#in the pale moonlight obv but he does it all the time just on a much smaller scale

[deeplovelydark]

sisko's ~flaw~ is his readiness to bend the rules. it allows him to successfully navigate situations where less flexible captains wouldn't stand a chance. it also means that his own principles become murky bendable and optional. hundreds of small deals with the devil and you have to very careful to balance on the edge

[nocturne-pisces]

Dirty Sweet

pairing: vampire!bucky barnes x vampire!reader, 40’s!bucky x vampire!reader (mentioned coven leader x vampire!reader)

w/c: 2.4k

warnings: smut, death, misogyny, predatory behavior, stalking(?), blood (obv)

a/n: this is for @cocoamoonmalfoy ‘s Jackolanterns in July Writing Event! I took 5SOS - Teeth as a prompt, but please know that I only listened to the slowed version to get the vibes right. this fic juggles between current and past with italics.

thanks to @branded--with--a--j for beta reading 💚

The tip of your finger traces around the rim of the glass you ordered as a prop. The liquor doesn’t burn like it used to, just sloshes around in your belly like water. Nothing burns anymore.

Time does that to things like you.

You ghost around in nightclubs, order the most expensive drink to give the illusion that you have money, not that you haven’t been hoarding it like a dragon for the last couple centuries. You sit in a VIP booth with your mouth half open and watering for all the curves that warm the air around you. It’s the best kind of edging, starving yourself for weeks only to come to a place like this, your skirt riding up enough to reveal the illusory softness of your thighs, a trap set and waiting for the barflies to take the bait.

You used to be warm. Used to revel in the process, make it quick and painless, send them back to their creator on a wave of euphoria, unaware that they were being culled like deer. You didn’t always see mortals as nothing more than a meal, didn’t always see yourself as the slaughterhouse. Reduce your existence and theirs to nothing more than predator and prey. Hunter and hunted. Fight, fuck, food.

Time does that to monsters like you.

Candelabras cast an orange gold glow upon white linen and pale skin, he looks like a young god set up against a constellation of pillows. All flushed cheeks and warm chest. His eyes are half lidded with lust and good Italian wine, and he watches as a warm Sicilian breeze coasts across your skin. The moonlight from the balcony bathing you in Venus magic. He’s never felt so close to death, his rifle sitting not ten feet away, yet felt so incredibly fucking alive- his heartbeat thumping proudly below his waistline.

The intensity of his gaze raises goosebumps on your shoulders. He mistakes it for a chill.

“C’mere, babydoll, lemme warm you up.”

You turn from the balcony, the bed sheet wrapped around your chest for your modesty. You glide back across the room to the foot of the bed, your fingers dancing over his ankle and up his calf.

“I don’t know if you possess enough warmth.”

Your eyelashes flutter bambi soft and the pace of his heart quickens. He’s never been so captivated. A playful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, his head resting on his shoulder when he shifts his weight up and onto his elbow.

“You could let a poor soldier try.”

The sheet falls, all of your skin bared to him. You crawl to him, catlike smooth, the bed dipping under the weight of your hands and knees. The slope of your spine makes his hands itch, like an artist with a brand new block of clay. He aches to shape it, mold it under his palms, to watch as flesh blooms between his fingers when he grips. He craves to know what his fingertips look like dug as deep in the meat of you as he can get, and you don’t make him wait long.

You throw a thigh over the hinge of his hips, capture his jawline in your grasp, and bring his lips to yours- weaving them together until his whole tapestry is flush red and fighting for enough oxygen to make the next move.

Dancing didn’t used to look like this, hips grinding and sweat dripping. The art of it used to be coy. A strong hand at the bow of a waist, thumb caressing the lowermost rib while skirts twirled in the motion of a spin. Now, it’s all animal. It’s more direct, more forthcoming in what it wants. There are upsides to reducing something to its bare elements.

A man twice your size sinks fingertips into the hip of a woman he doesn’t know, you watch from over your glass as she spins, eyes wide when he tries to bring her mouth to his. She doesn’t want that, pushes at his chest to get away, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders to keep her close.

The hunger claws up your esophagus, canines sharpening to points inside your mouth that you have to coax back down. You stand from your seat and stalk through the crowd to them, swallowing the remainder of the liquid in your glass before you get there.

“Darling, would you grab me another drink? Get yourself one too, have them put it on my tab.”

You feel your influence wrap around her spine, curl tendrils into her spinal cord and connect to her brain stem. The man lets go of her, confusion settling over his face as he watches your ownership take hold. She softens, brings a hand to your face and leaves a chaste kiss on the crest of your cheekbone.

“Of course, lover,” she replies, and you watch the sway of her dress against her thighs as she takes your empty glass back to the bar.

The man crosses his arms over his chest, gazes down at you like he could eat you up. You return it, the thrill of the hunt blowing your pupils wide, he doesn’t understand the danger that he’s in.

“Can I watch?” he asks, and even though you can’t gag anymore, your drink threatens to come up all over his half buttoned shirt. You stifle your disgust, pretend to think for a moment, bite your lip like it turns you on.

“You can participate.” His eyebrow quirks, unbelieving, but he doesn’t stop you when you pry his arms apart and take him by the hand. You take slow steps backward, make sure that he’s committed himself to following where you pull, before tugging him out of the back door of the club and into the dank, deserted alley.

You don’t see your shadow, don’t see how it sticks to you, how it watches you from the darkness. The best predators can mingle with their prey without being noticed, can cut one off from the herd and feast until the belly is full to bursting. Apex predators are the ones you won't see until you’re bleeding down your front from the gaping slit in your throat.

He is the cherubic beautiful Raphael saw when he painted the Sistine Madonna. The smattering of hair across his chest rough under the tips of your fingers as you steady yourself.

“Think I’d be alright dyin’ right here, instead of out there.” He chuckles up at you, like last words from a guillotine, bittersweet like the wine that stains his teeth.

“If only they could all be as lucky as you,” you quip, rolling your hips down into him with a force that rolls his eyes back in his head. He groans, already right on the precipice of a peak under you, his knuckles going white as he holds you in place.

“Slow down, darlin’, I don’t wanna be done with you yet.”

He flips the pair of you, drapes himself over you like the curtains on the four poster bed. The flame warmth of his hand guides your thigh over his hip, the carnal hunger in the pit of his stomach curling his fingers into the expanse of skin. It doesn’t hurt, but you suck a breath in anyway, gyrate your hips into his and grind against the hot length of him.

He sheathes himself inside, the grip of your cunt forcing all the air out of his lungs. He groans, withdraws his pelvis until the head of him rests within you, only to slam forward again, your chest rocking with the motion. He leans down and captures the peak of your nipple in his mouth, suckling it to aching.

The same attention is paid to the opposite, your cries of pleasure ringing Cathedral bells in his head. His mouth comes off your chest with a wet pop, trailing the tip of his nose up your sternum. He smiles against the apple of your cheek, leaving the plush indent of a kiss.

“Let go for me, sugar. Let me feel you.”

You don’t mean to bite down, but your rapture overwhelms you and the fangs that were slowly growing under your top lip ached just as much as the rest of you. Instinctually, you find purchase in the meat of his neck, sucking the blood from him as though your life depends on it.

It isn’t until he doesn’t peel his weight from you, no longer so warm, that you realize you’ve drained him.

The air in the alleyway is sticky and thick with humidity. It clings to your lungs like slime when you shove open the side access door.

The man from the dance floor follows you out of it, visions of dirty, dual alleyway blowjobs from two women he met in a club flitting through his mind. You let him corral you against the brick, let him lean in close and smile. His breath reeks of cigarettes and cheap liquor, like he hasn’t brushed his teeth with the same dedication that he objectifies women. You grimace when your head turns to the side, barely catching the movement behind him.

“Your friend gonna join us?”

Shadows materialize, the eyes of the man pressed against you go wide as his hair is fisted and yanked backwards. The force nearly scalps him as he’s torn from in front of you. He doesn’t have time to react before his head is twisted sideways, the gleam of metal fingers cupping his chin making your eyebrows pinch together.

You’re sweltering. Sweat starts to bead along your hairline from the combination of being too full and his body. Guilt envelopes you like his limp form, the heat dissipating from him slowly.

“No, no, no, no,” you panic, scrambling out from under him. You manage to roll him onto his back, his face paler than it was only minutes ago. You tap his cheek, but he doesn’t stir. You can't detect his heart thumping under his ribs and your own fraying mind is trying to figure out how to fix this before he becomes your first fatality.

The flesh of your wrist tears easily under your teeth, blood not belonging to you welling and pouring over the fresh wound. You thumb open his mouth, drip drops of his own blood back into him like it will sustain his life, but all it does is outline his pretty teeth in copper red.

The body is thrown sideways, crashing into a nearby dumpster with the rest of the garbage. Your eyes roll and your arms cross over your chest, huffing out a breath of irritation.

“I didn’t need a white knight,” you spit, but your savior doesn’t let you get too far from the brick before he’s pressing you back into it.

“Do you have any idea how hard you are to track down?”

His question is almost unheard, your focus trained on the outline of his face, recognition itching at the edges of your brain. You try to push him back, away from you, step out from under his arm, but his strength keeps you in place and sends a myriad of alarm bells ringing. He shouldn’t be stronger than you, no matter what synthetic attachments he had.

“You don’t recognize me. Well, I mean that figures, it’s been about eighty years.” It’s a statement, the playfulness of his tone curling the edges of his mouth up. There’s something there, something in the red tinged blue of his eyes, in the boyish charm of his smile illuminated by the streetlight that makes regret churn in your stomach.

Something you haven’t felt since…

He doesn’t come back. You wait for hours for breath to puff his chest but it doesn’t. Sunlight sizzles at the tips of your fingers, making you hiss and jerk away. You round the bed and tug the curtains closed, gathering up your clothes and dressing. You stop in front of the mirror, wipe the tears from your cheeks and stifle your sobbing.

Your sire warned you this would happen eventually, that you would get so wrapped up in a meal that you couldn’t pull yourself away. You can see the cut of his jaw and the sapphire of his eyes as he stares you down, legs spread wide on the underground throne he’d been ruling since the 16th century.

Still, you resisted, told him that he was a cobwebbed fuck of a monster and stormed from the coven to roam the lush, wine-drenched hills of Europe.

“I killed you,” you stammer, tears starting to well up against your lash line.

“No, no, you didn’t kill me, dove. There were times when I really wished you had—,” he flexes the black and gold of his left hand in front of your face, “but no, you didn’t kill me. You kept me incredibly alive during a part of my life that I should not have survived.”

Your hands find purchase in the leather on his chest, clutching at him as though he’ll disappear if you let go. His eyes drop down your form, where your skirt reveals the illusory plump softness of your thighs. The flesh squeezes under his hand, guiding your leg over his hip and exposing your core to him before he reaches for the other.

It’s a different kind of cold- one that burns you up anyway.

“I’m so sorry.”

You never meant to make him like you, to make that angel from another time a shadow in this one. He presses against you tight, steals the breath you don’t need and smiles down at you with all of that charm you remember.

“I’m not sorry, but if you really want to grovel I will accept an apology in what I vividly remember this body can do.”

Your own sharp canine smile spreads, the ghost of a rapid thrumming of a heartbeat pattering away. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss that’s nearly a century past due. He tastes like sweet copper and your stomach reminds you that you haven’t eaten in weeks.

“If you want me to remind you why you chased me for so long, you’re going to have to let me hunt first,” you pant, carding your fingers through his hair. He sets you down, takes your face in his hands and places one last chaste kiss on your lips. It’s soft, like every cloud in the blue sky you haven’t seen in centuries. Time can’t corrupt angels like him.

“Sugar, that’s foreplay.”

[blurglesmurfklaine]

Cornelia Street (5/9)

A/N: oh my god they were quarantined

yes. It’s one of those fics.

AU, obvs

I’m posting as I go and idk how many parts this is going to be, likely won’t be very long but I literally don’t know what I’m doing and should i be starting yet another WIP? definitely not but fuck it lets fucking go

Title is from T-swizzles Lover album, I’m OBSESSED

Summary: Three years ago, Kurt and Blaine went on a disaster of a date and never quite got off on the right foot. Now, just before they graduate from NYADA, there’s a national outbreak and they’re both self-quarantined in a mutual friend’s apartment.

Read On AO3

On Tumblr: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

In the morning (which is really closer to noon because college), they decide to make breakfast together because according to Kurt, “It just makes logistical sense. Why use more dishes than necessary making two separate meals?”

Of course, Blaine readily agrees. Because logistics. And the best kind of logistics include getting to know Kurt better. The domesticity of it all is strangely… intimate, and Blaine can’t help but note how normal and natural it all feels, as if every morning was meant to start off this way and… Jesus, Sam would be having a field day if he could see in Blaine’s mind right now.

He’s whisking some pancake batter when he remembers his best friend’s promise of snooping. Yeah, he probably needs to do some damage control on that. 

“You uh, didn’t happen to get a text from Sam last night, did you?” he asks, keeping his gaze fixed on the batter to try and downplay his interest in Kurt’s response. 

Kurt shakes his head, shrugs nonchalantly, and  cracks an egg into the pan. “No.” Then he suddenly snaps his head up at Blaine, a little frantic. “Why, did Mercedes text you?”

“Nope,” Blaine says, aware that his response is too quick and voice too high. “I was just curious, that’s all.” He lets out a little sigh of relief and keeps stirring until the muscles in his arm and wrist are exhausted. “How much longer do I have to keep mixing this?” he asks.

“You should be about done, just let me catch up with the eggs.” He gives a little smirk in Blaine’s direction. “Watch this,” he says, and with a flick of his wrist, flips the egg in the pan without even using a spatula.

“Woah!” Blaine goads, visibly impressed. He sets aside the bowl, pulse quickening a little before he asks, “Can you show me?” 

Kurt lifts his head and Blaine is looking into his now vibrant blue eyes (they looked pale green in the dim lighting of the bedroom last night, Blaine remembers, irises wide pools of indigo). The paler boy’s eyebrows lift, just barely. The movement would have gone completely unnoticed if it were anyone else, but Blaine tends to notice everything about Kurt since last night. 

Like how the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window makes his hair a crown of light, dark in the center and almost red at the edges, or how the way his neck curves seems like it could be the perfect place for Blaine to rest his own head, or even trail his lips down.

“Yeah, sure,” Kurt says with a soft smile. He tilts his head to the left, beckining Blaine to come to his side. “Here, take the handle,” Kurt says. Blaine does, and Kurt wraps his hand around Blaine’s, sliding closer and closer until their sides are pressed up against each other, warm and solid.

Blaine’s breath hitches in his suddenly dry throat.

“It’s all in the wrist,” Kurt says, voice low and suddenly quiet. With a quick flick, the egg flips smoothly. He tilts his chin down to look at the slightly shorter boy, but Blaine’s already looking up at him. 

Heat crawls to Blaine’s face at being caught and he quickly turns away, clearing his throat, missing the way Kurt does the same.

“So, my young protégée,” Kurt says banteringly after a moment. “Do you think you're ready to do this on your own?”

“I was born ready.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, taking a step back while Blaine attempts the flip on his own. He hears Kurt stifle a laugh when the egg yolk explodes all over the pan.

“This is so sad…” Blaine begins sarcastically, staring with mock sadness at the mess. “Alexa, play Despacito.”

They both jolt in surprise when a robotic voice responds with, “Playing Despacito by Luis Fonsi from Spotify.”

The slow Spanish guitar intro comes in and Kurt sputters out a laugh, while Blaine practically squeals with delight at the ordeal.

“Oh my god, ha! I forgot they had one of those here,” Kurt manages through his cackling.

They bob their heads a long while the song plays, Kurt adding some sauteed mushrooms and tomatoes to the eggs while Blaine finishes up the pancakes. It must be on shuffle, because the next song that comes on is one Blaine loves, but certainly has different vibes than Despacito.

Smiles in the morning at me Apartment on the second story Strangers in a brand new city Both remembering last night Kitchen table and a bottle of wine The only thing on my mind is you

Blaine starts swaying his hips along to the music, feeling the pull of the strong beats in his chest. “Mmm,” he says, shutting his eyes. “Sara Bareilles is a gift. Her music sounds like waking up on a Sunday morning next to the person you love.”

“I love her, but I haven’t heard this one yet,” Kurt admits.

Blaine stacks the last of the pancakes on a plate, then turns to the other boy, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?” He asks with a playful glint in his eyes.

Kurt looks warily at the eggs in the pan. “Just a second, these will be ready in about two minutes.”

Blaine presses a few buttons on the stovetop. “There, timer is set. The rest of the song is only like two minutes anyways,” He wraps an arm around Kurt’s waist, feeling suddenly confident, and tugs him close. “Dance with me?”

“Oh… okay.”

The way the moonlight flickered in We were stars of some old classic film with

Miss Simone singing Pour some sugar in my bowl baby In the glow of the candlelight We danced all night On the rooftop thinking No one needs to know a thing But Miss Simone No one but Miss Simone

As they move along to the song, Kurt snakes his arms behind Blaine’s back, pulling them even closer.

Blaine reciprocates by leaning his head against Kurt’s cheek, right in the crook of his shoulder, and mumbling along to the words.

How she'd know What a heart sounds like In the glow of this candle on a rooftop in the moonlight

Someday when we're old and grey And sifting through our yesterdays We'll pull that memory from its sleeve Play that song of you and me and

“You have a really nice voice,” Kurt whispers.

“Thanks, I’ve always liked singing. This one time, I even got a whole degree in it.”

Kurt pulls his head back. “No way, me too!” He says teasingly.

They laugh for a second, before Blaine’s looking once again into Kurt’s magnetic gaze. He starts dipping his head in, closer and closer to Kurt as the song plays on.

Miss Simone singing Pour some sugar in my bowl baby In the glow of the candlelight We will dance all night On the rooftop thinking No one needs to know a thing But Miss Simone

The timer goes off just as the song winds down to a close, startling them both. 

In his surprise, Blaine drops his hands from around Kurt’s waist and pulls away.

No one but Miss Simone

“That, uh, that would be the timer,” Blaine mumbles, still staring at Kurt.

Kurt nods in agreement, still looking back as well. “I guess we should serve ourselves breakfast.”

“I suppose we should…”

*

They finish making breakfast and eat at the table. They’re both hungry, so it’s quiet for a while, but Kurt notices Blaine stealing glances every now and then—a goofy smile on his face, but there’s something behind his eyes, like a question begging to be asked.

“What?” Kurt finally pries, unable to keep a laugh from bubbling up because… because he’s really loving the way he feels around Blaine right now, bright and giddy in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Maybe ever.

“Nothing,” Blaine looks down at his eggs, still grinning. “I just… we have a lot in common, and as it turns out, we get along really well. I guess it just makes me wonder where we went wrong all those years ago.”

“Well for starters, you were fifteen minutes late,” Kurt says, but there’s nothing accusatory in his voice, only banter, like the way you would with an old friend.

Blaine scoffs, but Kurt can tell he's not really offended. “I was taking my final for Ms. July! You try telling that woman you’ve got somewhere else to be on her time. I might’ve been late, but at least I was alive. And I passed with flying colors.”

“Hmm, easy to believe, with those Despacito moves.”

“Laugh all you want, but you snapped your fingers at the waiters!” He contests. “The cheesecake is on its way, Kurt, it’s not going to come any faster!” 

“Okay, fair,” Kurt points his fork at Blaine. “You’re not the only one who brought that to my attention and I’ve worked on it... but you ate your salad with a fork and knife. Who does that? It was a house salad, there wasn’t even any meat in it!” 

“What was I supposed to do, put an entire cherry tomato in my mouth like some kind of barbarian!?” 

Kurt has to wipe tears from his eyes and Blaine is silently shaking with laughter. 

Blaine’s eyes are still gleaming when he says, “All that aside, I really, really liked you.”

Kurt stays silent for a second, unsure if he wants the answer to the question he’s been wondering for years. He decides that he does. “Then why did you leave? I went to the bathroom and when I came out, you were gone.”

A deep breath, and Kurt finally gets his answer. “I heard you on the phone that night.”

Oh… 

“I won’t lie, Kurt, I had a crush on you for a long time.” Kurt feels his heart flutter at that revelation. “But everyone knew you and Adam were a thing, and I didn’t have a shot. He was older, leader of the Adam’s Apples, obviously.”

Kurt’s stomach twists guiltily, unsettled, because for god’s sake, he’s known Blaine—really known him—for five days and he’s already so much more than Adam. So much more caring (he asks questions when something is wrong with Kurt, and doesn’t just ignore him until he gets over it), so much funnier and willing to be a goofball in that way Adam never is because he doesn’t believe in “acting like a child” which usually translates to “having fun”.

But even without Adam as a marker, Blaine is out of this world amazing. 

Kurt feels like an asshole for ever making him feel like he wasn’t.

Blaine sighs and continues. “So, when I heard you two were taking a break, I begged Sam to ask Mercedes to set us up.”

Kurt stays quiet, listening intently and trying to push down the guilt in his stomach.

“I um, thought things were going okay… and then you excused yourself for a really long time. I was worried something had happened, so I went to go check on you, and I heard you. Talking to him.”

Kurt remembers that conversation like it was yesterday, even stronger now, because if it hadn’t happened… would he and Blaine be something more than these weird frenemies?

“No,” he’d demanded that night on the restaurant patio. “We said we were taking a break, and you can’t just take that back because you heard I’m on a date. I let you go on plenty. That’s the point of this break. You were the one who wanted to explore your options.” He had used finger quotes even though he knew Adam I didn’t see him.

“I know, Kurt.” Adam said pathetically. “But I felt sick to my stomach as soon as I heard you were going out with someone else.”

“And you think it was a day in the park finding out from Sebastian of all people that you spent the night at his place? You know I can’t stand that guy! And he was so smug about it, too… I like this guy, Adam. I don’t know if I should be telling you that, but he’s nice, and sweet, and I didn’t seek him out just to spite you!”

He’d heard a groan on the other end of the line that at the time seemed romantic, but now Kurt realizes was just frustrated because Adam wasn’t getting his way. “I love you, Kurt.”

He gasped. That was the first time anyone besides his family had said those words to him. He feels like an idiot now for believing them.

“I… I love you, too,” Kurt responded. There was a long silence. “Okay. I’ll make up some excuse to get out of this and meet you at your place so we can talk.”

“I um…” Blaine finishes up, bringing Kurt back to the present. “It was just a huge bummer because I really liked you and I felt like you never really gave me a chance. So I went back inside, picked up my coat, and left.”

Kurt reaches across the table to grab Blaine’s hand. “I… I am so sorry, Blaine.”

“It’s okay,” Blaine shrugs dismissively. “It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

The last thing Kurt expects is for Blaine to actually smile at him—he certainly feels like it’s not a smile he deserves right now—and say, “Well, you’ve got until this quarantine is lifted to make it up to me.”

Part 6