#nopity nope
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woohoo doomed robot yuri!!!
designs by @lyss-butterscotch
#aw man i love wholesome robot yuri#rw waning crescent#is kinda#one of my fav things#i love how they GEN love eachother#like?????#THEY SAID LOVE IS LOVE#LOVE WHO YOU LOVE#ROBOT PRIDE🏳️🌈‼️‼️‼️#also dont mind the little angst <3#just a lil#just a SMIDGE#btw song lyrics from Tek It by Cafuné#and no i HAVENT been thinking that song is slivermoon coded#nopity nope#not at all!!!!!!!!#imagine remembering ur gf existed after like how many cycles#rain world#looks to the moon#sliver of straw#slivermoon#rw lttm#rw sos#rw sliver of straw#rw looks to the moon#rw shipping#iterators#mai's art load
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Why did I even watch this? Just to suffer? Is this Castlevania season 3 all over again?
#nopity nope#sterek#teen wolf#teen wolf movie#derek hale#stiles stilinski#Curiosity has caused the lass more heartache
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Soo I wrote a short Star Trek Voyager fanfic to help heal some parental trauma…
Tldr: Seska dies on voyager leaving her baby boy in Chakotay’s care. Tuvok gives him some advice on how to not be a shit parent. Around the season 2 finale/ s3ep1 where the kazon and seska take control of the ship but like RIGHT after that
Not bound, Nor Free
Previously on Star Trek Voyager
The doctor reaches down toward Seska’s neck to give her one last shot of cortohydresoline.
The room stills with baited breathe, literally for the doctor at least.
The system monitoring Seska’s life signs ring out a noxious alarm.
Kes warns, “her neural pathways are destabilizing.”
With just a glance the doctor guides his assistant Kes to step aside, allowing him to take control of the console and ferociously button mash- to no avail.
The alarms shout with compounding speed, until finally breaking pattern to a single stream.
“Time of death 1800 hours,” the Doctor recoils, gesturing to Kes to disable the system’s alarm.
As she does so, she can’t help but look to her side at Chakotay, head in his lap-hands on head. She swallows her concern for him and the baby to finish the proper procedures with the doctor…
This time on Star Trek Voyager
Leaning on the wall at a distance from the newly replicated cot, Chakotay is staring down at the infant with a face of disturbed shock, turning distrustful with each passing moment. Having just witnessed the death of the woman who betrayed not just him, but everyone and everything he stood for, he’s allowed some processing time.
The doctor and Kes, after having finished the last of their duties to prepare for seskas autopsy that the captain will undoubtedly order, slowly creep their way over towards them.
The doctor nods to the disheveled commander still half standing by the wall. Taking out his tricorder, the doctor starts scanning seskas infant, who definitely doesn’t have a name that I can’t remember, giving a sideways glance towards Kes and the captain.
Standing almost off screen, captain Janeway and Tuvok observe and assess the situation, awaiting news on the health of their new crew member.
Smiling with utter and yet restrained gusto, “everything appears to be normal, he’s as healthy as can be considering what the lad’s been through,” the Doctor chuckles to himself but also the captain. “I’ll of course want to run a few more tests just to be sure but,” he looks up from his tricordor at a lost Chakotay. His smile quickly falls with its usual stern velocity, “I’ll uh give you a moment alone,” gesturing for Kes to join him.
She hesitates, doubling back towards the commander, “You know you’re not in this alone, we’ll all pitch in and help however we can,” trying her best to assure him, offering a comforting compassionate smile.
He is unmoved, unswayed, still frozen; she relents and joins the doctor who’s calling for the captains attention as well.
Tuvok remains, just as still- just as disciplined as ever, hands together behind his back in contemplation. He raises an eyebrow, relaxing his stance upon the captains exit. With deep thought and breathful squint, he strides towards Chakotay and the baby.
“Not all children take after their parents,” the Vulcan cuts the tension with precision.
Still unmoved, a light in his eye slowly flickers his gears to turn out a manically exhaustive, “What?!?”
“You are concerned for this child’s future, which comes naturally to a parent. But you are also first officer to this ship,” chakotay’s eyes finally snap away meeting tuvok, “you are concerned for the further conflict that may arise due to the nature of his birth. I urge you to remain cautious in how you let this affect your relationship with him. This will not be an easy task, but I believe help from your crew mates will ease the tension. A Vulcan is not bound by his origins, nor is he free from them.”
Chakotay fights with his vocal cords, his lips mouthing words unspoken. Finally getting his grip he jumpstarts to paced stance, “What am I gonna do when he starts asking about her?!”
His voice cracks racing to just get a sentence out,“How am I gonna tell him that his mother is-” he gulps sounding almost hysterical, “I can’t I-”gripping his hair, haunted by images of his grandfather and his past with seska.
He wips his hand to smack the wall in frustration, halting just before making contact. His eyes dash to his son, screaming of sorrow for threatening to wake him. He lifts his hand in reaction, slowly closing it to a fist that gently rests with a silent tap on wall, head burrowing into the crease of his arm.
Tuvok takes another Vulcan breathe before slightly lifting his head to respond, “I don’t see the logic in absolving him of the memories of his mother.”
Outright annoyed by such unwarranted wisdom, his heart pounds motivated to lift his head, “what can I say that won’t crush his heart,” he turns carefully raising his voice stepping towards tuvok, “what precautions can I possibly take to avoid the risk that he’s gonna be just like her!?”
The distain in his eyes now evident, clear with resentment and rage, barely a pace away from Tuvok’s face.
“You keep looking at him like that and he will be,” Tuvok exits, fulfilled with the knowledge he’s done all he can for now.
As restless as these next few nights aboard Voyager were, Chakotay’s resistance surrendered the moment the boy started to wake. Reaching out with his teeny tiny wittle fingers to hold with tight grip the monstrous giant that is chakotays thumb, dangling lightly as he kneels beside him. “He is not bound by his origins, nor is he free from them,” he affirms, softly giggling with joyous wonder.
The end that’s it that’s my one contribution to the fanfic universe of Star Trek probably maybe
Ty for reading this shit <3
#I did a thing#so proud#not at all depressed#nopity nope#nope not at all#whatsoever#star trek#star trek voyager#voyager fanfic#fanfic#Star Trek fanfic#writing stuff#why did i write this#my writing#kayahstuff
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Well, how are we feelings, comrades?
#star wars#ahsoka series#its fine#this is fine#im fine#im not broken#or cried hard#nopity nope#also i enjoyed it and hope the other fans behave well
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finally got smacked with the tumblr live feature so immediately snoozed the mf. not today satan.
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me @ Cetaganda. the entire planet of Cetaganda
#I'M SORRY I DON'T REMEMBER THE BOOK TITLE#YOU KNOW THE ONE.#WHERE IVAN PICKED A KITTEN#anyway. yeah me looking at cetagandan gene editors like Nope Nopity Nope Pack That The Fuck Upppp#tbh i thought it was cool too but like. not the kbitties...#vorkosigan saga#the vorkosigan saga
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The Mysteries of The Rose
"The rose reveals the portal that opens into the center of all things. This center is symbolized by the rose blossom." — Raven Grimassi in Grimoire of the Thorn-Blooded Witch.
The system I use in my personal practice is based not only on the dual concept of Blood and Water, but also on the pursuit of what I now shall call The Mysteries of The Rose. This system is informed by hereditary practices, ancestral veneration and the aid and perspectives of other practitioners.
One of the books that, much to my surprise, manages to match some of the beliefs that sum up this system, is Grimoire of the Thorn-Blooded Witch, where the author describes 'Five levels' of training in witchcraft, and acquiring mastery over each as 'gathering a thorn'. Personally, I view it slightly different. What I see are six, not five, skills that a successful practitioner should hone, and I see it less like levels (complete and perfect mastery being unachievable) and more like Doors that one crosses (into an ongoing process).
Then, the Doors to the Mysteries are sixfold, as six petals surrounding the center, and these doors are: herbalism and greencraft, magic, and stonecraft, mediumship, mysticism, and seership. Five of these match exactly the ones described by Grimassi, with the sixth being the addition of stonecraft. A skill, and a Door, to Spirits that are often misrepresented, or underrepresented, in witchcraft, if not forgotten and left aside completely.
These Doors are also divided in two sets of Threes. The First Set involves daily practices that define the present, tangible life of the witch, the Second Set involve Ties with the Other, with the Intangible, Spiritual world. Finally, a cross over the rose blossom represents, among other things, the Intersectedness of these skills. How none of them must be practiced in isolation, and instead, must be studied side by side, with each one supporting the others, to allow the practitioner a holistic view that connects past, present and future, and all manners of being: animal, vegetal and mineral.
The Crossed Rose then, symbolizes The Blood Of The Witch, in it's capacity to carry wisdom over generations, aswell as across different states of being. This is the Center of my practice.
#wait until I tell you about how there IS actually levels to this and it's three levels (again threes...)#(we love ourselves a good trinitarian principle)#file this post under: blood cult#having a 'blood cult' seems to be one of my most controversial takes#surprisingly#people love to jump to conclusions about it#oh that and me complaining about the WILD anthropocentrism in general that ends up with books (not just witchcraft books#phylosophy books aswell as countless other genres)#being biased as hell#you would expect witches to be more prone to challenge anthropocentrism but nope nopity nope nope#most don't even acknowledge it#my notes#traditional witchcraft#folk witch#hereditary witchcraft#traditional witch#folk witchcraft#Blood and Water#I should actually make a#Blood Cult#tag
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“it says so on my hat”
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absolutely not, we are NOT doing this right now, you better knock that shit off >:(
#me: i have things i need to i today that i am happy and excited about!#my body: :)#nope nopity no. we are gonna take the shower to stop feeling gross. we are gonna take the advil to stop the headache.#and we are gonna DO THE THINGS WE WANTED TO DO TODAY GODDAMNIT#shh ac
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Today is canceled, I'm going back to bed ✌️
#nope nope nopity nope nope nope#i need some Drama Be Gone spray#i'm about to smoke clense the FUCK out of this house#i am simply going to curl up in my bed with my blankets and pillows and laptop and a stack of books next to me#if anyone needs me: no they don't#personal
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wait I didn't know you followed me 💀
I just found you and I really like your au, i also read a fic about your au idea lol
But Hello!
Become my mutual 🔫/jk
Hi! Lmaooo I've been following you for months' now (definitely, 💯 totally not fangirling rn )- you have really amazing writing skills btw.
And about becoming your mutual...👀
(I don't mind 🔫/jk unless-)
#monkie kid#lego monkie kid#lego monkie kid x reader#lmk#monkie kid x reader#lmk x reader#i mean like#Totally not fangirling#Nope nopity nope#nu uh
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you gotta be kidding.
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Get out.
-
*still doesn't move*
#hals character anons#absolutely the hell not!!!!!!!#do i ever do as im told like this?!!!!!!#nopity nope.
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hyping myself up to submit an ask for a mutual only to set it to anon at the last second
#i get too nervous#like AGH what if they don't respond#or they're like who tf is this#nope nopity nope#can't do it#probably delete later
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Guess who has a gazillion things work related and residence related to do, hasn't had dinner when it's nearly 10 o'clock because the ER was being it's usual frisky monday-self, has just arrived home, and all she wants to do is write fanfiction?
#it's me hi I'm the problem it's me#i should study#or work on my curriculum#or have dinner#or sleep#but do I want to?#nope nopity no#all my brain wants to do is write#escapism is a thing
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LISTEN TO ME-
LISTEN -
I-
Ok i got nothing
the only thing we have to fuck is fear itself
rating: 18+
pairing: max phillips x f!reader
word count: 5309
summary: You get drunk at a happy hour and tell Max to his face you don’t find him scary at all. He takes that personally.
warnings/tags: drinking, like two seconds of scary vibes, smut, (secret) established relationship, work hard, play hard, have secret sex with your coworker even harder
a/n: I’m so sorry to FDR for butchering his quote for the sake of a title, but i like to think that horny bastard would have loved my smut.
🤍AO3 Link 🤍 Masterlist 🤍 Get notified when I post new works!
Despite working at a place that was quite literally soul-sucking, your coworkers could throw one hell of a happy-hour.
There wasn’t a bartender in a ten mile radius from the office who didn’t know you all by name, didn’t shout a greeting over the tightly-packed house the instant you walked in. Rarely was it just a single crew member at the bars – you often got accused of moving in a pack like a five-headed hydra that could drink double its own weight in liquor, beer, and frosés – and being only two-fifths human, the Monster Squad was an alcoholic force to be reckoned with.
Maybe because you actively promoted unity amongst the species, like poster children for positive and “non-toxic human-demon relationships” HR kept encouraging in their Monday-Funday email blasts, but your little group was something of a legend in the area. You thought any notoriety was more likely due more to your faces plastered all over the bars’ trivia night winner boards, but in the office, people tended to stare. Trish, a siren from Santa Barbara, loved the attention, said it was good for her skin – gave her a “dewy” look. Nita, the only other human in your group besides you, disagreed with Ken (a quarter leprechaun on his mother’s side) when Ken claimed the whispering came from the sheer volume of nonsense that started around 4PM in the office on Fridays and continued until you all left the office. Ken was of the belief that the notoriety was actually infamy – to which he was promptly booed and had to buy the next round.
And yet, to yourself, to the quiet conversations you had in the bathroom mirror after two long island ice teas and whatever was in what the centaur bartender at Lucky’s called an “Ass Whooping”, you suspected there might be another reason the Monster Squad even had a name at all. Within your own fields, each of you were respectable – Ken and Trish were both heads of marketing and Nita oversaw a considerable team of engineers, with you of course a department leader over in legal – one member of your group was, let’s say, more well-known.
Well-known because he was the flashiest, the loudest, and certainly the most demonic of you all: Max Phillips, VP of sales, money-maker extraordinaire, and a fan-favorite amongst your Overlords, the rest of the sales team, and anyone with working and interested sex organs in the near vicinity.
To your complete and utter annoyance.
You don’t quite remember how you all came together, who brought who into the group, and when it was unanimously decided that you’d stop snatching up office workers like limes at $5 margarita night after Trish, but it was Max who kept you together, who set up the group chat (somehow mysteriously gathering all of your phone numbers after a very late night), who bullied anyone who responded to his weekly “winner winner liquid dinner” texts every Friday morning with a tepid maybe into coming out that night. He already seemed to know half of the bartenders in the city, all of whom were happy to send over a free round of tequila shots as a “thank you to Max’s friends”. While you’d never look a gift vampire in the mouth, you were suspicious of his influence. Was that vampire hypnosis real? Did he have a pack of lesser, baby vamps to send out to tenderize the hunting grounds?
One thing’s for sure, he definitely didn’t scare them into it.
“Has Halloween, like, changed for anyone else?” Nita grouched over her second Sangria Spritzer two hours into another fantabulous happy hour at Heel Clicks. The four of you were huddled into your comically small booth up on the landing near the back bar – of course there were other seats available but this had the best view, the closest access to your favorite bartender, and at some point, the shoulder-to-shoulder proximity served as a way to counteract the tipsy swaying.
Trish leaned around Ken, her beautiful blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” Nita shrugged hopelessly. “It used to be one of my favorite holidays when I was a kid. I loved the candy, the costumes – all of it. But I really liked being scared the most.”
Ken sorted into his old-fashioned. “Well, if you’re still scared of things you were as a kid, Nit, I think you’ve got a bigger problem than seasonal preference.”
She elbows him and he knocks into Trish.
“Not like that . . . but, like, monster movies aren’t really scary anymore? I mean, I used to watch Ginger Snaps religiously around Halloween, but, uh, now that I know an actual werewolf and he’s the nicest little old man in accounting, I dunno . . . it’s just not the same.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble on monsters,” Ken shrugged. “But I personally cannot relate. As a member of the Free Folk, my people have always been welcomed, seen as bringers of good will towards man.”
“You know there’s eight movies where a leprechaun murders literally dozens of teenagers, right?” You turned to Ken over Nita, your entire right buttcheek hanging off the edge of the booth.
“Oh, yeah, baby Jennifer Aniston,” Trish mused, thinking. “If that’s what your uncle looks like, Ken, then I posit Halloween is still fucking creepy.”
“Halloween is definitely creepy and it sucks.” Your ringleader has returned with electric-green jello shots. Max Phillips carried a tray with one hand, his immaculate blue jacket gone to display firm forearms underneath his white, rolled-back sleeves. “Bunch up, kiddies, Daddy’s back with treats.”
Half the group groaned, the other squealed in delight.
Max hip-bumped you, his ravenous cologne immediately making you think unwise thoughts, as he pushed his way onto the bench absolutely not made for this many people. He looked back at you as he passed out the drinks.
“Now why are we all in agreement that Halloween is a lame holiday?”
“Nita claims that because she personally knows a werewolf – Ned, right? – she’s not scared of monster movies anymore.”
Max scoffed. “Well, there’s your problem right there. Werewolves were never scary to begin with.”
“What monster movies have you been watching?” Nita gaped at him. “Maybe it’s bad representation, but all the movie werewolves can tear you to shreds!”
Ken nodded solemnly. “This is why affirmative action is so important.”
Trish smacked him over the back of the head.
“So, what?” Max continued, crunching up the jello in its plastic cup. “Now that you know me, a vampire, you think all Dracula movies give blood-suckers a bad rap?”
“No, being a human-sized mosquito with too much hair gel is doing that all on its own.” You smirked, dead-eyed, at him. Behind you, Ken and Trish snorted so hard they almost spilled their drinks.
Max narrowed his eyes at you, in a look he only gave you when you wouldn’t let him ease around legal loopholes “for the good of the business”. Only Nita seemed to be oblivious.
“That’s a good point, Max.” She thoughtfully stirred her jello with her pinky, unsticking it from the sides of her cup. “I mean, I guess I never watched that many vampire movies to begin with.”
Max broke his heated staring contest with you to look around at Nita, elbow pressing up into your chest as he leaned forward on the table. “I can promise you, doll face, vampires have been and always will be more terrifying and lethal than werewolves.”
“Not the argument I think you want to make, mate,” Ken murmured as you shifted yourself to face Max entirely.
“Oh, yeah? Enlighten us all –,”
“Nope,” Trish called down the row, “we’re taking this shot before you two get into it again.”
“To Ned!” Ken yelled.
“To Ned!”
Plastic crunched, tongues slurped, as jello ungracefully slipped into every open mouth down the bench. You licked your lip, tip of your tongue green. Max watched the movement out of the corner of his eye.
“So, enlighten us, Max, why should we be so afraid of you?”
Max grinned out the side of his mouth. “One, I’ve seen more bite out of a pomeranian than one of those Tribbles. And two, whatever-wolves can only get it up once a month. I’m all monster, all the time, baby.”
At this, everyone groaned.
“Dollar to the Dick Jar!” Trish smacked her hand on the table.
“Here, here!”
Max pouted as he took a dollar out of his wallet and slammed it into the center of the table, payment towards tips or the bill or whoever suffered the most due to The Dick.
“Face it, buzz,” you shrugged as he put his wallet away. “You’re just not scary any more, if you ever were.”
“Is that right?”
Fuck, you were in a lot of trouble. Beneath the table, his thigh soaked yours in heat.
“That’s right.”
“You know what is really scary?” Ken muttered, digging around in his crushed up for the last remnants of jello. “Kelpies.”
“Ah – yes! They’ve got sloppy fangs covered in algae!”
“Hey – that’s my cousin you’re talking about!”
Heel Clicks was hands down one of your favorite bars in the area. Devoted to the local music scene in the area, the vibe was a mix of old 70s rock bands, modern steel, and whatever justified lots of mounted horns and hairy cow-skin stools. The drinks were great, seasonal too, and there was always live music on the patio out back. In a twist that you found particularly cool, the old rum-runners tunnels had been converted to comfortably spacious bathrooms in the basement. Behind the solid oak door, the noises from the above bar are nearly entirely muffled, making the slow descent to the bathroom something of an out-of-body experience when you’ve had a few and the sudden silence is almost an echo.
Plus, these fucking stairs are a death trap.
You embarrassingly clutched at the railing, the wooden stairs at far too sharp an angle even if you were sober as a judge, much less at a Monster Squad happy hour.
Stupid Max and his stupid drinks and his –
What was that?
You stand up right on the third to last step, listening.
In the half darkness in front of you, there are three paths available. To the left, employee storage, the lights above the door flickering, the sign reading “do not enter” pulsating in and out of visibility. To your right, another door, maybe an exit. Always unmarked and always locked every time your drunken curiosity got the better of you.
And across from the stairs were the bathrooms, left women, right for men.
God, what year is it? Shouldn’t it all just be gender-neutral? You think to yourself, a tad bit more aggressive than you’d usually oppose the gender binary – primarily to wash out the rising concern at the back of your neck.
You are alone down here. It’s obvious. It’s not like there’s that many places for some dastardly villain to hide. Four shut doors and three hallways. Unless some maniac was curled up under the stairs, you are the only person in the basement.
At least, the only person you can see.
You don’t realize how sweaty your hands are until you try to continue your way down the stairs. You take a step and nearly slip, the eyes you know are on you somehow laughing.
One blinking light. No where for anything to hide, so why are you so nervous? You are an adult woman, for god’s sakes. You make it to the floor, the most likely candidate for your demise behind you and –
The stairs creaked.
The empty stairs that you just walked down creaked and you nearly leap across the hallway to put space between you. Heart in your throat, you make the monumentally stupid decision and call out, “hello? Is anyone there?”
As if the serial killer was just going to announce himself, give up the whole element of surprise.
Blinking through the bleary haze of too many drinks, you take out your phone and flip on the light. A white beam chases back the encroaching darkness, a frantic worried ghost peering through the gloom. And yet, like you consciously know, there’s nothing there. But the darkness feels heavier, the eerie distant noise from the bar above so quiet and removed the sound is more of a memory – the idea of what comfort and community should sound like. But it’s not. It’s too far gone – if anything were to happen, it’d be hours before they found you. If they did at all.
“Oh my god,” you scold yourself, squeezing your eyes shut. “Get a fucking grip and go pee and then go back up those fucking stairs and –,”
Okay, that was definitely breathing.
Breathing, right behind you. Ragged, hungry, disembodied breathing, in your ear and your heart ricochets into your chest. Your own breath turns short, choppy, panic swelling into your ears, over your fingers. You think you might drop your phone, your fingers are so numb from fear, so you clutch tighter, the trembling throwing white light across the paneled wood in a craze.
Be rational, this is crazy, there is nothing down here!
The stairs snarl again and you squeak, all but bolting for the women’s bathroom, desperate to put at least some space between you and those fucking stairs, put some boundaries between –
The door is locked. When the fuck is this door ever locked?
Panic recedes to overwhelming rage because fuck, fuck, fuck, now you’re trapped in here – you can’t go back to the stairs – you rattle the handle, shaking the door against its lock –
“Fucking let me in!”
The light above the exit door goes out. And then the other. You throw all of your weight against the bathroom door. You claw at the handle, begging it to give way.
Fuck, fuck, fuck – you can hear the darkness breathing –
No, speaking – it’s saying something, chanting, mocking, calling out – calling out your name –
The door suddenly unlocks and you stumble forward – into something solid –
Its hands grab you and like a fucking fool, you played right into its trap.
It turns you, throws you up against the tile wall, its claws around your shoulders, cold tile against your cheek and you whimper. Whimper when you feel the soft pin-prick of fangs against the back of your neck – fuck, this is how it ends?? – and –
“Got you.”
That voice.
That condescending, snide, bratty, little –
You elbow the solid body behind you and Max lets out a puff of air, staggering back. You whip around, nearly snarling in his smirking, beautiful face. The bathroom is dark, black tiled walls and floors with a faux-wooden sink and dim lights across the top of the mirror. In the flushed orange light, his eyelashes encourage thick shadows under his eyes and in the collar of his throat. If it wasn’t for that insufferable smile, he’d look painted from thin brush strokes and heavy scarlet paint.
Caravaggio, eat your heart out.
“Max, what the fuck was that?”
He rolls his eyes, rubbing the spot on his chest where you hit him, at the top of his ribcage. “Oh, c’mon, it was just some fun. Saw you sneak off after you got Nita’s drink and thought I’d mess with you just a bit.”
You sigh, willing your heart to slow down, throwing your gaze to the ceiling and dropping your head against the tile.
“God, you asshole, I thought I was gonna die.” You swallow and move your hair out of your face. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I what?”
“You scared –,”
That smile, the crack of fangs across his mouth, widens, the bottom of his lip rolling back over the cut of his teeth, those brown eyes melting into a warm, obscene black, as he meets you hip first against the wall.
His hands climb over your waist, as though daring you to hit him again, and your thigh muscles tighten. Your hands instinctively trace the exposed skin left by his opened collar at the dip of his throat when he comes closer, chest pressing up against yours, nose against your temple.
Fuck, it shouldn’t be this easy for him. You sigh through your nose, eyes rolling shut, when he nips at your cheek.
“I think you were supposed to be mad at me.”
“I am,” you groan. “I’m livid. I’m enraged. I’m –,”
His thumb brushes your ribs – not tickling, not entirely touching, but just reminding. Reminding of the force behind his touch, behind his teeth.
“Baby girl,” he chuckles softly, the sound running down your neck like rain, “you’re melting in my arms.”
“This doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.” You focus on the softness of his hair between your fingers, the heat of the back of his neck beneath the pads of your fingertips – resolutely ignoring the radiating scent of his cologne coming from up under his collar. More than once had he come across you in his apartment bathroom, sniffing that bottle like some dopey perv looking for a quick fix. Of course, instead of admonishing you, he bent you over his sink and fucked the daylights out of you, his wrists singing with the smell of that cologne. Now he wore it to work wherever he wanted something from you, particularly to overlook some pesky lines of legalise.
In the hallowed darkness of the bar’s bathroom, he drops a single kiss just below your jaw, inches beneath your ear. He grumbles when your pulse there quickens, and again his fangs find a curve of skin to press against – a reminder.
Always reminding, always lurking, a threat without a promise.
And he knows exactly what that does to you.
You release a full body shudder when his hands drop lower, guiding you back against the wall, fingers rounding around your thighs. Like interlocking pieces, your bodies slide together, your arms curling around his neck, the heat of his chest branding yours as it forces you against the wall. You’re breathing all wrong again, but for different reasons this time. You catch a flash of the ink-well darkness of his eyes when he nuzzles out of your neck to admire the mess he has made of your skirt.
“Can I fuck you in this or is this thing too tight?” He asks, like he specifically didn’t get on his hands and knees and beg you to wear that gray pencil skirt only twelve hours earlier.
You lean up, snagging his bottom lip between your teeth, kissing him roughly and showing him he’s not the only one with a little bite. He groans softly, one hand curling into your hair at the base of your skull, and he licks you, from the front of your lips up to the valley of your mouth. He tastes like the sweetness of his whiskey n’ coke, his tongue rubbing the flexing muscle of yours, the sharpness of your molars. You could spend hours just sucking on his plush mouth.
Maybe he did scare you. Maybe he should have scared you more, the threat of anyone discovering your relationship a real danger to both of your careers. Maybe it should have scared you, how little you cared about any of that when he palmed your breast over your shirt.
You inhaled over his mouth, popping off his lips with a moan, his hand cupping you roughly as he dove in to suck marks on your neck. Every moment that passes, you feel your skin ratcheting up with heat, blood almost hot. He thumbs your perk nipple through your shirt and you arch your chest, his massive palm nearly cupping your ribs to your spine.
“Max, either you figure out how to fuck me in this skirt or you owe me a new one.”
“You want me to rip it off you?” He slurs, eyelids heavy, his thigh slides in between your knees, the fabric preventing him from going higher, to the place where you both need him. You groan in frustration and his hands squeeze your hips at the sound. “Tell me fast, baby, because I can’t–,”
“For the love of – just fucking lift it up–,” His hands fumble over yours as your fingers curl under the hem, his own want making that brilliant mind for numbers almost stupid. His warm fingers overwhelm your own as they push your skirt up your waist, and then dig around the line of your pantyhose.
“Jesus Christ, are you trying to Fort Knox me out of your pussy? Why are there so many layers?”
You hiss at him as you slide out of your heels and shove your nylons to the ground, hopping on one leg to take them off your feet. “It’s like you’ve never undressed me before.”
Freed of the chaos of your underthings, Max’s hands rush to his belt, the clinking of the metal sending shivers down your back and straight up your cunt. He doesn’t notice because he’s obsessively watching your thighs. “I’ve never undressed you with our coworkers a floor above us and probably becoming increasingly suspicious about where the fuck we are–,”
You take him by the back of the neck, hand clenching around the starch white of his shoulder. He comes to you, zipper digging into your hip bone as he pulls you up off your feet. For once that chatty mouth is quiet, open and wet with desire as he takes in your flushed face, the blood pumping under your tits. Max is nothing if not almost supernaturally consumed by the look, feel, texture, and taste of your tits.
The look on his face is one of those reasons you tend to throw caution to the wind, why your heart almost feels too big for your chest, whenever he’s around.
He hooks an arm around your low back, tilting your hips forward. You feel the heat of his cock somewhere below you and it takes all of your strength not to grind down.
“Max –,” he’s not even inside of you and you’re already begging. You bite down on his ear to stifle whatever was rising up your throat.
“Hang on, baby, I gotta make sure you . . .”
Using your shoulders as counterbalance, he holds himself up against the wet warmth of your cunt, breath stuttering as he rubs the head of his cock against your slick folds. That bratty aloofness is gone; he wants to sink so, so deep into you.
“Fuck, baby, I didn’t even get you ready – but you’re already so wet –,”
You don’t resist grinding down now and he knocks his shoulders forward, needing movement, but fighting against the urge to buck up into you, gasping from the feeling of your cunt.
“Please, Max, just –,”
“Yeah, I know, baby, okay, just, I gotta . . .”
He angles himself and you arch your back, unable to watch with the mess of your skirt around your waist, but he finds it, finds your opening, the place he loves to mark, and without any warning, thrusts his length up into you.
The stretch, the surprise, the ear-ringing split between being empty and then stuffed so full – you can’t help but moan so loudly, you sing to the ceiling. For a moment, your bodies hum with the stillness, the blood in your cunt pulsating around him, you claw at his broad shoulders, need him closer, needing that smell of him that haunts your empty bed as far inside of you as his cock is. His hips stutter and he presses one hand against the tile by your ribs, teeth clenched against the sensation.
“When I fuck you, every time feels like the first time. Every goddamn time.”
It’s not particularly the confession it could be, but you shake your head, clearing it of anything stupid like feelings for Max Phillips, your chin brushing his jaw, his nose against your ear.
“Then do it,” you whine. “Just fuck me, Max.”
With a groan that could be mistaken for a snarl, he lifts you both up right, pushing your hips down and spreading yourself over him. You lock your ankles around his back a second before he pulls out halfway, then to jerk back in with such force and precision your eyes roll to the back of your head. He sets a pace that has pleasure weaving a tight drum just under your stomach. Each sweaty thrust fires sparks up your spine. He really is so fucking good at this.
This is the release you need, you both need. Sure, it’s an after-effect of having a high-powered job, but it’s also more than that. Max fucking you is unfortunately very often the highlight of your day. He knows what you need, how you need it – how hard to drive his cock into you, it makes you tongue-tied and dizzy. The fast pump of his cock, how it feels to split you apart over and over again, the back zipper of your skirt digging into your back – it’s too fucking good.
“Don’t know where you get off giving me orders,” he grunts, the pounding of his hips into yours rapidly shoving you up your ascension. The slapping, wet noise in the empty room is obscene. “I’m a fucking VP, little girl, and I–,”
You tense your muscles around his cock and he fumbles, his knees buckling momentarily.
“Do not fucking bring up the org chart right now,” you hiss, your own edge yanked away when he stills. “I’m almost there–,”
Quicker than he’s been all night, Max lunges forward, mouth open and teeth bare. He bites your neck and then he bites you.
Fangs puncture your skin, not deep, but enough that your body is thrown into a messy coil of nerves and adrenaline. It knows you could die like this, even if you’ve only ever called the vampire a mosquito to his face, and triggering a self-preservation instinct, your body trembles from the sudden blast of sensation.
Your pupils dilate further than they were, your skin becomes overly aware of every drop of sweat, every flutter of hair, every rub of flesh – and your fucking nerve-endings feel like static, as if brushed by lightning.
Pleasure so-white hot it almost burns roars up your spine, slick coating his cock inside you, and you cry out. Wail in his ear. Begging him to make it better. To give you your release. The feel of his cock pounding up inside your now-overly ripe cunt brings tears to your eyes.
“Oh, fuck – fuck, fuck, fuck – Max, p-please –,”
“Can you handle it if I touch you?”
You shake your head. “Yes, yes, please, touch me.”
“You can’t keep screaming like that,” he scolds you breathlessly, the punch of his hips bouncing you against his cheek. For all his vampire stamina, the flush of exertion across his cheeks is truly staggering and a triumph for your ego. Flecks of blood dot his mouth. “Someone’s going to come looking.”
“I don’t care,” you groan, angling your hips to take more of him. His hand not on your back cups under your knee, tugging it higher up his torso. His pace is relentless, overwhelming – with his weight on top of you, and his cock up under you, inside you, you’re consumed by Max Phillips. “Whatever you do, d-don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
“You scared I’m gonna?”
“Yes,” you whine. You can feel your heart pounding out its shape into your ribs.
“Good girl. And good girls get to fucking come.”
Balancing your increasingly limp body, he holds you up right, his hand snaking beneath your skirt, between the sweat of your thighs and his torso, and –
He thumbs that buzzing bundle of nerves, “come for me, baby”, and you do. You come screaming, the tension snapping, vision sparkling with stars, and you are shoved over the edge. You don’t know you’re wailing his name until he comes too, all concern for getting caught seemingly gone as he begs you to continue as he fills you up with his pearly, gooey cum:
“That’s right, say my name. Say my fucking name, sweetheart.”
His hips thrust weakly, some instinct choking him until he makes sure every drop of him stays in you. You’re going to be dripping for hours.
His skin is fire-hot beneath his starched white shirt. You’ll be thinking about that for days afterward when you see him in the hallways of the office.
This is what scares you the most. When you realize it's over and neither one of you want it to be.
Shaking from exertion, Max slowly sets you down, unwinding your legs from his waist, your ankles trembling against the cold tile. You couldn’t imagine putting your nylons back on, the thought of that pressure against the curve of your lower stomach while you are so full of his cum practically unbearable.
He lifts his head from your neck, eyes intentionally avoiding you as he inspects where he bit you, breath coming in ragged, long gasps. Sweat darkens the hair at his temple and that post-fuck blush is staggeringly gorgeous on him. He pricks his thumb on the sharp edge of his fangs and with a scarlet bead balanced on his thumb, he smears his blood against the puncture wounds, like someone would wipe dirt away from a loved one’s skin.
It doesn’t really hurt, but the effects leave your neck tingling. You’d never say this out loud, but you fucking loved when he did that.
He steps away without looking at you, giving you time to adjust your skirt, your hair in the mirror. You help him straighten his collar because it’s not like he can use the mirror to check himself.
He grins, the flush fading far too rapidly from his cheeks.
“What are you going to tell them?” You nod to the stairs on the other side of the wall. “This can’t look good for us.”
“You got attacked by a werewolf on the way to the bathroom. I saved you.”
“Thought you said werewolves weren’t scary.”
He shakes his head, smirking, then presses a kiss to your temple. “Just said I was the bigger monster between the two of us.”
“My hero.” You turn your head until his lips drink in yours.
It is dangerous, your feelings for him.
He taps you on the butt, pulling away. The lines around his eyes do an excellent job of masking the hurt in the brownness of his eyes.
“Gimme five, then you come up. Can’t have you looking so completely debauched.”
He kisses you again, betraying whatever amounted to “cool and collected” he attempted for, and without another word, he slides out the door.
His smell lingers in the air long after he does. The throbbing of your cunt also serves as a fantastically bitter reminder.
You go back to the mirror because yes, you could not have been more obvious if you were wearing a sign that said, “hi, yes, I did just get my back blown out.” You try to fold your hair around your ears at least a dozen times before pulling it back in what you hope to be a casual pony-tail. You toss your nylons into the trash can, pleading that the “oh, I tore them in the bathroom” excuse might hold an ounce of water.
You think about what’s waiting for you a floor up and your stomach clenches.
Fucking Max could upset the dynamics of your little group, your little Monster Squad. Whatever the stupid office bylines were, your happy-hour social group is one of the bright spots in your life, especially while working at a place run by those bastard Overlords.
And Max knew that. He didn’t want to risk your long-term happiness for his short-term.
Max didn’t scare you because he was a monster.
He scared you precisely because he wasn’t.
You open the bathroom door and return to the world.
#max phillips x reader#i am LOSING IT#you know how i feel about max YOU KNOW IT#and this just makes me want to TEAR DOWN WALLS AND CLIMB INTO YOUR LAP AND FJSVDGDGD BITE YOUUUUUUU#THIS HAS UNLEASHED A WHOLE NEW LEVEL OF UNHINGED IN ME#DO YOU FEEL IT#CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING YOUR EARS SHOULD BE RINGING RIGHT ABOUT NOW#FERAL SCREAMING NOISES#what the FUCK taylor#First of all FUCK U for the gif that was UNCALLED FOR#second of all what will it take for me to be besties with trish and nita because they sound HILARIOUS#third of all i want to know more about Ned and i think we all as a group would like a little behind the scenes thank you#AND THEN AND THEN#the human mosquito comment I CANT I DIED LAUGHING OKAY I CRIED#also its past midnight and i nearly fell of the bed when my laptop made a sqeak the build up was TERRIFYING?????#are you writing horror stories in your spare time maam because R L Stine WHO (sorry im an idiot)#when he pulls out his fangs tho dhqhsbhwjqjshssg WAILING CRYINGGGGGGG#why do i desire him so !!!! he's literally a human leech !!!! smells great and with a great dressing sense BUT STILL#NEVER TOUCH A PUBLIC BATHROOM FLOOR WITH BARE FEET THO EW NO BIG NO HELL NO NO NO NO#hes so FRUSTRATED and COCKY and he keeps saying BABY and im losing my SANITY can you heAR ME SCREAMING SHAGSGWGSGSG#when he said im fucking VP little girl........im.... i uh... yea i cant....#nope nope nopity nope to nopeville#and then the sucker punch at the end#be still my heart we have max being CONFLICTED#i am (gently and lovingly) lobbing a stapler at you head because i am FUCKING DECEASED#I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY#..... so can we have a part 2 please ma'am?
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