yourusamafan-blog

[lovelesslittleloser]

Eldritch abomination coffee shop where the barista is the coffee shop

[bbokicidal]

[REUPLOAD] skz + head [giving + receiving]

warnings : oral, obviously.

notes : if they prefer receiving or giving head, how they do it, etc!! a reupload from my old blog !!

chris : prefers giving

eats that pussy like it's his last fucking meal. gently, of course. but he's 100% going to be fucking his tongue into you until you're almost crying. it'll be the most blissful thing you've ever felt - and part of you prefers his mouth to his cock just because of how much passion he puts into it. of course, sex in general is great with him. he's just the type to put his full attention into making you feel good when he's got your hips pinned against the bed and his head is stuffed between your legs.

loves it when you suck his cock. his favorite place to have you do it is the studio, because he knows if he asks nicely you'll come running to him after a long day of working and you'll sit right under the desk while he works. it eases him, relaxes him some. he still may not sleep a whole lot those nights but he's feeling a lot better by the next day - especially if you wake him up with some banger head, too. (also the type to hold the back of your head and force your nose to his pelvis a few times just to feel your throat oops.)

minho : prefers receiving

he definitely likes eating you out. he's the type to like, sit up on his knees and drag your lower half up with him though, your shoulders pushed into the bed and neck cramping. the pain mixed with the pleasure from his tongue is perfect, either way. he loves seeing you unable to squirm, dark eyes staring down at you, lidded and warm with lust as you make a mess of his mouth.

he loooooves when you give him head though. give him head? let him use your head. he'll let you start off at your own pace while he sits on the couch and scrolls on his phone, one hand keeping your hair out of your face so you're comfortable. but it always, always ends with him fucking into your mouth and throat and holding your head with both hands to keep you still. he thrives off the wet noises that come from you.

changbin : prefers receiving

will absolutely wake you up by eating you out - with your explicit consent prior, of course. he adores waking up early mornings and seeing you all curled up and squirming because of a dream about him. he loves rolling you onto your back and letting you wake up to see him under the blankets, hands splayed over the soft warmth of your sides before one trails down to let his thumb brush over your clit. he's so gentle when he eats you out - he's there to worship, baby.

will melt when you give him head. will literally pool in his studio chair when you sit on the coffee table and lean in to take him in your mouth. his head'll drop back, he'll let his hands grip at the arms of the chair. he'll refuse to touch you because he knows you'll ruin him the way you want on your own. it's gold to see, truly. his ears getting all pink. ugh. he's a sucker for your mouth.

i'm also a firm believer that binnie shoots fucking ropes, so take that as you will. (will fill your throat with cum, absolutely.)

hyunjin : prefers giving

he thinks you're like the most beautiful piece of art on earth. you're so gorgeous when you're squirming and writhing on the dressing room couch, hips perched up on the arm of the sofa while he kneels nearby and buries his face in your pussy. he's weak for you, absolutely - so desperately weak. he loves hearing your sounds for him. he loves the idea of the others hearing you from the locked dressing room - he loves the idea of someone walking in and joining. yeah, he just wants them to see how he gets you whining.

not a huge fan of receiving head just because he'd much, much rather be eating you out instead. he thinks you're too pretty to be on your knees, but when you are you can bet he will absolutely be looking down at you with his hair falling over his eyes and sticking to his face. motherfucker is gonna be dripping sweat just from the way you make him feel.

jisung : prefers giving

lazy eater. not bad, by any means - just lazy. he likes to lay between your legs while the two of you are lounging watching a movie (probably HMC.) and just casually eat you out. you won't be squirming or whining or gasping for breath - you'll just be smiling, moaning here and there and combing your hand through his hair while his tongue slips over your folds just the way you like. he'll let his thumbs massage over your clit as his hands rest on your hips, breathing heavy and big eyes focused on the television. he just likes doing it so casually, but there's always a massive wet spot on the sofa after because he'll sit there for hours just doing it and letting spit drop.

another one who doesn't really like making you get on your knees for him - but the occasional blowjob won't upset him. he likes when you have him squirming in bed, holding his thighs open so he doesn't close them on your shoulders or choke you out - not that you'd complain about dying there. he's the type to get reaaaal loud and whimpery.

felix : prefers giving

messy, messy boy. i have a feeling he's the type to spit on your pussy and then lick it up or push it into you with his tongue, and he's the type to get you to squirt. he will not stop until you're making an absolute mess of your bedsheets, but he will of course take care of it all after and make sure you're comfortable immediately. he's the type to leave bruises on your hips from his rings digging in.

likes head every so often - another one, i know i know, who doesn't prefer it but doesn't mind. he's pretty casual about it, rocking his hips into your mouth and breathing hard when you take him into your throat. he likes to cum on your face, rather than in your mouth - because again, he likes the mess, and likes the image of you with his cum just painting your pink cheeks and puffy lips.

seungmin : prefers receiving

another one who just eats that pussy like it's his last meal. he prefers you giving him head instead but he's going to make this shit good, holding you down and sucking on your clit until you're actually crying. he's a bit mean in bed, slapping your ass and maybe even spanking your pussy when you get too wiggly on the bed.

is all too casual, sort of like minho. he'll sit there and just comb your hair back, let you lay on the sofa with your feet kicking while you keep him in your mouth. you're comfortable, he's comfortable - he's also taking a few short videos to send to the groupchat so the others know why he's a little late to practice. you're his main priority and he prefers being with you anyways. but yes, he's definitely got at least 30 different videos in an album of you sucking his cock in multiple locations.

jeongin : prefers giving

mo. ther. fucker. the ONLY one out of the boys to use his fingers when he eats you out - deserves to be in the hall of fame. have you seen his hands?? (guilty, oops.) he will absolutely be pushing two fingers into your cunt while he eats you out, sucking and nibbling and licking long stripes over your slit and clit until you're whining loud. he'll only eat you out in his bedroom - because he loves rubbing it in his hyung's faces that he can make you feel this way.

will only let you give him head IF you're in the car. roadhead. he figured out he reaaaaally liked it after you offered it up once when he got his license. he absolutely said yes, and at first was a bit shaky but now he's a pro at keeping a straight face. one hand'll be holding your hair back while the other grips at the wheel tight, white-knuckled and chewing on the inside of his lip as he drives. if you ask really nicely, he'll even let you do it while seungmin is in the backseat.

Taglist :  @dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie @vanillacupcakefrosting

[obbystars]

When Mother Was Here

Synopsis: Kill him. Or let him bleed.

Notes: Sebastian Solace x GN!Reader / NO ROMANCE IN THIS ONE / Based off of Zeal’s recent post of a scrapped idea / Angst, hurt no comfort, no happy ending / Sebastian backstory spoilers / Violence / Repeated deaths / I suck at writing people fighting, sorry :( / Spot the Gabriel Ultrakill reference / Short (sigh…)

Credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

(OUGHHHHH ZEAL I WISH YOU KEPT THIS IN THE WORKS I don’t think you guys know how fast I RUSHED to make this after I saw the post)

Your orders were simple. Kill Z-13, The Saboteur. Otherwise known to you as Sebastian Solace. For once, they equipped you with a weapon but it wasn’t one that’d prove that effective. At least, not one that’d give you such an advantage against the mutant so that you wouldn’t use it against the guardsmen and other staff. You were still an EXR-P, after all. An expendable. They don’t expect you to accomplish this, but it was the EXR-P that was able to find him because he lets them find him.

You figured you’d have an advantage as he may not be expecting you, an EXR-P, to be armed. Maybe even surprise him. However, that turned out to not be the case. Of course, you weren’t the only one tasked with this. Urbanshade needs him to die.

He had killed you just as quickly as the others, but you surprised him the moment he turned his back to you. He heard faint shuffling and the sound of bones cracking behind him and turned back around. Suddenly, you were standing again as if he didn’t just crush your skull into the ground. The blood was there. The cracks on the floor were there. The blood dripping down your head and onto your prisoner uniform was there.

He stares at you in complete shock for a moment, then he lets out a growl.

“I don’t care how many time you come back,” he stands up straight, “I will break you again and again, paint the walls red with buckets of your own blood! I will rip you limb from limb until even the other expendables start to cry for mercy!! I will ENJOY tearing you apart no matter how many times I have to!!”

Sebastian continues to kill you and you continue to get back up on your feet not a moment too soon. You were practically drenched in your own blood, so were the floors and walls with how gruesome some of your deaths had gotten.

You know he’s getting slower and desperate as you kept coming back and continued to manage a hit. He was running out of ammo for his shotgun and his own blood was starting to spill onto the floor. You soon spot a dead guardsman that still had his gun. It was likely it was still loaded. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to, but do or die over and over and over again. It wasn’t like they told you that you couldn’t do it, but as long as it meant the target is killed, then they shouldn’t stop you.

The gun was loaded. If you die now, he’ll take it off of your cold hands. Maybe even break it so you can’t use it. While you could finish the job without it, it’s always better to have something more sufficient for the job.

At one instance, he had managed to grab you but managed to hit him in the head with the weapon Urbanshade had provided to you. You narrowly missed your kill-shot, however, and only hit his shoulder. Still, it was a hit.

The fight’s gotten to the point Sebastian was trying to find a way to get away from you. It didn’t matter how, he just needed to escape and get somewhere safe. His recent failed attempt had you managing to aim your shot to hit his arm. You persisted and aimed your gun as he was making a break for it again.

Click.

Your eyes widened. Of course…

Seeing as you had run out of ammo, Sebastian took this chance to run. You returned to the guardsman still lying right where you found him and reloaded the gun. You looked to where Sebastian had fled to and break into a run. The trail of blood was enough to help you track him down.

You feel exhausted as you continue down the dark hallways. You were practically limping, almost literally dragging yourself to try and catch up to Sebastian. You eventually stumble upon a dimly lit room. You recognized this room. The trail leads into the vent. Yes, you know this room.

As you emerged through the other side, you hear someone sobbing. You spot him in the corner, and the sight made you freeze. You don’t know why you froze, or why you lowered the gun.

“M..mom…?” You watch as he reaches out with a trembling hand. To you? It seems like it, but it’s not you he’s seeing, “Are… Are you there..?”

The grip on your gun begins to falter. Your hands begin to shake as you listen to his cries for a mother who wasn’t here. Begging for her to come back. Maybe you’ve forgotten who exactly you were standing in front of. You’ve read his document. Judging by the years listed of when everything happened, you don’t think you’d be surprised if he was still with his family. His mother.

Someone who was accused and sentenced to death for murder, a murder he was not guilty of. It was only because of the official statement made of his execution that this information was not relayed to him or to his family. His family does not know he’s alive, nor do they know he’s not guilty. All they know is that their son was a murderer.

Why can’t you do it? Put him out of his misery. It should be easy. It’s mercy. End his suffering. They’ll kill you if you don’t do it. He’ll kill you again if you don’t do it. If not you, someone else.

You can’t move.

[recareels]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

��I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck—to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[yawnderu]

Thin Walls — Keegan P. Russ x Reader

Dbf!Keegan collab with the amazing @moosch MWAH

Check out her amazing drawing on this<3

There were rare times Keegan felt like he may have chosen the wrong job. Right now? Covered in dirt and grime, seeking shelter in an abandoned building with the rest of the ghosts after a particularly hard mission was one of those moments. What was supposed to be a three hour mission went downhill and turned into four long days of chasing down an enemy for intel.

The first thing he did as soon as the building was cleared was to fish for his phone, reading the thread of messages he had from you; ranging from telling him about your day, to complaining about missing him and how he owes you a shopping spree for going dark. He rolled his eyes, a deep chuckle rumbling out of his chest and escaping his lips. A new text caught his attention, scrolling down to read it.

Brat: [16:38]

I see you online, can we ft? Papa wants to see u :)

He stares at your message for a few seconds, considering his chances. Keegan looks like shit— eye black smudged messily all over his face, uniform dirty and muddy, a streak of dried up blood dripping down his forehead, and icy blue eyes so tired you would think he died and was never informed. He didn't want you or your father; his best friend, to see him at his worst.

Glucose Father: [16:40]

Sorry princess, signs too shitty for that. Send me some pics of that bratty face and maybe I'll take you shopping when I'm back?

He internally cringed at the text, rarely even using his phone unless it was to text your father and you. His fingers tap on the sides of his phone as he waited for a reply, putting the idle chatter of the ghosts in the back of his mind as he went to another room with the excuse of being able to get some sleep once and for all.

For a second, he ignored the phone vibrating in his hand, leaning against the wall and sitting down with a groan, sore muscles finally able to rest, even if only for a few hours.

Brat [16:43]

Sent 6 attachments.

His tired eyes drifted down to his phone, opening the message and being received by the sight of you, a smile adorning your pretty face. His gaze softened and his pants tightened as he noticed you wearing one of his shirts, fitting into it so much better than he could. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, listening to the chatter on the other side of the thin wall before his free hand drifted down to his growing bulge, holding back a groan as he palmed his sensitive cock over his pants.

"Fuck..." He whispered, hesitantly lowering his fly enough to pull his dick out, gloveless hand feeling the length of it before he started stroking slowly, moving his hand up and down while he looked at your pictures. They were completely innocent pictures, really, simply showing your pretty face and bright smile, yet he couldn't help it.

He was trying his best to be quiet despite how good jerking off felt after so much stress. His head was tilted back against the wall, eyes screwed shut as his mind came up with the filthiest fucking images, thinking of your lips wrapped around his cock, struggling to take him as he fucked your face. He could just imagine the noises that would come out of you as his thick dick was shoved all the way down your throat, a deep growl coming out of his lips as his rough fingers massaged his tip, spreading the leaking precum and using it as lube to jerk off better.

He swapped to another photo of you smiling brightly at the camera, holding up a piece sign. What a fucking sight for sore eyes. He imagined your pretty face glazed in his thick white cum, tongue tainted by his seed. His hand involuntary moved faster and harder up and down his cock, applying more pressure with each stroke until he had to bite his lip to stop himself from making too much noise, aware enough of the thin walls.

He couldn't wait to go back home to you, making you cuddle up to him and holding you like a lifeline, the plush of your ass pressing up against his cock as you allowed him to grope you, his hands grasping at as much as he could grab while his hard clothed cock rubbed against your ass. You're killing me, brat.

A deep, low moan came out of his lips his cock twitched in his hand, balls tightening up as ropes of thick, white cum shot out, covering his hand. He squeezed his cock a little bit tighter, making sure all his cum was out, taking another look at your pretty face in the selfies before he began cleaning up.

Evidence hidden and with his cock back in his pants he stepped back into the room with the other ghosts, instantly met with the amused faces of Ajax and Kick, clearly holding in their laughter.

"Had some fun, bro?" Ajax asked, not even able to hold in his laugh anymore, Kick following right after.

"Yeah, yeah." Keegan grumbled, rolling his eyes as he sat down and pulled out his flask.

"Next time I'll do it in the same room as you motherfuckers." Logan's frown deepened.

[little-diable]

The Chase – Draco Malfoy (smut)

Since y'all seem to enjoy my Draco fics that have some rougher smut in them, I couldn't stop myself from writing this. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Draco has been feeling frustrated for days, something that finally changes as he tells his wife that he's ready to hunt her down and remind her who she belongs to. Basically pwp

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, rough smut, tied wrists, dom!Draco, hide/seek, oral (f), some degrading

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x fem!wife!reader (1.8k words)

Her eyes were focused on her phone, while her heart was racing in her chest, pounding with a strong beat that whispered to her, urging (y/n) on to prepare for what her husband had just texted her. Draco had been in some kind of mood for the past days, a rather snappish mood she hadn’t enjoyed being around, deciding to keep her distance while he worked through whatever he had struggles with at work. But the text she was now rereading for the tenth time told her that all the pent-up frustration would be left in the past after tonight. 

“You may run and hide from me, but tonight, I’ll catch you. xxx” 

Draco and her had done this a while back for the first time, letting him hunt her down before using her like a vessel for his frustration and anger, littering her body with marks she’d trace in the midnight hour with a proud smirk. She loved the chase, the thrill shooting through her body while her adrenaline spiked. 

(Y/n) knew that Draco would find her in no time, very well knowing that neither of them could go long without touching their significant other, especially when both were urged on by their frustration, their need and hunger for one another. She could already feel him buried deep inside of her, letting her walls clench around nothing at the mere thought of being fucked by her husband. 

Perhaps he’d use their blindfold, perhaps he’d tie her to the bed, while fucking her from behind, whatever it was he was about to do to her, (y/n) would take it all with a satisfied grin, ready to offer every inch of trembling body to her husband like a sacrifice. 

Tonight she’d let him play, tonight she’d let him win their chase – very well knowing that whatever he’d do to her would be her greatest win after all.

……

“Honey, I’m home!” Draco’s voice echoed through their house, ringing in her ears as she hid beneath their bed. It wasn’t a creative hiding spot, and yet it was the perfect place for them, knowing he’d find (y/n) in no time, to fuck her rough like she knew he would.

The sound of his feet meeting the wooden ground made her breath hitch in her chest, while picturing the suit perfectly clinging to his frame, with the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and how he was wearing his blonde hair slightly gelled back – a sight that would make her fawn over her handsome husband. 

“Where are you hiding, pretty girl?” She heard Draco step into the room next door, opening their dresser, and closing it again after a few more seconds. (Y/n) counted the passing by seconds, letting the numbers echo through her mind while Draco kept taking his time, stepping into their bathroom for a few seconds. 

“I can’t wait to fuck your tight cunt, while you scream my name, it’s the only thing I could think of today.” Draco’s voice dripped with something dark, something that drew a soft moan from her while she stayed hidden. His feet came into view as he entered the bedroom and closed the door behind himself, seemingly all too aware that she was hiding close by. 

“Fuck, honey, I will make you tremble, make you forget your name while you take my cock like you were made to do.” Without another warning he crouched down to reach for her, pulling (y/n) from her hiding spot with a satisfied grin. She barely got any time to understand what her husband was doing as he picked her up and threw her down on the bed. 

(Y/n)’s gasps echoed through the bedroom as she stared up at Draco, focusing on the smirk he wore, paired with that dark gaze that pushed heat straight to her pulsing bundle. Draco settled between her naked legs, only wearing a shirt of his and her already damp panties, to reach down and kiss her breathless. 

It had been days since he had touched her, let alone kissed her like this, a teeth clashing kiss that made their hearts race and their limbs tingle. Her fingers found their way to his blonde hair to tug on his roots, trying to pull her husband even closer while he shifted his weight onto his right hand as his other hand reached for their bedside table. 

“Give me your hands, pretty girl.” He murmured the words against her already swollen lips. (Y/n) wanted to protest, wanted to beg him not to tie her to her bed, but the warning gaze he shot her left her breathless, unable to speak a single word. Draco gently took her wrists to tie them to the cold metallic frame of their bed with the dark green rope he enjoyed using on her. “Such a pretty sight, but I think we’ll have to get rid of that shirt, I want to see all of you.”

“Draco,” the warning tone dripping from her voice left Draco chuckling as he reached for the small knife they used whenever they were high on the thrill, staring at one another while he’d trace her skin with the knife. All (y/n) could do was tug on the rope as he sliced the fabric of his shirt apart, exposing her naked upper body to his twinkling eyes.

“Fuck, look at you, baby.” His head dipped down to press a kiss to the valley between her breasts before his hand dropped the knife to cup her right one. She was a moaning mess, choking on her sounds while he pressed his middle against hers, letting (y/n) feel his hardening cock. 

“Fuck me, Draco, please, it’s been so long.” He spared her words no attention while he sucked on her hardening nubs, drawing gritty sounds from (y/n) – sounds that made his cock twitch in his suit trousers. Draco gave himself a few more moments to suck marks into her skin before he finally let his hands find her panties to move them down her legs.

The two held eye contact as he rose to his feet, while staring down at her to slowly undress himself. Draco was teasing her, enjoying the desperation tugging on (y/n)’s features while she watched him, unable to touch her husband. His shirt was dropped to the floor as his hands began to work on his belt and finally on his trousers and underwear to expose his hard cock to her wandering eyes. 

Precum was glistening on his tip as Draco slowly stroked himself, giving (y/n) a show as she could only tug on the rope and try to shuffle closer to him. She was impatient, burning from inside out, all because he made her feel this whirlwind of emotions, high on whatever he’d offer his wife. 

“Spread your legs for me, baby, show me how much you need me.” Her body blindly followed the command. She spread her legs for his bright eyes, letting him take in the sight of her arousal-covered folds, of her pulsing bundle, and the beautiful skin he’d kiss any moment now. Draco moved slowly, calculated as if he had thought of this strategy for hours on end, trying to figure out the best way to make her tremble in need. 

Their eyes kept searching on another, Draco settled back between her legs to let his tongue brush through her slit, moaning at the taste of her arousal. Both knew they wouldn’t be able to drag this out for much longer, needing to feel one another in the most intimate way imaginable. His tongue moved fast, brushing over her clit to draw a loud moan from (y/n) while she arched her back off the mattress. 

“Oh god, ‘missed you so much.” (Y/n) mumbled her words, confessions that left Draco smiling against her naked cunt. His bright eyes intently studied her, while he pushed two fingers into her tightness, spreading her walls to prepare her for his twitching cock. He allowed himself to fuck her for a moment or two before finally pulling away from her, set on pushing her over the edge with his aching cock buried deep inside of her. 

“You’ll take my cock like the good girl you are, and then I may allow you to touch me.” His words echoed through her mind, a small distraction for a second or two as Draco aligned himself with her heat, only to push into her as she nodded her head. Both moaned in unison at the familiar sensation, already high on the feeling of her tight walls clenching his cock, begging him to fuck her into oblivion. 

The rope burned into (y/n)’s skin as she kept tugging on it, praying to whoever was listening that she’d be able to feel him soon enough. Draco fucked her without holding back, letting his body meet hers with every ferocious thrust that left both moaning, choking on the sweetest sounds clawing through them. 

“Fuck, I love you, my perfect girl.” Draco’s words dripped with arousal, with a hunger that made the inferno burning deep inside of her grow, threatening to leave marks with its heat – marks that may never fade again. Her walls fluttered around his cock as his thumb found her clit, offering the extra stimulation she desperately needed.  

“Let me touch you, please.” (Y/n) whispered her words with wide eyes and parted lips, hoping that her husband would finally give in. It took Draco a few more thrusts before he followed the call and tugged on the rope, letting it drop to the mattress while her hands instantly found his face, pulling him in for a kiss. 

Their tongues fought for victory while Draco fucked her closer to the edge, making her see stars whenever he met her swollen spot. Her hands found their way down his neck to his shoulders, letting her fingernails scratch his skin to draw groans from him, and finally letting them claw into his skin to draw some blood. 

“Cum for me, baby, clench my cock while you scream my name.” He marvelled at (y/n) as she came, letting her head roll back to expose her throat to his wandering lips. Draco left his marks on her throat as he fucked her through her high, only following her down the edge as she panted his name again, like a prayer leaving her soft lips. 

“Don’t ever go that long without touching me, do you hear me?” (Y/n) whispered her words as he rested on her chest, letting them both of them relax as the sweet sensation clung to them, reminding them of one another’s love. 

“I promise, even though this was fucking worth it.”

[sebastainstansupremacy]

Before he Cheats

'Before he Cheats' inspired by Before he Cheats by Carrie Underwood

Pairing - Toxic!Rafe x Toxic!Reader

Warnings - 18+, mentions of; drug use, alcohol use, abusive behaviour, toxic relationship, sex, degrading?

Word Count - 1455

Note - I write so many fics and never post them so decided to share one. Couldn't resist my first short one being a toxic Rafe one because of course he's an angry, jealous and psychotic boy. But so are you!?

No one thought anyone could match Rafe's quite literally bat-shit-crazy attitude, but you could. The two of you were the epitome of toxic love. A constant cycle of screaming arguments; things being thrown from one to another, both verbally and physically; cheating on one another in a hopes to make the other jealous, which always worked; the endless debate of whether you were a couple or not; and in those very few moments you both saw sense which ended in extremely hot, steamy, rough make up sex. 

The thing was neither of you could be apart, you would never find another lover. It was easy enough to find a quick fuck, someone to make the other envious, but there wasn't a person in the entirety of Outer Banks that would be willing to see past your psychotic behaviours, or your ex's. You may be the hottest little thing in Figure 8 with all puffy, pouty lips and dark siren eyes, but the risk of their life if they came within an inch of Rafe was not worth it.

And so, here you were again - seething. You saw red, nothing but rage coursing through your veins, staring at him from across the bar not taking a single interest in the cute guy trying to converse with you, tempting as it was. Instead watching your current 'ex' or 'boyfriend', after the argument you two had the night prior which left your voice horse and his face still lingering with a slightly pink stain of your hand print on his cheek, flirting with some bleach blonde bitch wearing a skimpy little top which did nothing for her small tits. 

You felt bad for the girl, sure she'd get a quickie out of him; he'd take her to the bathroom, not before purchasing a greasy condom that that had probably been in the machine longer than he'd been on earth, give her a half arsed fuck leaving her unsatisfied but most certainly wanting more from him. Which he could never give her. 

Your eyes squinting so violently at her, you might have actually broken the glass of cheap cocktail she was trying to seductively sip on. Rafe on the other hand was doing a very good job at pretending you didn't exist, probably the combination of whiskey and coke making him disoriented. It'd be a miracle if he could even hear anything the bleach blonde was saying to him but he could definitely feel her hands, the ones covered in chipped white nail polish, getting a little too frisky for your liking. 

Though the second you felt a pair of large hands getting a little too frisky on your own waist, a small smirk appeared on your face. Two can play at that game, Cameron. It didn't take long for your tongue to be slipped down the throat of the handsome guy, who name you hadn't asked for or hadn't heard when he had been attempting to chat you up. He'd whispered something about pining you down in the back of his car and giving you a ride. 

Your cunt already dripping wet, not at the thought of getting fucked by this hot guy (that was a bonus) but at the sight of Rafe all red faced with those veins on his forehead slightly bulging due to the fact that he was furious that you were being satisfied by another man. Slipping effortlessly from the stool you had been sat at, the alcohol you had been consuming, a little too quickly, washing over your being and giving you that last bit of confidence to really piss Rafe off. 

Hands pulling you towards the exit of the dimly lit bar, your head turning once more to look at Rafe, whose interest had finally peaked, his eyes glaring over at you in disgust. You flash him a petty smile before leaving, door slamming behind you. That was his cue to take little miss desperate to the bathroom and fuck his anger away. 

Led there in the back of this random guys car, seemingly unsatisfied. It was over before it began, pretty boy all putty in your hands, or pussy. Cum dripping down your thigh as you sat up to pull your lacy red thong up, the one Rafe loved so much. You were kinda hoping it'd been his seed filling you up. 

"We should do this again sometime", he whispered in your ear, a little too close for comfort now you had what you wanted from him. You didn't respond, just a small 'hmm' escaping your wet lips. His phone shoved into your hands, clearly wanting your number. He wasn't getting it. And so you typed your name into the contacts app followed by a phone number, it wasn't yours. It was Rafe's. 

You knew that would stir up a storm but you didn't care, you found it hilarious. The thought of Rafe receiving a text from some random number asking if he wanted to come over and fuck. The reaction would be priceless. For about 2 seconds, before he was all up in your face shouting and screaming, smashing his phone against the floor in a hissy. 

And with that, you slid out of the door of this random guys car, blowing him a kiss and winking. "Text me sometime" you joked, you loved watching these desperate men fall at your feet, it was too easy. Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable at the post sex sticky feeling between your legs, you decided it was best you left, went back home and slept away your drunken state. 

As tempting as it was to stride back into the bar, drag that little bitch off your man and demand he give you a real fuck so you didn't have find it else where; a rare rational thought crossed your mind that making a scene was not the best coping mechanism. You could deal with it another day, when you were sober. 

But you loved to make a scene, get Rafe all riled up. Only because you know he'd fuck that bratty attitude out of you, even if it was only until you rode out your high then you'd be back to your usual spiteful self. And when your eyes landed on his shiny Range Rover sat all pretty and pristine, an evil smirk crossed your face.

It wasn't like you were doing something so unforgivable, he'd done the same to your car a couple months prior. Slashed your tires so you couldn't leave in the mist of an argument, shouting something about 'facing the consequences of your actions'. Days later you had 4 fresh new tires, curtsy of his truly. 

And if he hadn't replaced them your dad would have anyway. It was no secret that just like Rafe you were a spoilt little brat, receiving anything and everything from your wealthy parents. Their only child, meant you were a pamper princess, they didn't help feeding into your delusions. They were wrapped around your fingers.  

You were doing he a favour really, he shouldn't drive in his state even though he usually would. So you took the pocket knife which was tucked away in your purse, a gift from Rafe that was 'for your own safety', ironic really using it to slide a long, deep scratch into the side of the black car. Slashing a hole in all four of his tires. Contemplating smashing the glass or the headlights, but that could wait till a later date. Maybe you'd use his own golf clubs to do that.

You left the pocket knife neatly sat on the hood of the car, just to make it extremely clear it was you who had ruined his prized possession. Not that anyone else would dare do such a thing to Rafe Cameron, but you would because it didn't matter what you did he'd always come crawling back to and vice versa.

One last look at the mess you'd caused before swiftly leaving the scene of the crime. Ruining him always left you with adrenaline coursing through your blood, maybe it was the feeling of excitement and anticipation you felt wondering what would happen next. How he'd react. More times than non it was anger.

By the time you had showered off the regret of hooking up with another random stranger and led down on your bed, the room still slightly spinning, your phone which you had thrown onto the floor earlier, flickering on 1% had hundreds of missed and texts from Rafe. You didn't bother to call him back just shooting him a quick text watching the blue bar slowly deliver the message before the battery gave in and the entire screen went black.

You; maybe next time you'll think before you cheat :/

[yandere-kokeshi]

— Who hurt you?

— yandere dad-ghost x gn teenager reader

Summary || You come home bloodied and bruised from school. While getting patched up by your dad, you reveal things

A/N || This is one of my favorite fics atm. Idk why but seeing soft dad ghost?? Yeah. That's how to do, my heart is. Anyway, enjoy 😉

Warnings || details of being hurt/bullied, blood, hints that ghost kills, and comfort.

Copper and sharpie. That’s all you can smell. The stench has embossed itself on your clothes, your flesh, and inside your nostrils. It was embarrassing really, coming home after being chased by bullies. 

They slapped you to the ground. Laughed in your face as the girls kept you from getting up, sitting directly on your chest. They pulled out permanent markers and drew foul things on your face, arms, and legs. 

Knead your stomach and kicked you. All you wanted was to hang out with them.

Silence settles between the bathroom, hearing your dad — Simon Riley, Ghost or a big Kodiak bear you like to call him, go through his bedroom, the sounds of his drawers opening and closing as he huffs loudly.

You heard the cruel rumors of your reputation. It was a gnawing sort of feeling of betrayal. One that ate away at your very soul and left nothing but pain in its wake. The action alone may not be the worst thing in the entire world. But what made betrayal ache was that in the past, in its place, was trust.

The rumors of you spread like a disease; whispers in the school of ‘slut’ and ‘freak’. Everyone looked at you like something else. Even teachers scoffed at you. You thought you could handle it, until today. It’s expected for your favorite shirt to be stained — again. 

You didn’t want to hear your dads voice. Him being incredibly disappointed in you. 

You leaned your head on the back of the toilet, chewing the inside of your cheek as you waited for him to come in. It was long, just like the torture you’d endured hours before. 

“What happened?” 

You stayed quiet, continuing to look up at the white ceiling before turning your head to the side, looking at him in the doorway with half-lidded eyes. He’s leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed against his chest; almost like he’s disappointed. But his voice says otherwise. 

“Kiddo, what happened?” he re-asks, his boots creaking with the shift in weight distribution, floorboards straining as he walks across the space toward you. 

You stayed quiet, making him stare at you before sighing. 

He opened the bottom of the sink, grabbed the med kit and seized the necessary items before turning on the faucet, grabbing another dark rag due to the one you’re holding already used; stained with markers, blood, and some snot.  

Your dad clicked his tongue, “What the hell happened?”

“M’ don’t wanna talk about it,” 

“You worried me,” your dad voiced, using your name. You considered his words carefully, staring at your lap, legs, and arms littered with all kinds of marks. 

“You also worry too much,” you pointed out, watching him kneel before you. 

He steals your words from your mouth when his huge hand settles around the bloodied rag in your palm. He doesn’t speak; at first, silence hangs between you, once again as throws it away; grabbing the cloth into the sink. Then, he soaks it until it’s dripping, droplets pinging off the surface, and wrings it out. His dorsal muscles ripple beneath the backs of his palm, veins a ballpoint color and standing out against his pale skin.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he directs, carefully holding the damp fabric and slowly reaching for your face. “I thought something happened. Which did.”

You stayed quiet for a second. “… I didn’t mean to scare you,” you whisper. 

You can see his brown eyes narrow, his mind occupied by something. Clearly, he’s angry. And who wouldn’t? Finding your kid barely able to stand up, laying against the wall for help covered in bruises and blood, was a frightening sight. Especially with his type of job, anything is possible. 

The pressure of the cloth against your face is so delicate, almost like he’s appearing afraid to hurt you — gently brushing away the flecks of blood in your hairline as well as the drawings. He shakes his head gently, considering your words. “Not your fault, kiddo.”

He then grabbed your arm, rotating your wrist as he examined the bruises and forming – you watched his face fill with fury.

“Who did this to you?” he seethed, voice deep and low, a tone you’d heard not so much before. 

You shook your head, clearly not in the mood to talk about it. But it didn’t satisfy him, he called your name, demanding you to look at him. Tears were already falling before more words curled out of his mouth.

At long last, finally with the adrenaline and frightened state going away, you let your guard down, letting tears pour down your eyes. It stung, face hurting more than you’d like. But you didn’t care. You needed to cry.

Your hands went up to wipe away the tears, but before you can hit your sore cheeks, he’s capturing you in his arms and pulling you to his chest. He doesn’t say anything, letting your head rest on his shoulder. All you required at this moment was to be held, to know you were loved. And that he wasn’t mad — never at you. 

He rubbed your back, kissing the side of your head as you cried out more — sobbing turned into occasional hiccups and gasps, then sniffles and permanent hiccups that he would occasionally let out a chuckle on. 

“Ready to talk about it, kid?” He asks cautiously, prodding but patient. You only sigh softly before looking up at him, quickly noticing the snot and tears stained into his gray hoodie. 

“It’s just…” you pause, trying to find the right words to say. “Things have been rough, lately. School has been hard. Everything seems to be going wrong. Especially with the other kids.”

His eyes squint as he listens to you speak, the hazel color meeting your own, leaving you choking in your words. He’s your dad. You shouldn’t be afraid of telling him. But what if—?

“—And I know that being a teenager is hard. But, I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to see them.” you trail off, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as you feel your eyes swell up once more.

His thumb catches them before they fall, however, and you smile at him for a moment before continuing.

“I’m scared to go back,” you whisper brokenly. 

For a moment, the bathroom is silent, but all at once your dad’s arms are tightly around you in a hug. All-encompassing, it only makes you cry once more. Your head slumps over, forehead pressing into his shoulder – his hand pressing against the back of your neck.

“How long has it been happening?” 

You shrug your shoulders, digging yourself deeper into his shoulder. “Long enough, I guess…”

“Kiddo…” he starts, sighing out of defeat. “Shit- I’m sorry for not noticing. Le’s keep you home, mkay’?” 

“Okay,” you whisper, but that’s good enough for him. His hands started rubbing your back, before reaching over for the rag on the counter — continuing to clean up the stained marks and your irritated cheeks.

“Do you need me to do anything?” he says, his tone hardened. From the looks of it, he had a plan. But, you knew or not. His face was unreadable at times. 

You shook your head, before hissing out at the soaped cloth on your cheek. He gently moved your hair out of the way, just enough to expose the wound near your eye. 

“Sorry. Need to make sure it won’t get infected.” 

Before you know it, he was done. Already putting the first aid kit back under the sink and throwing the used cloth into the wash. “Tell ya’ what,” he says, making you raise your eyebrows. Though, he pulled his cracked-screen phone from his pocket, the exact one he’s had for years and the one you’ve begged to get a new one. 

He offers it to you, already on the phone on. More often or not, he didn’t let you snoop through it. Licensed files detailed in the phone. Plus, the last time you played a prank on him with it, he grounded you — for two weeks. 

“W-hat do you want me to… do?” you stammered questioningly, hesitantly grabbing it before looking at the screen. Then back at him.

“Order pizza. Get whatever you want.”

Your eyes widened, a smile widening to which he chuckled at. “There you are,” he says fondly, hand brushing your hair back. “You get whatever, yeah?”

“Okay,” you say, the first true smile forming today.

You got up, eagerly running out of the bathroom and downstairs as Simon yelled a small ‘watch it!’. As he gets up from his knees, he walked into his office – making sure to hear that you’re calling the pickup line before ringing Price.

He immediately answered, asking what he needed. From the way you described their name-calling, the images of you sobbing as he held you, anger filled his veins, knuckles turning white as he clenched his fist with rage. 

“I need a favor.” 

And weeks later, the news began talking about a murder spree – snapping you out of your thoughts, only to see both of your ex-friends, and those teachers on TV. A pang of guilt set through you. But, beside you, your dad had a huge smile; one that was promising to never let anyone hurt you.

—

Masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

© yandere-kokeshi 2023 — Do not copy, modify, edit, repost, or use my works for ASMR readings, tiktoks, or other content.

[brunchable]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐲 | Vampire!Bucky × F!reader × Vampire!Steve.

Pairings: VAMPIRE Bucky Barnes x f!reader X VAMPIRE Steve Rogers Themes: Allure and Danger, Mind-control, Seduction, Powerlessness. Content Warning: This story containes themes of horror, suspense and supernatural elements that may be unsettling for some readers. It includes depictions of blood, violence, predatory behavior, and dark themes of power dynamics. Do not read if you are uncomfortable with themes like this. Summary: Your great-aunt left you an inheritance, but it wasn't just an old castle—it was a dark legacy. As she explores its eerie halls, Y/N unknowingly awakens something ancient and deadly, turning her from an unsuspecting heir into the next castle's victim. A/N: OooOooOOoo Advance happy hallooween. . . If you really want to get in the mood, look up vampire music povs on youtube. they are chef's kiss.

The castle loomed before Y/N like a dark, brooding sentinel against the storm-ridden sky. Its towering spires disappeared into the thick fog that clung to the surrounding mountains, and the jagged stones of its walls seemed to be weeping from centuries of decay. She shivered as she pushed open the iron-wrought gates, the hinges groaning like some tormented beast. The wind picked up, sending leaves spiraling around her, and she clutched her coat tighter, pressing forward with her mind set on a singular goal: This place needs to turn a profit.

What had her great-aunt seen in this wretched estate to leave it to her? The thought weighed on Y/N as she ascended the stone steps, each footfall echoing ominously in the stillness. The wooden doors creaked open under her hand, revealing a grand foyer lined with cracked marble and dust-coated chandeliers that dripped cobwebs like ghostly lace.

The last time she’d set foot in this place, she’d been just a child—five years old and clutching her mother’s hand tightly, staring wide-eyed at the looming shadows and the way the old portraits seemed to watch her. She could still remember the way the cold air had nipped at her skin, how everything had felt too big and dark, swallowing her small frame whole. Now, returning as an adult, it felt no less daunting—just as haunted and hollow as her childhood memories.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside. The air was musty, stale, and laced with something metallic that lingered on her tongue. Still, Y/N’s resolve didn’t falter.

“I’m not going to be scared off by a spooky old castle,” she muttered to herself, voice too loud in the silence.

Her footsteps seemed to disturb the quiet, sending whispers of sound skittering through the corridors. With every room she entered, every piece of dusty furniture she uncovered, Y/N’s confidence grew. She could see the potential—a little restoration, a few modern amenities, and Castle Roghnan would become the most unique boutique hotel in the region.

The ground floor was fairly straightforward. She made notes on what needed fixing, where to add touches of elegance, and what to keep authentic. At some point during her exploration, she’d set her bags down in the dining hall, thinking she’d return there once she’d finished her tour of the castle. The dining hall itself had been just as eerie as the rest of the place—long, dusty tables, cobwebbed chandeliers, and a massive fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been lit in a century.

But what really stood out were the portraits that lined the walls, watching her with eyes that seemed to follow her every move.

They were old, their colors faded with age, but they were still striking—two men, both with unnervingly pale skin and eyes that seemed to burn with an intensity that sent shivers racing down her spine. One of them wore a black coat, his expression stern, almost cruel, his dark hair falling over his forehead in an unruly wave. The other, dressed in a dark brown suit, had a more refined look, his beard neatly trimmed and his gaze piercing through her like he knew every secret she’d ever kept.

These portraits had haunted her as a child, filling her nightmares with faceless, shadowy figures that chased her through endless corridors. She used to wake up sobbing, convinced their eyes were following her even after she’d left the room. Now, staring at them again, it was as if the memories resurfaced with a vengeance—the same chilling sensation that made her want to look away and run, just as she had all those years ago.

She hadn’t lingered long in front of the portraits, the oppressive weight of their gazes making her uneasy. But something about them nagged at the back of her mind as she continued through the castle, their faces etched into her memory.

The ground floor completed, it wasn’t until she reached the narrow, spiral staircase at the back of the castle—hidden behind a tapestry of snarling wolves—that she hesitated. The door at the bottom of the stairs seemed out of place—heavy, iron-bound, and covered in strange symbols she didn’t recognize.

Y/N bit her lip, holding her flashlight tightly. Just a quick look. It’s probably just storage or a wine cellar. She descended cautiously, the staircase spiraling down into what felt like an abyss. The temperature dropped with each step, the air growing damper, thicker. The door groaned as she pushed it open, the sound echoing down the long, dark hallway that stretched out before her.

She hadn’t seen anything yet that couldn’t be explained away as an overactive imagination or a castle abandoned for too long. But as she stepped into the basement, something shifted—a change in the air, a heaviness that settled over her like a cloak.

Her flashlight swept across the room—stone walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and artifacts. 

The cavernous basement seemed to pulse with a life of its own, the darkness growing thicker the deeper Y/N ventured. She could almost hear the castle breathe around her, its heavy silence shifting and settling like some ancient beast awakening from a deep slumber. With each step, her flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the stone walls.

At the far end, nestled against the wall, were three grand coffins, their surfaces adorned with intricate carvings and symbols.

Y/N’s heart pounded. What in God’s name were coffins doing down here?

She stepped closer, unable to tear her gaze away. The coffins looked… regal, almost. Like the final resting places of kings or warriors. But why were they here?

Each one was massive, carved from cold, unyielding marble that gleamed under the beam of her light. Veins of black and gray ran through the stone like blood vessels, and the lids were inlaid with symbols that twisted and curled like thorny vines. They were too pristine to be empty—an ominous, silent promise of what lay within.

Y/N’s hand shook as she approached the first coffin. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath. It’s probably just a container? There’s no such thing as monsters. But even as she thought it, her pulse hammered in her ears, and every instinct screamed at her to run. Ignoring the warning bells ringing in her mind, she squared her shoulders and reached out, fingertips grazing the frigid marble.

The lid resisted at first, but then, with a heavy groan that echoed through the chamber, it shifted. Y/N pushed harder, the weight of it making her muscles strain. With a grunt, she pushed against it, the lid sliding open with a heavy thunk, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air. She coughed, the sound reverberating in the suffocating silence as the flashlight beam swept over the coffin’s interior.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Inside lay a man—perfectly preserved, as if he’d only just fallen asleep. His skin was as pale as moonlight, his features sharp and aristocratic. Dark lashes rested against high cheekbones, his lips—redder than they had any right to be—were parted slightly, giving him an ethereal, almost haunting beauty. If not for the unnatural stillness of his chest, she might have thought him alive.

A choked scream tore from Y/N’s lips. The sound bounced off the walls, mocking her fear. She stumbled backward, the flashlight slipping from her hand and clattering to the ground, the beam jerking and casting wild shadows that seemed to twist and writhe in the corners of the room.

She landed hard on her backside, breath coming in rapid gasps. Her eyes never left the coffin, the terror flooding her senses. But he didn’t move. Not a twitch, not a flicker of life. Just… a corpse.

“Holy—” she gasped, heart pounding like a drum in her ears. She scrambled back, pushing herself away from the coffin until her spine hit something solid.

The other coffin.

The carved marble felt colder against her back, sending a shiver through her bones. Y/N twisted around, panic seizing her chest as she caught sight of the ornate symbols etched into this second coffin’s surface. She could barely think, barely breathe, but she found herself moving, fingers searching for purchase along the coffin’s lid as if compelled by something beyond her control.

Just get out, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, but her hands moved of their own accord. Dust cascaded down in a soft cloud as she pushed the second lid, her fingers trembling with the effort. It was heavier than the first, resisting as if the very air around it thickened to keep her from opening it.

With a final, desperate shove, the lid shifted, scraping against the stone floor.

Y/N didn’t notice the way the first figure shot up from his slumber, his eyes snapping open with a flash of red glow. She was too focused on the second coffin, too wrapped up in the horror and curiosity twisting inside her like a living thing.

She leaned over the marble edge, heart hammering, and stared down into the face of another man. He was similar to the first in his unsettling beauty, but his features were sharper, more feral. His hair, dark as midnight, framed a face that could have belonged to a fallen angel. The moment she saw him, a wave of terror and fascination washed over her, locking her in place.

The silence was deafening. She took a step back, her foot catching on the uneven stone, but before she could regain her balance—

She sensed it before she saw it: a low, almost imperceptible rustle in the air, like a predator moving in the shadows. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. With a gut-wrenching slowness, she turned her head, a chill of dread washing over her as her gaze fell back on the first coffin.

It was empty.

The man—the corpse—who had been lying so still and lifeless was gone.

Her breath hitched, and panic flooded her veins, drowning out all rational thought. She glanced frantically around the chamber, heart thundering. 

Desperation clawed at her senses as she whipped around to look at the second coffin. It, too, was now empty.

The blood drained from her face. Her entire body shook as her mind struggled to process what she was seeing—what she wasn’t seeing. She stumbled back, gasping, her gaze flitting wildly around the room. They were gone. Both bodies—once so still and dead—had vanished.

Her flashlight beam swung crazily across the stone walls and floors as she looked around, frantic, searching every corner and shadow. But there was nothing. No sign of movement. No one in sight. Just her—alone in the dark, empty crypt.

She swallowed the scream clawing its way up her throat and took a shaky step back. Move. The command rang through her mind like a gunshot. She turned, muscles seizing with fear, and sprinted up the stairs, breath coming in panicked.

The sound of her footsteps echoed wildly in the narrow passage, and the air around her seemed to close in, thick and suffocating. She didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare slow down, heart slamming against her ribcage as she reached the top of the stairs.

Her fingers fumbled on the handle, slick with sweat. She yanked the door open and burst through, slamming it shut behind her with a bang that reverberated through the castle. Hastily, she shoved the lock into place, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold on.

For a heartbeat, she stood there, chest heaving, back pressed against the door as if her weight alone could keep whatever was down there trapped. The silence pressed in around her, thick and oppressive, broken only by her ragged breaths.

Stay there. Please, stay there.

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to whatever force might be listening that whatever she’d just unleashed wouldn’t follow her. That whatever she’d left behind would remain in the basement—where it belonged. But even as she stood there, trembling and afraid, a cold certainty gripped her heart.

They were awake. And now… they were free.

× × × ×

With one last glance over her shoulder, she sprinted down the corridor, the muffled sound of her boots pounding against the aged wooden floors echoing through the empty halls.

She burst into the grand foyer, chest heaving, and then—almost instinctively—turned toward the dining room where she had dropped her bag and coat earlier. The chandeliers overhead flickered erratically, casting long, spider-leg shadows on the walls, and the air was different—thick and humid, saturated with the acrid scent of old wood and metallic.

Get your things and leave. Get out of here. Don’t look back. The frantic mantra repeated in her mind as she raced through the hallways, the feeling of being watched never quite leaving her. She reached the threshold of the dining room, skidding to a halt as her gaze swept over the familiar space.

She froze.

The once dark and desolate dining room was now bathed in an eerie, flickering glow. Dozens of candles, which she was certain hadn’t been there before, lined the walls and tabletop, their flames casting an unsettling dance of light and shadow. The long mahogany table was set with dusty, ornate china, as if in anticipation of a grand feast that had never happened. A low, haunting melody drifted through the air, the eerie sound of an organ playing a dirge that sent chills skittering down her spine.

But that wasn’t what made her breath catch in her throat.

Sitting casually at the far end of the table, sitting as if they’d been expecting her all along, were the men from the portraits—the corpses.

Steve lounged in one of the high-backed chairs, his boots propped up on the table as if he owned the place. He toyed lazily with a silver coin, flipping it up into the air and catching it with ease, his eyes tracking the motion with a hint of amusement. The candlelight played across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the unnatural glow in his eyes.

Beside him, Bucky sat sprawled in an equally regal chair, his posture relaxed, hands resting leisurely on the armrests. He watched her with a smirk that sent a jolt of fear through her veins. He tilted his head slightly, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, his gaze almost mocking as it roamed over her disheveled appearance.

“So nice of you to join us.” Bucky’s smile was charming, almost disarmingly so, but the sharp edge of his teeth glinted in the candlelight. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled as he regarded her with a look of feigned politeness. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her bag as she stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the two men who—by all logic—should not have been there. Should not have been alive.

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak, but her voice came out a broken whisper. “What… what do you want?”

Steve’s gaze slid lazily over to her, the coin flashing as it spun through the air and landed neatly in his palm. He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost intimate. 

“Isn’t it obvious, sweetheart? You woke us. And now…” He gestured grandly to the table and the candlelit room around them, smirk widening. “We’re making the most of your hospitality.”

A soft inhalation from Bucky drew Y/N’s attention, his eyes darkening to a shade of red as his nostrils flared. His gaze drifted over her throat, lingering as if he could see every pulse and vein beneath her skin. 

“You smell so good,” he murmured, almost to himself, the words a low rumble in his chest. “So… tempting.”

Steve’s lips twitched, the coin spinning lazily between his fingers. 

“We were getting a bit… lonely down there,” he said with a note of amusement, though his gaze never left her, as if he were savoring every breath she took. “It’s been centuries, you know. One tends to get a little… restless.”

Y/N’s breath hitched as she took a small, hesitant step back, her gaze darting between the two of them. The door was only a few feet behind her, and if she could just make it outside, get to her car—

“Leaving so soon?” Steve’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and mocking. He swung his feet off the table, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The coin slipped from his fingers, landing on the table with a soft clink. “We haven’t even had dessert.”

Her gaze flickered to the door and back. “I—”

“—don’t want to go just yet, do you?” Bucky finished, raising an eyebrow. His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with a dark, predatory light. His nostrils flared again, and a soft, appreciative hum left his lips. “We’ve hardly had the chance to get acquainted.”

Y/N stumbled back another step, her back hitting the doorframe. She flinched, the sudden jolt snapping her out of her stunned daze. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to wake us?” Steve interjected, voice smooth and dangerous. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his gaze locked onto her like a predator stalking its prey. “Well, that’s a shame, sweetheart. Because now that you have…”

Bucky shifted, his form blurring at the edges like smoke dissipating in the wind. Before Y/N could blink, he was no longer seated but standing inches away from her, his tall frame towering over hers. The shadows around him seemed to thicken and swirl, like tendrils of darkness coiling in the air.

“You don’t get to leave now, darling,” he whispered, voice a soft caress that sent shivers racing down her spine.

Y/N gasped and tried to step back, but in a blink—less than a blink—Steve was behind her, his presence a cold draft at her back. She whirled around, heart hammering, only to find his face inches from hers, his eyes glowing a brilliant, blood red.

“Going somewhere?” he drawled, lips curling into a smile that showed off sharp fangs glistening in the candlelight.

Y/N’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her head swiveled from side to side, searching for an escape that no longer existed. Their figures seemed to flicker like a mirage, shifting closer without moving, surrounding her with no more than a thought.

“Don’t be afraid,” Bucky murmured from beside her, his voice laced with something that almost sounded like concern—if not for the hunger burning in his eyes. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Much,” Steve added with a soft chuckle, his gaze dropping to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat wildly beneath her skin. “But you do smell… exquisite.”

They exchanged a glance. With a flash of movement too quick for her eyes to follow, Steve’s fingers brushed her hair aside, exposing her neck. She flinched, but he only hummed softly, as if savoring the sight.

Bucky leaned closer, his breath a chilling whisper against her skin. “I wonder… how fast will you run if we give you a head start?”

Steve’s smile widened, fangs glinting. “Ten seconds?”

“Five,” Bucky countered, gaze flickering back to hers, the scarlet in his eyes deepening with each passing second.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears, the organ’s haunting melody blending with the sound of her panicked breathing. They were toying with her, their words teasing and light, but the threat was real—so real she could taste it, like metal on her tongue.

“Run,” Bucky whispered, voice low and full of promise.

Y/N hesitated for a split second, but that was all it took. The shadows around them twisted, their forms dissolving into hazy tendrils of smoke that coiled and writhed through the air.

“Run, little prey,” Steve’s voice floated through the darkness, echoing around her as the hazy mist of his form flitted across the room like a ghostly apparition. “We’ll catch you.”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear more. She spun on her heel and bolted out of the room, the sound of their laughter—a dark, delighted sound—echoing behind her as she fled.

As she sprinted down the hallway, the walls seemed to close in, the air thickening with each frantic breath she took. She could feel them—sense them—moving in the shadows, trailing her like wolves stalking their prey. Every glance over her shoulder revealed nothing but flickering candlelight and empty space, yet she knew—knew—they were there.

Their voices whispered through the air, soft and seductive.

“Run, little prey.”

“Run.”

But no matter how fast she ran, how desperately she tried to escape, she could feel their presence closing in, the scent of her fear and blood drawing them closer.

They were right behind her.

And they were hungry.

× × × ×

The organ’s mournful melody chased Y/N through the hallways, the haunting notes twisting around her like ghostly fingers. She ran, legs burning and chest heaving, every instinct urging her to flee faster, to not look back. The heavy shadows seemed to move with her, shifting and swirling as if they, too, were alive.

Almost there. She could see the grand foyer ahead, the large double doors she had left ajar when she first entered. The cold night air wafted through the small gap, carrying with it the promise of escape, of safety.

Her heart leapt as she pushed herself harder, fingers outstretched toward the door that seemed both impossibly close and unbearably far. Just a few more steps, and she’d be free. She’d be—

A flash of movement blurred in front of her, a gust of wind that sent her hair flying. Y/N skidded to a halt, the scream caught in her throat as a figure materialized out of thin air, solidifying in front of the door in the span of a heartbeat.

Steve.

He stood casually, his hand resting on the edge of the door, which he shut with a single, effortless motion. The heavy wood slammed into place, the sound reverberating through the grand hall like the final toll of a death knell.

“Oops, there goes your exit.” he murmured, voice low and taunting, a dark smile curling his lips as his gaze raked over her with predatory delight.

Y/N staggered back, blood roaring in her ears. She spun on her heel, only to collide with a solid wall of muscle and cold flesh. Her breath hitched as she looked up, eyes widening in horror as Bucky’s smirking face loomed above her, his hands braced loosely at his sides, but every line of his body radiating power and menace.

“Careful,” Bucky drawled, a dangerous light dancing in his scarlet eyes. “You might hurt yourself, darling.”

Fear sent a surge of adrenaline through her veins, and without thinking, Y/N swung her fist at him in a desperate attempt to break free. But Bucky moved faster—far faster—his hand snapping up to catch her wrist with a grip like iron. She gasped as he twisted her arm gently but firmly, pulling her closer until her wrist was just inches from his face.

He inhaled deeply, the sound almost like a purr, his eyes fluttering shut as if savoring the scent of her skin. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, his lips curving into a wicked smile. “You smell… absolutely delicious. It’s turning me on.”

Y/N struggled, trying to wrench her arm free, but Bucky’s grip tightened, holding her firmly in place. He lowered his head, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her wrist, and a soft, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, the words sending a shiver through her entire body. “You’re making this so much more fun.” He glanced up at her, his gaze heavy with hunger. “Do you know what it does to us when you fight?”

She tried to pull away again, her heart slamming against her ribs, but Bucky only chuckled, a low, intimate sound that sent heat flooding through her veins. He turned her wrist slightly, pressing his nose against the pulse point, his fangs just barely grazing her skin.

“Stop!” Y/N choked out, her voice shaking.

Steve’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. 

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he murmured, his voice a soft, seductive whisper that seemed to coil around her, tightening with every breath she took. He took a slow step closer, head tilting slightly as if to savor the sound. 

“It’s racing—your blood rushing so fast… it makes you more…” Steve paused, his gaze dropping to the frantic flutter of her pulse in her neck. “Irresistible.”

Bucky hummed in agreement, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin of her wrist, his lips brushing lightly over her veins. 

“Mmm, yes,” he murmured, the words a low purr against her flesh. “Like a sweet, ripe fruit ready to be plucked.”

Y/N’s body trembled, fear and confusion warring with the strange, unwanted heat curling in her stomach. 

“Please, let me go,” she whispered, the plea breaking on a sob.

Steve’s gaze locked onto hers, a dark smile curving his lips as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over the curve of her throat. 

“Let you go?” he whispered, voice filled with dark amusement. He shook his head slowly, the gesture almost pitying. “Oh no, sweetheart. You’re too… delectable for that.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over her racing pulse, and Y/N gasped, jerking back. But she had nowhere to go—no escape. She was trapped between them, the air around her thickening, stifling.

“I can feel it, too,” Bucky murmured, his grip on her wrist tightening slightly as he drew her closer. His gaze was heavy-lidded, the crimson glow in his eyes deepening as he stared at her with a hunger that sent a fresh wave of fear crashing through her. “The way your blood sings to us.”

“Begging to be tasted,” Steve added softly, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Every heartbeat… every breath… makes us want you even more.”

He leaned closer, his mouth hovering over her throat, and Y/N’s heart nearly stopped as the sharp tips of his fangs just barely grazed her skin.

“Careful now, Steve,” Bucky murmured, his tone darkly amused. He tugged her wrist gently, but his strength was undeniable, forcing her to take a step back. “If you keep taunting her like that, she’ll faint before we even get her upstairs.”

Y/N stiffened, terror flooding her veins like ice. “Upstairs?” she echoed, voice shaking.

Steve pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his smile slow and deliberate. “That’s right, sweetheart. You didn’t think we’d let you run around down here all night, did you?”

Bucky’s fingers brushed against her pulse, the touch both possessive and deceptively gentle. 

“We’ve been waiting for so long,” he murmured, his gaze sliding down her body with a look that made her skin prickle. “We want to… enjoy you properly.”

She tried to pull away, but Bucky’s hold only tightened, his smile widening. “Oh, don’t be shy. You’ll look lovely in something a bit more… suitable.”

He glanced at Steve, something dark and knowing passing between them.

“What do you think, Stevie?” Bucky’s voice dropped to a seductive purr, his eyes never leaving hers. “Should we take her upstairs? Dress her up nice and proper before we really have some fun?”

Steve hummed softly, his gaze trailing over Y/N’s trembling form. 

“Definitely,” he agreed, his voice a low, velvety murmur that sent a fresh wave of fear—and something darker—curling in her stomach. “A delicate, white nightdress, perhaps. Something soft. Something… pure.”

Y/N’s mouth opened to protest, to scream, but before she could utter a word, the world around her twisted and blurred.

The shadows swirled, and the ground seemed to fall away beneath her feet. A dizzying rush of cold air engulfed her, squeezing her lungs and making her head spin. It felt as if her entire body had been caught in a whirlpool, pulled in every direction at once. She gasped, vision darkening at the edges, the sudden pressure and cold lancing through her mind, making her feel like she was being torn apart and put back together all at once.

The sensation was sickening and exhilarating, a chaotic mix of terror and euphoria that left her senses reeling. She wanted to scream, but her voice was swallowed by the disorienting void around her, the sound crushed and muted. Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in her throat as the world spun faster, faster—

And then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

Y/N staggered, her knees buckling as her feet hit solid ground. The world snapped back into focus, the swirling darkness giving way to dim light and soft, suffocating warmth. She swayed on her feet, her head throbbing and her vision swimming as she tried to catch her breath.

“Oh, darling,” Bucky’s voice purred from somewhere nearby, the sound reverberating in her ears like a sweet, sinister lullaby. “You look a little pale. The first time’s always a bit rough, isn’t it?”

Y/N blinked, her vision slowly clearing. She glanced around, confusion and fear flooding her senses as she realized they were no longer in the dining room.

They were in a bedroom—a large, opulent chamber shrouded in shadows and bathed in soft, muted candlelight. Heavy velvet drapes covered the tall windows, casting the room in shades of deep crimson and black. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark wood gleaming dully in the low light.

“What… what happened?” she croaked, swaying on her feet as she tried to get her bearings. Her entire body felt like it was floating, her skin tingling as if she’d been electrified. She raised a trembling hand to her forehead.

“You’ve never been teleported before, have you?” Steve’s voice was closer now, a low, intimate murmur that seemed to curl around her like smoke. He appeared beside her in a blur of movement, his hand slipping under her elbow to steady her. “I suppose it’s a little… disorienting.”

A little disorienting? Y/N’s stomach churned, and she fought back the urge to vomit, the sensation of being torn through space and time still lingering like a phantom ache in her bones.

Steve’s hand tightened slightly on her arm, his gaze intent as he studied her face. “But it does have its perks.” His lips twitched into a faint, teasing smile. “We get to move you wherever we want… whenever we want.”

Bucky’s laughter, low and dark, echoed through the room. 

“And right now,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he stepped forward, the crimson glow in his eyes sending a fresh wave of fear—and something disturbingly close to anticipation—coursing through her veins. “We want you here.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze darting around the room. The bed loomed in the center of her vision, its silk sheets and plush pillows looking far too inviting. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she tried to back away, but Steve’s grip on her arm held firm.

“Easy now,” Steve murmured, his voice low and soothing, though the amusement in his eyes belied the gentleness of his tone. “Don’t hurt yourself. We’re not going to bite… yet.”

Bucky’s smirk widened, shadows curling around him like living tendrils, drawn to the darkness that seemed to bleed from his very being. He wore a stark black shirt, the fabric almost blending into the darkness itself, its high collar emphasizing the unnaturally pale skin of his throat and the strong column of his neck.

Every step he took was a predator’s prowl, his gaze locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His lips curved, exposing just a hint of his sharp teeth, and it was in that moment you realized: Bucky wasn’t just dangerous.

He was death itself, dressed in human skin.

“But we will have you dressed properly,” he murmured, gesturing to the far side of the room.

Y/N’s eyes followed his hand.

Hanging from a delicate gold hanger beside the vanity was a nightdress—white and sheer, the material almost translucent in the flickering candlelight. The lace trim and delicate embroidery only added to the impression of fragility, of purity… of something meant to be ruined.

“Put it on,” Bucky commanded softly, his voice firm but oddly gentle. He raised an eyebrow when she hesitated, his smile sharpening. “Or shall we help you?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, every fiber of her being recoiling at the idea. 

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, I won’t—”

Steve’s eyes locked onto hers, the crimson depths suddenly brightening with an unnatural, otherworldly glow. 

“Yes, you will,” he whispered, his voice sinking into her mind like a hook, the words wrapping around her senses, squeezing tight. 

A cold and insidious sensation slithered through her thoughts, wrapping around her consciousness like a vice. Y/N’s body stiffened, her limbs freezing in place as if invisible chains had locked her in place. She tried to shake her head, to pull away, but she couldn’t move—couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe.

The world around her blurred at the edges, fading into a hazy, dreamlike fog. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as if she were underwater. She watched in growing horror as her own hand—moving of its own accord—reached for the nightdress.

“No…” she whimpered, but the sound was distant, muted. She could hear herself speaking, could feel the resistance building in her chest, but it was as if she were watching herself from the outside, trapped behind a thick pane of glass.

“Good girl,” Bucky murmured approvingly, his voice a soft, dark purr. He stepped back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched her fingers close around the delicate fabric. “Don’t fight it. It’ll only make things harder for you.”

Y/N’s hands moved mechanically, unbuttoning her shirt and slipping it off her shoulders, the cool air prickling her exposed skin. Her fingers trembled as they tugged at her pants, the motions stiff and jerky, her mind screaming in protest.

No, stop it—stop—this isn’t me!

But no matter how much she struggled, how much she screamed inside her own head, her body continued to betray her. The nightdress slipped over her head, the soft fabric brushing against her skin in a way that made her shudder. The lace clung to her curves, the sheer material leaving little to the imagination.

“There,” Steve murmured, stepping closer, his hand cupping her chin and tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Isn’t that better?”

Y/N’s lips moved, but no sound came out. She felt trapped, helpless, as if she were caught in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. Bucky’s gaze roamed over her slowly, hungrily, the dark smile on his lips widening. 

“Absolutely perfect,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that made her skin prickle. 

Y/N’s mind screamed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she tried to break free from the invisible hold on her body. But Steve’s hand tightened on her chin, his thumb brushing away the tears with a gentleness that only made her feel more trapped.

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice a dark, dangerous lullaby. “There’s no need to cry, sweetheart. We promise it won’t hurt… much.”

The softness of his touch a cruel mockery of the horror swirling inside her. The spell that held her body in thrall made her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, as if she were a puppet dancing on invisible strings. She could feel herself trembling, feel the rapid beat of her own heart hammering against her ribs, but she couldn’t control a single thing. Couldn’t even speak.

“Look at me,” Steve murmured, his voice a silken command that echoed in her mind. Her eyes snapped to him of their own accord, pupils wide and glazed. His gaze held hers captive, locking her in place. “You’re not going to fight anymore, are you?”

A part of her wanted to scream, to tell him that she would never give up. But her mouth betrayed her, the words that slipped from her lips a soft, obedient murmur. “No… I won’t fight.”

× × × ×

She was aware—painfully, terrifyingly aware—of every movement, every breath that came too fast, too shallow. Her limbs felt heavy and distant, her mind caught in a strange, numbing haze.

Move. Run. Do something. 

But her body refused to obey, her muscles unresponsive to her control. All she could do was watch through her own eyes as Bucky and Steve moved closer, their forms looming over her like shadows.

Y/N struggled to form a coherent thought, her mind spinning as their mouths brushed over her skin—soft, lingering kisses that sent shivers racing down her spine. Every time she thought she might catch her breath, Steve’s mouth would graze her ear, or Bucky’s fangs would scrape lightly over her collarbone, drawing a gasp from her lips.

“You taste as good as you smell, I bet,” Bucky mused, his lips curving into a wicked smile. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, teasing kiss. His tongue brushed over her lower lip, coaxing her to open for him, and Y/N’s body betrayed her—responding with a soft, helpless whimper.

And then he bit her—just a light, almost playful nip, enough to break the skin and let the faintest hint of blood well up on her lip. Y/N froze, shock flooding her senses as the metallic taste filled her mouth.

Bucky pulled back slightly, his tongue darting out to catch the tiny bead of blood. His eyes darkened, the red in his irises flaring with sudden, unrestrained hunger.

“Oh,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire. “Sweetheart, you taste—”

“—divine,” Steve finished, his gaze fixed on the tiny cut. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both soft and demanding. The taste of her blood mingled with his tongue, sending a shudder through him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her lips. “So sweet. I just had to have a little taste myself.”

Steve’s mouth was on hers again, his kiss deeper this time, interlocking hers. His hand cupped the back of her neck, holding her still as his tongue explored every inch of her mouth, tasting, savoring. When he pulled back, his eyes were practically glowing, a wicked smile curling his lips.

“Mm, delicious,” he murmured, licking his lips. “I think we’ve been missing out, Buck.”

“Definitely,” Bucky agreed, his gaze never leaving her face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her jaw, her cheek, her throat—teasing, taunting, making her breath hitch and her pulse race. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll make up for lost time.”

Y/N’s body trembled beneath their attention, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please… don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Steve asked softly, his lips trailing down to her collarbone. “Don’t kiss you? Don’t touch you? Or…” His teeth scraped lightly against her skin, drawing a shudder from her. “Don’t bite you?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, his fingers sliding up her side, brushing against the thin material of the nightdress. 

“Poor little thing,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark amusement. “You don’t even know what you want, do you?”

Steve’s laughter was soft, almost indulgent. “But that’s okay,” he murmured, his mouth hovering over the delicate curve of her throat. “Because we know exactly what you need.”

His lips brushed against her pulse, the softest hint of his fangs grazing her skin, and Y/N’s entire body stiffened, a small, choked sound escaping her throat.

“Shh, shh,” Bucky soothed, his hands caressing her gently, almost lovingly. “It’s alright, sweetheart. We’ll be gentle… at first.”

Steve’s fangs grazed her neck again, the sharp tips just barely pressing into her skin, and Y/N’s breath caught, fear and something dangerously close to anticipation tangling together in a twisted knot in her chest.

“You’ll like it,” Steve whispered, his voice a dark, seductive promise. “You’ll like the way it feels when we sink our teeth into you… when we drink from you…”

Bucky’s mouth curved into a wicked smile, his gaze locked on her face as he leaned down, his breath cool against her throat. 

“You’ll ask for it, darling,” he murmured, his fangs glinting in the low light. “Ask us to bite you… beg us to make you ours.”

Y/N’s heart pounded wildly, her mind a chaotic whirl of fear and confusion and something else—something dark and thrilling that she couldn’t quite push away.

“Let us in, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his mouth moving lower, kissing the spot where her pulse fluttered frantically beneath her skin. “Let us make you feel… alive.”

Bucky’s lips brushed against her ear, his voice a low, velvety murmur that sent shivers racing down her spine. “Let go, darling. Just let go.”

And as their fangs grazed her skin, as their voices whispered promises and lies against her flesh, Y/N felt herself slipping, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned.

“Just one bite,” Bucky murmured, his voice dripping with wicked pleasure.

“Just one taste,” Steve echoed, his mouth pressing against her pulse, the sharp points of his fangs sending a jolt of fear and excitement racing through her.

When their fangs sank into her skin—Bucky at her throat, Steve at her shoulder—the pain was sharp and sudden, a piercing sting that shot through her body like a lightning strike. She gasped, eyes flying wide as her body stiffened, every muscle locking tight in anticipation of agony.

But the pain never came.

Instead, a strange, overwhelming euphoria spread through her, radiating out from the points where their teeth broke her skin. It was as if a wave of warmth and pleasure crashed over her, drowning out everything else, leaving only a dizzying, intoxicating sensation that made her gasp again.

Her body reacted on its own, arching off the bed, pushing up into them as if seeking more. The nightdress, so pristine and delicate just moments ago, now pulled taut across her skin, the sheer fabric doing nothing to hide the way her body shuddered beneath their mouths.

“Ah—” The sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, a moan choked with pleasure and disbelief. She could feel every pull of their mouths as they drank deeply, every flick of their tongues against her skin sending pulses of heat spiraling through her veins.

What… what is this? The question tumbled through her mind in a daze, but she couldn’t hold onto it, couldn’t grasp any thought that wasn’t focused on the dizzying mix of sensations flooding her senses.

The venom, or whatever it was they were releasing into her bloodstream, felt like liquid fire, like every nerve in her body was lighting up with an unbearable, exquisite pleasure. She should have been horrified—terrified—at the way her body reacted to them, the way her back arched off the bed, her lips parting in soft, breathy gasps. But all she could feel was heat, need, and the dark, aching desire for more.

Bucky’s mouth moved lower, his teeth scraping over her collarbone, leaving a trail of red in his wake. He bit down again, harder this time, and Y/N cried out, her body jerking as another wave of euphoria crashed through her.

“Fuck, she tastes good,” Bucky growled against her skin, his voice rough. He licked at the fresh wound, his tongue swirling around the bite marks as if savoring every drop of blood. “So fucking sweet.”

Steve’s hand slipped under her jaw, tilting her head back further, exposing more of her throat to his hungry gaze. 

“Good little prey,” he murmured, his breath cool against her flushed skin. He leaned in, biting down just below her ear, and Y/N’s vision blurred, a soft, helpless moan escaping her lips.

“More,” she whimpered, the word slipping out before she could think, before she could stop it.

Their answering laughter was dark and delighted, a sound that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

“More?” Steve echoed, his lips curving against her skin. “You want more, sweetheart?”

Y/N’s fingers twisted in the sheets, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe through the overwhelming sensations. 

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the word.

“Mm, that’s what we like to hear,” Bucky murmured, his mouth descending on her shoulder, his fangs sinking in deep. He drank greedily, his tongue lapping at the fresh flow of blood as he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her body.

“You taste like fear and fire, darling,” Bucky drawled, . “Sweet like honey laced with venom. I could drink you forever and still crave more.”

Steve shifted lower, his lips trailing down her chest, brushing over the swell of her breasts. He bit down again, and Y/N’s body jerked, her back bowing as the pleasure spiked, her head spinning.

“Such a good little thing,” Steve whispered against her skin, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “So sweet… and so willing.”

Their mouths moved over her with a ravenous, chaotic hunger, biting and sucking, drawing blood from every inch of exposed skin they could find. Her shoulders, her arms, the delicate curve of her collarbone—all of it was fair game, all of it marked by their fangs and painted with her blood. Each bite sent a fresh surge of pleasure crashing through her, the venom making her feel drunk, delirious, lost.

Her nightdress—once so white and innocent—was now stained crimson, the thin fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Bucky’s hand fisted in the delicate material, pulling it down further, baring more of her to their hungry eyes.

“Look at you,” Bucky murmured, his gaze dark and fevered as he leaned back, his mouth and chin smeared with blood. “Such a mess. So fucking beautiful like this.”

Steve licked his lips, his eyes practically glowing as he looked down at her. “Covered in your own blood… our own little masterpiece,” he murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous caress. He leaned down, his tongue flicking out to trace the curve of her jaw, licking up the blood that dripped down her neck. “Fuck, I can’t get enough.”

Their mouths descended again, a frenzy of bites and kisses and nips that left her gasping, her body writhing beneath them. She could feel herself slipping further, falling into the dark, twisted pleasure they offered, every part of her aching for more.

Steve’s fangs sank into her shoulder again, harder this time, and Y/N’s body arched, a sharp cry tearing from her lips. Bucky shifted lower, his teeth scraping over the delicate curve of her wrist before he bit down, his fangs piercing the soft flesh. The pain was sharp and sudden, making her fingers twitch and her back arch as the sensation shot through her like a live wire.

Blood welled up from the fresh punctures, thick and warm as it pooled around his lips. The scent hit them both immediately—a heady mix of iron and heat, rich and intoxicating—filling the air and making Bucky groan softly against her skin. He drank deeply, his mouth moving against her wrist with a ravenous hunger, the velvety liquid sliding down his throat in a way that made his entire body shudder in dark satisfaction.

Steve’s mouth pulled greedily at her shoulder, his tongue swirling over the puncture marks as he drank deeply, the taste of her blood flooding his senses like the richest wine. The thick, coppery warmth coated his tongue, sliding down his throat in a way that made his body vibrate with the sheer pleasure of it. It was more than just sustenance—it was power, each drop surging through him like fire, seeping into every corner of his being, fueling a primal hunger that clawed at his insides.

Their hands roamed over her feverishly, holding her down as they fed—Steve’s grip tight around her waist, Bucky’s fingers digging into her wrist, their mouths relentless as they drew more and more of that precious liquid from her. The blood gushed over their tongues, soaking their lips and chins, the scent of it filling the room with a heady sweetness that made them both groan.

Steve tore his mouth away from her shoulder, his lips and bearded chin smeared with crimson. He tilted his head back slightly, the blood dripping down his throat as he let out a low, breathless sound of satisfaction. The metallic tang lingered on his tongue, each taste making his eyes burn brighter, his gaze dropping back to the fresh wound with a predatory gleam.

Bucky’s teeth dug deeper into her wrist, his tongue lapping at the fresh flow of blood that oozed from the punctures, the sensation making Y/N’s body shudder violently. 

“Fuck,” He pulled back slightly, his mouth slick and red, a faint trail of blood seeping down his chin. The scent of it was overwhelming, making his entire body hum with raw, unbridled hunger.

Steve let out a low moan, his body trembling with the force of his hunger as he bit down harder, the taste of her blood flooding his senses. 

“More,” he muttered, his voice a low, desperate growl as he buried his face in her skin, fangs sinking in deeper, deeper.

“More,” Bucky echoed, his mouth descending on her again, his teeth scraping against her throat. He drank greedily, his body coiling tighter with every pull. “I need more.”

Y/N’s vision blurred, the room spinning around her as her body shuddered beneath them. She could feel her strength draining, her limbs growing heavy, but the pleasure was too much—too overwhelming. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t fight it. All she could do was gasp and moan as they devoured her, every bite, every pull of their mouths sending fresh waves of euphoria crashing through her.

“Buck, stop,” Steve growled suddenly, his voice low and fierce. He lifted his head, blood dripping from his lips as he glared at Bucky, his eyes blazing. “Stop, you’re going too far.”

Bucky ignored him, his mouth still latched onto her skin, his body trembling with need. “Just…” he muttered, his voice thick and slurred, like he was drunk on her blood. “Just a little more—”

“Enough,” Steve snarled, his patience snapping. He grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s hair and yanked him back with a force that made Bucky stumble, his head jerking back, blood splattering across the sheets. “I said enough!”

“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky snapped, a wild, feral look flashing in his eyes as he licked the blood from his lips. He didn’t look guilty or apologetic—instead, he looked like he wanted to rip Steve apart. “She’s mine to feed on too!”

“She’s losing color,” Steve snarled back, his voice a dangerous growl. He shifted, his body shielding Y/N from Bucky’s hungry gaze. “I won’t let you fucking kill her because you can’t control yourself.”

Bucky’s nostrils flared, his chest heaving with labored breaths. He took a step back, eyes narrowed, but there was no hint of remorse in his gaze—only dark, simmering annoyance. “I wasn’t going to kill her.”

“Well, I’m not letting you drain her dry,” Steve snapped, his gaze flicking down to Y/N’s face. Her skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, her breaths coming in and out shallow. “She’s too weak. We’ll need her alive if we want to keep this fun.”

Bucky’s lips curled into a sneer, but he forced himself to take another step back, eyes lingering on the fresh bite marks marring Y/N’s throat. 

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. 

With one last glare at Steve, Bucky spun on his heel and stormed across the room, his movements sharp and agitated. Steve sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he looked down at her, his gaze softening just a fraction. 

Bucky turned back to face them, he brought his blood-stained fingers to his mouth, his gaze locked on Steve’s as he sucked the crimson liquid from his fingertips one by one. He hummed in satisfaction, the sound low and almost sensual, as he savored the taste of her on his tongue.

“Don’t act like you’re not thinking the same thing,” Bucky said, his voice a soft, dangerous drawl. He pulled his fingers free, licking his lips. “You felt it, didn’t you, Steve? How much more she can give?”

Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he glanced down at Y/N’s pale, still form. Covered with bite marks against her throat, forearm, wrists. She looked fragile, almost broken—but there was a faint rise and fall to her chest, proof that she was still hanging on. Barely.

“Don’t get sloppy, Bucky,” Steve muttered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. His fingers brushed over one of the deeper bite marks, smearing the blood there. He brought his hand up to his mouth, tasting the crimson streak with a flick of his tongue, a shudder running through him. “She’s not some plaything to bleed dry. I’m not interested in breaking her too quickly.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, a cruel smile curving his mouth. “Too quickly?” he echoed, his voice laced with amusement. “I see. You want to draw it out, don’t you? Take her bit by bit until she’s begging for death.”

Steve’s gaze flicked back to Bucky, a cold, mirthless smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe,” he murmured softly. “Or maybe I just want to keep her.”

Bucky’s eyes flared, he took a step closer, his gaze sliding back to Y/N’s face, lingering on the smear of blood on her lips, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

“Most humans would’ve passed out by now… or died. But she’s still hanging on.” He leaned down, his fingers brushing against the bite mark at her throat, smearing the blood there. “It’s almost like she wants more.”

Steve’s smile widened, his gaze glittering with cruel amusement. “You think she can take more?”

“I know she can,” Bucky breathed, his gaze locked on the steady pulse fluttering weakly at her throat. He dipped his fingers into the blood pooling beneath her collarbone, his eyes hooded as he brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied hum.

Steve’s eyes followed Bucky’s movements, the way his tongue flicked over his fingers, savoring every drop. 

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice soft, a dangerous edge to his tone. “If you keep pushing, you’ll drain her completely.”

Bucky’s smile widened, a wicked, dangerous curve. “You really think she’s that easy to break?” He glanced at Y/N, his gaze dark and calculating. “Look at her, Steve. She’s not some fragile little human who’ll shatter at the first touch. She’s still here… still breathing.” He leaned down, his mouth brushing against the shell of her ear, his breath cool against her skin. “Still ours for the taking.”

Steve’s gaze darkened, his fingers digging into the sheets as he watched Bucky trail his tongue along the curve of Y/N’s neck, lapping up the blood there with a slow, almost languid motion. He let out a low, breathy sigh, his lips grazing her ear.

“Next time, darling,” Bucky whispered, his voice a low, dangerous promise. “I’d like to have you for myself.”

Steve’s eyes flared, his body tense, coiled tight with barely restrained hunger. He reached out, grabbing Bucky’s wrist and yanking him back with a vicious snarl. “Stop playing with your food, Bucky.”

Bucky straightened, his smile turning sharp and mocking. “Oh, so that’s how it is?” he murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous drawl. He glanced down at Y/N, his gaze lingering on the fresh bite marks, the bruises forming beneath her pale skin. “Afraid I’m going to break your little toy?”

Steve’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing. “She’s not yours alone to play with.”

Bucky’s smile widened, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Maybe not,” he murmured softly, his gaze flicking back to Y/N’s face. “But I’ll be damned if I let you have all the fun.”

With a low, mocking laugh, he wrenched his wrist free from Steve’s grip, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. He turned on his heel, his movements sharp and predatory as he made his way back to the door.

“Let her rest then. But the next time I get my hands on her, I’m going to see just how much she can really take.” He paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on the pale, bloodstained form sprawled on the bed. “And I’m not going to stop… even if she begs.”

Steve watched him go, his gaze dark and simmering with barely restrained hunger. His eyes flicked back to Y/N’s face, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear in a whisper of a kiss.

“Rest up,” he whispered, his voice a soft, dangerous promise. “You’ll need it.”

And with that, Steve pushed off the bed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned and strode out of the room, his steps silent, predatory.

The room fell into silence, the air still and heavy, the faint scent of blood lingering like a dark memory.

Y/N lay there, her body limp and drained, every nerve still singing with the lingering echo of pain and pleasure. Her mind swam in a haze, consciousness slipping in and out as darkness closed in around her.

But even as she drifted into the oblivion of sleep, a single thought lingered at the edge of her mind—an unspoken fear, a dark anticipation that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

They weren’t done.

And when they came back… she didn’t know if she’d survive it.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello! I love your writing so much! It always gives me such a good chill and I absolutely adore the way the words all flow together! May I request a hero trying to escape from a villain and when the villain finally catches them there's a bit where they lift the hero's chin with a sword?

"Ah, good," the villain drawled. "You managed to apprehend our little runaway."

The hero grunted in pain, as the guards threw them down onto their knees. Their gaze darted around the room - a war room of maps and schemes too high up on the table for them to see properly, the dulled silver of the guards uniforms, and the perfectly polished leather boots standing not far ahead of them.

"Though not," the villain said, "without a little bloodshed, I see? Take yourself to the infirmary tent. I can handle him from here."

The hero's jaw clenched. They kept their head bowed, doing their best to keep their face obscured.

"My lord," the guard said.

As the room emptied, the hero tested the tightness of the ropes binding their wrists and ankles. They strained for the knots. No good. Before they could even start to rise, the villain had drawn their sword with a soft shick and pressed it to the hero's throat in one swift move.

"Suddenly shy?" the villain asked. "I was expecting spitted defiance and glares. Maybe some elegant spiel at what a monster I am and how I will never get away with this."

The hero said nothing.

The villain hummed, using the tip of the blade to tilt the hero's head up.

The hero braced themselves as their gazes met.

The villain froze.

The hero's lip curled; a smile most mocking.

"Guards!" the villain yelled.

The guards returned immediately from outside, even as the villain's attention stayed locked on the hero's face.

"Would you like to tell me," the villain's voice was silken, dangerous, "why you've captured the wrong person?"

"I - my lord?"

"This is not the prince. Do you not know your own prince?" the villain asked.

"But they - they wielded the royal blade, my lord - they -"

Power, dark and ominous, ripped through the room like a thousand shadowy swords appearing in the air.

The guards fell silent.

"Fooled ya," the hero rasped. "Sucker."

"Go to where you found them," the villain ordered. "The prince can't have got far-"

The guards stayed silent. They didn't move. The smile on the hero's lips grew a little more.

"What?" the villain snapped.

"They put up - that is - the fight and the chase went on for some time, my lord." The head guard sounded strained. "Any of their tracks would have been destroyed by our own. The prince is long gone, my lord."

The power struck in an instant.

The lead guard dropped, dripping blood from a thousand blade cuts. The hero managed not to flinch. Somehow.

"Would somebody like to try that again?" the villain asked.

"We'll find him, my lord," another guard said, pasty with sweat. "We'll go and look now."

Most of the guards left, on that hopeless errand. Someone dragged the head guard's body out. His blood was already beginning to turn inky.

The hero felt light-headed with a mixture of triumph and terror, as they eyed the villain over the hilt of their sword. The villain studied them in turn.

The running, after all, had been genuine. Escape had always been the plan. Still. They supposed the ruse had fulfilled its purpose either way, just so long as no one was stupid enough to come back for them.

"Who are you?" the villain demanded.

The hero shrugged.

The villain pressed the blade in a little harder. "Who. Are. you."

"I'm your tailor's assistant."

"...excuse me?"

"I help mend your clothes and the clothes of your soldiers," the hero said. "Thrilling, isn't it?"

The villain stared at the hero like they thought they might be joking. They weren't.

"You were skilled enough with a blade to fool my highest ranking officers."

The hero shrugged again.

The villain used the blade to tilt the hero's head the other way. "You really do look remarkably similar to the prince, on first glance."

"Bet you regret killing your own men in a strop now."

The villain draw the blade down again, opening the smallest wound. Blood pooled in the hero's collar bone, shimmering a faint, barely there silver.

"You're one of the king's bastards," the villain said.

The hero resisted the urge to swallow.

The villain's eyes narrowed, liquid shadow, as they seemed to consider their options, before a truly terrible smile flashed across their face. Charming. Beguiling.

They looked up at their guards.

"Take our little runaway to my quarters. Do make sure that they're secure this time, won't you?"

They definitely should have ran faster.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

Hiiii! May i have 🍂 Enemies to lover trope with Tom riddle please? (possible hufflepuff reader where she's the opposite of Tom, cheerful, sweet, she's naive, but snaps at him one day because she's tired of him being passive agressive.. if that makes sense) thank you so much my love!

𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you tucked the letter from your parents into your robes, trying your best to push the weight of its words aside. They meant well, you knew that, but it didn't stop the sting from settling in your chest. Your brother was always the top of his class. We expect nothing less from you.

You bit your lip, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay as you made your way to Potions class. You had always been the type to keep a smile on your face, to greet everyone with a cheerful demeanor—even when things felt overwhelming. But today… today was different.

As you slipped into the classroom, you spotted your potions partner: Tom Riddle. His sharp gaze flickered toward you briefly before returning to the textbook in front of him. His usual cold and indifferent expression never wavered.

Great. Of all days…

Professor Slughorn began the class, instructing everyone to pair up and begin the day’s assignment—a tricky potion that required precision and teamwork. You glanced at Tom, hoping for some semblance of civility between the two of you. But of course, it didn’t take long before his usual comments began.

“You do know dragon blood isn’t part of this, right?” Tom’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he watched you with narrowed eyes, clearly unimpressed by your every move.

You gave a forced smile, trying to maintain your usual upbeat attitude. “I know that, Tom.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying how much he was getting under your skin. “And those roots—don’t chop them. Crush them. Honestly, do you even pay attention in class, or are you too busy making friends with everyone?”

Your hands trembled as you crushed the roots, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Not today, not today, you chanted in your head, trying to keep calm. But he just kept going.

“I don’t know why Professor Slughorn keeps pairing us together,” Tom muttered. “It’s clear you’re more suited to Herbology than Potions. Or perhaps Charms—something simple enough for a—”

“Enough!” You slammed the pestle down onto the table, your voice shaking with emotion. “I’ve had enough of your stupid comments, Tom!”

"I’ve had enough of you!" you burst out, voice breaking. "I might be cheerful and positive, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak. I’ve been trying my best, and you—" You jabbed a finger at his chest, "you don’t get to tell me what I am!"

Tom blinked, momentarily taken aback. It was rare for anyone to stand up to him, let alone you—the ever-smiling, ever-naive Hufflepuff. But you weren’t finished.

"You think you know everything, don’t you? You think being cold and calculating makes you superior, but guess what? Being kind takes strength too. And maybe if you weren’t so consumed by your own darkness, you’d see that!"

The room went silent, every student turning to look at you. Even Professor Slughorn paused in his lecture, his eyes wide with surprise. You never yelled. You were the happy, positive one. The sweet Hufflepuff who always had a kind word for everyone. But now, the tears you had been holding back were threatening to spill over.

Tom stared at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. But he quickly masked it with his usual disdain.

Without another word, you grabbed your bag and stormed out of the classroom, ignoring the whispers that followed you. The second you were out of sight, you let the tears fall, your pace quickening as you hurried through the empty halls.

You had tried so hard. Your parents' expectations, your constant need to prove yourself, and then Tom—the boy who always seemed to find a way to belittle everything you did. It was too much. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You found yourself in an empty corridor, leaning against the cold stone wall as you tried to steady your breathing. The tears still flowed, but you didn’t care. For once, you let yourself feel the weight of everything.

“Running away isn’t going to fix your mistakes.”

You turned to see Tom standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, that same infuriating smirk on his face. How had he found you so quickly?

“Leave me alone, Tom,” you whispered, wiping at your eyes.

“Why should I?” he replied, taking a step closer. “You’re the one who stormed out like a child.”

Your temper flared again, and you shot him a glare. “Because I can’t stand you!” The words came out harsher than you intended, but they were true. “You think you’re better than everyone else. You constantly belittle me, make me feel like I’m useless, and I’m tired of it!”

For the first time, Tom’s smirk faltered. He took another step toward you, his voice quieter this time. “You’re not useless.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden change in tone. “What?”

Tom’s jaw clenched as if he was struggling with what to say next. “You’re… infuriatingly cheerful, yes. And naive. But…” He paused, his dark eyes locking with yours. “But you’re not useless.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. This was not the Tom Riddle you were used to—the one who constantly mocked you.

“I only criticize you because you could be better,” he continued, his voice low. “You have potential, but you waste it on trivial things.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “So, what? You’ve been insulting me because… you think I have potential?”

Tom let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re not as dull as the rest of them. That’s all I’m saying.”

You stared at him, unsure of how to respond. The tension between the two of you was palpable, the air thick with unspoken emotions. You could still feel the sting of his words from earlier, but there was something else there now—something softer, almost vulnerable.

“Tom…”

Before you could say anything else, he stepped closer, his gaze intense. “I don’t hate you. But your optimism—it’s infuriating.”

You let out a small laugh, despite everything. “I’ve noticed.”

There was a long pause as the two of you stood there, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable anymore. Finally, Tom spoke again, his voice softer than before.

“Perhaps… I could tolerate it. Your cheerfulness.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. Was he—was this Tom Riddle trying to make peace with you?

“And maybe,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I could tolerate your endless criticisms.”

Tom’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, and for a moment, you thought you saw a glimmer of something warmer in his cold demeanor.

“Well then,” he said quietly, “it seems we’ve come to an understanding.”

You nodded, the weight on your chest finally lifting just a little. Maybe things between the two of you weren’t so hopeless after all.

thank you so much for requesting, my love!!

[thestuffedalligator]

“Fairy godmothers start stories,” said the old woman. “I end them. It’s not a popular job, but fortunately I’m the only me they ever made.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, love, if you want, I can get you out of this dungeon right now and back home by morning.”

The dungeon went deathly silent. Through the high ceiling of stone and steel, she could hear the sound of the goblins marching.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“But the chains—”

There was a silken hiss like falling sand. All that was left of the shackle was the angry, red welt around her ankle.

She stared. She said: “They have my sister—”

“Not to worry, dear,” said the old woman. “I can get her on our way out.”

“But the goblins—”

“Can’t do a thing about it. I do whatever I want – they all hate it, but they can’t stop me.”

“I signed a contract—”

“Oh, love, listen to me: I don’t care about contracts. I don’t care about quests or bargains or deals or wishes or riddles. If you want me to get you out of this story, then you’re out, no strings attached.”

There was a trickle of rainwater somewhere in the dungeon. Every drip echoed through the gloom.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“You’re very wise.”

“What do you get out of this?”

The old woman sighed and shuffled back to sit against the stone wall. “Peace of mind, maybe,” she said. “A story is a terrible thing to bear for some.”

“How many people have you done this for?”

“Hundreds.”

“That’s a lot.”

“No, dear. Not nearly enough.”

“No strings attached?”

She heard the rainwater again, a distant, dark and echoing drip… drip…

And then – “Only one,” said the old woman. “There is a chance that someday, you’ll look back and realize that you’ll never know if you could’ve done it.”

She nearly laughed. “That’s all?” she said – and then she caught the look in the old woman’s eye.

There was something there that chilled her.

Drip… drip…

She pulled her knees up to her chest. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” she said quietly.

“And for some it isn’t,” said the old woman. It sounded like a very careful answer.

Drip… drip…

“If,” she said. “If I say no – what happens?”

“Then you save your sister and defeat the goblins,” said the old woman. “You become an unlikely heroine, and your story becomes the stuff of legends – or you die and your sister is lost forever. But no matter what, for the rest of your life, no matter how long that may be, you will know exactly how you did.

“It’s up to you, dear,” the old woman said. She rose stiffly and brushed the dirt from her gown. “Have you made up your mind?”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Diabolical 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, extreme profanity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Billy Butcher

Summary: your neighbours has some strange friends.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Ah, cunt!” 

The man’s voice rolls under your door. His accent adds a certain slant to his words that makes them sound even harsher. You hover your mug in front of your lips, steam curling from the freshly brewed tea, as your eyes drift over in detest. 

You lower it and carry it with you to the door. You lean in to see through the peep hole. The same dark hair, the same long black jacket with the patch on one shoulder, and the same lumbering form. He thumps again on the door across the hall. 

“Hughie, open up, ya skinny cunt.” 

He uses that word again. Your lip curls and you huff. He keeps on. 

You slide back the chain and your adrenaline pumps into your chest. You flip the lock back slowly and pull the door in an inch. You peer through the space as the man checks his watch and grumbles. 

“Where are ya, Hughie?” He grumbles and shakes his head. “Big fucking stick bug, won’t answer ya phone, won’t come to the door...” 

“It’s not very nice language, is it?” You chide. You’re just as surprised as the man as he stands straight and freezes. He turns to you stiffly as you let the door open a little more. 

“Eh? And who are you, then?” He tilts his head this way and that as he growls. 

“I live here. Who are you?” You say defiantly. You sip your tea to keep your nerves under wrap. 

“Wouldn’t you like know, sweetheart?” He snickers. “Oi, you ain’t happened see the skinny one lives over here?” He jabs his thumb behind him. 

You stare at him. You shake your head again. His eyes narrow and flick up and down. 

“Too good for the likes of us, eh? You and your fancy porcelain? What’s that? Royal Daulton Cuntware?” 

You gasp and bat your lashes. “Excuse me, I haven’t been rude. I’ve only asked you to keep it down. Other people live here besides your friend and they don’t appreciate hearing your profanity every morning.” 

“Eh,” he gives a crooked smirk, “you listenin’ for me, sweetheart?” 

“I don’t know you, sir, and I shouldn’t like to.” 

“Ain’t ya so proper? Sirs and shouldn’ts and tea.” He taunts. 

You take a breath and back up, “I would only appreciate a little consideration, but thanks. Have a lovely day.” 

“Oi, go on and hide then, darling.” He tugs on his lapels and squares his shoulders. He chuckles again. 

You stop the door before you can shut it all the way. You bristle at his laughter. “I don’t think you’re funny.” 

He chortles again. He steps closer and you go rigid. You can’t measure up to a man like him. You still the tremour in your hand before your tea can slosh towards the brim. 

“Well, I think you’re right hilarious. Why don’t you go on? Tell me, eh, are you more offended by the shit on my boots or the onion on my breath?” 

You steel yourself as you grip the door tightly. “Don’t come any closer.” 

“Ah, I don’t got that sorta time. Whatcha think a brute like me would do then?” He stops and plants his feet wide. 

“You needn’t be so impolite--” 

“Needn’t--” he mimics. Before you can stop yourself, the tea splashes across his face and chest.  

You recoil as the porcelain drips in your hand and you gape at his stunned grimace. His blue eyes flash and you kick the door shut as you retreat. You put the chain in place and twist the lock. You press your back to the door and listen, heart pounding, and wait. 

His treads scuff on the floor and he sighs. The floor groans as he moves and you watch his shadow beneath your door. Yet, no banging comes at the door. 

“Ah, bollocks, that’ll stain.” His grumble follows him down the hall. 

You have no idea what you were thinking. A man like that is dangerous. You don’t need his name or anything else. You can tell just by looking at him.  

You’re not the sort to associate with the type. You didn’t think your neighbour was either. Then again, you only know Hughie because he dropped a sock in front of your door. He didn’t stay to chat as he snatched it and chased that pretty blonde inside. 

You turn and stand on your toes to see through the peephole. He’s gone but you don’t dare go out and make sure. You’ll do best not to show your face again. Just drink your tea and hide, like you always do. 

[fan-goddess]

‘His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man’

A/N: Surprise! I'm making this a strange sort of drabble like series with Aemond and dragonseed! This title is long af but the quote so fits I love/hate it! It ain’t entirely fully proofread so errors may pop up I may correct later fyi

Warnings: Smut, dragonseed is back and unnamed as ever, brothel working, sex working, not dark!Aemond but clingy at nonetheless! (If I miss any let me know!)

Taglist: @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee

Series Thing Masterlist

The men you were hired to please in the nicest of terms were always much older and sweaty than you, as if they had competed in two tourniments before arriving. Though the likelihood that they had even competed in one throughout their lifetimes was slimmer than they had even been.

The young men were always given to the more older, experienced ladies for their teachings, or so the brothel madam would sometimes laugh as the young lads were dragged by their hands to a room beyond the main hall. It was a rare time whenever a younger looking man would specifically request a more younger lady, as the older the men were the younger the ladies sent to their assigned room became.

That day, you had already been paid for by three men whose skin dripped in exhausted sweat and stained the covers of the bed with a mixture of their bodily fluids. By the time night came around though, the brothel bellow became heaving with men of all ages, a familiar head of short silver locks came bounding through them with a practised ease.

His voice rang through the crowd staring at the breasts of the ladies he was offered by the Madame. Yet when he looked up to the balcony ledge where you were perched watching the sights bellow, he stopped where he had stood, and pointed with a fierce look in his eye that you knew all too well in a man.

The look of a predator who has caught sight of fresh game, and is ready to begin the hunt of the night.

The eldest son of the king, the boy whispered by all to become the future king of the seven kingdoms of course choosing to ignore with hated stares his elder sister, points a finger to you and by the way his lips move you know he has demanded a reduced price.

He may have more money than all the men in the room combined but even he knows like any poor man how to strike the right sort of bargain for a better price.

That night, you were bought and fucked by a Targaryen for the first time in your life. A service that used to be an honour to the highest of all for whores, or at least it was before the Targaryen men became too indifferent to their flesh of the night.

It appeared the once well known hunger of purpled eyed silver haired flesh has trickled down to its last generation, as the man who’d left his spent to trickle down your thighs gave no indication that he desired you particularly for your hair or for your eyes.

He barely even looked at you as he forcibly took you from behind and pushed your face into the thin sheets that had yellowed in age.

He even left as soon as he came, quite literally, as by the time you looked around the door was swung open and the overwhelming stench of alcohol remained pungent. It appeared this young Prince had a thin layer of wine on his skin instead of the usual stench of overwhelming sweat.

You did not see the recognisable sight of silver locks for quite some time after that. Many a nights were you forced to look away to the window as men of all hair but silver took you on the bed you fucked to keep. Yet they were no different from the eldest prince at all. They all had only the idea of completion in mind.

Which you suppose was why it was so shocking when the infamous one-eyed Prince came to the brothel in search of a women to warm his cock, and laid a single eye on you as you stood oblivious on the same balcony you had stood on when you were chosen by his brother.

It was like a strange sick dream when you saw the younger Prince refuse to take his eye off you as he bargained a price with the Madame. Again, he too knew how to strike a deal similarly to his eldest acknowledged sibling.

When the Prince finally entered your chambers and met eyes with your naked form sitting on the bed awaiting to be told the orders, it was made quite quickly to you that the One-Eyed Prince was not like a regular laying customer.

Yet he still had his regular moments it seems, as while he managed to humanise your body, he still found a way to objectify your soul.

The Prince uses you like any other man would, and yet he still somehow manages to find a way to make you feel mortal.

While he takes you, he has you on your back and his eye looking deeply into your own. A single hand of his stroking the left side of your face while a thumb catches on the edge of your lips.

Even after spilling his spent of the skin of your stomach, he explains he cannot dare father a bastard and bring the shame to his already soiled family legacy. Going as far as to grab a lone stained cloth from somewhere in the room to mop up his cooled down spent away and throws someplace random.

The one-eyed Prince stays with you the whole of that night and morning, something you could easily say was a first in your working career.

His head lays on your overworked thighs that twitch randomly in patterns even he with his highly educated mind cannot comprehend. But he does not complain at all, instead only burrowing further into your overwhelming warmth you subconsciously provide him with.

You dare not to say anything as you place a hand on his head and thread your fingers through his hair, waiting with baited breath as his lets out a tired sigh and wraps his arms around your body tighter.

When your fingertips catch on the rough leather of his patch you do not dare take it off in fear of being caught in the familiar feeling of a dragons rage. So you merely ghost your hand over it and he does not make a disapproving sound.

He reminds you heavily of a child craving a mother’s affection, even though you know he has one waiting no doubt anxiously for him in his own chambers back up at the castle. Yet it appears the prince lives in a strange limbo of ignorant bliss, as you can feel his eyelashes brush lightly against the skin of your thigh as he closes his eye, and not a minute later you can feel his bodies breath even out as he begins drifting away.

The One-Eyed Prince falls asleep against your naked spent body, and you can only force your body to relax as your eyes shut tightly and sleep to not come at an easy price. For that night as the Prince rests by the base of your stomach, dreams fill your head of overwhelming fire and blood comes storming down around you.

At the end of your dream mere seconds before you are awoken by the grumbling child, a two eyed man with features mimicking yours holds a sword angled to the base of your throat and sneers at you, before allowing the blade to swing you with heavy cost.

[tiredmamaissy]

I wrote this last night extra horned up and tired 😂 forgive me for any errors or just plain shit writing but I couldn’t stop thinking about Ralak coming home from a long day and we’re just laying on the bed spread and expecting him to take care of us but he’s a little miserable and grumpy so he uses us for stress relief instead 😭

MDNI!! 🔞🔞

One particular night he comes home late from his duties with Tonowari and as he walks through the door you’re already naked and spread for him. Legs wide open and glistening pussy on full display. Your hole clenches around nothing and it’s more than obvious that you’ve been waiting very very patiently for your cock to come home. Your wetness is overflowing, sticky and thick as it drips onto your cot to soak your sheet. He has a glance and his gaze hardens instantly. His jaw tenses and you can barely see the minuscule jump of his brow bone. Then he looks away, seemingly unbothered and unclasps his gear from his chest and allows it to thud onto the floor. He walks past you and begins putting his damp hair into a messy bun, back turned to you.

“Tahnì.”

He says it as he reaches for a bottle on the top shelf, something he’d usually do after Tonowari worked him hard into the ground. He hastily pops the cork out and takes swig right then and there. Then another. And another. And after a few loud gulps he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and walks past you, bottle in hand. He plops himself down onto a wooden stool in the corner of the marui, getting himself comfortable as he leans back and props open his legs, settling the hand holding his bottle between his thighs.

Then his eyes snap up to you. Taking in every detail of the sight before him. Of the show you’re putting on for him. Because it is a show, right? There’s no way you could have yourself so widely spread for him to come home after a long day to deal with. Right? His stare turns a little dark when you see his eyes narrow and become lidded. It has you closing your legs in shame and even crossing them too. He takes a sloppy swig, allowing some of the pxir to drip down his chin. A sigh puffs past his lips after he swallows the bitter liquid.

“Fuck yourself.”

Not only do you rarely hear this man curse, but he also rarely expected you to do his ‘duty’ for him. But tonight is different. Tonight Tonowari more than worked him into the ground. His rut is close and he’s tired. No, not tired—exhausted. Wound up and in dire need of release. And after that first few swigs he quickly realized that a bottle of fermented fruit wouldn’t cut it, and if you’re going to be such a needy little thing then he may as well make good use of you.

Yet you stare at him in awe, flustered and unsure of what to do next even though he just stated it plain and simple. You watch him reach for the knot of his tewng, and how he untethers it effortlessly to reveal his half hard cock. You nervously uncross your legs, allowing your knees to fall apart, revealing your swollen pussy. It’s all sticky now, having your legs crossed smeared your slick all over and it only spreads the scent of your arousal into the air even more. He inhales longingly, letting out another sigh as he brings the bottle to his lips. Before he knocks it back he raises a brow and repeats,

“I said to fuck yourself, y/n.”

Your fingers start working away before your brain could even process his tone of voice or the fact that he called you by your name. It’s too slippery and you can’t get a good grip on yourself to feel much pleasure but it didn’t really matter. The nervous tingle in your tummy that he has you feeling is enough to keep your fingers busy. You watch as his cock grows in his lap, lifting off his thigh to lay on his stomach. God, that only makes it more slippery and even harder for you to feel much. You’re letting out frustrated moans and stuttering your hips just to touch yourself right. You finally shove in a couple fingers and fuck yourself with them, pumping them in and out of your cunt. But even that isn’t enough for you. You need something thicker. Something bigger.

His eyes gloss over with lust and grow even heavier now that the pxir is doing its job. He huffs out a breath and reaches for his cock, keeping his stare fixed onto you. He begins stroking his length, grunting each time he squeezes his cockhead. Precum spills into his fisted hand and dribbles down his wrist. And fuck, did that make you squirm and your fingers work a little faster. You scissor yourself open for him, exposing exactly where you’d like that huge thing to be stuffed. He strokes a little faster, brows scrunching together as he intently watches you quite literally spread yourself for his viewing pleasure. He groans from how empty you look without him inside you and it almost makes him cum right then.

“Another finger.”

It’s a demand, no doubt. He wants you to fill yourself up, stuff your cunt with fingers until he can see how stretched your little hole can get. He wants to see if your own fingers could even be a match for his cock, even though he already knew the answer. You close your eyes and stuff another finger inside yourself, actually feeling some sort of real pleasure now. He could see it too, it’s contorted into your face and evident from the way your inner thighs tremble. Your head sinks back into the bed from pleasure as you repeatedly smack your hooked fingers into yourself, blissfully unaware of the sound of his bottle hitting the floor. You can’t hold back your moans now, the budding pleasure is too raw but it’s just not enough. You’re still yearning for more. For the familiar sensation of his cock filling you until it stung and the unrelenting force of his thrusts. You start begging without you even knowing it.

“Please—Please, Ralak. Please!”

“Say what you need, little one.”

His voice booms over you, loud and clear. He’s towering over you now, cock in hand as he stares down at you with a hungry look in his eyes. You look up at him, pinched brows and flushed cheeks, begging him with your eyes that he put you out your misery. You glance down at his cock and see that it’s throbbing in his hand—throbbing to be stuffed inside your pussy. You know he wants it just as bad now. You know he’s a few swigs too deep to keep his composure. Leaving yourself empty, you reach out and wrap your slimy fingers around his cock, tugging it as you guide him to your slit.

“Want this. Right here.”

He wastes not another second and plunges himself inside you to the hilt, his mushroomy cockhead bullying it’s way to your cervix. The pxir is heavy on his breath as he praises you for your stress relieving warmth and tightness.

“Hnng—my good muntxate.”

——

[kamesama]

domesticity with ryōmen sukuna

— note + warnings: my lil' head is full of him; headcanons but not rlly formatted like them idk; modern! au; disgusting domestic fluff; spicy moments here and there ( feat. brief mentions of nudity, pet names, degradation, praise, just some basic intimacy yo ); mentions of food; brief mentions of alcohol and tobacco; fem! ( wife! ) reader; long post ( almost 1.5k and i still wanted to write more but i need to get ready for class ).

every now and then, he comes home with burdened hands; a thickly arranged bouquet, your favourite pastry from that bakery standing a pesky distance away from your home, little bag with lace and frills and silk neatly folded at its bottom. he adores your reaction — the way your eyes are rendered overwhelmed with shimmer the moment you see him and whatever saccharine little thing he decided to please your wits with that day. the way you cling onto him, your muscles nearly aching from a sense of gratitude and excitement, or merely tenderness on the days you are fatigued and just quietly thankful. it's so fun to see you pleased with such a gesture; so silly, so endearing.

his armchair is his throne, and your throne is his lap. at times, he settles for the spot on the sofa; the one that has his name engraved on it with an ink of memory and habit. lounging there provides a proper view of the space around him, so when you walk in, showing off whatever delicacy he's bought to hug your curves, he sees the entire picture, perfectly framed. he cocks his head to the side, his knuckles pressing into his cheek as he tells you to twirl around for him, princess, so that the skirt of your dress may flutter or so he could have a good look at the way that lace-edged hem of your brand new knickers lightly sinks into the soft flesh of your buttocks. he pats his lap for you to come and take a seat like a good girl, and he may just show his appreciation for how ravishing you look.

yet, on the drearier days, when time seems to drip painfully slowly and when the invisible frost seems to linger in the corners of your home and bodies, he leans back into his mighty armchair and pulls you close — bare or modest, it matters not, as long as you are against him and he can trail incoherent patterns across your hip or run his fingers through your hair. something weighs on his vision and his eyelids threaten to falter underneath the dull pressure — he yawns and closes his eyes, aware that you, too, have given in. his thick glass of whiskey sits empty, sweating cold droplets of water; the cigarette butt squished in the ashtray.

meals are greatly indulged in; homemade, takeout, eating out. after all, sukuna's a connoisseur of gastronomy. wrinkled widows and middle-aged housewives did not utter a single word of lie whilst making the statement that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, for sukuna indeed shows immense pleasure if you decide to treat him to a little something, whether it be some quick morsel or a sightly dinner sprinkled with the grandiose. his tastes are peculiar, however, so your outings in the evening either start or end up at a pricy spot with mouth-watering dishes.

when either one — or both — of you demand a rest from the confinements of your home, thoughts or chores, cruising through the highway and city roads is a welcome option. whether it be in a car or sukuna's motorcycle, a ride is a ride. underneath the streetlights after dark, or in the minutes just before the sun starts to sink into the horizon, or right after the rush hour when the roads are suddenly free of a tremendous burden. it's a little bit of adrenaline, and head free of pesky thoughts, your arms around his waist and your laughter that seems to fade into the breeze after a few seconds. the glimpse of you staring out of the car's rolled down window as your favourite song plays on is oddly sweet, and sukuna finds himself content with smaller things in life.

the ultimate betrayal of trust is giving in to the unholy, godforsaken urge to watch that one episode after a frustrating cliff-hanger — alone. there are spots in your routine which you fill with some stupid reality show or a theatrical series, most of which neither of you expect to grow so attached to. the image is that of a dimly lit living room, a bright screen and sound of chewing as you lay close to one another, occasionally commenting on and reacting to whatever is occurring within that wondrous glowing box of visionary delight. sukuna is transparent with his tastes; his expression twisting in some vague sense of disgust at poor writing, or brows raising in interest as the music shifts to a melody that is a tad more dramatic. the salt remains on your tongue and sticks to your lips.

he loves the way you attempt to be subtle with your affections and desires when the movie you're watching proves to be too dull. he sees you within the periphery of his vision — how you throw a glimpse or two towards his handsome profile, your gaze smoothly trailing down the line of his nose, dripping from its tip onto his lips only to take a turn up his sharp jaw. he'd call you dumb and naïve for thinking that the gears within your skull are not being obnoxiously loud with some starved intent, but he bites his tongue for the sake of indulgence. the tip of your index finger ghosts over his skin before you press your lips to his cheek gingerly, begging for a sprinkle of attention, and when he does not go out of his way to satisfy your whims then and there, you whine and complain into his ear how the movie is so boring... truthfully, he would have scoffed and wrinkled his forehead at the terrific acting and horrendous story-telling, too, but he swallows down whatever atrocity his eyes are witnessing on screen lest you grow bolder and needier with your advances, because he adores seeing you try harder.

some days you're bolder, when you come stomping to him as his eyes follow the rows and rows of black-ink characters pressed into the paper or glowing from the screen. your perfume is demanding, your outfit revealing, your lipstick's shade a herald of debauchery. try harder, he wordlessly dares as he spares you but a single glance, acknowledging the intent that you're absolutely overwhelmed with. sometimes he is not in the mood for your little schemes, so when you push at all his buttons with that voice thick with desire and relentless attitude that ignores his every warning, what else could he possibly do than give you what you've wanted, tenfold? he bruises your thighs with violet handprints and paints your neck with ruby red stamps of wanton need and irritation and leaves your legs quivering, shaking like a leaf because you, needy, naughty little thing, have asked for it.

other days he demands your attention. when you're reading your book, or watching your show, he approaches with bold, shameless kisses to your neck; open-mouthed and wet, not shy of whatever thought clouds his mind. sometimes there is barely any lechery in the way his fingertips sink into the flesh of your thighs or the way his palm caresses your back. sometimes he hungers for that which he deemed unfamiliar before you; for his head to rest against your breast and the sound of your heart-beat echoing in his ear. no matter what the motive is, his approach is direct, and his arguments temptingly good.

the smell of clean bedsheets, stained only by a whiff of slumber, is intoxicating on the weekend mornings; those always end in some lounging and rolling around, small kisses and sleep-laced grumbles. it's slow, it's leisurely, as if time holds no weight or consequence. they lead to another thirty minute nap, or a hungry yet slow session of love-making that ends up lulling you all the more. it's a shared shower, toast for breakfast, smell of bitter coffee or matcha, and the two of you in your own little world for the day.

sometimes you wake up before him and abandon your spot on the bed; let it grow cold and lonesome. standing on the sidelines, by the nightstand, provides you with a different view from the one you're used you when your cheek is sunken into the pillow. other than sukuna's resting face, you see the entirety of him fully — the cover half-heartedly trying to hide any indecency; the expanse of his muscular back moving rhythmically with each breath, resembling the way sea-waves come to hug the shore before being pulled back by an invisible force. the scratch-marks from your desperate fingernails are faded red on his shoulders, and he seems so tenderly mellowed as he roams his own dreamworld. you could lap up the sight, eat it up and engrave it into your brain, but settle for acting like a little stalker for just a minute or two, appreciating the sight of peaceful, unburdened sukuna who has his features halfway devoured by the soft embrace of his pillow.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.