a new steadiness enters his body, his eyes now focused on yours as a soft grin forms across his face. “his name is yuji,” he begins. “he’s a few years younger than me, and i’ve been taking care of him for a while now. he’s in highschool, and he’s gotta be the smartest kid i know.”

you can’t help but grin yourself as his adoration flows. “what do you love about him?”

his smile continues to grow, warmth encompassing his body at the opportunity to share his fondness for his brother. “he’s kind, and strong, a-and he inspires me to be better.”

“and how do you know that you love him?”

“because i would sacrifice everything for him,” he answers without a second of hesitation. glancing up from your notes you see a conviction behind his eyes, a reassurance that he completely and wholeheartedly would.

“do you think he loves you?”

again, a routine question, but something flashes across choso’s mind as he hears it - the tiniest, most hesitant, shred of doubt.

“i hope so,” he breathes truthfully.

something in you, some very human part, wants to reach out and hold him, to cradle his tenderness between your arms. instead, you offer him a smile, one he returns genuinely. you find yourself hesitating as you prepare your final question, not yet wanting your time with choso to end.

“do you think he knows that you love him?”

with a tired smile, his gaze softens. “i hope he does.”