#morgue's writing

[morgueofstories]

Drunz Bodyguard AU

The Bodyguard was the most picked option so here is the post about it:

Dream is a popular musician and while walking out late at night after a concert gets attacked and burned by a psychotic fan. This leaves him with multiple wounds all over his body, becoming blind in his right eye and where he also has a huge burn on the right side of his face and neck

Sam, who is Dream's manager, decides to hire a bodyguard for Dream as the criminal is still at large. The bodyguard he hires is Punz who is experienced at his job. has worked for multiple successful people and is highly recommended in his field

Punz is told by Sam to protect Dream in the way of 'protect him so we can make more money' instead of 'protect him as he went through a traumatic event'; Sam is also trying to force Dream to go along with doing a comeback tour even though Dream isn't ready to perform

Punz originally thinks that Dream is a snobby rude person who thinks the world is at his feet like all the other people Punz worked for in the past. Dream snaps at Punz and everyone around him which reaffirms how Punz thinks about him

When Punz finds Dream backstage after a rehearsal, he gets punched by Dream when he taps him on the shoulder. At first, Punz is angry and is thinking about quitting when he notices that Dream is crying

Turns out that a stagehand said something that triggered Dream and made him experience a flashback of the night of the attack and he lashed out because he thought Punz was his attacker.

Eventually, Punz realizes that Dream being mean to everyone is a self-defense mechanism when he is afraid and realizes that Dream needs to get more help than what he had received after the attack

As Punz helps Dream get better (ie. helping him sneak out to a festival Dream wanted to attend that Sam told him he couldn't go to, find another therapist as the first therapist didn't help Dream get to the root of his problems, reach out to Dream's old friends Sapnap and George who he drifted apart from while his career was taking off), the two slowly begin to develop feelings for one another

And nothing bad will ever happen

Jk, Punz gets shot and Dream gets kidnapped by his attacker

That's all I will reveal bye!

[morgueofstories]

Sees this post, gets a writing idea, whips out my computer to type out the idea

I don't know if Athena would tell Penelope what happened because the goddess worries Penelope may do something rash in her anger, but here is how I would imagine what happened after Penelope finds out

Eurylochus hears a scream come from Penelope's tent with the sound of something hitting the ground following soon afterwards. He rushes over to her tent, worried that perhaps a Trojan assassin had managed to get into her tent to kill her like with the previous attempts on her life.

With Polites behind him, Eurylochus entered her tent to find that there was no assassin like he originally thought. Instead, Penelope was standing in front of the table in her tent, gripping it hard enough that several cracks were embedded in the wood. Items she had used to create strategies were on the floor. The only thing still on the table was an owl looking at Penelope with concern, (Athena, Eurylochus' mind told him).

"I'll kill him, I'll kill that bastard!" Penelope shouted, not knowing she had an audience behind her. "How dare he! How dare he touch him!"

Soon after the words left her mouth, Penelope slumped over the table, the anger leaving her body as she soon started to cry. "Why did it have to be him? Why did that have to happen to him of all people. It should have been me instead."

Taking a step forward, Eurylochus' foot knocked against an object which caused noise. Penelope turned to look and froze when she saw Eurylochus and Polites staring at her.

The once composed, calm queen the men only saw an hour ago looked totally defeated. Tears ran down her cheeks and staining her face; her eyes looked haunted, filled with sorrow, grief, and the smallest bit of rage.

"Penelope," Eurylochus said. "What happened? What did Athena tell you?"

Penelope let out a broken sob, trying to wipe away her tears that kept coming, and Eurylochus got closer to put his hand on her shoulder as an act of comfort. Polites closed the tent flaps, to prevent anyone from seeing the state the Queen of Ithaca was in and to stop any eavesdroppers from listening in.

"Odysseus...he...the prince of Troy...forced him into his bedchambers." Penelope managed to say between sobs, not noticing Eurylochus and Polites stiffen up. "Athena doesn't know for how long, maybe since Odysseus was first kidnapped, she only just noticed the bruises today."

Ice cold dread filled Eurylochus as he processed what he just heard. Odysseus, the man who he saw as a brother since childhood, who gave him his blessing to marry Ctimene, one of his closest friends, was taken advantage of by his kidnapper.

Never in a million years did Eurylochus think that such a cruel thing could happen to Odysseus. Rage filled his body like a burning inferno, his mind filled with thoughts on watching Troy burn and that damn Trojan prince who caused this whole mess suffering by his hands.

"We'll get Odysseus back, and we will make that man pay for what he did to him." Eurolychus said, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Polites had the same thoughts and rage as him.

The three mortals were to busy talking amongst themselves after getting their emotions together that they didn't notice the cuckoo bird enter the tent, watching the three put together strategies and come up with ideas on how to end the war sooner.

The only one who noticed was Athena, still in her owl form, who cocked her head up at the cuckoo bird and fluttering her wings, catching the other bird's attention. The two birds stared at each other for a couple seconds before the cuckoo bird whistled and flew out of the tent.

Hera had seen what she wanted. Having only arrived to see how Penelope was holding up after the goddess witnessed the King of Ithaca crying in the Trojans gardens for his wife, pleading for forgiveness, before the guards took him rather harshly toward where she knew the Prince of Troys bedchambers were.

She had wanted to stay out of the war as much as she could, but perhaps she could offer assistance if it meant the broken couple could reunite again.

Sorry if Polites didn't do much in this little idea, while writing he just somehow appeared.

Does Paris ever sleep with Odysseus ever (say with Aphrodite's interference)?

TW: dub-con & power imbalance

Yes, Paris does sleep with Odysseus a few times. Aphrodite did try to interfere once or twice but upon realizing how stubbornly Ody clung onto his true love for Penelope, she saw it as a lost cause.

Unfortunately, even without her help, Paris can still coerce Ody into his bed using Telemachus as leverage & by the sheer fact that as a prince of Troy, Paris can make Ody's life a living hell if he wants to. Compromises have to be made & Ody is nothing if not an opportunist.

And if he cries the first few times, that's between him & the sick gods who got him into this mess in the first place. But everytime, without fail, he prays that Penelope will forgive him; those prayers are between him & Hera alone.

[thatsbelievable]

[sunbl3achedfly]

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: On your night shift at the mortuary you discover a fresh mutilated corpse that isn’t supposed to be there, prompting the FBI’s arrival.

Content: Dead bodies, like lots of dead bodies (you're a mortician), stalking, murder, dark humour, reader is a little gothic and macabre, first time reader and Spencer meet, Spencer thinks she’s weird at first but his curiosity leads to him finding her endearing, reader is not used to socializing and has questionable coping mechanisms

Author's note: I’ve literally had this idea for months and needed to get it out of my system.

3,038 words

part two

masterlist

The hum of the mortuary’s refrigeration units was usually a comfort, but today, it felt unnervingly loud. The body wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and the one in its place looked like something out of a horror film—freshly dead, blood-soaked, and carved like a grotesque work of art.

You leaned back against the counter as the FBI agents filed in, their presence slicing through the eerie silence. The group was sharp, purposeful, and clearly used to handling chaos. Among them, one man immediately stood out.

He was tall, maybe six-foot-one, with tousled brown hair that looked like it had lost a battle with a comb. His dark blazer was slightly too big for his lean frame, and the way he adjusted his satchel strap every few seconds hinted at his slight nervous energy. But it was his eyes that caught your attention—warm and endlessly curious, darting around the room like they were cataloging every detail. He looked like he’d stepped out of a library and into a crime scene.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said, his voice soft but deliberate as he approached you. His eyes lingered for a moment on your dark hair, the chipped edges of your blood-red nail polish, and the subtle skull pendant hanging around your neck. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he formed some unspoken observation.

“I’m the one who found the body,” you said, crossing your arms. His gaze flicked to your black long-sleeve shirt, noticing the faint wrinkles near the cuffs from where you’d been tugging at them earlier.

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were just as much a puzzle as the case itself. “You work here?” he asked, though the answer was obvious.

You raised an eyebrow. “No, I just hang out in mortuaries for fun. Great ambiance.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile betraying his otherwise serious demeanor. “Right.” He glanced at the body, his tone growing more professional. “You said you found the body when you came in for your night shift?”

“Yes,” you replied. “This drawer was supposed to have a heart attack victim I was preparing for burial. Middle-aged woman, very boring. When I opened it today, this was waiting for me.” You gestured toward the bloodied body on the table, your voice calm despite the grim subject matter.

Spencer’s eyes followed your gesture, narrowing slightly as he examined the victim. “You’re certain this wasn’t here yesterday?”

“Dead certain,” you said without thinking, then winced. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I cope with dark humor. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening. “I understand. It’s… not uncommon in this line of work.”

You studied him for a moment, noticing how his slight awkwardness seemed at odds with his sharp intelligence. He had an air of vulnerability about him, but there was also something strikingly self-assured in the way he analyzed everything around him. You wondered how someone like him—bright-eyed and endearingly earnest—handled the kind of darkness he must face every day.

“Do you recognize him?” Spencer asked, gesturing to the body.

You shook your head. “No. Never seen him before. And no one else has access to this section of the mortuary after hours. I locked everything up before I left last night. Whoever put him here must’ve known what they were doing to sneak it in.”

Spencer nodded, his gaze flicking between the cuts on the victim’s body. “The precision of these wounds… they were made deliberately. Whoever did this wasn’t in a hurry. They wanted us to notice the details.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” you said dryly, folding your arms. “They’ve got everyone’s attention now.”

Spencer glanced at you again, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. “You seem very calm for someone who just found… this.”

You gave a small shrug, brushing a strand of black hair out of your face. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen something gruesome. Probably won’t be the last.” You hesitated, then added with a wry smile, “Though I’ll admit, finding a surprise corpse is a new one, even for me.”

Spencer studied you for another moment, his head tilting slightly as if he were piecing together something about you. “You said you locked everything last night. Did you notice anything unusual before you left?”

You thought for a moment, absently tapping your nails against the counter. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, ordinary isn’t exactly a guarantee in this job.” You paused, your eyes flicking back to the body. “If someone’s messing with me, they’ve got a pretty sick sense of humor. And that’s saying something, coming from me.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the body. “This wasn’t a joke. Whoever did this wanted to send a message.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you found yourself wondering just how deep this case would go. You had always been fascinated by death, but now, for the first time, it felt like death was staring back at you.

After the FBI had concluded their search and cameras were packed away and evidence collected, the usual silence you were used to began seeping back into the cold, sterile atmosphere of the mortuary. The body had been carefully documented and removed, leaving behind the faint antiseptic smell of bleach and cold steel. You stood by the counter, gathering your tools and preparing to get back to work once the team left.

You could feel the day's weight pressing down on you, but you refused to let it show and tried your best to keep your movements steady. You snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for your notebook beside your workstation. The slight tremor in your hands betrayed your calm exterior.

Across the room, Spencer watched you. He stood near the doorway with his satchel slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap as he lingered. He didn’t know why he hesitated to leave—there was something about you that held his attention. Maybe it was the way you handled the situation earlier, calm and composed despite the horrifying scene. In a way it may have seemed suspicious to someone else. Or maybe it was the way your dark humor revealed cracks in your otherwise detached demeanor. Whatever it was, he found himself walking toward you before he could think better of it.

You didn’t notice him at first, focused on arranging your tools in neat rows. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat softly that you looked up, startled.

“Oh,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Still here?”

Spencer hesitated, not knowing how to handle your straightforward behaviour, his hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets. “Yeah, um… I just wanted to check in with how you’re coping... After everything earlier?”

Your first instinct usually would have been to shrug the concern off, but the question had caught you off guard. You blinked at him for a second, unsure how to answer. “I—” You paused, tilting your head slightly as you studied him. “Oh I’m great,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm. “Finding a bloodied corpse someone snuck into my mortuary? Best day I’ve had in weeks, really.”

You winced at your own words, immediately looking down after saying them. “Sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have said that.” You fumbled for an excuse, your voice tight. “I just… I don’t talk to people much. I guess I don’t know how to… be normal in situations like this.”

Spencer’s expression softened, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. People cope in different ways. And after today, sarcasm seems pretty appropriate.”

You studied him for a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “You’re weirdly nice for someone who spends his days chasing psychopaths.”

The comment seemed to amuse him, though he didn’t quite smile but instead pursed his lips slightly. “And you’re surprisingly calm for someone whose workspace just turned into a crime scene,” he countered lightly.

You almost laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “Guess we’re both a little weird.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the hum of the refrigeration units filling the space between you. Then Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card.

“If you find anything else,” he said, his voice deliberate but kind, “or if you think of something that might help the case, call us. Here’s my number, just in case.” He held the card out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it.

You stared at the card for a moment, surprised by the gesture. It was small, routine, even, but it felt like more than that. You looked up at him, your usual stoicism softening into something almost vulnerable. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice warmer than before.

Spencer smiled, the kind of smile that was barely there but sincere. “Take care,” he said, adjusting his satchel as he turned to leave.

As he walked off, you couldn’t help the slight giddiness bubbling up inside you. It was a new sensation, as you tended to dislike most people, however, there was something about this handsome stranger that had you way more interested than you would've liked to admit.

It had been approximately 2 weeks since your ‘corpse surprise’, and work at the mortuary carried on as usual. There had been no leads or updates from the FBI regarding the mysterious body. No one had come forward to claim it, and any investigative efforts seemed to have hit a dead end. The unsettling memory lingered in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to focus on work. The thought of someone managing to sneak a corpse into the mortuary without being caught still made your skin crawl.

You had just finished up with the cremation retort, the faint heat from the machine still lingering in the room, and had begun sweeping and cleaning up the crematory floor. The rhythmic swish of the broom against the tiles filled the quiet, accompanied only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.

As you moved toward the far corner, you noticed something out of place—a faint scuff mark on the otherwise spotless floor near the entrance. You frowned, leaning closer. It looked fresh, like someone had dragged something heavy through the room. A casket, maybe? No, you’d been the only one in here all morning, and the retort was prepped before your shift.

Brushing it off as nothing, you returned to sweeping, but a prickling sensation ran up the back of your neck. The kind of feeling you got when someone was watching you. You stopped mid-sweep and glanced over your shoulder, scanning the empty room. Nothing but sterile counters and a row of sealed urns waiting for pickup.

The ventilation hum seemed louder now, almost deafening in the otherwise silent space. Shaking your head, you muttered, “Get a grip,” and went back to cleaning.

Then came the noise.

A faint shuffle, just beyond the doorway that led to the preparation room. Your hand tightened on the broom handle, your heart thudding against your ribs. It wasn’t uncommon for sounds to echo strangely in the building—pipes groaning or metal trays shifting on counters—but this sounded different. Like a footstep.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice echoing back to you. No response.

Setting the broom aside, you stepped cautiously toward the preparation room, your shoes squeaking faintly against the tiles. As you approached, the air seemed colder, though you couldn’t tell if it was the room or just your nerves.

The door to the preparation room was slightly ajar, just enough for a sliver of shadow to spill into the hallway. You could’ve sworn you’d closed it earlier. Pushing the door open slowly, you peered inside. Everything seemed normal—the stainless steel countertops, the neatly arranged tools, the faint smell of disinfectant in the air.

And yet, the feeling of being watched persisted.

You turned to leave, but your eyes caught on something—a small object sitting on one of the prep tables. It hadn’t been there before. Approaching cautiously, you realized it was a photograph.

A photo of you.

It was grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. You were outside the mortuary, standing by your car, looking down at your phone. Your throat tightened as you stared at it, your pulse roaring in your ears.

A faint creak sounded behind you, and you spun around, your breath catching. The door you’d left ajar was now fully closed.

Your hands trembled as you stared at the now-closed door. Despite every instinct in you screaming to leave, to run, you couldn't move. It was as if your entire body had been drenched in ice water and no longer wanted to respond.

When you had finally regained control of your movements you reached for your phone and fumbled through your bag without thinking. Your fingers brushed against the business card Spencer Reid had given you after your first meeting, his handwriting neat and precise on the back: Call if anything comes up.

You hesitated. Would he think you were overreacting? Maybe. But the photograph on the prep table stared back at you, a tangible reminder that this wasn’t just paranoia. You tapped the number on your phone and pressed it to your ear, your breath shallow as it rang.

After what felt like years, you finally heard Spencer's familiar voice on the other end, calm and professional, "Dr. Reid."

“Hi, uh, it’s… it’s me,” you said, trying to sound casual as you leaned against the prep table for support but still refusing to take your eyes off of the door. “From the mortuary? The weird body situation a couple weeks ago?”

“I remember,” Spencer replied, his tone softening. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not exactly,” you replied, but your voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying your attempt to keep your composure. “I mean, nothing urgent, I don't think. I just… thought I should mention something odd that happened. Probably nothing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “You don’t sound fine,” Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “What’s going on?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself. “It’s just… someone left a photo of me in the preparation room. Like, an actual printed photograph. I’m not sure how it got there.”

Spencer’s end of the line went silent for a beat, then: “A photograph of you? Where was it taken?”

“Outside the mortuary. By my car, I think. It’s grainy, but it’s definitely me.” You tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I know it’s probably just someone messing around. But um..." You paused for a moment, wondering whether you should tell him about the odd noises from before and risk sounding paranoid.

“The photo wasn’t the only thing. I thought I heard footsteps earlier, and there was a mark on the floor like something was dragged through the crematory. I… I don’t know, I was sure it was clean this morning when I came in for work, but maybe I’m just spooking myself.”

“You’re not spooking yourself,” Spencer interrupted, his tone more insistent now. “This is serious. Are you still in the mortuary?”

“Yes,” you admitted, glancing toward the door as if expecting it to move again.

“Okay, listen to me,” Spencer said, his voice steadying you. “I need you to leave the building. Lock it up if you can, but get somewhere safe. I’ll notify the team and come to check things out.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of relief and apprehension at his words. “You really think it’s that serious?”

“I don’t take chances with things like this,” Spencer replied. “Neither should you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and pushed yourself off the table. “Okay... Okay, I’ll leave now.”

As you ended the call and pocketed your phone, your eyes darted around the room one last time. The photograph still lay on the table, a grim reminder that whoever had taken it might still be nearby.

You moved quickly now, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Grabbing your bag and coat, you threw them over your shoulder and cast one last glance around the dim room. The photograph still lay on the prep table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pick it up. Your fingers trembled too much anyway. You just needed to get out.

Sliding your phone into your pocket, you tightened your grip on your keys and made your way to the door. Your footsteps echoed in the stillness, each sound magnified in the empty mortuary. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, every creak of the floorboards sending a shiver down your spine.

“Just get out, just get out,” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely above a whisper.

You reached the door, exhaling shakily as you reached for the lock. But just as your hand brushed the handle, a cold, sharp sensation pressed against your throat, freezing you in place.

“Don’t move,” a low, raspy voice growled behind you, the words sending a bolt of terror down your spine.

Your breath hitched, your mind racing as you registered the unmistakable feel of a blade pressing against your skin. You didn’t dare turn your head, every muscle in your body locked in place once more.

“You scream, and you’re dead,” the voice continued, so close you could feel the warmth of their breath against your ear.

Your keys slipped from your hand, clattering loudly to the floor. The sound echoed in the silence, a cruel reminder of just how alone you were.

“Good,” the voice murmured, the knife pressing ever so slightly harder against your neck. “Now be a good girl and do exactly as I say.”

Your pulse roared in your ears as panic clawed its way up your throat. You had no choice but to comply.

And that was when the lights in the mortuary flickered and went out, plunging you both into darkness.

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

I see your lab whump and raise you this scenario:

The character that has been held captive is unwell. They have long since given up the possibility of being rescued. The Coats (i.e., the doctors and staff) have been too harsh, their procedures too intensive, and it all comes to a head during their latest session. All life-saving efforts are unsuccessful. Disappointed and frustrated, they order the body to be taken down to the morgue.

Only - the captive is not dead. A member of staff, whether it be a recently promoted intern or an undercover friend of the captive's or even a member of the janitorial crew, knew that they couldn't leave the captive like this. Secretly, they had dosed the captive with a medication that would slow their heart rate. Perhaps the rescuer watched from the sidelines during those nail-biting moments, or perhaps they were playing a part of the team trying to resuscitate the captive.

Now, they're away from prying eyes and security in the morgue and finally - finally they're able to administer the counteragent. The effects are nearly immediate and the captive is gasping and trying to sit up, heart crashing around in their chest as they try to get their bearings because what is this place? Why does my head hurt? Who is that person? Why is it so cold?

Their rescuer shushes them and tries to keep them from standing because they know they'll fall if they try. It's remarkably difficult to be gentle while they're in a rush, but they try their best.

"I know, I know. I need you to listen to me, okay? Are you listening?" The rescuer says, stepping aside to open the metal cabinet. Inside is a stash of clothing they had hidden there weeks ago. They quickly begin to help the captive get dressed, minding what wounds they have.

"Where are we going?" The captive manages to whisper, their voice hoarse and eyes haunted.

The rescuer smiles grimly, as they help them into a lab coat. "Someplace safe. Someplace away from here. Now, do everything as I say."

[morgueofstories]

We have angst boys, another installment of my Amputee!Dream series

Displeased, Punz eventually agreed to come back at a later date and he headed back to his tower. The following days were spent with him being anxious, wondering what exactly happened to Dream for people to make rumors that he was missing a limb. He was supposed to be fine in Pandora, he assured Punz that Sam wouldn’t hurt him. 

He shouldn’t have agreed to let Dream put himself in prison in the first place, he should have just said no when he was told the plan because it appeared now that things had definitely gone wrong in the prison.

I'll tag @zuesue and @elmhat for this one

WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @inkysqueed (inkoherentwriting) wheee!

Just a little writing this week for y'all

Tagging @mistythedritten and anyone else who wants to :]]

“So… are we ever going to have something besides bread?” he asked her after he finished his slice.

“I can hunt something,” she offered.

He squinted at her and then looked at the surrounding woods. “Like an animal?”

“Yep.”

“And then what?”

“Clean it, I guess?”

His face fell. “You don't know what you're doing either?!”

She shrugged. “I'll figure it out.”

“Figure it out?!”

“That's how I do a lot of things–”

“Oh, we're doomed.” He put his head in his hands.

“We're not doomed! I'm… competent.”

He heaved a sigh. “Ohhh, this was a mistake…”

She reached over and put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh… we're fine.”

[feyhunter78]

Chapter One - A dance between mortality and desire, between that which you already know and the seductive lure of the unknown in the shadows of the morgue. Miguel, your new coworker, has this irresistible pull and seems to have set his sights on you. You try to stay professional, stay strong, but sooner or later you know you’re bound to fall. A fic in which vampire Miguel has found his lost love (you) once more, and he won’t let anyone, or anything stop him from reclaiming you.

Ch 2

There’s something strange about your coworker, Miguel. Maybe it’s how comfortable he seems to be with the late hours, or how he never seems to eat? At least not where you can see him eating, not that you’ve been watching him, waiting to see if he eats, and yes, the morgue is not really the place to eat, it’s entirely unsanitary, but in the break room? That’s fair game.

All he seems to do is work, drink those weird power shakes he’s so possessive over, and work out? He’s got to work out, there’s no other explanation for why he’s so built.

“Y/N, you need any help with that cadaver?” Miguel asks, a brilliant smile aimed your way, he’s dazzling, teeth straight as a military cemetery, white enough to blind you and his lips...they’re perfect, like unfairly perfect.

He’s handsome, and he knows it. A ladies man, the city mortician office’s Don Juan. You still can’t get over how you caught him and Cheryl from accounting, necking behind the building. Well, almost caught him, you heard the sounds they were making and all but sprinted to your car, face burning. And if your subconscious replaced Cheryl with you while you slept that night, then that was nobody’s business.

“No, no, I’m almost done, just wrapping up my notes.” You tell him, waving your voice recorder in the air, the standard one that the city gives every mortician. The one that annoying ass Dave always breaks, which means every project you work on with him takes twice as long because you have to wait for him to type up and submit his notes manually.

“We’ve got it, Manuel, no worries.” Dave says, the deliberate mispronunciation of Miguel’s name makes you cringe, but Miguel doesn’t even flinch, merely nods and heads back into the hall.

“You know his name is Miguel, right?” You know Dave knows, but you remind him anyways.

“Miguel, Manuel, same difference,” Dave says, brushing you off. “He thinks he’s so great just because all the normies fawn all over him.”

Normies aka everyone not tasked with cutting open dead bodies for a living.

“He’s nice, and he does good work,” You say briskly, finishing up your notes and zipping the body bag back up. “Put this one back in the freezer, yeah?”

“Why are you defending him, you got a crush or something?” Dave asks, leaning onto the slab, wriggling his eyebrows.

“No, I just don’t want to be called as a witness when you get hit with a discrimination lawsuit.” You drawl, clicking off your recorder and slipping it in your lab pocket.

Dave holds up his hands in surrender. “Whoa, hey, hey, I’m not being racist or anything, I’m just hazing the new guy.”

“Since when do we haze?” You snort, locking the freezer once Dave slides the body back in.

“Since we started hiring pretty boys.”

“Oh, so you think he’s pretty. You sure you don’t have a crush on him?”

Dave makes a fake gagging sound. “Excuse you, I am loyal to my wife.”

“That poor woman.”

“Hey fuck you, y/n,” Dave sputters.

You laugh and pat his shoulder. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m sure you and your wife are very happy together.”

“We are, thank you. It’s actually our anniversary next week, fifteen years.”

You’re taken aback. You knew Dave was married, but you didn’t think he’d be married for that long. “Wow, that’s amazing, seriously, congratulations.”

He smiles and pulls out his phone, showing you dozens upon dozens of smiling photos of him and his family. “Thank you, thank you, I’m a lucky man. Wait, don’t you have a boyfriend? How long have you two been together?”

Oh yeah, your boyfriend… “Oh, umm, like almost a year.”

“Hey, that’s not too bad,” Dave smiles.

You cringe internally. Almost a year of feeling like maybe your boyfriend doesn’t actually like you, compounded by your fear of being alone, driving you to do whatever it took to keep him. “Yeah, yeah, he’s great.”

A loud crash, the sound of metal crashing to the floor, and a low swear draws your attention.

You and Dave rush out into the hallway to see Miguel trying to lift a massive filing cabinet up from the floor. It’s dented on one side, almost the size of a…fist?

“Miguel, shit man, what happened?” Dave asks, hurrying over to his side and helping him lift the cabinet back to its rightful place against the wall.

Miguel’s eyebrows are furrowed, his hair disheveled, the sleeves of his lab coat rolled up exposing his forearms, his large hands flexing and unflexing. “I—I don’t know, I was walking down the hall, and it just fell, nearly broke my foot.”

“I’m glad you’re not hurt.” You tell him, searching the bottom of the cabinet for any loose parts or crooked corners that might’ve contributed to the crash.

He smiles at you, that Don Juan, panty melting smile, his warm brown eyes focused solely on you, as if you’re the only person in the world, the only one worth paying any attention to. “I’m just glad it was me and not you—or Dave, I wouldn’t want either of you getting hurt.”

“Aw, Manuel, you care about us,” Dave teases, going right back to his hazing.

“We’re a team,” Miguel says simply, rolling his shoulders back.

For a moment you wonder what his back muscles look like underneath his coat, his shirts always seem so tight. Do they ripple under the fabric, is it stretched taut, his back droolworthy and broad?

“A team that’s finally heading home, isn’t that right, y/n?” Dave’s arm landing across your shoulders brings you back to reality.

“Yeah, yeah, closing time,” you say, hoping you weren’t blatantly staring at Miguel’s back.

“You two go ahead, I have some things I need to finish up.” Miguel says, waving you both off as he heads back to his office.

You drive home in the dark, warm streetlights lining the street, soft music playing from the stereo. Miguel never left with everyone else, he always stayed late, and was always there early, like before the sun got up early. You did not envy his sleep schedule.

Digging through your purse, you fish out your keys and unlock your apartment door, flicking on the lights and sighing happily. There’s nothing like finally getting home after a long day and just getting to relax. Nudging off your shoes, you go to heat up some leftovers, letting the mindless reality TV shows keep you semi-entertained until you feel sleep tugging at your limbs.

You go through the motions, shower, skincare, pajamas, make sure all the doors are locked, turn down the air conditioning, and turn off the lights. Settling into your bed, you toss and turn, that fist shaped dent in the filing cabinet still bothering you. Did you need to call maintenance, or file a complaint with the city to let them know? It’s not like they’d give your department a new cabinet just because it was a little damaged, but still, at least you can say you tried.

Finally, you begin to drift off to sleep, breathing evening out, your heart rate slowing, the stress of the day melting away. Your dreams come quickly, cotton candy sweet and nonsensical, until a familiar figure appears.

Miguel’s hand caresses your cheek, his voice low, murmuring something in a language you don’t understand. He pulls you closer, and you can feel the press of his skin against yours, the toned muscles beneath your touch.

“Mi tesoro, tócame.” Miguel whispers, taking your hand in his and sliding it down, down, down his chest, stopping at his waistband, the fabric soft, his skin burning. Trsl: My treasure, touch me.

You take hold of the waistband, fingers slipping beneath it, as Miguel dips his head down trailing his nose up your neck, inhaling deeply before groaning, his free hand a vice grip on your hip.

“Touch me.” He breathes, his lips against your ear, his hand guiding your lower, more smooth flesh meeting your fingertips.

You want to, you want to explore Miguel, to find out if the rumors are true, but a shrill ringing draws your attention away.

“Te quiero y/n, no dejes que otros me roben tu atención.” Miguel pleads, his voice low and desperate, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. Trsl: I want you, y/n, don’t let others steal your attention away from me.

But the ringing won’t stop, and soon you’re jolting awake, alarm clock blaring, the sun streaming in through your blinds.

You throw off your covers, cringing at the sticky wetness between your legs. Really y/n? That’s what gets you going?

After eating breakfast and getting ready for the day, you check your phone, a few texts from your friends, some work emails, and a voicemail from Todd.

Hey babe, so I’m out at this bar right, and the drinks are fucking great, but I was talking to these girls about our issues, you know your whole not really enjoying sex thing? And they gave me some great advice, I want to try it out next time, so tomorrow night I’ll be at your place, get that couch ready, we’re going to tear it up.

He talked to other girls about your relationship? About your intimacy issues? What the fuck? You start to type out an angry text message but delete it halfway through. He’s trying at least, and you did ask him to try.

Maybe you should just hear him out on this, maybe those girls gave him actual advice like: “stop violently rubbing her labia thinking it’s her clit or listen when she tells you where her clit actually is, or maybe don’t be a dick and just give up once you’ve finished, your girlfriend deserves to get off too.”

You type out a neutral response and send it, before tossing your phone in your bag and setting out for work.

This fic was inspired by @sassyposssumm's kinktober request which was such an interesting prompt that I knew it needed to be expanded on! Also since this is a vampire fic there will be some instances of slight dubcon, I'll put warning in the beginning for those chapters with *slight* details in case anyone is uncomfy and wants to skip.

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

[bowl-of-fruit-loops]

I see your “satoru couldn’t bear to see suguru’s body destroyed” and I raise you “shoko couldn’t bear to do it”

[paradisiacvl]

✩ ABC’S

NSFW alphabet with JEFFREY MASON.

NOTE: this is my first hc list so i apologize if it's messy!

—‘A’ IS FOR AFTERCARE (What they’re like after sex)

Will make sure you're okay, clean you up, barrage you with kisses all over, and run you a bath/shower if you want one.

—‘B’ IS FOR BODY PART (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his hands and arms

He likes how strong they are and what he can do with them

He likes your entire body; waist, boobs, hips, ass, hands, mf feet even

He just thinks you're perfect

Head to toe...literally

—‘C’ IS FOR CUM (Anything to do with cum basically…)

Cums absolute buckets like??

Literally so much

Loves to cum in and on you

Loves smearing and rubbing in all of the cum he leaves on your body

He's so messy

Dirty, dirty boy

—‘D’ IS FOR DIRTY SECRET (Pretty self-explanatory; a dirty secret of theirs)

He really wants you to give him a foot or heel job, he doesn't know how to bring it up tho

—‘E’ IS FOR EXPERIENCE (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Very inexperienced

You're his first but he has a good understanding of what to do

Learned from research, watching p0rn, etc.

He watched those instructional, "how to" p0rn vids lmao

He's an eager learner, just wants to make you feel good

—‘F’ IS FOR FAV POSITION (This goes without saying, can probably include visuals)

Mating press

Cowgirl– whether he's in control or not

Legs in the air

—‘G’ IS FOR GOOFY (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

He's more serious but he's more relaxed with it yk? just to make it more comfortable for the both of you

Serious if he's jealousy fucking you though or smth

"God, look at this mess you're making on me, doll. Spencer couldn't do that, could he?"

—‘H’ IS FOR HAIR (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Keeps himself trimmed up, has a nice lil happy trail

Not like you can really see it tho

Carpet does not match the drapes

White pubes ofc

—‘I’ IS FOR INTIMACY (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He can be very intimate, even when he's being rough.

—‘J’ IS FOR JACK OFF (Masturbation headcanon)

Masturbates a lot

To you ofc, whether he's thinking of you or using pictures of you

The amount of times he's jizzed on his phone screen is concerning

—‘K’ IS FOR KINK (One or more of their kinks)

Voyeurism; more specifically, watching you– touch yourself, bathe, or undress. It drives him crazy.

Knife play

Wants to carve his name on your lower back, give you a cute lil tramp stamp

Also wants you to suck on the handle of his knife

Scent kink

Panty fetish

Light bondage

Slight daddy kink

Spit kink

A lowkey foot fetish

Has a finger sucking fetish, he loves it when you lick and suck on his fingers. He'll do it to you too sometimes

Somnophilia (sex while you're sleeping)

Hair pulling. Loves it when you do it to him especially

Choking (giving and receiving, gives way more tho)

Impact play (spanking you)

Overstim (giving and receiving)

Orgasm control (giving and receiving)

Ear licking/sucking (giving and receiving)

Dacryphilia (likes seeing you cry from pleasure)

Wanted to learn Shibari but doesn't have the patience for the more intricate ones, but he knows one..

He uses it to "punish" you

—‘L’ IS FOR LOCATION (Favourite places to do the do)

Anywhere tbh

bed, floor, couch, counter, table, against a wall, in a doorway...

He does not care

—‘M’ IS FOR MOTIVATION (What turns them on, gets them going)

Sometimes he can just look at you and he gets a hard on

You being bratty, whiny, or teasing

Wearing anything revealing, but that's a given

You in dresses or skirts. I can imagine him just sticking his head underneath and eating you out like a starved man

—‘N’ IS FOR NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Age play

Coprophilia (feces)

Basically just really disgusting stuff

—‘O’ IS FOR ORAL (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Loves giving and receiving head but likes giving more

He loves to pleasure you, he likes to see how good he can make you feel with just his mouth alone

He likes leaving you fully satisfied

He leaves sloppy kisses all over and tongue fucks you when he goes down on you

Tells you how pretty your pussy is and how good you taste

But...he also loves the way you look with his cock stuffed in your mouth

How you kiss it or slide your mouth along the base, and how you look up at him all while doing it.

—‘P’ IS FOR PACE (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Usually fast and rough but switches it up to slow and rough

Will switch up paces during to tease you

If you ask to go faster, harder, etc. he obliges but not after a little teasing

He can be slow and sensual when he wants to, it's not often though

—‘Q’ IS FOR QUICKY (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Doesn't do them often as he likes to take his time and do it right

On the occasion he just cant wait, he'll pull you away somewhere private and fuck you stupid

And like I said in my last bullet in motivation; he most definitely will stick his head up your skirt or dress and eat you out

—‘R’ IS FOR RISK (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

100%

—‘S’ IS FOR STAMINA (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He can last pretty long, 3-4 rounds.

Expect him to get even more vocal the more rounds you do, you just feel so good to him

—‘T’ IS FOR TOY (Do they own toys? Do they use them; on a partner or themselves?)

Both! Loves to use them on you and for you to use them on him

—‘U’ IS FOR UNFAIR (how much they like to tease)

So unfair, loves to tease

Just likes to see you whine for him, then he'll give you what you both want

—‘V’ IS FOR VOLUME (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Very vocal, moans, groans, whimpers, and whines and doesn't care who hears

He'll want you to be vocal too, don't hold back

It spurs him on, encourages him

Boost his confidence hearing how good he's fucking you

Wants everybody to hear how good you're making him feel and how good he's making you feel

Will absolutely be calling you pretty while he's fucking into you

Talking you through your orgasms too

Tells you how good you feel, how good you are, how pretty you are, etc.

He gets so cocky after smh

—‘W’ IS FOR WILD CARD (Random headcannon(s) for the character of your choice)

He's a switch but v top leaning

He will bottom on occasion but he tops more

He really likes when you do take control, he loves the veiw

Absolutely hypnotized by his gorgeous girl topping him

Despite other ppl hc him to like degrading you, I think it would be the opposite ☝️

He doesn't like saying mean things to his love, he knows what that feels like

He likes praise, giving and receiving

Maybe I'm biased bc I'm a praise girl

He'll only degrade you if it's something you really like or if it's twisted with some kind of praise

"So pretty...such a pretty lil' slut f'me."

Loves kissing during it, likes feeling your moans and whines in his mouth

Pleasure dom?? yes!

He's a stalker and when he's watching you, he's rubbing his cock to his pretty little thing changing, showering, masturbating, sleeping, etc.

You just look so pretty doing absolutely anything, he can't get enough of you

And you have a very conveniently placed tree in front of one of your bedroom windows

He's hid in your closet while you were home jerking it too

He's such a fuckin creep <3

—‘X’ IS FOR X-RAY (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He's packing idc

7.5-8 inches, has some girth

Slightly curves up and to the left, flushed pink tip

Nice, round, heavy balls

—‘Y’ IS FOR YEARN (How high is their sex drive?)

Very high, his mind is always in the gutter

Constantly wants to fuck you

You gotta pry him off you sometimes, he's so feral

—‘Z’ IS FOR ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterward)

After the aftercare, he's knocked tf out.

But sometimes he'll just watch you as you're sleeping, caress your face and hair, and admire your beauty. He wonders how you could like someone like him :(

[morgueofstories]

Dark Farfadream Royalty AU

So the Dark Farfadream Royalty AU won by a landslide so I will be talking about that. Be warned this will contain some dark themes like non/con, torture, miscarriage mentions, and just Dream going through the wringer for this idea

TW mentions of rape, miscarriage, and torture in graphic detail read at your own risk

Farfadox is the Demon King who came out victorious in a war against the kingdom of Essempi. To not have the kingdom destroyed, the nobles agree to a list of demands the Demon King has given them, one of the demands being they give him a bride because his previous spouse died and he has no heirs to his throne.

On the final day before departure, Farfadox is handed his bride who he notices is dressed in a wedding dress too big that covers the bride completely. The bride has a veil covering their face but Farfadox can see that his bride-to-be is trembling in fear as they are pushed into the Demon King's arms, ignoring the snide remarks from the soldiers who brought him his bride, he lifts the veil covering their face to see beautiful emerald green eyes filled with tears staring back at him. His bride's face is heavily scarred but to Farfadox, his bride is one of the most beautiful people in the world he has seen

OR

Dream, Essempi's princess turned prince has been locked away in prison after his family was overthrown and executed by the NotFound family with him only being alive due to the NotFound family's son who took an interest in him. After an incident, Dream was tortured and assaulted for many years until he was given to Farfadox being told he wouldn't even survive the first night

Side Notes:

Dream is trans but he was misgendered during his imprisonment and when he is offered to Farfadox he doesn't bother trying to correct him whenever Farfadox addresses him as a 'she'

The reason why Farfadox wasn't enraged when Dream was given to him as his bride after being told Dream was a prisoner is that in demon culture it's not uncommon for their people to sometimes marry slaves; Farfadox's father was a gladiator slave before his mother married him

During his time imprisoned, Dream was impregnated against his will and had multiple kids which are Ranboo (kicked out of the house at a young age due to how 'different' he looked and now lives in the forest at the edge of a village), Connor (living in fear with his dad who is a raging alcoholic), Hannah and Tina (half-sisters who are constantly abused by their stepmother but their half-sister Sylvee tries her best to keep them safe even if it means taking the brunt of her mother's abuse) and Yogurt (who was actually the only consensual pregnancy Dream had with Fundy after Fundy was forced by his dad Wilbur to sleep with Dream)

The reason why Dream was saved from being executed was because George had seen Dream once as a kid and wanted him as his wife, so another kid was executed in Dream's place. Over the course of a year after the rebellion he gets close to Dream and when he tries to initiate sex Dream gets scared, lashes out and on accident breaks George's nose; this then leads to Dream getting raped by George, beaten by some knights who then are given permission to use him as they see fit

Before Dream is sent off to Farfadox, he is gang-raped for hours and was told he was sent off because he couldn't produce any more kids so Dream doesn't say a word to Farfadox about the assault until a couple months later he wakes up feeling nauseous and finds out he is pregnant (it's George's kid) but loses the baby a couple weeks later

Techno is Dream's Godfather and emperor of the Antartic Empire, a small kingdom. He was devastated when he heard of the rebellion and execution but he couldn't declare war as his kingdom was smaller and not as powerful compared to Essempi

Farfadox and Dream eventually work things out and Dream gets all the help he needs to fully heal and a couple years later the two have sex and eventually Dream gets pregnant with twins

My inbox is open for asks so feel free to ask me anything about this au as this is one that I've been fleshing out for a while and will publish after Wither Roses is done

[whumpy-wyrms]

WOAHHHH NEW OC STORY IDEA ALL A SUDDEN

okay so vampire guy works at a morgue and feeds from the dead bodies but it’s never Enough. it keeps him under control but he does needs fresh blood once in a while. anyway this human guy dies, was brought to the morgue, and the vampire guy drains him of all his blood (as he does to every corpse) but this human died recently and his blood was fresher and tastier than the others. vampire leaves the dead human in one of those corpse shelves for the night (vampire guy lives in the morgue somewhere) and the next morning BOOM. the human guy is awake and alive and healthy as if nothing happened. immortality moment!! woah

and the vampire guy is like SWEET!!! new infinite food source of fresh delicious human blood!! now he doesn’t have to feed from those gross corpses anymore or go hunting and risk being killed by pesky vampire hunters.

but vampire guy still has to work at the morgue. that’s his whole business. that’s his home and how he needs to make money to buy food for his new human bloodbag (guy can survive without food but his blood tastes better when he’s not starving).

and it’s strange for the vampire guy sometimes. he’s always spending time around dead humans and this is the first time he’s gotten close to an actual live human before. and even though he’s keeping him captive, he still likes making conversation sometimes. it gets lonely being an immortal vampire who’s hasn’t had a close relationship in decades, and who’s instinct it is to suck the blood out of every human he meets. and since immortal human guy is trapped there and has nothing to do, he might as well talk to him. he’s lonely too and now just found out he’s immortal. he doesn’t wanna be alone forever

but obviously he hates being fed from by a vampire and desperately wants to escape. vampire guy kills him a bunch of times just because he Can. sometimes he drains him of all his blood when he’s extra hungry, sometimes he just kills him for disobeying or trying to escape to teach him a lesson. sometimes he kills him for fun, for the thrill of the hunt. dying is PAINFUL as fuck to the human. he hates dying even though he always comes back fully healed.

sometimes the human wants more things to keep him occupied so he’s not bored all day trapped in the basement of a morgue (or maybe he’s kept locked in a corpse shelf during the day, extremely claustrophobic and dark, with no way out, trapped next to a bunch of human corpses. who knows). but the vampire doesn’t wanna waste his hard-earned cash on buying his human silly unnecessary things just because he’s bored.

so sometimes he lets the human help him work. vampire guy owns the morgue and has no other employees, and only works at night to avoid sunlight, so human wouldn’t be able to call for help anyway. human guy hates being around dead bodies but it gives him something to do and he technically gets paid for it in a way. now vampire guy gets things done twice as fast and has more money and free time too. he buys his human the stuff he wants, like books or puzzles, and they sometimes play games together.

human was a nobody. he probably died from some freak accident and was brought to the morgue by the hospital. he didn’t have a family or any loved ones that claimed his body or set up his funeral. nobody came looking for his body to bury or cremate because Nobody cared that he was gone. and that just makes things a whole lot sadder because even if he does somehow escape the vampire, where’s he gonna go? he’s legally dead. Everyone thinks he’s dead. he’s supposed to be dead. there wouldn’t be anywhere to go or anyone to go to because he obviously can’t tell people he’s immortal, that would just cause more questions, and surely being experimented on by scientists would be worse than whatever he’s going through right now, right?

so human guy has to accept his life now, as an immortal bloodbag for a vampire who works at a morgue. his life is filled with blood and death, but there’s nothing he can do about it. maybe vampire guy eventually gains sympathy for him, and starts to feel bad for his pathetic excuse of a life. maybe they eventually become friends. or maybe the human stabs a wooden stake through the vampire’s heart. who knows

anyway these guys have existed in my head for nearly an hour and they don’t even have names but i am going insane over this holy shit???? RAUHHHH i’ve gotta make picrews dude i gotta draw them. new blorbos. new brainrot. i prommy i’ll still get tllr chapter 13 out today or tomorrow but WOAHH look at these new little guys they’re so silly

[thatsbelievable]

[pinkopaqued]

for what its worth i no longer have the tumblr app on my phone and my chrome no longer automatically opens to it so uh? Idk maybe im not coming back

[asoulofstars]

word prompt: fireflies

Riona was on the porch swing with Grace, leaning into the redhead. Their daughter, five, was running through the yard, trying to get the fireflies to be her friend.

“Why won’t they let me hold them? I’m not trying to catch them forever!” Jane pouted from the yard, her brogue coming out.

Riona laughed, and Grace kissed Riona’s temple.

“Because, Janie, they don’t know your intentions. If you sit and wait by the bushes, they might land on you to say hi,” Grace informed Jane.

Jane did so, still pouting slightly, and reminding Riona immensely of the child’s namesake, despite having no relation to him.

“Does she ever remind you of Patrick?” Riona asked softly.

“All the time,” Grace admitted. “Hopefully he’ll stop chasing fireflies and come home.”

Riona nodded in agreement and watched as their daughter had to fight every instinct to remain still, waiting for the fireflies to land.

[gravesung-moving]

@koseigu said:

table .   to  hoist  my  muse  onto  a  [ table  /  counter bathroom sink in a dive bar ] . ( while they're both still in culinary school ;) )

IT WAS INCREDIBLY FOOLISH OF HIM TO accept an invitation to drinks from ryomen sukuna of all people. not foolish because he's as close to a burnout as culinary school can get, not because he puts none of his immense talent to use practically, but because suguru has, for the last several months, harbored a horrible, gnawing, hopeless crush on him.

he does his best to swallow the nerves before they can swallow him — before he can call it off, text his (frankly, terrifying) classmate that he isn't feeling well, and show up the next day brimming with shame. it takes turning his phone completely off and setting it down in the other room while he showers, dries and styles his hair, and searches desperately for something nice (but not too nice) to wear. which piercings to put in, which tattoos to show.

in the end, he goes for a black sleeveless turtleneck with a delicate gold necklace slung over it, a loose half-sheer jacket embroidered with a dragon pattern across the back, and baggy black pants nondescript enough to let the other pieces speak for themselves. tongue piercing stays in (of course); he elects for eyebrow and nostril as well. once he takes the jacket off, the long, fluid snake tattoo down his right arm will be on full display. it stops high on his forearm, only barely visible on a normal day if he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows.

as ever, he has no goddamn clue what to do with his hair. a bun with that one bang hanging loose will have to do — he's almost out of time. shit.

heart pounds in his chest during the drive; in his eardrums during the initial search; in his throat when, finally, the two lock eyes across the bar.

as it turns out, once suguru has a couple of drinks in him, the restrained, buttoned-up shell he hides under cracks wide open. for the first time in a long while, he has fun. up close, sukuna is — well, he is every bit as terrifying as suguru thought he'd be, but he's also magnetic. his attention is intoxicating. several times throughout the night, suguru finds the lingering eye contact with that amber-red stare too suffocating and looks away, blushing furiously, hoping the dim and purplish bar lighting does enough to mask it.

he's not sure when they left the bar. he's not sure who paid, if either of them paid. he's not sure what possessed him to follow sukuna into one of the single bathrooms tucked away in the back corner, or who kissed whom first, or when sukuna hoisted him up onto the edge of the sink with his clothes tossed to the side. it isn't even the alcohol that melts his better judgement into a haze of pink hair and red eyes. it's sukuna. sukuna, who drives the yearning hunger in him far past the shame and disgust he would normally feel at the thought of getting fucked in a dive bar bathroom. sukuna, whose hand feels like heaven around his length, who feels terrible and sinful and divine each time he rocks into him.

sukuna, whose kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and cloying liquor overloading his senses.

suguru has imagined what those wicked lips might feel like on his own, but even the wildest daydreams could not compare to how it actually feels to kiss him. it's that giddy rush of beginning to fall a great distance, but it's constant and overwhelming and suguru wonders, quite seriously, if he will leave this room alive — or if he'll drown, consumed by sukuna in body and mind.

he doesn't think he'd protest.

suguru geto lives his life by the book, almost reverent in the way he treats himself and his duties. tonight, he allows himself this desecration. sukuna is as rough as suguru imagined him to be, one hand's sharp-tipped fingers digging into his hip hard enough to break the skin, the other stopping its quick strokes to wrap around his throat and squeeze until he sees stars.

sukuna breaks the kiss only to sink his teeth into the skin of his shoulder, stifling a noise as footsteps pass the door only a few feet away from them. ❝ fuck, ❞ suguru hisses, half-strangled, nails raking long scratches down sukuna's back — blood slick against his fingers, a little too hard — and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stifle a sound as thrusts come quicker, rougher, waves of pleasure-pain rocketing through him at the friction of his shaft between two bodies pulled flush.

if not for the acrid sting of nails in his side and the heat rapidly building in his core, he thinks he might have passed out. as it is, he's nearly there, clenching tighter around sukuna as his lungs spasm for breath, darkness swimming in the edges of the room.

a low groan against his skin in response, almost a growl. the sound sends a shiver up suguru's spine amid the frenetic haze of sensation. another spasm — the tips of his fingers have gone numb, tingly, the corners of his vision blacker still — and finally, seemingly satisfied, the hand lets up enough to allow the rush of blood back into his brain. sukuna's breaths are rapidly growing more ragged as suguru bucks into him, tumbling over the edge first, his vision going completely white as his body rides through a wave of white-hot pleasure, one hand braced against the sink while the other tangles streaks of red into pale hair.

sukuna laughs into his throat. with each snap of the hips, the peak of his orgasm tips over into overstimulation as their bodies press and shift together, now slick against each other, suguru's dsperate arousal trapped between them. sukuna is close — he can feel it in the frantic, irregular rhythm he's taken up, the flex of his muscles against a rapidly-building wave. when he lifts his head, his lips are scarlet with drawn blood.

even through the cacophonous rush in his mind, the indescribable feeling in his body that brings tears to his eyes, the utter beauty of him hits suguru all at once. sukuna's face is flushed and shiny with sweat, glimmering violet in the bar's dingy light. pieces of hair stick to his skin in swirling tendrils. his irises are eclipsed by blown-out pupils, glazed over and laser-focused all at once, lips swollen and smeared with red — the image of an archangel defiled.

in that moment, as his unlikely lover crashes over that cliff's edge, something possesses suguru to kiss him again. they crash together like two celestial bodies fallen out of orbit. he rolls his hips in-rhythm to ride out sukuna's orgasm with him. the hand not tangled in hair trails up his stomach. the other twists in pink strands and pulls hard. suguru's own blood is coppery and sweet on his tongue, mixed with tequila and pineapple and something unidentifiable. eventually, finally, the frantic motions slow to a stop. for several stolen and peaceful moments they simply breathe together, bodies shaking, slick, dripping onto the floor.

it feels like a spell breaking. only now, with the haze of overstimulation gone, does he begin to feel the prickling soreness in his throat and the sting in his hip where sukuna's nails dug in.

this was incredibly stupid. they've both come undone, rendered each other bloody messes under their hands and mouths, and somehow they're still going to have to leave this fucking bar. suguru lifts a hand and rakes his fingers through his hair to pull dark strands out of his face; it came out of its bun two minutes in. so much for that.

❝ well, ❞ he breathes, cracks a dazed smile at the spent man in front of him. ❝ at least there's a sink. ❞

[menelaus-blue]

ok so i've just recently gotten around to reading two of poe's dupin stories (murders in the rue morgue and the purloined letter) and like wow i never realized how much inspiration vnc took from these older detective stories! my only exposure to holmes has been, unfortunately, through movies and tv shows, so reading the works the directly inspired doyle and the genre in general was completely new to me. not only do the dupin stories feature a genius detective and a narrator living together in paris solving strange and otherwise unsolvable mysteries, but i found so many similarities between vanitas/dupin and noé/the unnamed narrator!

i mean, for starters, both vanitas and dupin are complete and total assholes. they possess this superior intellect and, while they're applying it for a good purpose within their respective stories, the reader is made aware that they can, and often do, use it for their own personal gain. and i would definitely go out on a limb to say that vanitas is a better written character than dupin (i don't think this is very controversial at all really) revenge, both for petty slights and the extreme poor fortune that has befallen both of their characters is a pretty large theme for both of them. i also noticed that they both play a similar role towards the narrator, in terms of guiding him through paris, as well as their respective mysteries.

speaking of the narrator, i think that noé is an elaboration on the trope of the unnamed narrator. i talked a bit about it in a post here, but they're both assistants to the genius's work, as well as the reporter of this story to us, the viewer. something about the work of the genius is so important to the narrator that they need to write it down and tell the story.

anyways. that was a fair bit of rambling. most importantly, of course, they're both super close friends that live together and spend all their time together.