#its boiling underneath their skin

[batfamiliar]

gabrielle is sam winchester-coded

[ozzgin]

Yandere! House Monster x Reader (II)

It’s officially a smutty sitcom: you, the oblivious gamer boyfriend, and the tentacle monster lurking in dark corners.

[First part]

Content: gender neutral reader, monster smut

Do monsters have a sense of humor? This creature seems to be greatly amused by the little "game" you've devised behind your boyfriend's back. Although you don't have much input in the affair, and most of the time you're merely a witness to the events unfolding before you (or in you).

First, there's the mild, inoffensive annoyances. "Babe, did you see my controller? I swear I left it on the couch". Some pranks are harder to swallow than others, such as the occasional lack of Internet. You know exactly when it happens, because you can hear your boyfriend's enraged shouts and rattles. It's always during important matches. No one knows why it happens. The repairmen who cross your threshold can only scratch their heads in confusion, confessing that nothing is out of the ordinary.

Then, the unfortunate coincidences. "How about we have some fun after my game?", the boyfriend will suggest with an anticipative grin. Alas, moments after he stands up, he is overwhelmed by a nauseous feeling. His stomach twirls and throbs, and he curses under his breath. "Some other time, perhaps", he concludes begrudgingly. You see, the creature is very possessive. The only thing that has saved your beloved partner from being torn to shreds already is his crassly comical obliviousness.

The mischief aimed towards the boyfriend is, however, a secondary source of entertainment. Nothing could ever come close to spending time with you. Yet another irony to this ridiculous situation: you haven't been caught yet, despite the rabid clinginess of the tentacled monster.

It just loves surprising you. For example, when you exhale dramatically at the end of the day, relaxing in the bathtub and enjoying your peace. Just as you hear an impatient knock on the door, you notice a familiar dark tendril slithering its way out of the water. You won't be leaving the bathroom anytime soon. "Did you steam yourself over there? You look like a lobster", the boyfriend will remark with a raised eyebrow upon seeing your panting, feverish face. "Y-yeah, I guess so." You limp outside, struggling to hold the towel around your body. Or more specifically, around the many marks left on your skin by hundreds of suckers.

In fact, its shamelessness reminds you of a poorly written erotic scenario, the likes you'd see on some adult website with a clickbait title. How would you name this current setup? You grip the edge of the table, pursing your lips to prevent any moans escaping your mouth. Your boyfriend is, once again, scrolling on his phone, indifferent to your presence. The water boiling on the stove drowns the wet, slippery sounds of the appendages pumping in and out of you underneath the table. “You might want to give it a stir in a moment, or it’ll overflow”, the boyfriend remarks without lifting his gaze. You mumble in agreement, slapping a hand over your mouth. You’re at your limit.

One may be tempted to ask, is this entity bound to its house? You pondered the same question until your recent IKEA visit. You and your boyfriend had been looking for a new wardrobe. "What do you think of this one?", you asked, closing the door and turning around. Your eyes scanned the empty model-bedroom. The jackass had wandered ahead without you. You sighed and were about to go find him, when a cold grip suddenly tightened around your wrist. You winced and snapped your head back. Thick tendrils had made their way out of the closet, tugging you to join them inside. So it can follow you around, you thought, climbing into the cramped space. Between the silent whines and breathy begging, an idea emerges from your dazed mind. New hypothetical video title: mercilessly molested in the IKEA store by monster partner.

[suncoved]

SALTWATER BLUES ! 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂ𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ

CHAPTER ONE — ENDLESS INTERACTIONS!

pairing; childhoodbestfriend!rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary: You return to the outer banks after moving away with your mother at 13, leaving your best friend Rafe, alone and confused with no way out. Now you're back, 6 years later.. and it's an absolute shit show.

series masterlist !

Rafe threw his head back as he snorted his first line of the night, the rush quickly making its way to his brain as his body relaxed. He sniffed more from the intrusion, scanning his eyes over the crowd of people at the party on a normal night in the outer banks.

"My boy knows how to party!" Topper enthusiastically claimed, walking up to Rafe who was sat around the glass table on the balcony.

"Shut up topper" He grumbled in reply, glancing over at the girl following behind his blonde friend. "Rafe, this is Marley. Said she wanted to get to know you"

The girl batted her eyelashes at Rafe, her legs glistening in her very short skirt. "not happening" Rafe replied, preparing the next round of his supply as he waved his hand at the pair in front of him to go away.

"Well, the king has spoken. Sorry Marls, he's been a bit grumpy for well.. always."

Rafe rolled his eyes at Topper's words, not even bothering to watch as the girl walked away begrudgingly.

"When are you gonna move on man, I mean we all loved her but.. she's not coming back." Topper sighed, sitting on the chair next to Rafe. "Shut the fuck up, you don't know the first thing about me and her. " He snapped back, his blood boiling at the mention of you, as it always did.

He was so angry.

So angry that you had left him without a goodbye. So angry that he couldn't hold your hand or cuddle you. So angry he couldn't just have you back.

But what made him the most angry, was that it wasn't angry at all.

He could never be angry at you. All he wanted was you back in his arms, but he knew that was never happening.

And he was yet to make peace with that fact.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

"I've missed you so much!" Kie squealed as she ran into your arms, pushing you back as you giggled and hugged her. "I've missed you too Kie. It's been too long," you replied solemnly, pulling back to look at her face for the first time in years.

"Outerbanks hasn't been the same without you" Kiara replied, squeezing you extra tight as she pulled back. You just smiled in response, taking a deep breath of the fresh Obx air you didn't know you missed so much.

"Well c'mon, we have swimming to do." You giggled, pulling off your shirt and shorts to reveal your bikini underneath, feeling the soft sand between your toes.

You couldn't wait for her as she shimmed out of her clothes, looking at her and smiling before running to the water.

You had only been back in the Obx for a matter of hours, digging through your suitcase to find the first bathing suit you could see before running out of your house.

The feeling of the fresh, clear, water on your skin as you dived under waves was unmatched to anything you had felt before. Like before this, you had never even lived before.

All the worries and panic about coming back home dissipating the second you touched the sea.

You don't know how long you were swimming, but the second you came back to consciousness the sun was setting over the horizon.

As you swam back to the shore, you heard a bustle on the sand in front of you. You narrowed your eyes at the commotion, your feet finding their way to the sand below you as you walked out of the water.

Having only spent about 6 hours back in the Outerbanks, you hadn't yet become acquainted with the nightlife of the teenagers of Kildare.

You heard your name being yelled behind you as you walked up the beach to your towel and clothes, turning around to see Kiara now fully dry and fully dressed.

"Oh my god, you were swimming that whole time? I thought you went home!" Kie gasped as you noticed a red solo cup in her hand.

"I always lose track of time out there. What's all this?" you questioned, looking around at the crowds of teenagers and music pumping in your ears at the once peaceful boneyard.

"Kegger, Wait! C'mon, The boys will be so happy your back!" She enthusiastically replied, pulling you towards the crowds while you were still drying off with your towel.

"Wait Kie!" you gasped, much preferring that she gave you the chance to put on some clothes first.

"Guys! Look whose back" Kiara exclaimed, pulling you out from behind her to see the trio of troublemaking pouges from your childhood.

"Hey, no way! The kook princess is back in town" JJ gasped, pulling you in for a hug as you smiled. "Hey J"

You were never that close with the Pouges, because well you were never in the same circle as them. Though, Pope's dad Heyward knew your father from childhood and was at your house from time to time.

After exchanging hugs with the rest of the boys, they soon went into a conversation about god knows what, letting you have the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

You sighed to yourself as you walked down the beach, attempting to escape the commotion of the Kegger. It wasn't dark yet, so you found yourself sitting in the soft sand, staring at the waves in peace.

You were yet to see or hear of the Cameron boy you had been thinking about your whole life.

Wondering what he had been up to for the last 6 years of your life. Was he in college? What did he look like now? Was he tall, handsome?

You had endless amounts of questions, but you were still undecided if you actually wanted them to be answered.

You brought your legs into your chest as you wrapped your arms around yourself, letting your head rest on your arms as you stared into the horizon.

You looked behind you as you heard voices, watching a girl climb onto a red buoy that had washed up on the shore. You squinted your eyes as you saw a familiar boy lend her a hand to get down.

Topper.

As Sarah looked over the shore from her view, she noticed you sat alone. And i mean, you're someone people never forget, and along with the fact she hadn't stopped hearing about you from her older brother since she could remember.

You hear your name from behind you as you turn, seeing Sarah run up to you with Topper following cluelessly behind.

"Hey Sarah" You sigh, trying to be as enthusiastic as possible but you can't help but crave silence right now.

"What're doing back here, I thought I'd never see you again" She exclaims, leaning down to hug you. "Can't get rid of me that quick"

"Hey Topper" You spoke, watching as he nervously peered at you behind Sarah.

As much as you loved Sarah, you guys were never close. Sure you could have a good conversation with her occasionally, but you were always closer to Topper, because well, where you went, Rafe went.

You watched as someone called Sarah's name, making her turn around and walk towards the voice. Leaving you and Topper alone on the shore.

Instead of following her, he took a seat next to you on the sand.

"We've missed you a lot y'know" He sighed, shuffling closer to you as you turned to him "He's not doing good, at all. He needs you"

You felt a tear making its way down your cheek at the mention of Rafe, turning away quickly to wipe it off your face. "See him soon alright, please"

With his last statement, he got up and left you to your thoughts.

When your mom decided to whisk you away back to the mainland, you didn't only lose your father and all you knew, but the love of your life as well.

You and Rafe were inseparable, and you had always wondered what your life would be like if you never had left.

You looked over the crowd at Kie, who was having fun and laughing with her friends. Deciding against having the whole 'I'm going home now' conversation where you knew she was going to try to get you to stay, you walked the length of the beach back to your house.

You didn't even know how you would go about seeing Rafe again. Were you gonna show up to his house and offer milk and cookies, or hide from him for the rest of your life until you could have plastic surgery to change your face so he couldn't recognise you?

Probably the latter.

You held your shoes in your hands as you walked up the staircase to your room, your dad nowhere in sight, and the house as quiet as it was in your childhood.

You sighed as you flicked the light on in your room, the sky outside now pitch black.

You immediately start pulling off your shirt and shorts which were over your bikini. The mixture of the sand and the still-damp swimsuit making you squirm.

You look over to your balcony and realise your curtains are still open, making the wise decision that you should probably shut them before completely stripping, you walk over to the window.

You reach to each side of the fabric, beginning to pull them into each other before your eyes are cast to the light in front of you from outside.

You look over to the bedroom opposite yours out the window, clothes strewn across the floor, the bed unmade... Oh! and your childhood best friend staring right at you in utter shock.

Shoot, there goes your master plan.

[yawnderu]

MDNI. p in v penetration, hardcore sex, choking, wrestling, punching, biting, nosebleed, scratching, creampie. Keegan calls anyone younger than him ''kid''.

“Give up, kid.” Your body thrashes underneath him, trying to get out of the rough headlock he put you in. Your closed fist slams against his leg multiple times, only making him apply more pressure, not letting you go even when your nails dig deeper and deeper into his skin.

“Fuck you... cunt.” You barely manage to mutter through gritted teeth, black dots appearing in your vision the harder he chokes you. He keeps your neck pressed against his bicep and forearm, flexing the muscle, sickly getting off on the way your loud gasps and whines ring around the training room.

The pressure in your face grows stronger by the second, loud gasps leaving your lips once he finally lets go, pushing your smaller body out of the way.

“If you're struggling that much, this isn't the place for you.” He spits out, clearly wanting a reaction out of you— and a reaction he gets the moment your elbow connects to his face, putting as much force as you can in hurting him, even if you have to play dirty.

Keegan's rough, calloused hand goes up to his nose the moment he feels warmth leaking down and the familiar taste of iron filling his mouth. He lets out a deep chuckle, shaking his head softly and not even bothering to wipe down the blood staining his pale skin, letting it pool around his wife beater.

For anyone else, he'd look oddly unbothered by it, simply looking down at the floor and maybe even regretting being an asshole. For you? You know it's the calm before the storm, annoyance silently boiling inside him, slowly reaching its breaking point.

He licks his blood-stained lips before looking down at you, lifeless blue eyes simply staring for a few seconds, letting the silence linger simply to make you nervous.

Stubbornness and something else brew inside you the moment your eyes drift down, noticing the way his pants are tightening up, the outline of his thick cock showing more by the second. It's a subtle glance before your eyes meet his, yet by the annoying smirk on his lips, you can tell he knows.

You're stuck in a staring competition, refusing to give him the pleasure of letting him intimidate you the same way he does to everyone else. Keegan's stare may seem cold, yet you can see fire dancing in his baby-blue eyes, slowly coming to a breaking point. His lips crash against yours seconds later, rough hands opening your legs wide enough for his burly body to fit between them, his clothed hard cock rubbing against your pussy.

“Fuck you.” You repeat, pure venom in your tone despite the way your lips immediately go back to his. Keegan's tongue wraps around yours as his hand goes down to the hem of his pants, pulling out his cock with ease and laying it down on your stomach.

“Fuck me?” He whispers, letting out a dry chuckle at your vigorous nod. You don't need to look down to realize just how big Keegan's cock is, feeling the weight and warmth of it spreading all over your stomach, not protesting even when he rips your shorts and panties off of you, leaving them hanging on your ankle.

“Yeah... fuck you.” The way you're as stubborn as a mule even when he can see your exposed, sopping cunt almost makes him laugh, yet he doesn't need to be told twice. His leaking tip rubs against your folds, your slick and his precum mixing for a few seconds before he lines himself up, entering your needy cunt with a hard thrust. Your moans and gasps are silenced by his lips, barely even giving you time to get used to his meaty cock before he's slamming into you, shoving himself as deep as possible.

The disagreements you had in the past are slowly being pulled out of your brain with each hard thrust, silently surrendering as your velvety walls clench around him, the lewd sounds of muffled moans and your wet cunt being roughly fucked form a symphony, bouncing off the walls of the empty training room.

“This what you needed? To be fucked stupid by a big cock?” Keegan's sarcastic tone leaves you breathless, another whiny moan leaving your lips when his hips slam faster against yours, his meaty thighs ramming against your ass. His hands grip your waist tightly as he hammers into your needy cunt, short nails digging into your flesh with an intensity born of his own desires.

“Fuck— I'm sorry, kid.” His pathetic excuse of an apology is clearly fake, leaving you confused until you feel his teeth sinking into your shoulder, muffling the deep moans leaving his lips the moment he can feel his muscles tightening up, moving faster and harder inside you. You let out a pained groan, nails sinking deep into his muscular back, dragging them down in an attempt at dealing with the overwhelming sensation of his fat cock hitting your cervix over and over.

Keegan is about to pull out before your legs wrap around his waist, bringing him closer and closer until he lets out a deep grunt, hips stuttering as his cock throbs, shooting endless ropes of thick cum right into your needy, tight walls, making sure to shove himself as deep as possible while your cunt instinctively milks him dry.

His heavy body collapses over yours, trembling with the aftermath of your intense encounter. His heart races in his chest as he basks into the sensation of having empty balls and a warm body underneath him— despite the way your palm is connecting with his ribs harshly.

“Get off of me.” Your protests go ignored, letting out a loud sigh when you hear snores right against your ear.

[fic-over-cannon]

Jason Todd's got hands purpose built for violence. Calloused and scarred from the tools of his trade, he’s used to people shying away from them. Fearing his touch and the wreckage it wreaks. They don’t feel like weapons when you pepper them with kisses or slip your fingers between his. Jason’s hands don’t feel capable of the rage he knows they can impart when he’s dragging rough finger pads over paper thin skin to spark giggles and soft moans. His hands feel like more like his own when they’re wrapped around you.

Jason Todd’s got eyes honed for hunting. They can track a target through a crowd, through darkness, through confusion. He’s got the steady gaze of a sniper, eager for a mark. He’s seen many terrible things (many of his own creation). If eyes are the window to the soul, he’d give almost anything to see himself through your eyes. You see Jason in ways he never has. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen is your smiling face. He sees you and is reminded of all the good still left in the world.

Jason Todd’s got a mouthful of teeth that ache to bite. He’s used to locking his jaws around something until it bleeds, a glimpse of his bared fangs enough to send enemies scrambling. The weight of them heavy in his jaw and nicking his gums. They don’t feel so heavy pressed into the hollow of your throat. His teeth feel less sharp when his mouth meets yours. Jason’s maw becomes less like a gaping wound when you twist it into a grin.

Jason Todd’s got a nose like a bloodhound. Underneath the stink of the city and the rot of its streets, he can pick up a scent with unerring accuracy. Can track a gun shipment gone lost or a wounded foe by the wisps of iron left in their wake. Jason can smell fear in all its forms roiling in his path. You’ve never smelt of fear. With his nose buried in your hair, your shoulder, your sweater, Jason’s world boils down to you. Lungfuls of skin warmed perfume pull him back from the hood and into his own skin.

Jason Todd’s been a body longer than he’s been a man. It’s not a body that’s always been his, either. Sometimes it gets hard to remember where he begins and his ability to be used ends. It’s easier, the remembering, when he’s got something to come home to. A life. A love. The darkness of the grave doesn’t suffocate so tightly when gentle hands call him home. When every look, touch, taste, scent, and sound pulls him back to the skin he lives in. He becomes less of a thing and more of a person.

[johnbrand]

Zamzam's Blessing

With @next-pharaoh

Thomas could not believe he had made it. After toiling through what seemed to be all of Saudi Arabia, he had finally found himself in front of the Zamzam Well. According to the Islamic narratives, the well was a miraculously generated source of water which had opened up thousands of years ago for the son of Ibrahim, Ismaʿil. The legends and lore went on and on, and Thomas could see why. What stood before him was incredible.

Stepping a bit closer to the fount, Thomas could only imagine how silly he must have looked. Some scrawny white tourist, already sunburned after two days barely spent in the desert. Atheist nonetheless; he was certainly not the well’s typical affair. But he had had a passion for worldly monuments ever since he was little, including religiously-affiliated ones. When he had decided to take this journey, he had known it would be difficult, but now Thomas could finally find it worth it.

Smiling, Thomas peered a little farther forward, not noticing his foot catch on the edge of the gate protecting the holy well. With a small yelp, he felt himself lose his footing and tumble directly into the hole. Thomas immediately descended into the hole, each second flying by before splashing into the water. 

Thomas took a quick gulp of air as his panic began to rise. Questions began flying around as if they were bouncing off the well’s walls. How could he have been so careless? Was he going to be able to survive this? Did someone see him fall? Would he be deported? And last but not least: why was he not drowning?

With an awkward blink, Thomas considered that last question again. Timidly, he just barely opened his mouth to relieve some pressure. He was not prepared for his breath to be restored. Hesitantly accepting this realization, Thomas tested a bit more, until eventually he realized he could breathe while underneath the well’s water. It was strange, unsettling, and frankly exhilarating to the non-believer. It was as if he was trapped in a womb.

And like a womb, the water was getting warmer. The panic began to resettle as Thomas realized just how quickly the pool was heating up. The hot water was cooking him, streaming through every hole and crevice it could into his body. Thanks to the smallest amount of light from above, Thomas was able to witness his miraculous transformation.

It started first with Thomas’s skin. The low boil of the water burned him, but instead of leaving reddish scars, it darkened his exterior. Thomas’s skin crisped into a warmer brown, his hair darkened to a rich black, and his facial features subtly shifted to reflect a new masculine, Middle Eastern heritage. As his nose grew wider and eyes inhabited a deep, rich brown, Thomas could not help but emit heartfelt moan underneath the water’s surface.

The masculinization came next, for the well gifted Thomas with the prime body to carry out its will. Broadened shoulders now led to massive arms meant to carry the Qur'an's wisdom. A sturdy chest then traveled down to impenetrable legs to carry the new man across the world to aid in reversion. Larger feet to stomp out the dissension, a virile pouch to spread the Arabian seed. Thomas’s body was built to be an unstoppable Islamic machine.

And finally, his mind would become one with his new mission. In ecstasy, Thomas cried out as his past was rewritten for a new destiny. His old beliefs and ideals dissolved, replaced by a new understanding and acceptance. The atheist wonder that had once fueled his rhetoric was rewritten by Islamic empathy and peace. The passion Thomas once derived from multiculturalism was extinguished, replaced with an appreciation for full reversion.

As his transformation settled in, the well’s water level began to rise. Thomas’s metaphorical womb was ready to give birth to its newest disciple. The warm embrace rushed around him as he was pushed up and up, his magnificent body adapting to the masterful current. As his final change was instituted, the water exalted its creation to the top, leaving the Arab man dry beside the well.

“Ah, I thought I heard the well’s waters again,” a gravelly voice chuckled. “It had been a while since anyone was blessed.”

From the other side of the well stood an old janitor. The rest of the exhibit was empty, suggesting that the historic site had been closed for a while now. The janitor came around the fount and helped the sturdy Arab man up, leading him to a small room off to the side of the exhibit.

“What’s your name, brother?” the janitor asked.

“Tariq,” the Islamic disciple answered with the utmost clarity. “What just happened?"

“The well blessed you” the janitor replied, now searching through a drawer. "I thought it was fairly obvious."

Looking upon himself, Tariq was surprised to have not noticed earlier that he was bare besides a pair of underwear. By its branding, he knew the janitor's words were true.

“You can have these.” The janitor tossed a pearly white thobe to Tariq. “Now go out, you know your mission.”

[some-bunniii]

My Charming Red Savior [5]

・❥ You make a deal with Alastor, uh oh?

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |

x: i actually enjoy alastor’s room a lot, esp that little pocket dimension he’s got going on. thought we’d take a chapter and play around with it!

~ 6.1k words

When you stepped into Alastor’s room, the last thing you expected to see was the opposite wall divulging into some swampy void of tall, dark trees as fog rolled across the grass. You swore you could even hear the faint sounds of bullfrogs calling across the flooded expanse.

A bayou in the middle of the hotel? Alastor must have done this, no doubt. Stopping just past the threshold to the large room, you pointed a questioning finger towards the swamp. 

“What is that…?” 

“Just a place to test my powers,” Alastor brushed past you, and the soft, orange lights nearby flickered to life as he entered beside you, “Somewhere the consequences of my actions won’t affect the outside world.”

“Consequences?”

“Correct,” Alastor seemed to be enjoying educating you on magic and what he was capable of, as he continued to undo his coat near the doorway as you explored, “The limits of my powers continue to expand, and anyone with a good head on their shoulders would do well to understand the potential risks involved when playing around with demonic forces. This is a sanctuary I can do that without causing chaos inside the hotel… and a quaint little view as well.”

“Is it real?” Your gaze skimmed across old black-and-white photos of demons you didn’t recognize.

“An illusion carefully crafted with years of work. I’ve fine-tuned it to display scenes closest to my memories from before.”

“It must remind you of home,” you said softly, eyes tracing an alligator skeleton nailed to the wall, a string of small, flickering lights snaking around its ribs and up its tail. 

Even if Alastor never mentioned it without a little prodding, it seemed as if his old home on Earth was something he continued to keep close to him. He still had a passion for music, for southern food, and his drive to keep everything the way it was only further displayed his fondness towards his life on earth. What wasn’t there to miss when you’d end up in a place like this for eternity?

“Indeed,” Alastor nodded slowly, and you watched his signature red suit slip slowly down his back. Underneath, a crimson dress shirt shimmered softly in the ambient light. Thin, leather straps hugged tightly across his chest and back, before wrapping around his shoulders for one and down his sides to latch tightly on his dress pants. 

The chest suspenders accentuated his slenderness, shaping the pointish frame of his suit to lovely lines like the noticeable curve of his hips. His thin, feminine waist was as prominent as ever with the straps keeping his shirt nestled tightly against his skin, revealing a more sophisticated figure than what his tuxedo suit had to offer.

Wowie.

You prayed Alastor would turn around to face you, only so you could see how yummy he looked from the front while he placed his signature red coat onto the hanger next to the door. You struggled to keep your eyes up as they traveled farther and farther down his firm back until—

Wait, a second. Was that small, dark red tuft of fur that was nestled against the small of his back, actually what you think it is? 

It jutted out from the top of Alastor’s pants, relaxed against the tight fabric. As the demon walked towards the bookshelf, arm raising towards a vintage radio, it swished cutely behind him. You zoned in on the ball of fluff, mouth slightly agape.

TAIL!

Heat instantly crept onto your cheeks, your fingers twitching, itching to reach forward and wrap your fingers around the plush fur. Alastor’s tail looked as soft as his ears, and that made your face only boil hotter as you imagined how his hair must feel similar. The thought of burying your face in him like a pillow made you smile dopely, before the realization of what you were thinking made you clamp your lips into a thin line.

Smacking a hand over your face, you tried to hide your embarrassment as Alastor moved a few feet further away, completely oblivious to your flustered figure ogling him.

What was wrong with you?! Here you were supposed to be helping him with his wounds but instead you were too busy drooling at how pretty he was!

Alastor’s tail was much more reactive than his ears, and as his fingers fussed with the radio dial, the increasingly audible jazz tune that began to waft through its speakers had that tuft of fur beginning to rise. White peaked from his underfur, as it slowly lifted in a silent expression of pleasure from the demon, as the music began to pour from the radio crystal clear.

You could understand why he was so intent on keeping it hidden underneath his suit. It didn’t seem like Alastor had complete control of his tail, and there was no doubt he saw it as a ‘weakness’ that other powerful demons could use against him somehow.

You thought it was adorable, and somehow, you’d convince Alastor of that too. 

A gentle jazz beat with words you didn’t recognize wafted through the air, as Alastor turned to face you with a satisfied grin. Your eyes instantly shot up to meet his own, but not in time for the demon to notice your strange, heated demeanor and the way you cracked a quick, innocent grin. 

He definitely caught you staring at his ass, and now you had other things to stare at with how snug that leather strap was across his upper body, and the way it seemed to only make his chest puff out even more. You definitely weren’t having a hard time controlling your gaze as Alastor sidled to the desk, a playful glint from his monocle as his eyelids lowered slightly. 

“Find something of interest?” He hummed, cracking a charming smile as he slid his claws gently across the oak desk’s surface, tracing lines downward until he landed at the top drawer. Pulling it open as you averted your gaze, eyes searching for anything of interest.

“Why, yes,” you nodded, putting a hand to your chin in dramatic thought as your attention landed on the bookshelf Alastor had just moved away from, the rows of books on full display, the titles unreadable in the dim light.

“You love to read, unsurprisingly.” You smiled as Alastor pulled a small medical kit from the drawer, turning to face you slowly, “Do you have a preferred genre?” 

“Murder mysteries are a favorite of mine,” He nodded, striding over to the twin vintage cushioned chairs that sat next to the fireplace, “The fear and the adrenaline that spikes through the protagonist as they try to find the killer before the killer finds them, a thrilling hunt from both sides.”

Alastor giggled at that, placing a hand to his mouth as if recalling a fond memory as you slowly joined him next to the fireplace. It flickered with bright green light, licking at the metal railings keeping its size in check as Alastor stood beside the chair, gesturing you to sit.

“You’re the one injured,” you frowned, plopping down into the chair as you took the medical kit from his free hand, “It should be me doing these things for you.” 

“Manners don’t go out the door just because there is blood present, I am still a gentleman,” Alastor replied with a waggle of his finger, before he took a seat near you, his claws tapping against the chair’s arm rhythmically with the jazz music. 

The warmth from the fire had your eyes drooping slightly, exhaustion tickling the back of your scalp. Even though it was technically still early afternoon, almost getting blown up multiple times, meeting the king of Hell who also saved your life, and being in the center of the two power demon’s bickering had drained you. 

Alastor’s room was very serene, the soft jazz lulling you into a tranquility that had you sinking further into the chair. The deep brown, neutral tones of the antique furniture that framed the room, along with the orange lights that flickered softly along the walls were easy on your eyes, and you smiled softly as you unclipped the medical case’s lid and opened it slowly.

With invisible hands, Alastor’s chair moved forward without effort, scraping softly against the dark red carpet beneath before stilling right as his legs were about to brush against your own. Skimming through the contents of bandaids, your attention landed on packaged tiny alcohol wipes and thin white gauze. Placing the two items on your lap, you leaned over and placed the medical kit on a side table nearby. 

Lifting a hand towards Alastor, you beckoned him forward and he slid his fingers into your palm. He leaned forward as you pulled his hand into your lap, one elbow against the arm of the chair, a hand cupping his chin as he watched you tenderly dab his cuts with the alcohol wipe. The smeared blood against his skin was cleaned off as you worked, and Alastor only silently judged you on the strange, affectionate behavior.

Why would you care so much about a few scratches on his hand, when it meant nothing in the long run. It's not like the rose was made out of angelic steel, yet you fretted simply because he could still feel the sting of the thorns on his tender skin.

For any other demon, Alastor would have slapped them across the face with a tentacle for suggesting to look after him in this way. Why would he reveal any kind of weakness to someone who could use it against him, or view him as what, fragile, delicate? That was not something The Radio Demon could have for his image.

Except, your intention was nothing but pure since the first time Alastor had met you. Even Charlie, the sweet and naive woman he’d come to grow fond of, still had her reasons for treating Alastor with great kindness. He was beneficial to her hotel’s success, and as long as he felt welcomed, he’d help her turn her dreams into reality. Since he began climbing the political ladder of Pentagram City, anytime someone wanted his presence was to use him. 

You, on the other hand, had no ulterior motive. Even when you learned from your friend the terrible things they claim Alastor committed, your curiosity and kindness towards him never faltered. 

You had never asked for his help, even going so far as to deny his assistance when it came to putting that snobby boss of yours back in line. Every time the two of you had crossed paths, it had been him initiating the meeting, him making the first moves for you to notice his presence, him seeking you out. 

And now, even seeing Alastor in any kind of vulnerable state, your soft and gentle demeanor didn’t waver, didn’t dull knowing he wasn’t a second-to-none overlord that could take on any threat as he’s so valiantly demonstrated before.

You didn’t value him any less for his injuries, and in truth, your image of him only improved knowing he was just a man in demon form. Someone with insecurities, human emotions like pain and jealousy, and a good eye for flora.

Except, Alastor wished you’d be paying less attention to his grievous wounds, and instead of focusing on the question you were rudely interrupted trying to answer this morning. 

“Come to a decision on your stay at the hotel?” 

Your hands halted in mid-air, the gauze between your fingers while you had been finishing up wrapping his fingers with the white tape. You had been thinking this whole time about different haircuts to subtly introduce Alastor to improve the only slightly lacking feature on his figure.

“Well–I, um, about that…” you started, grimacing at the way the words fell out of your mouth were scrambled under his intense gaze, “I have been thinking, but I mean, there’s a lot to think about. First off, while I believe Charlie really has something going on here with the hotel… I don’t think I fit the criteria.”

“Of course you do!” Alastor chuckled, as if you had just said the silliest thing to have graced his ears, “If a harlot and that slithering simpleton have a chance at leading a virtuous existence, then I'd say the cards are in your hands for that too!” 

You were about to open your mouth, before he leaned back into his chair, slipping his bandaged hand out of your grip and back to his side to inspect it carefully. 

“And, I’m quite confident you could find a more fulfilling job here at the hotel, instead of under that spineless wretch of a man,” Alastor continued, reclining back into the chair as he tilted his head in thought.

“Probably…”

“Not to mention, complimentary room and board? My, you’ve got a very tantalizing offer right in front of you, any sorry bloke off the street would be jumping at the opportunity you’ve been given.”

Was that true? Alastor was really selling this to you, and you reached up a hand to soothingly scratch your neck as you thought. Would it be so bad to stay here? 

Your thoughts from earlier this morning replayed in your head. There wasn’t anything specifically keeping you from denying the offer. You worked a dead-end job around people you were uncomfortable with, the place you were renting was small and falling apart, and you had nobody holding you back. Your friends were there, but weren’t close in your circle. Which kind of meant you didn’t have a circle… except these new demons at the hotel. You were warming up to them, and they weren’t too bad.

Did you really have a shot at redemption? Were you worthy of eternal happiness?

What if having such made you a laughingstock, what if joining these people made you a target of Heaven? That wouldn’t be good, and you were a nobody with no power that 

“Al…” You sighed with a groan, placing your head into your hands. Why did you have to be so indecisive?!

“Why don’t we make a deal?” Alastor's smile cracked wider, the curves of his lips becoming sharper as an unreadable expression crossed his eyes.

“A deal?”

“Just a simple thing,” He smiled innocently, leaning  “No contract or handshake necessary, I believe you are trustworthy to hold up your end with just words.”

God, he was super close to you now, practically nose to nose as he looked at you expectantly. A playful glint shimmered in his red monocle, and your breath hitched at his proximity. 

“What kind of deal?” You finally whispered, heat creeping onto your cheeks.

“You want to learn my interests, want a peek into my life above, hm?” He inched closer to you, smile widening as you leaned backward, “If I take you directly to the source, show you life as I lived it, then you must move to the hotel and stay for one month.”

‘Source’? What did he mean by that? And, if you agreed, you had to stay for a month? But, he was going to open himself up and share his past life with you, which meant a lot to you. 

His eyelids lowered again, something you had noticed earlier when he caught your ogling. Were they lowered in amusement? Some amateurs attempt at bedroom eyes? You could hardly think straight with how close he was to you, a hundred routes of where things could go next skimming through your mind.

Maybe that was just a delusion of yours, wanting Alastor to show more interest than just pretty flowers and a ring that he seemed to sport on you just for show. You barely knew the man, but his kindness and, oh, and that voice… you were just so impatient.

Alastor wasn’t a big physical romantic, you could tell. Which meant you needed to take things slow, respect his space and his pace. He flustered so easily when you complimented him, obviously new to the whole romantic thing in general, and that only made you want to do it again.

Which meant, it would be you that would have to make some moves this time. Even if they were small, it seemed any act of affection would send the deer demon into a tizzy. A kiss on the cheek? Too brazen. A flower crown for his antlers? A little too cottage-girly for him, perhaps.

“I enjoy your excitement at my proposition,” Alastor broke you from your thoughts, as he smiled widely at your dopey expression again, “But I’ll need you to agree with words, darling.”

You really needed to learn to keep your facial expressions in check, it was embarrassing how easily Alastor had been able to catch you mid-daydream so easily. 

“...Okay.” You finally whisper, and energy crackles inside the room right as the words leave your lips.

“Wonderful!” Alastor beamed, rising from the chair in one smooth motion, his good hand wrapping around your forearm suddenly before pulling you up beside him.

Blinking, you felt him slip an arm around yours before tugging you across the room. The jazz from the radio seemed to increase in volume the closer the two of you stepped closer to the pocket dimension a few feet away.

You halted right at the edge, the croaking from the frogs, and distant calls of the owl grew louder as you lifted your head towards the looming trees. The sky was starless, a large, dark blue shadow masking the scene at night as the fireflies danced. What was Alastor planning?

“Just a moment, I need to grab my cane,” he left your side, walking back to the fireplace as your gaze stayed frozen on the swampy atmosphere ahead. 

You leaned forward, trying to get a better look around the weird little pocket-dimension. Even the air inside changed, you could practically taste the humidity in the air as it began to stick to your forehead.

Did the grass still feel like grass, even in a powerful illusion like this? You had no idea Alastor was capable of this kind of magic, especially such vivid scenery. Slowly, you lifted a foot over where brown wood melted into greenery, still hesitant to touch the strange grass.

You held a breath as you crossed the threshold, the sounds of grass crunching beneath as you walked into the wetland. You could feel the water in the soil squelching as you walked slowly, towards nowhere in particular as you twisted your head at the unfamiliar area. 

Thick, swampy vines curled around large trunks and snaked into deep, mucky waters. The way was illuminated by the flickering bodies of fireflies as they danced almost rhythmically to the soft jazz in the background. Sometimes, the surface of the water nearby would ripple, and you swore the shadow of a long body of something stalking underneath the surface passed right next to you.

When you turned to face the line of trees in the distance, two pairs of glowing, yellow eyes met yours. A silhouette of a four-legged creature, tall with branching antlers that tickled at the leaves above its head. The two of you locked eyes for a few moments, and you opened your mouth slightly in awe as it stood elegantly before you.

“My, you are quite a wanderer!” A chipper voice exclaimed behind you, and you pivoted with a yelp to face the static-laced voice smiling softly toward you.

“This place is really amazing,” you laughed, twisting your head to find the buck had disappeared, “It actually feels like we’re back on Earth, almost.”

“It gets better,” Alastor hummed beside you, extending a hand that you accepted with gentle fingers as he grasped you softly.

“Well, how do I look?” He leaned closer to you, puffing his chest slightly as you skimmed across his pretty figure.

Your hands tentatively lifted to adjust the slightly angled black bowtie near his collar, and Alastor only watched you carefully as you fixed it back into place. 

“Perfect,” you sang with a smile, and he mimicked your expression with glee.

“Always a charm, my doe.” Alastor winked, before he slid his arm through yours once more and stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside you. 

His smile was playful, as he glanced at you standing tense beside him. You had a sneaking suspicion he was going to teleport you again, or do something magically stomach-twisting that had you wishing for a paper bag on the side.

“Now, close your eyes…” 

You followed his instruction, squeezing them shut with a deep breath.

You barely had time to exhale before the wind around you turned to a deathly chill, and the humidity was zapped from the air as that familiar feeling of weightlessness had you tightening your hold on Alastor.

You felt him shifting beside you, although you couldn’t imagine into what as your eyes stayed shut tight, cold gripping at your shoulders. It felt like the ground was alive, transforming right beneath you with barely a tremble as you held your breath tightly. 

Then, your ears popped and you felt the grass beneath your feet shift to firm, rocky pavement. There was music, jazz again, but this time the words were audible as women's voices sang with the bumping rhythm. 

‘I’m just a little Jackie Horner,’

‘Since I met my sugar cane,’ 

“Are you going to keep your eyes shut the entire time?” Alastor prodded beside you, his tone laced with amusement as you relaxed slightly at the sound of his voice. 

Taking a deep breath, you crack an eyelid, the darkened atmosphere easy on your vision as you slowly open your eyes to reveal a scene straight out of a history book. 

You were standing in the middle of a cracked, paved road, illuminated by a stretch of tall lamps that cast warm orange tones across the street. Buildings with tall shutters for windows beckoned an invisible finger for you to follow, as spicy, southern food hit your nostrils and the sounds of riled entertainment reached your ears.

‘I left a light lamp on that old corner,’

‘For the moon in lover’s lane,’ 

They all held porches that spanned the entire front of the house-sized buildings. Darkened, silhouetted figures laughed above your head, as you stood there in awe. 

There were a few cars parked on the sides of the street, with thin, flimsy wheels reminding you of distant times when vehicles were just starting to reach the public eye. 

It really felt like you had stepped into the past, everything reminisced to a world before TVs, social media, and WiFi. When newspapers and radios ruled supreme, people came together and danced on the streets instead of dancing behind the camera on silly apps. 

‘When I take my sugar to tea,’ 

‘All the boys are jealous of me,’ 

“Welcome to New Orleans in Roarin’ Twenties!” Alastor beamed beside you, gesturing to the long row of storefronts, the air humming with lively energy and pulsing with vibrant rhythms of tunes long forgotten. 

You jumped at the sound of a baritone horn blaring from beside you. A steamboat filled with flickering lights and singing, boisterous voices chugged past you, its large wheel churning as water cascaded from the paddles. 

A figure turned to you, masked in shadows before they raised an arm and waved across the water towards you. Your lips curved wider with a smile, before lifting a cautious hand and returning the gesture.

‘When I take my sugar to tea,’ 

‘All the boys are jealous of me,’ 

You felt someone bump into your shoulder, another one of those mysterious figures that filled the street. 

“‘Scuse me, miss,” the stranger tipped his hat apologetically to you, bowing slightly as he brushed by.

‘So I never take her where the gang goes,’ 

‘When I take my sugar to tea,’

You twisted your head to finally get a good look at the strangers around you, before your eyes widened at the sight of a doll-like man, his mouth sewn into a wide smile. Black buttons glinted at you from where his eyes should have been, as the man placed his hat back on and turned away. 

You didn’t have time to process the sight before Alastor was pulling you down the street, a live band played outside one bar, the paint mashing keys to a much faster rhythm as two women swung each other across the sidewalk with laughter and the clicking of heels. 

Alastor pulled you along until the two of you stopped at a bakery storefront. Shadowed puppets flowed around you, as your eyes landed on a steaming plate of deep-fried goodness sitting patiently on a table right outside the doorway. 

“Beignets,” He hummed, handing you a pastry, “A cultural classic in these parts.”

‘I’m a rowdy dowdy, that’s me,’

It reminded you of a tiny pillow, sugar coating its surface as you squished the crunchy delicacy before lifting it to your lips.

Taking a bite, the warmth of the bread bloomed across your body as the food traveled down your throat. Your tongue reached out to swipe at the leftover sugar hanging on your lips, as you smiled with pleasure. 

‘She’s a high hat baby, that’s she,’

Alastor only watched you with a soft expression, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watched you fill your mouth.

“You seem to be enjoying that,” he remarked, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

You nodded enthusiastically, your mouth still partially occupied by the delicious treat. “It’s amazing! I’ve never tasted anything like it before,” you exclaimed, your words muffled by the pastry.

“Well, there’s a lot of things you have yet to experience, my doe!” He sang, before tugging you along with a static-laced chuckle.

As the two of you strolled down the bustling street, your eyes caught a small crowd surrounding a man in a tall, black hat as he smiled charmingly at the audience.

The magician, dressed in a dapper suit adorned with intricate patterns, stood before a small crowd, his hands moving with precision and finesse as he dazzled onlookers with his feats of magic.

Curiosity piqued, you and Alastor paused to watch the spectacle unfold. The magician’s fingers danced across a deck of cards with effortless grace, manipulating them in ways that seemed impossible. Cards vanished into thin air only to reappear in unexpected places, leaving the crowd gasping in amazement.

Alastor only glanced at you unamusingly, and you laughed softly at his facial expression. Magic card tricks were nothing in comparison to what he was capable of, and you were sure he could wow this illusionary crowd in a heartbeat.

The two of you turned, halfway down the street now, as Alastor pointed at a few different sights. He even introduced you to instruments you’d never heard of before as the two of you continued on. 

“Have you ever performed?” You turned to him, another southern treat in your hand as you kept pace underneath the gas-lit lamps above. 

“On the streets? No, not like this,” Alastor shook his head, his nails clicking against his cane rhythmically with the music wafting from a bar nearby as the two of you stood near the edge of the river. 

You had gotten your hands on a small cup of Duchess Potatoes, a light, creamier version of the classic spud. Placing a small spoonful in your mouth, you swirled the flavors across your taste buds as you watched Alastor stare out at the open expanse of water.

“Once in a while, I’d stop at an old friend of mine’s jazz club, and on the nights I had a few extra drinks in my system, I'd lend my voice to the flappers as they danced.” 

“That sounds like fun!”

“It was,” He nodded, recounting the memories with amusement, “Mimzy would always tease me that I'd make better use as a flapper than a radio host. Sometimes, I think about life if I would have 

You laughed softly, imagining such a scene of Alastor dancing in a high skirt and fishnets. 

It wasn’t until the doors to a bar at the end of the street burst open, and large instruments were dragged through the threshold and out into the streets. Men gathered, readying their musical weapons for another nightly show as onlookers turned their attention to them. 

“Do you hear that?” He asked with a large, devilish smile as he turned to face the small crowd gathering. Couples glided in, teasing each other as they paired around the pianist and his band of stringed instruments. You watched his ears twitch slightly, twisting towards the rising noises.

“It looks like they are all going to dance!” You replied next to him, and Alastor turned to see interest gleaming in your gaze. He watched you for a few moments, before his crimson eyes landed on a trolly that was moving its way down the large street and towards the band.

You felt fingers lace around your wrist, and the gentle tugging from beside you as you met Alastor’s mischievous gaze.

“Let’s make sure we don’t miss it, then!” He winked, before he pulled you towards the lumbering vehicle. 

With wide eyes, you watched Alastor take a running start and gracefully leap onto the back of the trolley, hanging tightly to the railing as he beckoned for you to join.

You watched for a moment, before taking a deep breath and running to catch up with the trolly. Laughing, you reached out a hand to grasp Alastor’s as you closed in on the back of the vehicle.

You felt a sizzle of magic drag you an inch forward, and your fingers laced with Alastor’s as he pulled you beside him. He snaked one hand securely around your waist as you leaned out from the side of the vehicle, the wind whipping against your face as you watched the street lights flicker past. 

“I used to time myself on how fast I could make it on,” Alastor’s voice broke you from your awe, and you turned your head to meet his gaze, “I’m not sure if I've improved since my younger days.” 

You only smiled softly, the proximity of his touch hot on your mind, but you didn’t speak a word as the trolley continued on its path, the bar’s lights flashing with life as you beelined towards it. 

The trolley was fast, as it sped by the large steamboat, which honked as if in greeting to the passing vehicle. The trolley replied with a jingle of its own, before the boat disappeared farther down the river.

The trolley began to slow a few feet from the band, which you were thankful for, unsure if you had the physical form to tuck and roll successfully had you needed to make a quick exit.

Alastor landed on the pavement with a thump, twisting his grip so he could help you down with both hands firmly placed at your sides. 

“Let’s hurry before we miss it!” He sang, before pulling you along towards the crowd. The pianist thrummed the keys, inciting the dancers to twirl faster and they were lost in a hypnotic bustle of bodies fluidly maneuvering against each other. The sounds of shoes hitting pavement echoed along with the drumming beat, twisting in a tune of its own creation as you and Alastor moved closer.

But, why did it look like he was going to pull you in the center? Weren’t the two of you just going to stand back and watch? 

You didn’t have time to answer your own questions before you were in the center of the dancing couples. You froze with the spotlight on you, the jazz ringing in your ears as your shoulders softly pumped to the music.

Alastor took your hands carefully, his legs beginning to move in practiced motion as you stood there awkwardly.

“I can’t dance!” You squeaked. 

“It’s the Charleston, darling!” His voice cut through the romping rhythm, sending you a charming grin as he began to move his feet, “It’s not too hard, just follow my lead!” 

Taking a deep breath, you tried to steady your nerves as you focused on Alastor’s movements. His feet moved with precision and fluidity, his body swaying effortlessly to the beat of the music. You tried to mimic his steps, clumsily at first, but with each passing moment, you found yourself growing more confident as you fell into sync with his rhythm.

As the music swirled around you, you lost yourself in the dance, allowing Alastor to guide you with gentle precision. His hands were warm and reassuring against yours, his touch sending shivers down your spine as you moved together in perfect harmony.

The sounds of shoes hitting pavement echoed in time with the drumming beat, creating a hypnotic melody that seemed to envelop you in its embrace. The world around you faded away as you focused solely on the dance.

With each step, each turn, you felt yourself letting go of your inhibitions, allowing the music to flow through you like a river. You spun and twirled with glee, lost in the intoxicating energy of the moment, a smile spreading across your face as laughter bubbled up from deep within your chest.

As the song reached its climax, you and Alastor moved as one, your bodies intertwined in a symphony of movement and sound. In that fleeting moment, there was no past or future, no worries or doubts – there was only the here and now, the exhilarating rush of the dance, and the feeling of Alastor’s touch against your skin. 

As the music faded into the night, you found yourself breathless and exhilarated, your cheeks flushed with exertion and excitement. You turned to Alastor with a grin, your eyes shining with newfound confidence.

“I can’t believe I just did that!” You exclaimed, the thrill of the dance still coursing through your veins. Alastor chuckled softly, his gaze warm and affectionate as he tilted his head towards you. 

“You were marvelous, my dear,” he replied, his voice filled with pride. “But then again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone as extraordinary as you.”

You returned the smile, a breathless laugh escaping your lips as you swayed next to him. The music was beginning to die, the scene slowly falling away as the grass began to replace the tiled, stone pavement under your feet. 

Never did you imagine you’d find yourself dancing near glistening waters, eating the delicacies that the human world once had to offer. 

Never did you imagine, Alastor would be such a good dancer! And, dancing with you, no less! 

“I think my hunger for information has been quenched, for now,” you smiled playfully, eyes locked onto Alastor as the world around you shifted. 

“Good,” Alastor smiled satisfactorily, before a mischievous glint reflected through his monocle, “Now… I believe it's time to hold up your end of the deal.” 

Right. The part where you had to move into the hotel. One month. Not a year, not forever, just one month. Couldn’t you decide by then? 

Yes, you could. You could come to a decision now, honestly, but something else was itching at the back of your mind. An act of affection that would no doubt get a reaction from the demon in front of you. 

“I think you’re onto something…” You nodded slowly, pulling Alastor's hand toward you with a sly smile.

Alastor’s eyebrows furrowed at your behavior, as his fingers lifted closer and closer towards your lips. 

With gentle reverence, you pressed a soft kiss to each of his fingertips, your lips lingering against his skin for a moment longer than necessary. Alastor’s breath caught in his throat, a startled look crossing his features as he watched you with wide eyes.

Finally, the roles had reversed. 

For a brief moment, the world seemed to stand still as you held his hand in yours, your lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. The touch of your lips against his skin sent a fire igniting inside Alastor, one he was struggling to contain. 

A flush of color spread across his cheeks, a rare display of vulnerability that took you by surprise. His usual composed demeanor faltered for just a moment, revealing the depth of emotion hidden beneath the surface.

“Y-you…” Alastor stammered, his voice barely above a whisper as he searched for the right words. But before he could find them, he was interrupted by the sound of laughter echoing in the distance, the moment broken by the world slowly shifting around you.

Clearing his throat and regaining his composure, Alastor withdrew his hand from yours with careful movements. 

“Well, I suppose we should be getting your things,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. But the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed the lingering effects of your gesture.

Behind him, the fireplace illuminated the non-magical side of Alastor’s room, the vintage clock displaying arms that had barely moved an inch since you left on your little adventure. 

“Seems so,” you replied with a honeyed tone, batting your eyelashes at him as he adjusted his bowtie with clumsy fingers.

If you had looked down while flustering the poor man, you’d have noticed his tail high, white fur on full display behind him. Instead, you brushed past him and back into the confines of normalcy.

awwww man, we made it, alastor finally has his girl staying at the hotel! and a lil kissy kiss :3

i hope you guys could understand what was going on lmao i spent like an hour or two looking up pictures of new orleans, southern food, and steamboats 😂

thank you with your patience on this part, have a great day! 🤍

tags 1/2 🏷️

@the-tortured-poet @anonymousewrites @coleisyn @froggybich @chewbrry @watchinthestarz @mechanicalmari @luxmessorem @kottenox @cherry-cola-100 @the-shark-named-sharon @rae-pottah @just-trash-yeah-thats-it @corpsebridenightamare @pweewee @nijiru @ourfinalisation @anuttellaa @nonetheartist @bunnypeew @cryptidghostgirl @hxzbinwrites @lunaramune @enigmatic-blues @thytorturedpoet @vanhelsingsbigtoe @mixplara @blue122 @zardward @loser-bby @sirens-and-moonflowers @diaouranask @luzzbuzz @theredviolets @the-attention-whore @girl-nahh-two @moonmark98 @asianfrustration13 @fairyv-ice @missam @beezgobuzzbuzz @valentique @dory-98 @mo-0-o @willow404 @karolinda007-blog @nightreverie @luujjvi @amoraneuro @kimmikreates

[trulyumai]

Landing a Blow

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler x Reader

Synopsis; The tarnished invaded his keep, Messmer on the brink of defeat, thinks of his wife.

But wait, isn't that her pushing towards him and the Elden Lord ?

Warnings: Blood, Fighting, Violence, Anger.

A/N: Wooo boy! enjoy :)

Read with my Messmer playlist ! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4Lv2RUNKH2voR45QP07ryd?si=WjtWV47iSiywnT7JhADyUg&pi=u-iz0Wfu53T36-

“Gah- Ah,” 

The tarnished, as if to mock the legend of flames, stood proudly above him; with his weapon pointed downward towards Messmer, ready for the final strike, once and for all sealing their prophecy of lordship. 

He followed the roads, the soldiers all the way to the darkened castle. And now, with the last standing relative of the grace; he could begin his reign. For only him could be Elden Lord.

“To fall- to such a- an indictment upon light; a curse to smother beneath mine own heel,” Messmer gritted out, blood falling off in rhythm off his temple and with teeth bared spat red at the man. His vision blurred, trying not to groan; he focused- the figure in front of him was too shaky for his liking, black dots entered his view.  

His opponent said nothing, with a calm but eerie facade, the tarnished raised his sword above Messmer. It shined against the rising fire cascading the surrounding walls. 

He couldn't believe it- to die by such indecent hands? 

Despicable, what would his family think, 

His followers,

His mother?

“O mother,” head tilted down, he could no longer hold the strong appearance, the pain numbed his senses.

His eyes burned, cuts lay waste to his body and his hands- were covered in blood and ash. 

The maroon stains were dry, flaking off with each nervous twitch of the man's limb and his nails scratched at his knuckles in shame. 

The silence of the room, it pissed him off to no end. For the tarnish to have such a stance- such ground before him, it boiled his blood, flamed his knuckles once more and made him bite down with such a pressure that made the bones in his teeth click and grind.

“Do it,” Messmer urged, red brows furrowed. 

“Or is thou such a coward, thy won’t serve me deliverance?” 

The blade began its descent, and Messmer couldn't physically shut his eyes. Memories upon memories graced his presence. 

And it all involved his wife; his beloved. 

Her laugh, the way she kissed him, smiled at him. 

She was so, so proud of him, even through all the bodies that lay wasted upon the fields; she stayed upon his altar. 

“I'm sorry, my love.” With those final words, his form could now relax and with a wobbling lip, smiled. The smell of Erdflowers and apples comforted his last moments as the blade grew closer. 

“Stop! Please!” 

A voice so delicate, so desperate drew the man from his displayed remorse. 

“Wife?” He all but whispered. It wasn’t possible. It couldn't be real. 

And yet there she stood, just beside the pushed open stone hinges- panting and wobbling toward the pair. 

“Stop, please, I beg of you!” Tripping over a fallen piece of debris she cried out. Messmer couldn't help but jolt towards her in response; only to be stopped by a blade to the neck. 

The girl's eyes widened, still laying on her chest adrenaline began to rush through her bones, shaky arms lifted her upper form yet her bottom half lay sprawled out. Too afraid of the sword running across her husband's skin, distance was kept between them. 

However, the flames held no patience; they burnt the wooden beams around the ceiling, every second that passed meant that more instability entered the chambers. Suddenly, a large pillar fell atop the girl, she screamed out from underneath it and Messmer shuddered. Racked with fear he pushed against the blade, looking- wanting to see if her form laid whole. 

It had. 

She stared back at his yellow iris with blood dripping down the middle of her forehead. 

The walls began to  crack under such heat, paintings lay melted upon the ground and more objects fell upon the vicinity with a startling bang. 

Her eyes, how they shined with such a deep remorse- a sadness that Messmer wished he could pluck out. His hands shook, just how was he supposed to protect his wife in such a state of disarray? 

The tarnished so called, “Lord,” did nothing but glance at the woman and her pitiful state.

He felt the need to cut- maim such a pathetic sort in his presence. So with a kick to Messmer’s chest, he acted upon such intrusive thoughts. 

The air plummeted out of the knight's throat, landing on his back he did nothing but cough out the ash that had landed in his windpipe. From the corner of his eye, he saw the movement and how the tarnished gripped onto his sword. 

“No,” with every fiber of his being he lifted his figure, it was hunched and bloodied, but it stood afoot. His eyes, crazed and desperate, looked towards his cowering wife. 

“Halt!” Ignoring the knight's pleas, the intruder quickened his pace. The girl tried to wiggle out from the object atop of her. It burned the back of her skin and she yelled out in fear. 

He had to act. 

Go. 

GO

GO!

“Mmph!” Finally free, his wife leaned back and tried crawling anywhere away from the approaching mongrel feasting upon her delicacy. 

But, it was too late. 

For the lord had gripped her hair and pulled back with all the might he could. Her feet scraped against the ground until she hung up like a rag doll, clinging desperately onto the man's dirtied glove. 

She cried out, tears littered pinkened cheeks as wails left her throat unconsciously.

With his back to Messmer he had to be quick. 

It would be clean; one slice. 

The blade struck against her throat, creating a line of blood that reached down to her ruined dress. 

For it would have been deeper, if nobody had slammed against his backside.

“Augh-” 

“How dare you,” 

Long fingers found their way against the tarnished neck. 

“Touch my wife, with your graceless, vile hands.”

Desperate for air the man kicked- wriggled under the tall flame. 

It wasn’t enough- for the knight was fueled with fire and anger; only to be snuffed out by the revenge he sought. 

His wife did nothing but push her back against the farthest corner, sobs racked her body and the tears flowed freely. 

She didn't hear the plethora of curses,

The kicking of the crazed lord,

Or the stillness that came after. 

Everything went quiet. Only smoke clouded her vision and it began assaulting her throat most viciously. Coughing she looked, she needed proof of her husband, she wouldn't leave without it. Blinking she tried to push past the itching of her face- ash fell atop it gracefully as her nails itched without care upon her features. 

“Mess-” a dry cough

“Mess-mer!” With such a scratchy tone, there was no way to hear her over the roaring of the flames. 

For once, she crumpled. Did nothing but lay wilted against the floorboards as grief seeped into her bones like a plague. 

Eyelids heavy, they sagged against the itchy smoke filled air. She couldn’t find the energy to leave the chambers. 

Finally allowing her lids to fall; she waited. For death to come and pluck her away, away from the smoke and bodies. 

Warm fingers touched her cheeks, the tips reached to her ears and her eyes jostled open. 

It was him, her darling husband covered in fresh blood, with blackened ash clinging onto his frame. His snakes not upon his form, only ripped pieces of armor littered with maroon stains.

Grunting the man pushed forward, with everything he had left he began to lift the withered girl. 

She tried to cry out in joy, cheer on her husband for such a monstrosity of a fight- but the tears ran thick. They wouldn't stop leaking out and falling atop her husband's hair and face. 

Bursting through the doors, Messmer leaned against the wall as he descended down the walkway. 

His wife whimpered out incessant worries, nabbing at his face as the man tried his best to find the way out of such a destroyed place. 

“Wife- Ah, please,” 

Her lips wobbled as the man continued his trek, never once did her eyes strain from his bloodied form. 

Her hands gripped onto his shoulders, his face, neck- anything she could touch- she did. 

Finally bursting through the last set of doors, Messmer collapsed, his knees skidded against the floor as he held his wife up against him. 

She crumpled with the knight, leaned right into his form with a tight embrace. 

“You- Are you hurt?” 

He felt her head shift back and forth. 

“Thou is- ah, sure?”

Another shift. 

His palms rested on her back, soothingly trying to comfort the sniveling woman. 

She jolted back, and Messmer would have been relieved to see her if not for the harsh slap that accompanied her features. 

“You fool!” She bellowed. 

“You- you ingrate, you nobody! You swore to be the strongest- to protect the order- 

“I swore to protect you, darling- stop this,” 

A single hand rose to capture her violent fists. 

“Thou is fine, the order is fine. That pretender? He lays in the flames of the past, my love- 

“Don’t  ‘my love me!’ You could have died Messmer, and what then? Am I just supposed to forget you-us?!” 

“Don't be foolish.” 

No longer interested in such a conversation the man leaned back, he groaned out in pain as his bones once more lit aflame with agony. 

His eyes were on hers, and with the other hand, captured her jaw. 

“Thou remains safe, that's all that matters.” 

She was too tired to argue- after such an event she was grateful to have her husband alive and well, but the fear had been replaced with anger. 

Remorse hit her like a bolt of lightning. 

“I'm sorry.” She whispered. 

“I thought you died.” 

He smiled lightly upon the girl- ever infatuated with the love she held for the man. 

“Mmm,” He hummed. “That’s alright, dear wife.” 

Without hesitation she leaned in, her bloodied forehead molded against his. 

He could do nothing but stare with half lidded eyes- fighting the sleep off with only her image. 

Noticing the blank expression upon him she laughed, it was rough and exhausted. 

“Sleep, my husband. I will watch over thee, hm?” 

Nothing more needed to be said, securing his head against the stone support behind him, sleep took over the lanky man. 

His wife sighed and with an adoring smile, kissed upon his stained lips.

It was her time to watch over and protect. 

Nothing would get between her and the knight snoring tiredly against her body.

[inkonparchment]

sentinel - re4r bodyguard!Leon x college student!reader.

You and Leon go to the local fair.

everyone say thank you @leonsredfield for giving the idea<33

cw: suggestive themes.

The scent of buttered popcorn is strong, wafting through the stalls, accompanied by the loud music of the carousel with the giggles of children in the air. The large ferris wheel shimmers against the night sky, slowly revolving around its point. The bright colours, the various game stalls and the mix of food scents in the air is very thick.

You, however, seem to be stuck at a distance away from the target shooting game, watching as a couple is trying their hand. They seem around your age, snuggled against each other and laughing as one of them misses a few shots. But his efforts are rewarded by a small teddy bear that he proudly presents to his partner, earning a few kisses in return.

You shake your head. Best to find where your friends had drifted off to instead of creepily staring at couples.

Before you can walk away, Leon sweeps past you to the counter, shoulder brushing against yours, acknowledging the bored looking owner with a nod. "How much?"

The young boy eyes Leon, "Three dollars for five shots."

Leon digs into his pockets, tugging a note out of his wallet and sliding it across. He casually shrugs off his jacket, stalks over to you frozen with confusion apparent on your face. He brings the jacket around your shoulders, gentle in how he drapes you and tugs the opened seam close, the motion making his bangs fall into his eyes.

You gulp, entrapped and entranced with his scent and warmth engulfing you, wiping your brain clear. He leans his head down, fingers gently brushing against the back of your neck, heat bursting through your cheeks as he pulls your hair out from underneath the collar. You find yourself floating towards him, head grazing the skin of the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his after shave.

He leans back, dropping his face down so that he's eye level to you, enough that you see the specks of green sprinkled in his irises. He taps the side of his nose twice, smiling when whispers to you, "Watch me."

He leaves you breathless, walking over where the rifle waits for him. Leon grips it, hands finding home against the trigger and the fore-stock like he has done this a million times, waits a breath and then nods.

The display jumps to live, jovial music flooding your ears as the various targets begin to move around, bright colours flashing your eyes. None of it captures your attention because your attention is wholly captivated by the sight in front of you.

Legs kicked out in a proper stance, Leon brings the rifle up to his chest, face scrunched in concentration and you don't even know if time is even passing right now. You watch as his broad back stretches the material of his white t-shirt, muscles taught against the thin cloth, barely doing anything to hide the contour of his body, how his shoulders melt into a delicate waist, shirt riding up to reveal the disappearing V-lines of his pelvis.

Why is every shirt he owns so tight? You internally groan.

You should look away, you should really look away but you can't seem to tear your eyes away. No, you don't want to. Every single innocent thought or fantasy you had before was crumbling, it was going to be a near herculean task to imagine the repulsive boils covering his skin to deter him from consuming your every waking moment.

But no. This fucker, your knuckles lose sensation with how tight they are underneath the jacket that's only growing warmer. This bastard. The dips in his abdomen are sculpted by God himself, skin so pale, so precious and glittering with the lines of scars adoring him. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying but failing to reel in your thoughts, aghast at how inappropriate they were.

Could you be blamed? The sight, his jacket, his scent, the lingering sensation of his hand at the back of your neck has you stumbling forward, eyes affixed on his face. And you look down and oh you are in so much trouble when you notice the bulging of his biceps.

The seams of his t-shirt sleeves are holding on for dear life, almost close to bursting with how his biceps are rippling under them, veins trailing various paths against his skin. Your mind almost shatters when you notice the pink of his fingernails, clasped around the rifle, and one finger pushed through the trigger guard, working so dexterously against the trigger, tugging and pulling in languid strokes. Over and over and over and over.

You don't even notice the victory sound going off, the celebratory chimes of bell, slow to notice when he turns, grinning widely as he catches you staring at him. Heat pools in you, watching intently as his lips move, not registering his words. Who would when he looks like an angel kissed by the sun?

You blink, words stuttering out of your lips, "W-what?"

"Which one you want?" He asks again oh so casually as if he hadn't just set your entire world on fire.

"Oh," Your eyes flit away to the array of stuffed toys behind the young boy, retina protesting over having lost its view of Leon. You spot the big snoopy stuffy you were eyeing earlier and point to it. "Snoopy, please."

You watch only him as he reaches out to grab the stuffed toy, taking it from the boy and holding out to you. Your cheeks are warm under his watchful eye, fingers brushing against his as you hug Snoopy close to your chest, hoping it calms your racing heart.

You make to leave but stop when Leon reaches for his wallet once again. "What are you doing?"

Leon offers you a smile, reloading his rifle with a click, shaking his head to move his bangs, "Can't have Snoopy leaving without his pal Woodstock."

[cordeliawhohung]

Of Sea Foam and Iron [4]

general masterlist | series masterlist | taglist

Hephaestus!ghost x Aphrodite!reader x Ares!soap

a love like fire

wc: 3.5k

 You rise before the dawn’s glory has the chance to wash your home in gold. 

Not even the doves are up to sing their songs as they bask in the faint glow of the sunrise curling above the horizon. Its pallid light seeps into the bedroom through the shutters over the window where it streaks on the walls in gentle beams. You are still trapped just like you are every morning; nestled between your two naked husbands as they gently snore through their dreams. Their warmth lulls you to sleep, whispers for you to close your eyes once more and rest. It takes significant convincing to coax your limbs into movement. To rip yourself from the heat that surrounds you in this elysian morning. 

Like a hare, you burrow your way through swathes of blankets, taking care not to tread on the sleeping figures on either side of you. They wake. You know they do. Snores suddenly ceasing, bodies tensing, eyelids fluttering — but they do not speak. They let you slip away; their little dove, fluttering free from the nest. 

Small beads of water clump onto the shutters of the kitchen window, dripping on the sill in tiny pools as you open them. Rain has continued to spit and drizzle over the land for a few days now, but the bulk of the storm has passed. Green foliage and fresh crops have thrived off of the nutrients, covering the oceanside with lush, singing plants. Even the courtyard hums a verdant tune with specks of yellow dandelions dancing in their midst. 

But you did not wake up early to stand in the moist, chilly air, or to watch as the brume settles and sways above the earth. You are awake to make bread. 

A warm blaze ignites in the stove with embers you steal from the dying hearth. Growing flames waltz before your eyes to a terrifying tune. Fire has always scared you. You watch their amber glow and recall the burning flesh of your fathers hands from a kitchen mishap when you were a child. Seared skin, bubbling with blisters, and quiet curses; it took him weeks to fully heal. To be able to hold your hand without tears pricking his eyes. 

Your love for the ocean only grew after that incident. An insatiable urge to let the foamy waves wash over your body, cleansing you. You suppose fire can also clean — can sanitize you until there’s no filth left — but there is more love to be found in briny water than choking flames. Fire cleans by consuming indiscriminately. Water cleans by smothering the grime until you are bare and naked. 

How odd, then, for you to be married to a man born and raised by fire. 

Simon is the first of the two to rise after you. Half dressed, he carefully shuffles down the stairs, following the scent of warm bread cooling next to a bowl of freshly boiled dandelions. Unlike usual, you hear him approaching. His steps are hardly silent these days with his knees aching from the weather, but he grunts less as he enters the kitchen. 

You turn to greet him, and an ambivalent pang twists in your stomach. Simon has been on your mind all morning — or, really, the last few days. Your conversation with John has haunted you in more ways than one, and it’s especially tortuous when you’re living with the ghost. That strange apparition who arrived in your life to whisk you to safety. Not even the simple act of breadmaking could void him from your thoughts. While kneading dough, all you could recall was the way your fingers moved along the scars on his knees in an attempt to quell the agony writhing underneath his skin. 

A small act of love — too meaningless to acquit you of your other transgressions.

“Good morning,” you say, voice shorter than you intended. 

Simon looks at you for a long moment, fingers curling and uncurling to break apart the stiffness in his joints. “Morning.” 

Thick ignominy clogs your throat, and you avert your gaze from the towering stance of your husband for bread and wilted dandelions. You distract yourself as you dress the greens with a healthy drizzle of olive oil and coarse salt, but you are well aware of the heavy feet sliding along the floor behind you. The dull scrape leaves the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, and you regret leaving the windows open. 

“What’s this?” He’s close. The closest he’s ever been to you outside of bed, chest nearly against your back as he glances over your shoulder. Heat radiates off of him like the forge he slaves over — as if the flesh of his heart has been torn out and replaced with a crucible. “Horta vrasta?” 

Every instinct within you screams at you to look over your shoulder, but you don’t. “Yes. We don’t have any lemons, though. Oil and salt will have to suffice.” 

A sonorous hum rattles his chest. “My mother used to cook this,” he recalls. 

You wish he didn’t tell you that, because now you’re thinking of him as a child. Young, small; free from scars. Fair skin kissed by the sun — kissed by a loving mother — as she attempts to fix messy strands of flaxen hair on his forehead. You imagine him being embraced by his mother. You imagine his smile before it was ruined by marks and disfiguration; before it was washed away in blood and gore. A twitch in your fingers halts your movements as you go to mix the still warm dandelions in front of you:

Does he still dream of his mother? Does he pray to the gods that you would hold him the same way she used to? How ugly of you — you think to yourself — to be so wary of a man because of the scars on his skin as if his voice wasn’t the sweetest sound you had ever heard when he spoke of the woman who birthed him. As if those scars were given to him over something other than love. 

Neither of you speak a word as he retrieves a knife and begins to slice the bread. Help that you didn’t ask for, yet help that you don’t refrain from receiving. His hands are almost as large as the loaf, and though it could easily crumble in his hands, he handles it with nothing but care as the crust breaks beneath the blade. 

He’ll keep his distance, if you let him.

You swallow. “Did… you enjoy this meal as a child?” you question. 

“No,” he admits. Blunt, but not rude. “But it reminds me of her, so I enjoy it anyway.” 

Just as Simon finishes — several slices sitting in pristine stripes in front of him — you hear a yawn from the stairwell. You turn to the source of the noise and find John, chiton hardly covering his chest as he lumbers into the kitchen. He yawns again, hand covering his open mouth, before eyes dripping with delassation land on you and Simon. A smile attempts to flitter across your lips, but it looks just as awkward as it feels. 

“You should have woken me up. I would have helped,” he says. It’s unclear as to who it’s directed to, you or Simon, but you have a feeling it’s both of you. 

Simon doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder as he replies: “You needed the sleep.” 

John scoffs, something light and playful, as he approaches the table with a wave of his hand. Wood squeaks as he drags his chair back, and sits down with a thump. “Making me obsolete over here.”

“I’m makin’ you heal,” Simon retorts. 

Breakfast is quiet, save for the savory crunch of fresh bread crust between your teeth. Everyone is too busy nourishing their bodies to stop and talk, but there is a tight atmosphere that hangs heavy in the air around your head. This discomfiture plagues you relentlessly, painfully reminding you just how sheltered you have been throughout your life. Boarded up. A bird locked in a cage. Rather than preparing you for the real world, you’re left writhing about, pecking at the hands that try to feed you, and lazily preening yourself for comfort. 

Despite Simon’s apparent dislike — or contempt — for the dish, he’s the first to finish. Plate nearly licked clean, you’re certain the man has never complained about anything in his entire life. He’s never complained about you, anyway, even when he should have. He licks his fingers clean of oil and salt before pushing away from the table. 

“I should head to the market. We’re low on food,” he says. 

“Simon, love, you’re still struggling to walk,” John reminds him. “Let me go.”

“I can walk plenty fine.”

It’s a lie; an obvious one. He always limps, but it’s been exaggerated ever since that storm rolled in, and you’re reminded as much as you watch him stand to discard his plate. Warm stones and your brittle hands can only do so much to heal the ache that permeates even the toughest parts of him.

“You have work to catch up on. Been too rainy to keep the forge running,” John urges. He’s nearly begging as he stands from his seat and chases after his lover. “Let me go. Worry about work. I’ll take care of this.” 

Either Simon is a man who refuses to accept help, or he holds a love so strong that he can’t imagine shouldering any sort of burden onto the ones he cares for; either way, when he finally accepts John’s offer, he does so begrudgingly. Mutters something about how he shouldn’t be out long before pressing a kiss to his cheek. When he decides that wasn’t good enough, he drags John closer by his chiton before truly embracing him. 

I would have liked to have married him.

Nothing settles properly in your stomach. Not the oil or bread, nor the delicious greens — the only thing that settles is the guilt. Its roots twist far and deep in your body, strangling every artery and organ until it’s got a hold of your bones. You have ruined something beautiful; become a disgusting stain on what could have been a poignant love story, and you don’t have even the slightest idea on how to mend the damage. 

“Would you like to come with me, little dove?” 

The plate in front of you scoots back along the deep, etching grains of the table, and you follow the hand moving it until John is in your view. Your brain processes his question, eyes blinking as you try to come back down to earth. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say in a half-hearted attempt at dismissing his notion. 

His smile is faint and exhausted as it crosses his lips, but his movements are just as strong and tempered as the stories would have you believe. Wooden boards creak underneath his weight as he gets on one knee, hands slowly reaching for yours. John relishes the touch of your skin, thumb rubbing along the metacarpals in your hand like he’s never felt anything so soft before. 

“It would do you some good to get out of the house,” he insists before pausing. What was a faint smile quickly morphs into a hardly contained grin as he leans closer. You attempt to quell your thunderous heart, yet it does not listen to you. “I’ll take you to visit the ocean.” 

Zeal glimmers in the dark pupils of your eyes, and John can no longer contain the curl of his lips or the flash of his teeth. He’s lured you in; hook, line, and sinker — but you don’t care. You have not tasted the brine of home in so long, you almost fear you’ve forgotten it, and you willingly fall into him as he pulls you up from your seat like a fish dangling on thread. 

Despite the cool breeze, the market is packed. Freshly slaughtered animals hang up for display on wickedly curved hooks piercing through their meat. They’re so fresh that you swear you can nearly feel the life still buzzing through them; hear the quiet bleat of a lamb crying for comfort.  Boisterous laughter ignites as deals are struck among traders, and you find your eyes wandering to wooden tubs full to the brim with mouthwatering produce — you can’t recall the last time you were allowed at the market. Some time ago when you were still a child, surely. Before your father locked you away to keep men from spilling blood over petty vanity. 

John rarely lets go of your hand as he splits patrons apart like a knife through flesh. No one dares to brush past you. They eye the dog leashed to your hand, look at his scars and bloodthirsty smile, and they refrain from even glancing at you, lest they tempt the beast into attacking. For a moment, you’re able to be blissfully unaware of it all. Of the bodies swarming behind you as you squeeze freshly harvested tomatoes. Every voice that speaks is muted as you enjoy the artisan goods and handcrafted jewelry — the freshly pressed cheese, the expertly woven textiles, beautiful dyes. 

For the first time in years, you’re able to wander the world with child-like wonder rather than dread and trepidation, and you’re not sure what to thank for that. Have you grown undesirable? A wild woman locked up too long? Feral, untamed eyes that only know how to yearn for the world rather than seize it? Or is it because of John, the man who holds so much care for you that you are the only thing in the world that can bend his otherwise immutable stance? Is this the life your father dreamed for you? To not only be respected, but feared? 

Once the bag is heavier with food than it is coin, John fulfills his promise to you, and you find sun kissed sand between your toes in no time. Days grow warmer and longer as summer reaches its peak, and your lungs revel in the brackish air, still thick with petrichor. The ocean’s song hums low and strong, a gentle push and pull that leaves your senses tingling. You feel it calling. That insatiable allure that would have you drown in the salt and mist if it called for you to do so. 

You stare out at the waves as the wind teases your chiton. That same wind drags billowing clouds along the horizon where the sky meets the sea, drawing away the summer storm that’s been plaguing the city for days. Something swells in your chest. You pray that Poseidon shows mercy with his storms. Simon has been aching for too long. 

“Look at this.”

John begs for your attention softly with the brush of his knuckles against the back of your arm. His mellow touch still makes you jump — flinch as if you have been burnt — and you glance to your side as he comes into view. Sand coated fingers brush against a dainty, bone white disk, cleaning it of debris. A delicate fossil reveals itself underneath the grime; perfect bones preserved in sediment to create a completely whole sand dollar. You find your own fingers reaching out on instinct to brush against the fragile shell. It’s rare for you to find one unbroken. Something not shattered into pieces that litter the coastline. 

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe. 

“Keep it. It’s yours, now,” he insists. 

Warm hands embrace yours as John uncurls your fingers and presses the sand dollar into your palm. You let it rest gentle and quiet, as if a mere onerous thought would force the sediment to crack. You smile down at the object — or, perhaps you smile at John’s enthusiasm. Wild dogs are often known for biting. For reveling in the flesh they sink their teeth into, and chuckling while they savor the blood. But this dog — Ares’s Dog — loves to play just as much as he does fight. Fetching trinkets and bones like childsplay. Returning it to the people he adores most with an ivory grin. 

John MacTavish is very altruistic for a dog, and it worries you. It worries you, because you don’t know what to do with this unfamiliar feeling that twists in your stomach. 

“You are… very kind,” you note with a stiff tone. 

“Does it surprise you that I am?” he asks, sliced eyebrow quirking. 

“I think so,” you admit. Restive fingers carefully curl around the object in your hand. You stare at it as your heart thuds against your sternum, as if attempting to break free from your chest. “All other men before you and Simon love so violently. Enough that they would strike my father, or lunge like snakes poised to bite. Kindness has always been false for me. Something that precedes the terrifying reveal of what people truly want from me. I think… I am afraid to love, or be loved. I’m afraid it will hurt.” 

John is silent for a moment. The swell of crashing waves waxes and wanes just like the moon it dances to. Seagulls scream their shrill song for the ocean to dance to. They clash to make their own symphony. It is a tradition you were born and raised on. You could sway to it with your eyes gouged and ears ruptured. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for some time now,” you continue. Your toes wiggle in the sand in an attempt to comfort yourself, but you can feel the way the brine burns your eyes. “My fear. I lash out like a child. A wild animal. I do not know how you and Simon put up with such an unruly wife. Anyone else would have…”

Swallowing, you cut yourself off, refusing to finish your thought. 

“If it is violent, then it isn’t love,” John concludes, smothering any worries lingering in the cords of your heart. His fingers brush over yours, soft and comforting, and this time, you do not flinch. “Love is not gentle. It rages like fire and consumes more than you’d like it to. But it does not hurt. It never hurts. I promise. And don’t worry about Simon and I. Neither of us are unfamiliar with the strangeness of the heart, or how fear manifests into anger. It’s a fragile balance, little dove.” 

With trembling lips, you look at John. For a man with sinewy muscles and scars deep enough to shred them, he looks at you with a softness that nearly makes you crumble. The very foundation of your being weakens and cries out. You could collapse to the ground, and you’re terrified there would be nothing to break your fall. 

“You’re quite the poet for a soldier,” you say in an attempt at humor. 

He grins. “You find much to think and write about while traveling the lands. Much to love. Including you.” 

You understand what John meant when he said love is like fire. Unforgiving flames lick at the heels of your feet, and your heart flutters in preparation to flee. It’s foreign. Uncomfortable. All your life, you have known nothing but the cold, treacherous waters of the ocean — it’s all you’ve ever been — and you fear it may be too late to warm you now. 

John does not wait for a response. Does not demand gratitude or reciprocation. Instead, he turns his head where the wind pulls at the dark locks of his hair. His skin glows beneath the sunlight as if Apollo has kissed him a hundred times over, and he smiles at the warmth. 

“We’ve been gone too long. Can hear Simon’s mumbling already,” he teases while he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Are you ready to go home?”

Home. He says it like it’s the place where you’ve always belonged. Like your very essence stains the wood and stone that house is built of. It feels wrong for him to give you ownership of something you used to rage so fiercely against. You are undeserving of it. Of any softness they bestow. Yet, you crave it. John says that word — home — and you want to wrap yourself in his timbre. You would have liked to have met him and Simon sooner. It would have been enjoyable making bread for them every morning. 

“Yes,” you answer meekly.  

This time, you are the one to take his hand. John glances at you like a dog with its ears perked up, and for a moment his expression is unreadable. Shock. Startled. Then, he melts. Fingers interlacing with yours, his quiet mirth washes over you as he tugs you forward, nearly bounding off to follow fading footprints back home. Hand clutching John’s gift to your chest, you smile. It aches and burns in your cheeks as the unused muscles protest, and still it persists. 

If what John says is true — that love eats like a raging fire — you will gladly be consumed until you’re used up and nothing but ash. After all, it would be fitting to be destroyed by the only thing you have ever craved.

[lilac-5ky]

Sex with a Ghost (TojixFem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Date with a ghost

Chapter 2 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests | AO3

Summary: Being at the bottom of the ladder in your class with a non-combat oriented technique, you are prompted by Gojo to summon a dead sorcerer as a learning experience. However, when none other than Fushiguro Toji appears in your room, you find yourself practicing more than just your cursed technique.

Tags: Student!reader, Ghost!Toji, Age Gap(reader 18, Toji early 30s), Oral Sex (both f. and m. receiving), Manipulation, Corruption Kink, Praise, Degradation, Pet Names (princess, baby, etc), Cowgirl, Toji being a horny asshole that gets redeemed at the end? Sort of.

Word Count: less than 6k.

“But, sensei, is this really necessary?”

You tilted the sphere between your fingers, sizing it up. It weighed no more than a baseball ball did, yet its price must be comparable to that of an entire stadium. A cursed item among cursed items given to a mere grade 3 sorcerer who barely stood out amidst the renowned prodigies of Tokyo Jujutsu High. This was a waste of both time and effort and yet the white-haired man before you begged to differ, eyes glinting a vibrant sky-blue hue from underneath his dark shades.

“Doubting your favorite teacher, Y/N?” he chuckled only to sulk a second later when you asked him what deluded him into thinking he was your favorite.

Undeterred, he continued “I feel like a broken record here, but do yourself a favor and have a bit more confidence. Graduation is two months away, don’t you wanna prove your worth till then? It’s not too late to climb a couple of steps up the ladder. You could easily shoot up to Grade 2. Look at the rest of your class—”

A firm albeit reassuring grip latched itself onto your shoulder, gently twisting you in the direction of your classmates.

The heatwave must have gotten to them for good, blood boiling under the vicious sun rays. Their sleeves and pants were rolled high above their elbows and knees respectively, foreheads glimmering with a thin sheen of sweat that dribbled down their necks.

Just looking at them made your skin crawl with uneasiness.

You didn’t understand why anyone in their right mind would willingly trade the shade of these blessed pine trees for the scorching furnace that the schoolyard was, but when you stopped paying attention to their clothes and took in their blissful expression, you felt a lump swell in your throat.

The two of them were practically beaming, giggling, and prancing around the water fountains without a care in the world— and why should they have anything to worry about when they were Grade 1 at seventeen? A Kamo and a distant cousin to the Zen’ins, both guaranteed to walk a path strewn with rose petals since birth. No trial or tribulation whatsoever.

Your teacher’s voice was muffled into white noise while you were busy shooting daggers at the duo, part of you wishing to join them in their harmless idiocy, and another silently praying that in your next life, you’d be lucky enough to be born into one of their clans. No one questioned the value of a Kamo. No one went against a Zen’in with an inherited technique.

“So, we good? Tell me I didn’t waste 15 minutes of my precious time for nothing.” His fingers squeezed at your shoulder, causing your attention to shift.

You had no idea what he’d been saying, though you’d sat through plenty of pep talks already to guess the gist of it. “You have potential, Y/N. Don’t bring yourself down like this. You can do it!” All empty words without real meaning. Worthless. Not everyone had what it takes to become the next Gojo Satoru. Some people were born to be stepping stones for others, and you were perfectly fine with it. No half-assed aspiration would spur you on.

“If I do this… will you leave me alone?”

A Cheshire cat grin spanned from one corner of his mouth to the other. If one didn’t know any better, they’d mistake Gojo for an overzealous teacher whose earnest goal was to see his students succeed. Not you. You’d spent enough time in his presence to know that his whole “Teacher of the Year” shtick hid an agenda of its own. It was a matter of time to find out what his true motive was.

“What’s the plan?”

“Now we are talking,” he sang in glee. “Very simple, really. You just hold this between your palms and channel as much cursed energy as possible to its center. The ball will absorb it like a magnet and continue drawing from you until you have a clear picture of your target. Then, assuming all goes well and you don’t pass out,” a quiet “What?!” was overwritten by his voice, “you’ll get your very own date with a spirit. Isn’t that exciting?”

Nothing about your expression screamed excitement, eyes squinting in slits and bottom lip quivering into a frown. “And who’s my target, exactly?”

“A Zen’in sorcerer,” he said.

“A Zen’in sorcerer you say,” your eyes wandered again to that soaked blockhead in the distance, the black mop he had for hair flapping left and right. “Ain’t the one over there good enough?”

Shaping a cone around his mouth, Gojo yelled at the top of his lungs for the kids to wait up so they could play together. The duo cheered excitedly, shouting some sort of inside joke you knew nothing about right back at him. Wasn’t the first time you were excluded, and it certainly wasn’t the first time you questioned how this man came to be the world’s most talented sorcerer, either.

“If he was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” his smile softened as he lowered his voice. “The Zen’in I’m talking about has been dead for a little more than a hundred years now. Unfortunately, his name is erased from our logs,” of course it is “but that shouldn’t hinder you too much. He was an immensely powerful sorcerer with a great amount of cursed energy to back his technique up. An anomaly, if you like.”

“What kind of technique?” “The ten shadows technique,” he answered. “Out of all the Shikigami users, he is perhaps the strongest there’s ever been.”

“Stronger than you, sensei?”

The way his nose scrunched made you regret asking, knowing that a haughty declaration was dangling from the tip of his tongue, begging to be unleashed in a never-ending spiel of self-praise.

“And why should I invoke him in particular?” you quickly changed the subject. “I thought our goal was to hone my spirit-channeling technique and increase my cursed energy flow while we’re at it.”

“That we are doin’, but why not kill two birds with one stone? A new ten-shadow user has risen. I’m sure whatever trick that old dog has up his sleeve will be useful to our little Meg—” He feigned a smile of innocence at his slip. “All you gotta do is chit-chat him into giving you some info. Toss in a few compliments, butter him up. Shouldn’t take more than a few words to convince him, spirits are dying to be summoned— Oh well, unfortunate choice of words. What do you say? You’re in?”

Your groan was all the answer he required to beeline straight to the water fountains, his chirpy laugh echoing from afar. This guy, you huffed, examining the crystal ball anew. There was no way out of this. Either you did his bidding or you’d be forced to endure the obnoxious sound of his voice all summer long.

“Couldn’t you have chosen anything more cliche than a crystal ball?” you snarled, convinced he hadn’t heard you.

“Ouija board was already taken,” he warbled unexpectedly, voice meshing with that of your peers as they ran around in circles, dark-colored uniforms turning darker with every splash of water. “Besides, this has a bit of pink in it,” he referred to the rosy shaded base. “Much cuter than a bunch of rusty letters, right?”

You groaned as you shoved the item into your tote bag, making no mistake to talk out loud again as you turned on your heel. A pinch of jealousy punctured your chest, relieved by every step you took away from the scene and away from the fun the three of them were having.

“Looks like we’re having a date with a ghost tonight.”

It was a quarter past twelve when you decided to put that little experiment to work, the coast clear of overbearing parents and annoying little brothers who wanted nothing more than to disrupt your so-called “studying session”. As far as your family was concerned, Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College (Tokyo Jujutsu High for short) was your average educational institution that had somehow recognized the value of your mediocre grades and scouted you when you were still in middle school— no questions asked from either side.

You wouldn’t go as far as to call your own family a bunch of dimwits, but the signs were all there. A teacher merely four years older than you were, his odd sartorial decisions only second to his eccentric personality. A class made up of four students dramatically and suddenly decreasing to a party of three. An unknown man in a suit and tie driving you back and forth between “emergency study dates” in the dead of night. The lack of studying material in your backpack as opposed to the exams you constantly stressed over. Your unreasonable reaction when your mother stored a cursed tool in with the silver cutlery.

Even if you straight up walked to them with a banner that read “I exorcise curses”, you doubted they’d have anything more to say than a plain “Good for you”, not because they were stupid, but because they simply didn’t care at all.

They didn’t care enough to bat an eye when seven-year-old you tugged at daddy’s trousers, whimpering about a squid-like creature sneaking in your closet, and didn’t care enough to try and justify the stream of water flooding down the corridor. They didn’t care that your imaginary friends were more akin to monsters, and they didn’t care about you being away from home 350 days a year. It was convenient not to. That’s how they were able to drink their woes away at the local bar on a Thursday night with a clear conscience, having offloaded that pest of a brother at your grandparents’ for the fifth consecutive night.

Poor kid. If he wasn’t so despicable, your big sister instincts might have kicked in and raised an objection, though as things currently were suited you best. Rituals required focus, and you needed to make sure no one would bust through the door and interrupt your conversation with Mister Whatever-his-name-was.

You’d taken care of all your basic needs —eating a reheated portion of lasagna, cleansing your body of the worldly filth that stained it, catching a rerun of your favorite show’s latest episode, and cursing Gojo for making you miss it in the first place— and were now seated on your room’s floor with the crystal ball nesting between your bare thighs, the cold sensation much welcome on this excruciatingly warm evening where sitting on the fuzzy carpet seemed like the greatest torture imaginable.

It was only March and you were already in your skimpiest outfit of all; a frilly pair of dusty-pink shorts and a matching low-cut tank top dressing your sweat-beaded body. Dark spots saturated the fabric, demanding your fingers fanned it every two seconds. The worst had yet to come. By the time summer arrived, the final thing for you to crawl out of would be your own skin.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you returned to the item at hand. It’d been fairly long since you’d last performed a seance. Your role in the recent assignments was to support your classmates from the sidelines, exorcising whatever lower-grade curse got in their way with the aid of various cursed tools.

The white-haired nuisance could claim your technique was useful all he wanted, but at the end of the day, yours were simply not meant for combat. Best case scenario, after graduation, the higher-ups would put you on a 9 to 5 job, where you could dig whatever intel they wanted from the comfort of your cramped-up desk; away from your haughty classmates, and away from Gojo Satoru.

You rolled your fingers around the globe’s surface, pads tingling with waves of cursed energy as they seeped into the crystal. Slowly, a dark purple aura came to distort its translucence with colors and shapes of various magnitudes. Shadow-like forms gathered at the seams, remnants of pent-up energy colliding and converging with one another at one focal point. All ready to go!

You began mentally chanting the surname of your target, over and over again until the slideshow of foggy faces diminished to that of a select few candidates from the same bloodline. Some, you would imagine had died when they were still in their prime, measly fledglings of sorcerers with eyes retaining that youthful glossiness, while others seemed to have lived enough to see themselves turn into dehydrated raisins with next to zero cursed energy left.

Once you’d gone through your classmate’s entire family tree at least three times, you caught yourself admitting that despite their faults and innate air of pretension, the Zen’ins weren’t particularly hard on the eyes. Especially that one guy whose mug kept reappearing at random intervals, the slanted scar of his lips lingering in your mind well after the next contender’s appearance. There was something about him, be it the lack of aura he emitted or the viridescent hue of his eyes that had you replaying the frame at the expense of your own energy.

You were drawn to him in an inexplicable way that, at the time, you attributed to fate. It had to be him, right? That must have been why the dope you had for a mentor insisted on calling this a date. Even if he didn’t know the sorcerer’s name, he must have known how insanely attractive the guy was, right?

And suddenly, you felt a sliver of gratitude overcome you, eyelids snapping shut with the Zen’in sorcerer’s face as clear as day behind them, while you chanted the incantation Gojo himself had taught you.

“From the murky shroud of oblivion, I invoke thou out the shadows and blight to bask in heavenly light. Through me gain life, and through life gain thine blessed power.”

No more than a few seconds had passed when you heard a thud, your gaze meeting with that of the very man you’d summoned.

The orb barely did him any justice. Not as if crystal balls were ideal measuring instruments, but you’d need about ten more of those to depict his height as he towered over you, the bulky frame of his shoulders casting a large shadow on the wall behind your head. He was dressed in a much more casual manner than one would expect of someone who’d been dead for over a century, with corded veins and taut muscles peaking underneath a black compression shirt, waist accentuated where his hips met with a pair of baggy pants. And once you got to his face— you must have lost track of time staring into the gem-like green orbs of his eyes, considering you didn’t notice the scowl his lips wore until his tone pointed it out.

“The hell is this?” He sounded just like he looked, the bass of his timbre ringing most pleasantly in your ears.

You wouldn’t know what being dead felt like, but if it was anything remotely close to sitting on a dead leg for hours on end, you guessed he’d rather take a moment to adjust over an answer.

His soles circled the tiny space, eyes dancing between the fairy lights on the wall, the moonless sky —and by extension the empty driveway outside your window—, the three Polaroids on your desk that depicted an old family trip to Seoul (your mother silently accusing him from the frame for the crime of wearing his shoes inside the house), and lastly, you. His gaze feasted on your body as if he’d been starved for ages and you were the first oasis in the desert, his expression gradually easing into a lopsided smile as he cocked his head to the side.

“Got a name, sweetheart?” he asked in a syrupy sweet tone, the nickname he’d come up with making you doubt he’d use your actual name even if you shared it.

You set the ball aside and hopped on your feet, standing on somewhat more equal ground, though not equal enough to completely diminish the difference in height. He was massive, and you were still processing the kind of person that possessed the power to end this man’s life.

“Name’s Y/N,” you extended your hand. “You must be master Zen’in, nice to meet you!”

He merely glanced at your gesture, leaving you to embarrass yourself without a single qualm. “No one’s called me that in some time,” he expressed wryly. “You know about me?”

You nodded, wiping your palm against your shorts. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a spirit act all high and mighty, a Zen’in at that. “Who hasn’t heard of the greatest sorcerer there’s ever been?” you chuckled, Gojo’s bootlicking advice coming in for the clutch. “You are somewhat of a legend in the Jujutsu world. The one who mastered the ten shadows technique like no other.”

“Is that who I am now,” he pondered out loud, his index briefly scratching his jaw. “I guess I am,” he grinned with confidence. “That why you summoned me? Wanted to meet with great ol’ me in person?”

“Something like it,” you admitted, finding it hard not to smile back. “I just so happen to be acquainted with this idiot who’s a big fan of yours. Had me use my technique for a passing grade.”

A low hum prompted you to continue. “He’s a real pain in the ass,” you groaned. “Calls himself ‘the strongest’ and acts as if he’s ‘teacher of the year’ when he forces me to fish out intel like some lackey— Actually, you might have heard of his family name before, they’ve been around for ages. Gojo,” quickly adding “Satoru.”

At the sound of your teacher’s name, the man’s eyes widened, his darkened pupils blown with an emotion akin to rage. You weren’t sure what great calamity the Gojos had brought upon him in his previous life, but being familiar with their descendant you doubted they put much effort into it.

“The six eyes is your teacher?” he asked, not giving you enough time to question how on earth he knew that title before he pitched in another question. “So, ya just a kid, huh?”

“I’m not!” you objected. “Turned 18 a while ago.”

“A while, you say?” he arched a brow.

“I’m closer to 19 if anything,” you crossed your arms over your chest.

“19,” he mocked, his droopy eyelids incapable of hiding the way he sized your figure up.

You didn’t even think to put on a bra before the ritual started. Just like you could vividly picture what his pecs looked like under his clothes, your flimsy outfit left little to the imagination, the sweat that’d shimmered across your collarbones and cleavage working in your favor.

“Nah, you are right. No kid could ever have a body like that. Plump and ripe in all the right places,” his tongue lapped over his bottom lip, salacious stare prodding at what your arms kept hidden. “That’s a woman’s body, no doubt.”

Heat spread from your chest all the way to your cheeks, and for once, it wasn’t because of the room’s overbearing heat. Your toes sunk inside the carpet, thighs awkwardly rubbing together. You’d found yourself in such a position before, yet never with a boy like him— never with a man like him.

“Th-thank you,” you mumbled, your fingers hesitantly sliding down your elbows.

He took a step closer, lacking hesitation as he lifted your chin with two fingers, his thumb gently caressing it.

“Gonna let me look at the rest, baby?” his other hand encompassed your hip, the size of his palm alone making you feel oh-so small and fragile before him. “I’ll make ya a deal if you lemme. Tell ya anything you wanna know and more— heh, I’ll make sure ya pass with flying colors.”

“I don’t… I’m not-”

Depriving you of the chance to deny his advances, the man slotted his lips between yours and pulled back almost instantaneously, overjoyed to catch you leaning into his touch for more.

You weren’t sure why this was happening— why you were letting this happen. He was a stranger who barely qualified as being alive, and at the time of his death, he was closer to your father’s age than yours. But he was there, and he was paying you attention, and the way he spoke to you as if he already knew your answer ahead of your mouth had warmth spiraling to the lower parts of your body.

Rather than giving in to your pouty lips, the man whose name you didn’t even know cupped your breasts in both his hands, calloused thumbs making quick work of your nipples as they peaked below the drenched fabric, rolling the sensitive buds into full hardness.

“Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he praised, kneading at your supple skin almost adoringly.

The straps of your top slid down your shoulders, and you felt the ghost of a smile press onto your neck, his warm mouth smearing wet kisses right to where your neck and shoulders connected. You bit back a sigh, your breath audibly strained.

“Bet you wanna be touched, hmm?” he continued, finding the sweet spot you didn’t know you had, and pressed on, his sharp teeth digging into your flesh coaxing a purr from deep within your throat. He chuckled, the vibrations making you shudder. “That why you’re dressed like a slut? Wanna be treated like one, mm?” his lips parted again, tongue lapping over the delicate bruise his teeth left as he pinched your nipples harshly. A moan was ripped from your slack jaw, the insult he carelessly threw adding to the slick between your thighs.

“Sounds about right,” he smirked. “Well, I’m not complaining. You’re a sight for sore eyes, kitten.”

He didn’t ask for permission before he tugged at your shirt, your breasts spilling out with a single bounce. You saw him wet his lips once more, fingers seizing your now-exposed nipples and lustful eyes admiring them up close. You hadn’t noticed how close he was standing until his hips bucked against yours, alerting you to how painfully hard he’d gotten underneath his pants. The six-year-long refractory period his body was subjected to was far too cruel— though you wouldn’t know about that until much later.

“Tell me,” he requested, pausing just so he could look you dead in the eye. “Have you ever done this before?”

His lips traversed the valley of your breasts, rough palms sliding languidly across your ribs and waist. You could see him hold you like that while being inches deep in you. Slamming your frail little set of bones against your desk’s wooden surface. Pounding your hole for your parents to return to their precious daughter bent in half by some stranger. Bruising Gojo’s star student until the smug smile was wiped from his obnoxious mouth for good.

All those reasons made you nod at his question, not caring that he’d be ten times rougher because of your white lie. If anything, you looked forward to that.

“Sure you’re not lying to me?” he read your mind like an open book, the elastic of your shorts being torn away from your body. “Won’t be mad if y’are. I love myself a sweet little virgin. Love how whiny their voices get. How,” he lowered himself onto his knees, palm pushing you to sit on your bed “cute their little tight cunts look all stretched around me.”

His hot breath fanned over your soaked panties, index lazily rubbing back and forth between your clothed slit, the added friction sending a pleasurable tingle up your spine.

“You really aren’t one, are ya?”

You shook your head repeatedly like a bobblehead doll, propping your weight onto your elbows as he lifted your legs on his shoulders, the reality of his choppy raven hair nuzzling to your thighs finally hitting you.

“You said all you wanted to do was look, right?” the finger that was hooked around your underwear stopped. “That was the deal…”

For a brief yet conscious second, his eyes bore into yours with such spite that you thought you’d completely messed up. Only a virgin would dare say something this stupid. If he wasn’t bound to you by the ritual, he’d be out the door the moment you spat those words, you knew it, but then his knuckles brushed over your abdomen to find the hand that clenched onto the sheets, and you realized that wasn’t the case.

“Deals get altered and terms renewed all the time,” he mumbled distractedly, deeply inhaling your scent on his nose, while your fingers unfolded between his lips. You gasped, the sight of him fucking them in and out his mouth —tongue slithering right in the middle and saliva dribbling down his chin as he popped them out— enough to hypnotize whatever sense out of your brain.

“I’ll make ya a new deal,” he hummed, gently directing them to your mouth as if he beckoned you to do the same. A smirk tugged at his scar as he watched your pink lips obediently part and round around your own fingers. He didn’t let go until he heard you choke, secretly plotting to replace them with something else—sooner, than later.

“My technique is what interests you, right? How about instead of telling you, I show you?”

You tried to remove your hand, but he shoved it back in, his true colors pouring into a devilish smile. “I’ve had enough of your voice. All you gotta do is sit back like the good little girl I know you are and keep your legs nice and spread for me. How’s that?”

The only thing your head could manage was pathetically bob up and down in agreement, your fingers stuck in your mouth like a damn pacifier, while your cunt pulsed at every single word he uttered; derogatory or not. Were it any other guy talking down to you like that, your knuckles would be leaving an impermanent imprint on his cheek. Were it any other guy treating you as if you had no volition of your own as if you were just a toy for him to break, and you—

There wouldn’t be any other guy for you ever again. He’d make sure of it.

He ripped the fabric into a single shred and tossed it over his shoulder without caring where it landed- your bedside lamp. He looked down at your pussy, debating to himself whether to start with his tongue or fingers first, calculating the time it’d take for him to prep you for his cock down to the last second. He might’ve been a lot less nice than he pretended to be, but he wasn’t about to go out of his way to hurt you. Not intentionally, at least.

“Let’s see,” he tipped forward, the way his forefinger slipped between your folds without any resistance whatsoever bringing you shame. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, his digit triumphantly pulling out and smearing your slick all over your puffy lips. “Is that all for me, sweetheart? So fucking wet just for me?”

Your hips bucked forward as an answer to his question and he thought he wouldn’t mind taking things slow for once— see how much you could take before you came completely undone.

“Girls like you make the best fuck,” he cooed, voice echoing right through your core. “Surrendering to the first sweet word they hear.” His thumb circled your clit, flicking at the little bundle of nerves. “Leaking at the slightest of touch.” His middle and ring fingers joined in the action, burying themselves as far inside walls as your tight hole let him push. “Breaking so easily.” He drooled, coating your entire pussy in his thick saliva before allowing himself a taste, tongue lapping at the mix of juices straight from the source.

Your thighs clenched around him, muffling the lewdness of a whimper as he looked up at you, his smirk loosening with every kitten lick across your flesh. You wanted to say something, to call out his name and moan for him, but it all felt so unpracticed— similarly to how unpracticed your cunt was when it came to the girth of his fingers; much bigger than yours, more experienced too. He reached depths you didn’t know existed, bringing your body such pleasure that had you writhing for more, hips slamming against his face.

He groaned, his own arousal throbbing against his lower abdomen, begging him to get this over with. “Wanna fuck my face, baby?”

You felt your cheeks ignite anew, the eyes you’d fallen for at first sight overflowing with lust, convincing you it felt as good for him as it felt for you.

“Can’t let ya do that,” he parted your folds, fingers spreading your thighs apart while his tongue darted between your lips, his nose intentionally nudging the pink nub with each deep stroke against your spongy spot. “Gotta earn it first.”

You stared at him like an idiot, wondering to yourself if somewhere between his refusal to shake your hand and his eagerness to quench his thirst with your body you’d passed away because that was what heaven ought to feel like. That was what angels ought to look like.

“Got something to say, princess?” his eyes shot up and he gestured for you to unlatch your mouth.

“S-so pretty,” you whispered.

“What was that?” his ears perked up, not because he hadn’t heard you the first time, but because he could do with some affirmation himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this… f-fuck—” a yelp punched its way out of your lungs as he folded you in half, pinning your thighs onto your stomach, and crawling onto the bed right after them.

He’d had enough of this little game.

“Good girls shouldn’t cuss like that. Six eyes didn’t teach ya that?”

Holding you down with one hand, he dived back into your pussy, his fingers pumping in and out of you at a furious pace that had your upper body tossing and turning, the first unregulated moans ushering him to keep going. His tongue toyed with your swollen bud, the squelching of your cunt growing significantly louder from this angle, reverberating throughout the four walls of your bedroom. You were close, and so was he to getting his dick wet with all the mess he’d helped create.

His mouth watered just at the thought of his seed being the one to dribble down your thighs instead of his spit. He could picture you in one of those cute blue-navy skirts hanging from your closet and hoped you weren’t a tights person. He wanted to see you off to school every morning with your thighs sticking together so deliciously that anyone smart enough would understand how meticulously he’d fucked the brat out of you—

If only there was a mirror for you to see how stunning you looked. All fucked out and writhing, disheveled hair stuck on your tits and forehead while you nuzzled to the pillows, your shaky voice calling out to the surname he’d left behind. Would you still do that if you knew he played you like a fiddle? If you knew he was no esteemed Zen’in or sorcerer, for that matter, but a man hell-bent on ruining you for his own sick satisfaction?

Your body reciprocated his vile thoughts, your pussy fluttering around his digits. “Gonna cum for me?” he panted, forcing your legs to the side lest he missed a reaction.

Neither of you realized how his one hand had sneaked into his pants, stroking his veiny cock closer to the ecstasy he craved. Precum leaked hot out of the reddened tip, his thumb frantically swiping it over his length in sync with his thrusts. He’d stopped listening to your pleas and instructions. He fucked his fingers in you as he pleased, slowing down only when his balls began to dangerously tighten. Only then did he tear his fingers away ‘cause God forbid he busts his load in his palm like some fucking untouched teenager— regardless of how obscenely pretty you appeared for him or not.

Once he regained his composure, words made sense again. Harder. Faster. More. He hated being told what to do but absolutely loved how pliant you were. A people-pleaser, he bet. Going above and beyond what was asked of you, bending and breaking into whatever molds others force you to fit. He could work with that. Shape you into a mold only he could fit in.

“Cum for me, baby. Show me how much prettier y’ can get.”

His cock twitched as he felt your walls clamp down around his fingers, your sweet face contorting with pleasure, lips swollen with how hard they’d tried to contain the last bits of debouched decency.

How cute.

He set your legs down and moved up to meet your face with his, a wave of genuine softness rushing over him as he thought to kiss your lips tenderly, hushing whatever emotion had you spasming. You were so sensitive. Even if you’d been with another guy before him, he doubted they knew what they were doing— not like he did, anyway. He’d make you scream out his name for the neighbors to hear what a dirty slut lived just next door from them.

After a short while of his stroking your hair and whispering filth into your ears, he decided he’d been good enough to get his trick. He took your hand in his and guided it to his cock, grinning like a little kid as your smaller palm traced the outline over his pants, knowing full well both hands would do nothing to cover his girth.

He’d really missed this— so much that he didn’t mind letting a grunt out in appreciation, certain that more would follow.

Your eyes met, the spark in them telling him you understood what he expected you to do, and even if you didn’t, he’d teach you. He’d teach you everything, snatch you from that piece of shit and make you into his star student, so long as you kept touching him and let him do all the things he’d spent the last thirty minutes fantasizing about.

Everything and anything, all for you to take—

The thoughts that failed to reach your ears along with all traces of the man whose weight alone -up until a moment ago- threatened to crush your body into a fine powder evaporated, the smooth sound of his voice replaced by the crude breaks of your father’s car as he pulled into the driveway— your mother’s kitten heels soon clicking atop every step they climbed.

Shit.

A/N: I actually intended for this to be a one-shot, but I guess it sort of ended on a cliffhanger so, oops. Lemme know if I should write a second and final part, or if you have any Toji ideas/requests ♡

[highvern]

Use Me

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) x fem!reader

Genre: smut

Warnings: established relationship, somnophilia (kinda of? Its pretend), roleplay?, unprotected sex, clothed sex, manhandling, fingering, grinding, hoshi is a menace (this is a threat), degradation and praise (good girl, slut), spanking, poor seokmin is used as cannon fodder, dom-ish soonyoung at the end, brat reader, they’re both switches and disgustingly horny for each other

Length: ~1.5k

Note:  i personally feeling iffy about somnophilia but in the context of this fic my mind just turned to mush. See y’all in hell! mwah @tomodachiii come rot your brain with me bestie

read more here

This blog is intended for 18+ only! MDNI or you'll be blocked!

Soonyoung’s heart races upon finding your sleeping figure curled up beneath the mountain of blankets spread across your bed. You look like a princess with your face illuminated in the faint moonlight spilling between the cracks in the blinds.

You’re only pretending to sleep, the usual mess of limbs and faint snoring notably absent, but Soonyoung still feels wrong—dirty—for what he’s about to do.

He slips in behind you easily. Already the scent of your shampoo and firmness of your body drive Soonyoung wild and he hasn’t even done anything yet. A sharp inhale clues him in to just how eager you are and Soonyoung finds solace that he isn’t alone in how affected he is.

You begged for tonight. Quietly sharing how much the idea of being fucked awake turned you on; for your boyfriend to use your body while you slept, cumming inside you and leaving the mess for you to find in the morning. It wasn’t something you wanted randomly, but after much discussion you both agreed to try it. 

You went through your usual nighttime routine as if Soonyoung wasn’t waiting in the living room. “It’ll help set the mood,” he joked. In reality, he did nothing but pace back and forth while listening to the steady patter of the shower, coming to terms with the fact that his sweet-faced girlfriend craved something so debased. Ironic given the way you’re definitely the kinker one between the two of you with an overflowing box of goodies tucked in the closet to prove it.

Still. There’s something about you giving him free reign of your body while you slept (even if it was pretend) boiled his blood. Maybe it was because the sheer trust you bestowed upon him to allow him such graces or something primitive in his brain about being the only person you’d ever let inside you like this. Or perhaps it's the slight guilt curling around his throat at how turned on he was when you shared your fantasy. Either way, all Soonyoung knows is he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life and the way you arch against him isn’t helping.

So now you both play this little game. Pretending to doze while your boyfriend traces his fingers up your sides, finding that the only thing underneath your oversized sleep shirt is bare skin. Each teasing pass of his hands force another shaky breath through your nose, goosebumps flaring along your arms at the tease of it all. When Soonyoung’s thumb finds the swell of your breast, gently resting the flesh in the curve of his palm, he commends you for committing to the performance until your ass pushes back against his cock desperately. 

The silence of the room rings in your ears. Each breath is awkward and ill timed, forced to pace yourself lest you end the entire charade before there's time to enjoy it. Clothes and blankets ruffle together as Soonyoung moves you just so, one arm under your head and the other continue to etch a path of electricity across your stomach to your heaving chest. 

Tugging on your nipples, you squeak in your boyfriend’s grasp, biting back a pathetic moan when he nips at your ear. You focus on not responding, on completely living in the fantasy; even when the man behind you parts your legs with one of his own and flexes a hard thigh against your aching cunt. Only his thin boxers separate his aching length from your skin, the evident damp spot searing against the cleft of your ass. 

You desperately want to grind down but manage to stop yourself.

Soonyoung doesn't make you suffer for very long, the hand on your breast dropping between your spread thighs to press two digits into your leaking opening. 

“Fuck…how are you this wet already?” Soonyoung whispers, fingers curling just right.

Soonyoung rushes to stretch you out, thrilled in the way you shudder under his touch. He frantically shoves his underwear down, freeing his cock and wedging it between your spread thighs. The weight resting at your entrance is tempting. A tease of penetration as the swollen tip dips inside. All it would take is a tilt of your hips, a press of his and you’d be full—completed. But Soonyoung’s fist rests just below the head and prevents you from sliding back any further.

“Shouldn’t do this when you’re sleeping.” He mutters loud enough for you to hear.

You’d ignore his chastising if it weren’t for the way he withdraws his hips, putting miles of distance between your bodies in a matter of centimeters.

A pathetic whimper answers before you can stop it. The way he plays with you is maddening. As if you hadn’t been wet since you admitted you wanted this; as if you hadn’t given into temptation and touched yourself in the shower, listening to him stalk around the living room like a tiger in a cage.

Soonyoung rolls you onto your back, crowding above you and dropping featherlike kisses across your furrowed brow. “Baby, are you awake?”

You refocus. Relaxing your muscles into compliance, you can feel your boyfriend smirk against your jaw as he praises you silently.

“Good girl.”

Sooyoung drops to mouth at your covered breasts, his hips cradled between yours just before he thrusts inside.

“Shit,” he gasps, drowning out the sound of your own reaction to the sudden intrusion. 

It’s always a tight fit and tonight is no different, snuggly wedged between the slick walls of your pussy. Soonyoung hooks one of your legs over the crook of his elbow, spreading you wider to rut against your core. Only just split open on his cock and you're already losing it, nerves fried at the wet echo of bodies meeting desperately; flooded with satisfaction at the hard stretch.

In a matter of seconds you're openly panting, muscles twitching in the familiar rhythm of Soonyoung’s attention. You may be a shit actress but your commitment is commendable as your boyfriend does everything in his power to break you. 

He doesn’t fuck you fast and reckless like usual; no scrambling up the bed when the force of his hips push you away from him and further into the pillows or you both teeter on the edge of the mattress because your so lost in eachother. No, if you’re still pretending then Soonyoung is in it too. Slow grinds inside you, the kind the brush against places you didn’t realize existed and light a flame in your belly because that's where you feel him. Every inch memorizing the ridges inside you, the head of his cock bulldozing against that place Soonyoung’s been able to locate since the first time you took your clothes off for him.

“Babys so good at taking cock she can sleep right through it.” He taunts into your sternum with a lick.

There isn’t much you can do in terms of revenge for the ill timed remark. The one thing you can do is sure to leave you with a bruised ass and the taste of his cum. So you do it.

“Seokminnie,” you whine breathily, turning sideways to hide a wicked smirk.

Soonyoung doesn't let it slide, soft caresses melting into firm grips reminding you that your doting boyfriend’s muscles aren’t for show; and he’ll gladly use them against you if you want to act like a brat. The sensual pace seconds prior is long forgotten, replaced with a punishing rhythm as he rises to sneer in your face. 

You beat him to the punch, blinking lazily to stare with confused eyes. “Soonie?”

The nickname earns you another kick of his hips, answered with a twitch of your insides and an arch of your spine. Attentive Soonyoung is great, but annoyed Soonyoung is the best fuck you’ll ever have. 

“Oh, now she knows my name,” he moans into your ear, breathing stuttered in time with the drag of his cock.

A tinge of pain across your nipples confirms that he’s pissed.

“Soonie, what—”

You cut yourself off with a squeak of suprise, lungs tight as your boyfriend twists you to your knees to face the headboard.

Wiggling back to find him, you're met with a swat against the seat of your ass, his hand holding on to the flesh and forcing you away.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing.” You mumble into the pillows.

Another smack but this time his hand leaves and the sting sends another gush of arousal down your thighs.

“Lie again.”

“I wasn’t—”

Smack.

“Moaning someone else’s name in your sleep?”

“I wouldn’t!”

Smack.

“You did.” His chest molds to your back as he drops his lips to your ear. “So how about I remind you who this pussy belongs to?”

-

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

[ashdreams2023]

Can you please do Loki reacting to reader if they asked for him to keep his horns on while doing the dirty 🤭 and also maybe it’s usually really soft and sweet but she wants Loki to be rough and he’s initially taken aback? 🙃 -can be whatever writing style you want, thanks

The horns stay

Loki x fem reader {NSFW}

Loki loved your lip, your eyes, your hands and your curves, every inch of you made him his blood boil with heat, he wanted to take his time lavishing you and making you feel special.

"Loki" you moaned as he took off your clothes, enjoying the way you squirmed under his cool hands and your back arched.

"I’ll be there my love just one second" he pushed you into the bed, not too strong he doesn’t want to hurt you.

He takes off his armor with a flick of his finger then reaches for him helmet but your sudden movement stop him, you sit Straight on the bed and reach for his hand, you pull it away from the helmet and pull him into bed "leave it, please"

His eyes darkened before slamming his lips onto yours, your arms warped around his neck in perfect harmony, pressing your naked chests together.

"Don’t hold back, please, I want you to make me yours, all the way"

Loki cursed underneath his breath, he licked his lips and bite your bottom lip teasingly before running his hand over your chest and squeezing your breast making me moan louder.

"You want me to mark you? Bruise your pretty skin my dove?" He breathed into your ear causing you to shiver.

"Yes, yes please, do your worst to me!" Loki grinned devilishly before pulling away and flipping you on your back, making you face the huge mirror near the bed.

Loki pulled you by your hair and lifted your head up slightly so you can get a good look at yourself and him in the reflection of the mirror.

His helmet horns still stood tall and shiny on his head "Beg me more, tell me how much you want it"

"Loki, my prince, please, take me, now!"

He slammed his cock inside of you and didn’t leave you any time to adjust like he did many times before, it was exciting and you were so wet and needy, it drove him crazy.

"You like that? That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?" He said thrusting rough into you, rocking your body with each slap and slapping your ass with his strong hand.

You watched with lust fogging your vision, all you could feel is him filling you up again and again.

Those horns made him look sinister, so intimidating, so powerful and Royal.

And you were his very own dove, the prettiest, most spoiled dove.

"Fuck you’re so wet and desperate, don’t cum yet" he said breathless then pulling out of you. You whined looking back at him and reaching your hand back to touch him but he held your wrist and pulled you on top of him.

"I did what you wished for my beautiful dove, now work for it like the little princess you are, take your throne"

You blinked away a few tears of frustration and grabbed onto his horns then seated yourself down, you were so close and just needed a couple of jumps in.

"Yes, just like that use me, use your prince" his words made your throat dry and your hips faster, he gripped your sides the whole time, digging his fingers into your soft flesh, edging you till your orgasm reached its peak and you came on his cock.

You still kept holding onto the horns, letting him thrust into your sensitive pussy until he finally came shortly after.

[mikichko]

part of adoptive parents!ghoap x reader cw: mentions of abusive childhood, parents, and scars from said abuse. a/n: wrote this instead of doing my chores :) (i cried)

simon learns the hard way that there's no handbook on being a parent.

sure, the parenting section of bookstores is always full of colorful quippy books on tips for developmental stages. but, there's no handbook for the actual process of becoming a parent. you can make a step by step guide on how to get a child through teething, sleep training, and even potty training but not how to endure the emotional transition of becoming a parent.

there's no book on overcoming fear, trust he's looked. just ones that give lists of things to have ready before a child arrives. simon has it all ready. has finalized the color palette of the boys' room, painted the mural himself, even had price build the frame for the bed himself. meticulous little details carved into the wood that he hopes his future son will love. but material things only cover a small aspect of what a child needs.

no matter how ready he is in that aspect, simon can't shake the terror that the thought of fatherhood brings.

it's everpresent, simmering just below the surface of his skin, silencing him and dulling the days where it agitates itself into a rolling boil. he's been acquainted with fear, the feeling isn't fully foreign but simon cringes nonetheless. because fear feeds the voices, and the voices love to make simon suffer. they always have.

fear drives him out of his marital bed, slipping away from johnny's pliant warm body in exchange for the still, cold air of the living room. he keeps the light off, guided by the beautiful cascade of moonlight that filters through the windows. settles on the couch, underneath the gentle light, as he inspects his marked palms. it's hard to see the scars in the moonlight. they're not large, not like the ones that warp the skin on his arms or the ones on his back.

no, these are defensive scars.

and simon can still feel the blow that delivered them. a stored memory with a sick interactive feature activated on these cold nights. a boy never forgets when his father beats him, he thinks, it's something he carries. and although this simon isn't sixteen, that scrawny bruised body shed long ago, he's still a boy. even when time erodes his memory, picking at any loose bits, the pain will persist. he'll never truly forget.

bathed in moonlight, he's left to wonder what right he has to be a father. the only fatherly hands that have landed on him had been violent. tearing at him until even fresh water made both his skin and eyes sting. til the violence invaded his dreams, forcing him to spend the rest of his night in a shallow rest, until he was eighteen. years spent with his ears perked, waiting for the creak of the fifth step, the indicator that he had to fight again. how was he meant to make a proper home for a child when he had only ever known a shattered one?

it doesn't take long for johnny to find him. he does every night, of course. the cool air invading where simon had previously occupied, alerting johnny to his absence. simon's silent call that johnny always responds. he never asks, knows the brunette well enough. understands that simon's palms are a testament to the damage that's been inflicted on him. the evil he's been subjected to.

simon doesn't have to speak of it, but he does. on a dry starry night in urzikstan, comms off and johnny as his sole observer, he verbalizes his fear of becoming a father. not now, this is not the proper line for a good father, but sometime in the future.

johnnys’s seen firsthand the kind of terror the masked man can inflict. how easily his hands can break bones, turn necks, and knock someone from this life.

but those are the hands of a tool. an asset. not the hands of a man. those are ghost's hands, not simon's.

johnny has seen simon, truly. has seen how he handles the robins that perch on his index finger, mistaking its girth for an incredibly still branch. has seen the softness in which he handles the tabby street cat they feed from time to time. fingers barely touching her coat as he strokes her forehead, soothing her until she’s calm enough to eat. seen the man he becomes when he’s holding gaz and price’s little girl in his arms. body stiff and eyes wet as his arms engulf the bundle of pink whose tanned hand grabs at simon’s too big finger. when she grasps, she doesn't even manage to wrap her finger around it completely, she coos nonetheless. it's easy to spot the love swirling in his honey eyes as he looks down at her.

johnny presses himself up against his husband, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. his hand rubs at his back soothingly and his forehead presses against his temple. they sit for some time, both illuminated by the light from the celestial body, until johnny finally feels simon relax. his husband returning to him from the turbulent tides of his mind. the man that johnny knows will make a great father.

sometime in the future, with zach sprawled across his chest, curls tickling the bottom of his chin, simon will remember this. will remember the moonlight, the pain, the fear that gripped him, and the scruff that grounded him again. he'll laugh, as gently as possible to not disturb the dinosaur covered boy, before tucking the memory away.

it'd be easier to laugh then, with zach in his arms. with the adoration he feels for his boy warming him fully, it'll be easier to forget the cold tides that pulled him away that night.

it's true, they don't teach you how to become a parent, it's not something you can encapsulate in a book. simon doesn't think he could verbalize the emotions that well up when he looks at this boy, his son, in a way that would do them justice. if there are they evade him.

this boy, his boy, who softens him around the edges, pulls fondness, care, and love from places he hadn't even known had any left.

[catharticmoonshine]

mean!quaritch who loves to push your limits, loves to make you take just more than you can handle. he'll push another thick, blue finger into the warm embrace of your cunt, ingnoring your protesting whines of the stretch being too much for you to handle or your mewls of how full your poor little pussy feels with just two of his digits stuffed inside. he slides the third finger in slowly, huffing out a low, satisfied chuckle at the high-pitched and uncoordinated moans that spill from your spit-slicked lips. his cock twitches at the feeling of your plush walls clamping down impossibly tight on his fingers, almost like your cunt's trying to pull him in deeper. it certainly seems like it, judging by the way your back arches off the bed and how you're chanting his name over and over again like an ancient prayer.

mean!quaritch who calls you all kinds of names while he fucks you. He loves to degrade you, too. "y'really think y'deserve to cum? well, sweetcheeks, maybe y'should stop behavin' like such a desperate whore 'nd you'd actually get what'ya want", "Bit off more than y'can chew again, pet? maybe use that pretty little brain of yours next time 'fore y'start beggin' for my cock like a damn bitch in heat." he lives for seeing your pretty features scrunch up in embarrassment, the apples of your cheeks heating up like the blood underneath your sweet skin is boiling.

mean!quaritch who can't help himself when tears start to dotting your lashline. No matter if they're caused by him forcing one too many orgasms out of you, your puffy clit so sensitive that it borders on pain, the slick walls of your core fluttering so deliciously around his thick cock or by his sharp words. A mix of both is probably what he likes best. Your choked sobs and broken mewls are like music to him, his ears twitching towards you to not miss a single note of the symphony spilling from your lips. You're just too cute with your eyes all wet and lashes clumped together by the salty tears smeared over your cheeks, you can't blame him for being so utterly enamored with the sight you make. He might be an asshole about it in the moment, smirking down at you and pushing his cockhead extra deep into your cervix to hear you cry out under him, but he'll make up for it afterwards.

mean!quaritch who's all for the extremes. the times he's not overstimulating you until white spots cloud your vision, he won't let you cum at all. sometimes he wont even touch you. He'll make you watch him jerk off in front of you, slapping your hands away when you try to reach out for him or let your hands wander down to play with yourself. No, you don't get to cum until he allows it. If he does so at all. He loves painting your skin with streaks of his sticky cum, the slight bioluminescent blue hue looking so gorgeous on your supple skin. While he loves the sight of his spent on your tits or on your stomach, his favorite place to cum on is most definitely your pretty cunt. He'll shoot rope after rope onto the glistening lips of your pussy, watching it dribble down to pool on the sheets beneath you. Maybe he'll smear it further over your cunt with his now oversensitive tip, if he's feeling generous. Other times he makes you finger yourself in front of him, using his cum as lube to make the slide of your fingers extra slick. (not that you'd need any lube in the first place given how wet you've gotten watching him fist his cock over you) its messy, the way your fingertips rub your slippery clit, and it makes for such a pretty view. A satisfied grin grows on quaritchs lips as he commits the picture of you oh so lost in the hazy waves of pleasure beneath him to memory.

mean!quaritch who leaves hickes and bitemarks in places he knows you won't be able to cover up. He gets a dirty kind of satisfaction from seeing you get all pouty and angry at him when you discover them in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. And you're just too cute when you get all embarrassed because you can feel your coworkers knowing eyes lingering where purple and maroon bloom under your soft skin.

[some-bunniii]

Lucifer dotes on a pregnant!reader [Sneak Peek]

you can find the original prompt here! fem!reader with no use of y/n.

EDIT: Full fic here!

take this little (unedited) blurb from my upcoming longfic! it’s another big one folks, maybe as long as my soul deal fic when it’s finished. character building underneath all that fluff y’know. i’m 13k words in and still going strong, so stay tuned!

“So…. I was a little bored last night,” Lucifer started, adjusting his long collar nervously as you regarded him with a quirked brow, “and, well, seeing as you didn’t have much for the baby, I thought I could give you a hand, soooo I made you this!”

His arm quickly lifted towards you, and you leaned forward to get a look at the small object in his hand.

Nestled in Lucifer’s palm, was a small, yellow rubber ducky. Your eyes widened, breath hitched, as your gaze flicked from the toy to Lucifer, then back to the ducky adorned with a small, white hat. He watched your reaction intensely, and at your silence he cracked an awkward grin.

“For the little one, in case you didn’t have anything for them. It’s even got a little baker's hat, since I know that’s kind of your thing.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you took the duck gingerly from his hand, turning it over as you traced the outline of the beak, the cute little hat, and finally the adorable tail feathers curled at its back. It stirred something in you, your stomach swimming with emotions that were threatening to bubble up and consume you while staring at the toy.

He made this… for your baby? As a gift to you? 

That was so sweet of him, and not even Charlie had given you something so thoughtful. Sure, she paid for a majority of your baby necessities—which you owed her your life for, no matter how much the girl disagreed—but she never presented you with something made from the heart like this.

Lucifer did, though. Even if he made a million matching yellow duckies beforehand, he still made this one specifically for you. Had your ex ever cared enough to do something like this for you? You couldn’t recall. And yet, a man who was practically a stranger before you was the one to care enough.

Fuck, you were about to cry. You tried to steel yourself, holding back tears. 

You met Lucifer’s gaze after a few moments, as you softly stroked the little toy with your thumb. The fallen angel only grimaced at your reaction, his smile faltering slightly as he watched your eyes well with tears and your lip start to quiver.

“Do you hate it?” He asked slowly, and you began sniffling softly hiccups building in your chest as you blinked in confusion.  

“Hate—hic—It? Why would you think…?” You started, before you felt tears welling up underneath your chin, and dripping softly onto the ducky close to your chest. 

You mentally slapped yourself, of course Lucifer would think you disliked it with how emotional you were being. Shame ate at you after that. Here the King of Hell was, thinking about you and your baby and making something in his own free time, only for you to reward him with tears.

Curse these hormones!

Now, the quiet sniffles that escaped you were from both sadness and delight, as you clutched the rubber ducky closer to your chest. The tears spilled faster from your cheeks, wetting the ground beneath you. A few droplets landed on your exposed arm, and its cool touch was a welcome sensation from the heat boiling underneath your skin. 

“I-I-I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” you finally breathed, rubbing a hand across your face to get rid of the tears, before you inhaled a sharp breath to calm yourself, “I’m sorry for being such a… such a—”

You clamped your mouth shut, trying to rope in the last bit of control you had over your emotions that were threatening to come undone. You sucked in a large, sputtering breath and Lucifer leaned back, just as your lips quivered violently.

“—a wreck!” you wailed after that, placing your free hand to your mouth to try and hold in your sobs.

Lucifer jumped slightly, closing in the small distance between the two of you as he rushed to your side. He bit his lip, his hand reaching towards you to give comfort, before he hastily pulled it back.

“Wait, no! You’re not a wreck, you’re completely fine. Perfect, even! Oh, please don’t cry…” 

The man was starting to pace as you held a hand to your mouth, slowly but surely clamping down on your outburst of emotion.

“Here, have another one!” A second rubber ducky appeared with a red burst of smoke, landing softly into his palm as he lifted it towards your face, “Don’t worry I have a lot more at home!”

The duckies cute little apron, displaying a cookie and two tiny wooden spoons in the shape of an X, only made your lip quiver more violently. Lucifer slowly pulled the third ducky behind his back and out of view, staring at you with concern as you tried to catch your breath.

“It’s so cute!” you gasped through the tears, before rubbing your eyes once more.

“You think so?” He replied in disbelief.

You nodded your head vigorously, smiling through the tears as you clutched both ducks to your chest. Lucifer slowly caught on, before breathing a large sigh of relief like he just avoided doomsday.

“Are… you two okay?” Came a familiar voice from the edge of the room. You turned your head to see … 🫣

ah, the wonders of hormonal pregnancy changes! sorry for the wait 😔 health issues have arisen and the motivation to write plummets when you’re in pain, but don’t worry, i’m still writing everyday and it should be out soon <3

thanks for the patience 🤍