#the intimacy of blood spilled for the one you love and long for

[deathfavor]

@scrtilegii said: the sharp ends of her form frighten him not, permitting for them to pierce his form as he seeks to stand as close to Dreya as possible. behold the tribute in blood that I bring to you!, silent yet nonetheless implied. a ravenous thing, desire. and he ought to know better than to permit it to consume him, though, alas, none other in the world should be more deserving of his adoration than her.

capturing Dreya's form in his wanting arms, Parma presses his lips against the inviting skin of her neck, all the while enduring the sharpness of the spikes piercing his body in full. oh, but it is not his blood alone he would offer her. how else should he show her the bottomless pit of his want? how else would he write the words of the spell he wishes to cast on her, if not in his own blood? come, oh Goddess, do surrender yourself to me! I shall rebuild your altar, I shall offer you proper libation. for now, let my arms encircle you, let my mouth worship you, let my blood stand as sacrifice! ( hello AJAHSHSHS )

The realm beyond moves with activity ; like the waxing and waning of the moon itself, like the ebb and flow of the tides, so too does her realm in activity. Sometimes it is tranquil and other times it pulses with activity, like the hum of a star being pulled together. The latter is the state now, with more of her enhanced creatures roaming the landscape of the realm though they grant Parma access unharmed as if he belongs to the realm. And is that not the case? If he belongs to Dreya, then so does he belong as everything else in this realm does to her.

Real gods require blood in the same way mortals require water - they require conflict and grit and resilience. As the emergence of her moon draws nearer through the steady march of time, more sharp edges appear on her, piercingly sharp and as black as a starless void. They fold and lap together - some as platelike armor, others like weapons. They pierce through flesh with ease, her head turned to watch him when he bleeds for her. That is true dedication ; willingness to let yourself be torn apart for that which you worship with every inch of your being. What is more generous than a deity letting you tear yourself apart upon them? To let you lay hand and lips upon them? To feel your blood upon their hand by their acceptance alone?

Dreya tilts her head to grant him easier access to the skin of her throat, where galaxies and supernovas run through her veins beneath the surface. One hand lifts to press against the small of his back, urging him closer still. When she sighs in pleasure and delight, its the soul of the universe itself that sighs in tandem with her, through her. What it cannot speak, she can. What it cannot touch with hands, she can. Already impaled upon her, fingers press and press - not with razor claws or ferocious violence, but part through flesh and blood with tender care, like the splitting of an orange or lovingly opening a closed book. Her fingers brush across his very core with a lovers embrace, as gentle as the delicate touch of petals despite the blood on her hand. She caresses him and so does the universe through her, accepting his burning want and reciprocating in kind through the intimacy of the blood and contact.

Her head turns to where he's pressed to the graceful beauty of her throat and pulls back only so she can kiss him proper, while her hand remains buried within the chest, touch ever gentle and loving in its morbid scene. But he is beyond mortals as well, he can endure such a loving gesture from a goddess. She draws them together under red infernal moonlight. Want. Want. Such a strange concept to be reintroduced to beyond knowledge. She wants, and so she accepts his own wanting in kind, feeds it in kisses and blood sacrifice and in the tilt of her head when she allows him back to her throat and accept his gaping hunger while her own shows in the possessive hand on his back on the loving touch, the claim of this one as hers no matter what any other dare say.

[mysticworks]

One day too late ~ LN4 x Reader

Lando x Pregnant! Reader; Coworker! Reader; Very Angsty; mentions of intimacy but nothing explicit; Borderline Forbidden love; Reader & Lando are friends with feelings

S Y N O P S I S:

Carried away at the party, you and Lando share a beautiful night. Lando, worried about the implications on his career, urges you to pretend it never happened, ignoring your feelings for each other...until 6 weeks later you find out you're carrying his child. Word count: 1.5k

[ Drop a comment to be tagged in part 2 ]

A beam of sun in your eyes pulled you out of your slumber.

Sore. Head pounding. A deep ache in your lower stomach.  

It took you a few seconds to realise that this wasn't your room. The unfamiliar sheets, the duvet much thicker and heavier. There seemed to be so much room across the mattress, stretching out in its emptiness. 

Then every memory from last night came tumbling through. 

After a launch party of the new 2024 season, you’d found yourself a little too lost in the celebrations, Lando right beside you in fits of giggles and dances. 

You'd always had feelings for Lando, ever since you joined the PR team during his rookie days - the working time together bonding into a quickly growing friendship. Yet something had always stopped you from taking it further.

And so when Lando placed his hands on your waist last night, his face inches away from yours before your lips finally collided - every rational thought was thrown out the window. 

The heat of the party. The excitement and psychedelic blood rush. Climbing into Lando’s car. Your legs, entangled. His whisper of sudden hot, breathless confession. Your heart pounding in reciprocated emotions. Your hands in his curl, his... 

You shot up in bed, last night now a vivid image.

Lando was sitting across the room, on his computer, headphones flung around his neck. His eyes flick away from the computer screen at your sudden movement, coming to rest on you, and he draws in a long breath.

You felt the air leave your lungs. How did he manage to look so gorgeous even in the mornings? 

“How are you feeling?” You blinked at his break of silence, words not quite making it out of your mouth. 

“Yeah, I’m…” Raking your fingers through your curtain of bangs in an attempt to collect your thoughts, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got the pounding headache too.” Lando shrugged, sighing, before powering down the screen and in a swift motion making his way across the room, over to you. 

Awkwardness suddenly overcame you and you did everything to avert your gaze from his. 

This proved pointless as he sat himself in front of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You could feel the warmth radiate off his body, his finger coming to rest under your chin as he forced your eyes to meet.

“Are you okay?” There was a sadness in Lando’s eyes, one that didn’t quite match the gentleness of his voice. You mumbled a reply, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks - his face was so close - forcing your heart to respond with a quickened beat.

“Listen, I’m sorry for last night.” Your brows found themselves furrowing at his words.

“Sorry?” 

“We shouldn’t have…” He raked his curls, shutting his eyes tight for a brief moment, as if pained to say the words. 

His voice was quieter when he spoke again, “We shouldn’t have done what we did y/n.”

You felt something stab at your chest. “I don’t understand, Lando, I like you, you like me, we’ve known each other for years…what’s…what’s the - ” 

He didn't give you a chance to finish. “I can’t risk having…I just can’t risk a relationship right now. We can’t - ”

He pauses, gaze softening as you feel your eyes well up, but you’re determined to keep a stoic expression on your face.   

It didn't help that Lando was looking at you with such an intense look in his eye, his hand cupping your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Are you saying we can't date?”

You felt your voice betray you, a single tear spilling down your cheek. Lando used his thumb to wipe it away, taking in a shaky breath. 

He looked away. “Please. I’m sorry.” His eyes were almost telling you to stay, now also welled with redness, but his words said differently. 

You felt the world collapse. Your breath hitched. A tremor shot through your limbs as you scrambled out from Lando’s bed. He got up too from his seat, standing limply in the centre of his room.

It was then you realised you were in his clothes, his loose tee reaching your knees, a pair of his joggers clumsily worn over your legs. You paid no heed, now eager to just leave. To run away and hide. 

Never had rejection been so cold. It was almost like he’d used you. A part of you wanted to scream at him, throw things and ask him “why,” yet you felt as if life had been sucked out of you. 

One of the best days of your life had been merely hours ago, before turning into a nightmare. 

“Y/n…” You’d only just reached the door, but his call made you stop in your tracks. There was a shameless hope he’d changed his mind. 

“Here. It’s cold out.” 

He held out one of his hoodies, passing it to you in a gesture to take it. 

You did. Curt and refusing to meet his gaze, before turning around stiffly.

And without another word, you left his apartment, refusing to look back.

----------------------

You weren’t sure when you got home, drenched from the rain that came gushing down along the way. 

You weren’t sure of much…only that your relationship with Lando was over. 

Over before it had even begun.

Climbing out of bed the next day was the worst feeling. With no energy in your limbs, you called in sick to work, refusing to face anyone at the McLaren office, but more importantly, avoiding Lando. 

You stayed in bed, too exhausted from crying to move. 

It wasn’t until a week later that you finally showed up at work. The pain seemed to have subdued; now replaced with forever changing moods. At times you were down in the dumps, exhausted and tired - your head slightly foggy - other times, irritable and angry. Yet you ploughed on at work, ignoring the sleepless nights and restless evenings. 

Avoiding Lando at work was near impossible, and yet you managed. Only speaking to him when absolutely unavoidable through email, or putting on your best corporate voice. 

Eye contact was avoided altogether, even when he craned his head to catch your gaze, you turned away. 

That was a satisfaction you refused to give him.

At 2 weeks it seemed the restless nights had been replaced with exhausted ones, a full night's sleep still leaving you fatigued and nauseous in the mornings. You blamed the sickness on heartbreak. 

Lando watched you more often now, sitting in the lobby of your office during lunch breaks. You turned down the blinds and shut him out.

-------------------

The realisation came, 6 weeks post heartbreak. A quick glance at your calendar told you you’d missed your cycle. The nausea, tiredness, mood swings all made sense now - each jigsaw piece coming together to fit the puzzle. 

Although the fear of raising a baby alone rose in your throat, you were determined to do it. You knew Lando had a right to know. Yet somewhere, deep down in your heart, you refused to give him that.

Perhaps you were running away.

Perhaps this was your revenge.

Your resignation made sure he’d never know. 

L A N D O 'S P O V:

They say you don’t know the value of something until it’s gone. I've learnt this truth the hard way.

I’ve watched her everyday since that night; desperately trying to catch her eye at work; take her aside and apologise. Tell her we can make this happen... start over, uncaring of the world and it's concerns.

I've watched her everyday, slowly starting to shrivel. The bags under her eyes, the tiredness in her smile. I’ve watched her at lunch, nibbling at almost nothing at her plate before silently excusing herself away. 

It devastates me to know that this pain is from me. I have caused it and she didn't deserve it. How I wish I could tell her that I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. 

I miss her smile. Her company; once a comfort. I miss having her by my side; encouraging; so full of energy.

And so this is my chance. My chance to finally set things right.

Clutching the bouquet - glitter roses I spent the last night making - I head over to the PR query desk, determined to start again, if she can give me the chance. 

There’s a new member of staff at the desk; someone I’ve never seen before and he tilts his head up at me, hearing my approach, flashing me a smile. 

He thinks I’m here for a project meeting and begins to rise from his seat, holding up a clipboard as if ready to pass it over. 

“I’m looking for y/n, l/n.” A moment passes.

Legs jittering. Heart tight and constricted; there’s a sense of urgency swelling in me as if telling me to hurry, rushing me to make things right. My fingers tap at the desk, impatient. 

He gives a sigh, furrowing his brows and lowering the clipboard back into place. 

“I'm afraid she's not here. She gave in her resignation yesterday.”

The words hit me like a boulder to the chest.

My legs feel heavy, a tornado whirling in the pit of my stomach. My fingers unclench from the bouquet and with a soft thud, the flowers thud to the ground; petals ripping apart from impact.

They've crumbled. Glitter littering the floor.

It was over.

I was one day too late.

Taglist: @hc-dutch @racinggirl @aileeincomplexity @kravitzwhore @eringaitskill @adoreyou-ido @landoslutmeout @queenofmanydreams

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Besotted

♡ featuring: yandere!ajax x f!reader

♡ summary: the love of your life knows you without asking, selfless and caring. however, you're slowly starting to realize the man you loved was a mask of the truth hiding underneath. wc: 12.5k+

♡ cw/tw: modern au, mentions of violence/blood, mentions of suicide, stalking, obsession, possessiveness, manipulation, rough sex, sideways sex, cockwarming, mating press, cunnilingus, drugging, overstimulation, praise, pet names (lots of them tbh)

notes: im so sorry i know it took me a long time but my time has been consumed by exams and its finals week soon so ahhhh. it's going to take me a little longer than usual until my semester is over, forgive me!! art by jam8366_dday on ig! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

“Caramel macchiato for… Katheryne?” Your quiet voice deadens among the bustling crowd of businessmen, secretaries, and construction workers alike conversing through their morning wake-up. It’s incomparable to the serene appeal of a corner coffee shop—piled high with board games and books, the nooks and crannies decorated with some sort of trinket or knickknack you collected along the way, baubles that brought you joy and spread some to anyone that entered the cozy hole in the wall—“The Mad Hatter”. People are free to add stickers to the cash register, so convoluted with color similar to graffiti, including the pink-hatted cat Lyney glued to the top. Coffee tables share space with buoyant sofas, opposite of the display case viewing a multitude of extra sweet desserts and breakfast sandwiches. At night, the fairy lights bordering the wide veiled windows glimmered a dim hue that made feathery snow sparkle like stars during winter. You set the coffee under warm lights dotting the ceiling, emanating above the wooden interior. No one is finicky for your tastes; you are happy to see the familiar cheerful or grumpy faces entering the shop. You remember names, faces, and minute personal details they’d forgotten they shared over a steaming cup of latte left to warm because the art was too pretty to drink. They’re busy, but patient; they've acquainted you long enough to not be angry at the wait, and most times come to your defense against unruly customers. 

It's the worst—or for you, the best—in the afternoons, swarming crowds waiting for an afternoon pick-me-up. You and Lyney work to the best of your ability, serving up group orders with a quickness unparalleled by nearby chain coffeehouse’s. You regard it as your passion, although your parents were disappointed when you told them you and Lyney would be buying and renovating an abandoned property states over all for coffee; your delectable drinks have the potential to form long lasting relationships between you and other customers, and there’s a certain creative merit you relish whenever a guest takes pictures of the swan-like artistry foaming on the surface. The taste of bitter beans sparks moments of merriment, longing, and love—in some cases, it’s the best form of intimacy.  

Your best memories live in this shop; the ground powder that scattered everywhere and painted Lyney like a chocolate sculpture when he tried to push the inventory to the highest shelf or staying up after close in the middle of a blizzard to make flimsy homemade decorations for the grand opening with help from Lynette. 

It’s extra special that the very place you stand is where you found the love of your life. You met him at the register, loose curls dipped in autumn tones spilling over his long lashes. The void in his eyes motionless like the ocean before a low tide. You both stared at each other for a moment, taking in the lines and details of your flustering faces. You must’ve been staring for too long, as Lyney tapped your shoulder with a side eye that alerted you to the awkward silence and line heading out the door. You fumbled for apologies and took his order; the ginger boy chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck—Ajax—such a rugged name for a pretty guy. You prepared the Frappuccino with a drizzle of affection bespoken for him. When you gave him the drink, his hand grazed against yours, a kiss without lips. It left you breathless, and with an airy coyness he said, “I didn’t get your name?” You told him, and he tried out the sound on his tongue. You wished he’d say it over and over. With a rosy wash across his cheeks, “A fitting name for your beauty. Have a good day, (Y/N)” was all he said before he walked away, leaving you stunned and smitten. Lyney was the unfortunate victim that dealt with your wearisome fantasizing about Ajax. 

But Ajax already knew your name. And address, and friends.  

How could he not? When he saw you hanging lights in the windows on a particularly sunny morning that made your glowing face shine with pure radiance unrivaled by deities, he sunk endlessly. He vowed to walk at a distance at that same time every day to ogle your lustrous hair, your soft skin that didn’t break a sweat, the curve of your lips. You soon became an itch he couldn’t scratch, a plaguing thought that wiggled in the wrinkles of his brain and made it hard to sleep or work. You, you, you. Is your laugh a heavy snort or more lighthearted, do you have the same sense of humor as him? You’ll like what he likes, think what he thinks. 

You were constantly on his mind, he wondered if you were eating when he ate or how good you were sleeping as he drifted off to his. It’s not his fault that he snapped discrete pictures of your smiling face, you were too adorable to ignore. He valued coming home to kneel at the little shrine he made of your printed gaiety, surrounded by consistently fresh roses and citrus candles he thought you’d smell like. If he stood close enough, it was like you were right in front of him. The apron tied around your waist was a vibrant crimson—his favorite color. It's fate, the way the stars aligned and sent angels down to bless you with a pinafore of his approval. You had to know he was out there; he was already imagining returning to a cheerful home, and your swaying hips as you whipped up a glacé delight. He’d kiss you on the cheek, and you’d pop a tart blueberry in his mouth. Yes—it had to be this way, it must be what you wanted, too. 

Ajax coincidentally found himself rummaging through trash cans in the vicinity for an inkling of receipts from the shop. He stumbled upon it, of course—it’s not like he waited out until nightfall right before garbage day to have the highest chances of finding identification. The jagged fragment of a receipt led to your family, social media, and blogs you dedicated to your baking progress. And he’d monitor the sites on different screens with multiple tabs, an infatuated glaze over those dull eyes that kept him glued to the updates for hours. He made many accounts, liking your posts fervently with flimsy justifications of encouragement. You became reachable day by day. 

The day Ajax decided to pursue you upfront, it was a dream he hoped never to wake. He’d rehearsed it obsessively until the moment he stood in front of the glass door, a tremble in his restless legs at the thought of looking ridiculous. Seeing you up close felt like a special occasion. His heart was beating off-kilter in his quaking chest, as if jumping free fall out of a plane, and he held his breath until it opened. The confidence he mustered up before he got to the register did little to suppress the giddiness rolling in his veins. His pulse paced the closer he got. Two more orders and there you were; the center of his universe, and you didn’t know it yet. Pictures didn’t do you justice—no, he needed to see your grace preserved in museums depicted in rich Renaissance paintings onlookers could only fantasize holding or loving, but you’d be for him, and him alone. He drew a blank. “May I get your name for the order?” His eyes flickered with a brand-new luster, it melded certainty and delusion.  

She wants...my name.  

My name.  

The sweet harmony of your words lulled Ajax to an addicting turbid spiral that swept fondness through the tempest and scattered infatuation in its aftermath. A feeling too tenacious, it must be love. The incessant burn urged him to protect and guide you to him. You need him. Now he watched compulsively with a winded jaw, your smile to other men who couldn't compare to his devotion. They don’t know you like he does. He could map out the corners of your house from the slim backgrounds of your blog posts or name every club you’ve participated in since middle school. Hunger spread where his fists craved contact, like sunfire corroding the taught skin on his knuckles. They’ve breathed your air and existed in your presence. It’s undeserved, they’re unworthy. 

How fucking dare they. 

How lost you must be without him, led astray by intruding greed; he selflessly assumed his responsibility. You are his, after all. So, he stalked behind cars shadowed by harsh streetlamps to ensure you got home safe and intercepted your packages to check for threatening substances. The accomplishment he felt whenever he completed his—in his words, “duties”—instilled exultation beyond any memory. Within the envelopes, he’d leave an elegant note embellished with hearts hinting at his infatuation and the care he put in to maintain your safety. One letter turned to two, then five, to the point where you’d receive a sleeve stuffed with increasingly unhinged letters from your secret admirer that fanned out when you tipped it. 

On Christmas Eve, a limitless cloak of frozen stardust decided to flurry right before your shift ended. You covered Lyney’s shift so he’d have time to spend with Lynette and Freminent; it wasn’t like you had anything to do afterwards. You counted the flakes of the storm through frosted glass, thinking about the wellbeing of your family back home. Mailed gifts couldn't console the grief you felt during the holidays. A knock on the door turned your attention to the silhouette of a man wearing a slouched beanie with a pompom on top. You unlocked the door, and it swung open from the whirling heft of wind and smattered white across the wood from empty streets. 

“Sorry, we just closed-” You looked up, no time to register the freckled face from months ago, that stole your heart with a smile. Icy grains kissed his cheeks, as red as apples, and fused to the wool scarf draped around his trench coat. “Oh! Hello, again.” You tried to play it off, but the crack in your voice teetered. You were suddenly nervous. Ajax grinned hard and shuffled slightly inwards to escape the chill.  

“Hi (Y/N)! I was really hoping you weren’t closed, it’s a good day to grab a hot chocolate, y’know?” 

“It is. You’re probably freezing, please come in.” You should’ve been home by now, but for Ajax, you could spare a few minutes. He unraveled his winter attire to reveal a tightly fitted turtleneck and took a seat at the chair closest to you. You wrap around the counter and start the kettle, struggling with what to do next at the gaze gripping your mind. “One hot chocolate, coming up.” 

“How much I owe ya?” he chirped, arms resting on the table while he watched you grab two mugs. “No worries, it’s on the house. Consider it your Christmas present.” 

“I appreciate that, thank you. You really are kind...Lyney left you by yourself tonight?” You wondered how he knew Lyney’s name when they hadn’t met, but quickly brushed it off. 

“Yeah, I wanted him to spend time with his family.” 

“And you don’t have any here?” You didn’t retain your usual weariness towards acquaintances. On this lonely night Ajax didn’t feel like much of a stranger. 

“Nah, moved away to start this.” Your hands gestured to the quaint interior. Ajax scanned his surroundings, marveling at the scenery before he spoke. “What you’ve done with this, it’s lovely. Your ambition and dedication are apparent from the way you treat the customers, I can tell you’re passionate about what you do.” Your body flared like summer and succeeded in hushing the breeze. You poured a cup full of thick cocoa and plopped a dollop of whipped cream on both. “It’s not much, but-” the mugs settled on the table, and you sat across from him. “It smells amazing, (Y/N). You’re an expert at this” he interrupted. You traced the rim with your finger and rested your head on the other hand. 

“Thanks...I assume you don’t have family here, either? Think you’d be ripping open gifts by now if you did.” He took another sip. “Yup, they live in a different country. I should visit them soon” he sighed and glanced at the jumbled wool scarf. “Did a sibling make that for you?” you asked. 

“Yeah, my sister. A parting gift.” 

“It’s beautiful, she’s very talented” you remarked, admiring the delicate fleece. The bittersweet smile in response stuck to your heartstrings. “She is.” 

You both drank in silence and occasionally met each other's eyes, only to turn away. Something unsaid hung in the air. "Winter has a way of making us reminisce. It’s so depressing” you confided. You hadn’t told Lyney, but you were terribly lonely these past months. You replaced your emotions with extra shifts, but they came crashing down in the darkness of your bedroom. Ajax gazed at you like he could see through you. 

“The sky appears magnificent under the snow's embrace. Its purity is like the moon's gentle radiance. I don’t think there’s anything like a world covered in snow" he soothed. His words flustered you, and you homed in on the white trails dancing in your lukewarm cup. 

“I’ve never thought of it like that. I used to hate snow. It feels...intruding, I guess.” 

“But if we don’t allow ourselves to be intruded, how will we love?” he blurted. It was comforting to hear in the moment, and you returned his smile. 

“Is the hot chocolate good?” you asked. 

“It’s perfect.... you’re perfect.” You chuckled at the notion, mistaking it for pity. “I’m not perfect.” 

“But you are. The way you carry yourself, your intelligence, your courtesy. You’re flawless, gorgeous inside and out and you don’t even notice.” The way Ajax looked at you, on the verge of his seat and studying your face, lips, and hair. You couldn’t deny the flattery that drowned you and dragged you the more he persisted. “How would you know from one encounter?” His mouth fixed to say it, the truth, but he tight-lipped and reached into his coat pocket instead. He grabbed a blue velvet box and slid it to you. 

“I wanted to give you this. Ever since I saw you.” It felt expensive under your fingertips. You unclasped the front, and it opened to a twinkling pendant. It was a cable chain dangling an oval sapphire gem, with 18 karat white-gold halo sunbursts surrounding it. It’s breathtaking, as if stolen from the tomb of a goddess. 

“Wow, this is...stunning. Ajax, I can’t accept this; it’s too much” you pressured. You’ve never received a gift of this caliber from anyone, it didn’t feel right to look at it. 

“Consider it your Christmas present” he repeated. You shook your head and held up the box to hand it back to him. “I can’t, I shouldn’t-” 

“Please” he pleaded. He clasped your hands, a reassuring thumb gently caressing yours. You were so focused on its extravagance that you didn’t notice the note stuck to the roof of the box. Refined script dotted with hearts; the same style as the hundreds in your closet. Your mouth gaped. 

“This letter...you...have you been the one sending me all those love letters?” You should've had your suspicions, or the urge to back away, but you weren’t afraid. You tried to string together his ability to find your address or mail, or how he knew Lyney, but your brain couldn’t clear the fog of feeling loved after so many years. It’s a warm hug to the blood that instinctively ran cold. Your heartbeat’s fast, half with anxiety and the other with desire. 

Ajax solemnly hung his head and retracted his hands. He fidgeted with his thumbs. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, I thought about being upfront, but I was so scared of your response and I didn’t want you to hate me, so I thought maybe if I sent them anonymously you could start liking the person behind it or if I played my cards right you’d find out who it was...but that doesn’t make any sense now that I’m thinking about it, I just wanted to be near you. You’re so amazing and smart and beautiful, I just...s-sorry…I’m rambling. I hope you can understand; I-I didn’t mean to harm I just want to make sure you’re safe” he choked. The strained words tumbled over one another and broke in places, where they traveled off at the end. Ajax averted your eyes, pools of tears threatening to fall from the corners. The sudden mood change took you off guard, and you reached for his guilty hands. You were on the verge of divulging your entirety for him, be it the isolation of the big city or lack of attention. He didn’t seem like a bad guy; he might have been misguided. What’s the harm in giving him a chance? 

“It’s okay, Ajax. I’m not upset, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered” you giggled. “The letters are sweet, I read all of them. They make me feel a little better about living in a shithole apartment. Thank you.” He looked at you, bottomless intensity searching for more. “I’m interested in you, too” you added. 

“Then you’ll be my girlfriend?” It was phrased as a question but arrived as a proclamation. “...I would love that.” 

Ajax moved around the table. You rose to wrap your arms around his neck while he squeezed your waist with his head lying on your shoulder. The duping tears vanished like they didn’t exist, and his shameful expression morphed into a conniving smirk stretching unnaturally in his triumph. Your authentic touch, the smell of perfume wafting in his nose. It’s not citrus, but it’s you. You, everything is you. This is how things were meant to be. His eyes curved like arches from sheer elation, biting his lip to stifle the cackle. You’re together, at last. 

The snow stopped some time ago, but the blizzard was just beginning. 

Your relationship with Ajax progressed fast after that day. A weariness dulled within you after you came to your senses from your prior confession, and you weren’t sure about the stability of his neurotic nature. However, when Ajax showed up with a bouquet of the loveliest flowers you’ve ever laid eyes on during an exhausting shift, it shined above all else. He showers you with consistent love and attention and worships the ground you walk on with doting devotion. He's clingy and somewhat suffocating, but his sick adoration blesses you with rose-colored glasses; you’re divinity on a golden pedestal in his eyes, and if he fell hard, you fell harder. The considerate, caring, good listener he is makes the small hiccups go over your head. In the first few months you were unequivocally enamored, the kind that tied your universe to his. You patter about him to Lynette, who gives you half-concerned approval at the story of how you met and the “little things” you cherish.  

Like when he allowed you to move in without a second thought. The paint chipped around dodgy windowsills and fraying carpets, and your landlord wouldn’t pay for the fixes. Unfortunately, you needed a place to stay and couldn’t afford to speak up about the horrible conditions. You were used to your slumlord at that point, but the absence of working heat and busted appliances led you to the arms of your boyfriend, sobbing about the stress your landlord subjected you to. He scooped you like fragile glass as you faltered through shaky breaths grating your lungs and hushed your distress. Kissing your head, he rubbed your back and mumbled into your hair. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it...I’ll take care of everything.”  

A week later you’d found out that your landlord died from a gruesome suicide, and all tenants had to leave the auctioned duplex. Ajax took you in, and you began adapting to his midtown townhouse. Though you felt like a mooch at first, the welcoming interior had you snuggling between his downy bedding in no time. He shouldered your burden, accepted your genuine self and lavished generous replacements of the items you couldn’t carry. You don’t lift a finger around him, and he readily cooks and cleans for your comfort. 

You’ve gotten accustomed to his presence. When you wake, he’s either watching you sleep silently or preparing food for you to take to work. Ajax follows you around like an obedient pet, smoothing your hair and highlighting how beautiful you look in your rough post-morning wake-up state. He’ll try to kiss you before toothpaste, and you playfully mush his disappointed face off to get dressed. He compensates by kissing in other places, your clothed knee as he ties your shoes or your hands when they interlock. Prior to departing, he attaches that sapphire elegance to your neck. You grab your tidy lunchbox and stroll together in the early hours of the morning for your opening shift. “Have a good day, baby” he says, and places sugary smooches from your lips to your forehead and back again. You’d stand there forever, embracing his warmth if your alarm didn’t notify you to start prepping.  

When Ajax isn’t around, and you’re busy piping frosting onto cakes, there’s a profound hole in your happiness that can’t be filled with buttercream. The way his nose scrunches when he laughs hard, and those hot honey strands tickling your cheeks when you sleep because his face is directly on top of yours make you crave his sight and touch. Sometimes you ponder what you’ve done to deserve someone so over the moon for you. Hell, you’d give him the moon if that’s what he wanted; it’d barely cover a fraction of the benevolence he’s evinced. For now, you blink distraction away, and there's spread sloppily piled over the cakes and countertop. You simper to yourself; such a handsome, tender handful. 

Your daydreams carry you through close, and you and Lyney remain as you wipe down tacky tables with rags lathered in disinfectant. You’re circling surfaces with vigor, quick to move to the next. You hear him laugh from another table. “Okay, speed cleaner. Missing your house husband?” he teases. You roll your eyes and pretend to throw the rag at him. “Hurry up, I wanna go home.” He fake cowers and throws his hands up in surrender. “Yes ma’am. Don’t waste all your strength, Lynette will be upset if you can’t dance with her tomorrow.”  

“I’m not some old woman, Lyn. I can party.” You force away the memory of sleeping on Lyney’s shoulder in the lounge area of a booming club. 

“Sure, grandma. Don’t forget your cane when I pick you up” he jokes. You chortle, and actually throw the rag this time. Too bad his agile form dodges it. “I gotta let Ajax know.”  

“...Right.” Lyney loses momentum and stares at the steaming bucket for a pregnant pause, stirring the rag to buy time. You glance towards him, and he shifts a peccant look. You turn on your heels and lean on the back of a chair. 

“Spill it” you demand.  

“Spill what?” 

“What you actually wanna say.” Lyney bites the inside of his cheek to physically restrain the itch that vents brutal honesty. “I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say.” 

You narrow your brows and sigh in disbelief. “So what? We’ve been friends since high school, just tell me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and gulps a deep breath. “Lyney.” 

“It’s about Ajax” he exhales. “Oh.”  

“I’m worried about you.” You weren’t expecting the serious air, it sounds like an intervention. It's unnatural coming from your easygoing friend. 

“Really? Why?” you question. He blinks for a few moments, dumbfounded at the innocent audacity, or willful ignorance. 

“Some of the stuff you say about him...it creeps me out. How is it not creeping you out?” he stresses, gawking at the exorbitant gem. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure what you mean.” To you, Ajax isn’t the scary type. Mysterious maybe, but his affection prevents you from seeing him as anything but the missing half of your soul. 

“Okay. You don’t remember telling me how he kept that rotting coffee cup from when you guys first met? Or how he watches you sleep? He made your favorite meal first try and called it a ‘lucky guess?’” The more he goes on, the more disbelieved he becomes.  

“I think it’s romantic” you chide. He expels his frustration. 

“(Y/N), I'm not saying any of this to be a hater, but all of this is unhealthy. Unhealthy might be an understatement. I mean, the man acts like he can't live without you. What if you were to break up, can you be sure he won't lose his fucking mind?” The hypothetical calamity of separation sinks seeds in puddles of doubt. It’s not possible. 

“We love each other. That won’t happen.” 

“It’s been over a year, and you know nothing about him. He comes out of nowhere, sweeps you off your feet, love bombs you, and you take it at face value. Maybe he truly is the one and it’s love at first sight, but this whole situation is...odd. I care about you, (Y/N), and this guy scares me. He’s hiding something.” You attempt to formulate a fact you’ve learned about him, a detail to prove how close you’ve gotten, and come to realize there’s none in your reservoir. You know naught of his friends or family or wealth. Ajax tells you safe verities, like his favorite food and hobby. You don’t thirst for personal space or secrets when it comes to Ajax, and the stygian plunge in his eyes gives you no hints, but you believe the pleasing words that escape his lips either way.  

You glance at the empty Tupperware on the counter, that was once packed with a hefty sandwich and strawberries carved into hearts. He's effortlessly adorable, a small berry-stained note with a simple phrase: "you'll do great today <3". Your dream man, he wouldn't hide things from you, you won’t fathom the thought. “I-” 

Ding 

That dazzling toothy gapped grin spreads warmth across your chest and the room instantly feels a bit brighter. Ajax saunters like he owns the place, engulfing your frame in his stature and placing a kiss on your head. Lyney freezes though Ajax ignored his existence. “I’m getting ready to leave” you muffle into the musky denim jacket. He nods, but his action won’t follow his hands sturdy on your waist as you shimmy out. You make haste to the back room, past the pantry dry goods and collect your sweater and bag. 

You’re about to push open the swinging door when you pause, catching a glimpse of Ajax and Lyney through the oval window. They don’t normally interact in the same space, and you thought it best to respect their boundaries. Ajax is turned away from you, but you can see Lyney clear as day, a stone solid unease skipping on his skin that makes calculated breaths too obvious. It’s silent enough to hear a pin drop. His arms are stuck to the sides, and you observe the apron jumbled in his clutches shaking ever so slightly. He’s trained to the hickory grain of the floor, and from a small portion of Ajax’s visible face, it’s a dreadful expression unbeknownst to you.  

There’s an almost tenebrous loom towering over Lyney, and you feel an alarming shiver settle in your lower spine. Were his eyes normally this gloomy? Your heart rate palpitates when it shouldn’t. You want to look away from the swirling dark depths possessing your soulmate, shooting daggers at your friend. His jaw is clenched to popping, veins on his neck and hands chasing bone. He has a lethal grip on Lyney’s shoulder, and the rough tension pulls at the wrinkling undershirt. But he sneers—a twisted, coiling kind that doesn’t match his glare—an impersonation of affability. 

“Ajax” you mutter softly as you sway the door. He turns sharply, and it’s like a flipped switch. The rage decays to ash swiftly and he’s yours again, your adoring admirer. “I'm ready.” He waits for your approach and tangles your hands. You make your way out, freeing Lyney from capitivity. He holds the door open for you to leave, and you shout “Bye, Lyn! I’ll see you tomorrow.” A shell-shocked cast on his face, he doesn’t say a word. 

You sit at the dining table, feeling disconnected from reality while the kitchen rises with a clatter of pans and glass. You scroll through posts on your phone and occasionally peek over at the corridor to watch Ajax work. His passion shows when he cooks, rocking the skillet to upturn the veggies sizzling within. His broad back flexes with skillful movements, and he looks at you, winking with a teasing pucker on his glossy lips. You giggle. I was just imagining things. 

He slides the plates on the table and sits across from you. Ajax sits like a giddy child waiting for you to try their creation, and you take the first bite. The bountiful flavor dances on your tongue. “It’s really good!” you muffle through bites. A tinge of pink sets on his cheeks. “I’m glad you like it.” 

You chew haphazardly out of focus. You can’t help but notice how quiet your phone has been since you’ve moved in, it feels foreign in your possession. Not a single call from your friends came through, forgotten and invisible. You contemplate apologizing to Lyney tomorrow, it was wrong to get defensive towards compassion. Ajax interrupts his eating to track your fork picking at the meal. 

“You okay, sweetheart? You aren’t eating.” 

You awake from your trance. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Just feels kinda off.” Ajax’s back straightens, and he tenses throughout at a semblance of negative diction. “What does? The food? I’ll remake it” he stumbles. 

“No no, the food is great. It’s, I don’t know. I haven’t got a call from Tiggy in a while.” The corners of Ajax’s mouth contort. 

“Really...I heard he’s been hangin’ out with some new people.” His tone is dry, it strives to be nonchalant. His elbows rest on the table, and he carves his knife into bloody steak like struggling living bone. 

“So, I guess that means he can’t message me anymore, huh” you chuckle. He twists the knife deeper, as if it’s digging in his back. “He’s just a bad friend honestly. Not consistent, you even said he missed your birthday last year. Who needs a friend like that?” 

“I guess.” Meanwhile, you flip through your contacts searching for Tighnari’s name; come to find out he’s nowhere in your phone. In fact, a lot of messages and numbers seemed to have dwindled over time. Your own parents, vanished. Perhaps you were so overworked you’d forgotten they deleted. You start scouring for his profile, but it doesn’t come up. You can’t imagine Tighnari wiping out his entire presence, and it’s not just him. Outside him are the piles of male friends you seldom locate, and you become flustered at your blindness. You look at Ajax, and his eyebrows quirk up to inquire about your confusion. 

“That’s so weird. I should try calling him-” 

“Don't.” It’s not suggestive, its one note, stern demand. It rings in your ears, and when that mask slips for a terrifying moment, you hold your breath until it recurs. “’S not that I don’t want you to, honey. He clearly doesn’t care in the first place, that’s not a sign of a good friend. I’m just trying to help; you know I always have ou- your best interest.” There’s an unrelenting pit in your stomach telling you it’s wrong. “You seem tense since we left, Ajax. Are you alright?” He stops, it leaves you on edge when a formidable shadow casts over his eyes from his bangs that make them look as endless as the bottom of the sea.  

“I feel like...you’re straying away from me. You’re becoming more secretive. Have I done something to violate your trust?” You don’t consider how Ajax knew Tighnari, let alone how he’d find the password to your phone. It was your fault, it had to be. The solemn quiver of his lips clears your suspicion. You’d forget it all to see him happy again. You stand and sway to his side of the table, sitting on his lap to take his face in your hands. “Not at all, babe. My phone’s been acting up, I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just asked because you and Lyney looked high-strung. ‘M sorry.” You kiss him softly with reassurance, and he melts in your touch. The foggy residue shows on his blushing face, and you introduce another to his cheek. “I’m going to a party with Lyney and Lynette tomorrow, so I wanted to see if Tiggy would come.” 

“Ah...okay. Don’t worry, darling, it was a short conversation.” Vague and unassuming, but it didn’t matter now. Ajax can’t deceive you. 

The state you drifted off—lying on Ajax’s chest with his arms embracing your lax figure—is not how you awake. A piercing scream rises, and you jump out of bed in a drowsy stupor. “Ajax?” you addle. Metal clangs to the floor, and the sheets hang low on your hips before you dart down the stairs and through the dining room to discover the cause of the noise.  

He’s kneeling on the kitchen tile, compressing his forearm. Vermillion overflows between his fingers and palm and spatters his shirt. The knife, along with a clumsily chopped apple, is muddy with blood. “Oh my god!” You sprint for a towel and first aid kit crammed underneath the kitchen sink. When you return, Ajax is hissing from the sting, salty tears smeared on his eyelashes. You accompany him on the floor, ignoring the crime scene peppering the cabinets and gently glide his hands to get free view of the wound. “Are you okay?”  

“Yeah, now that you’re here.” It’s a nasty cut, not a gash but painful, nonetheless. You bring him to wash the excess blood, and pat it dry carefully. The fizz from disinfectant makes his arm jolt, but you hold him steady to apply. As you bandage his arm, he blinks away the twinge.  

“I’m sorry, baby. You have work in a few minutes, and you’re here taking care of me. Go ahead and get ready, I’ll do it.” 

“No way in hell am I leaving you like this. Don’t apologize” you insist, the end of your wrap stuffed to secure. You can’t conceive clocking in or partying tonight while Ajax suffers at home. “I’m gonna call out for a couple days so I know you’re well. Relax, I’ll be right back, okay?” He nods, and you rush to the bedroom to retrieve your phone. Ajax wipes his face on his sleeve, streaking insincere sorrow near the serpentine smirk. 

You spent the day cleaning the home, wiping the kitchen top to bottom and making dinner for Ajax. He rests in bed, and you often check in on him. Treating him like an intensive care patient might’ve been excessive, but he accepts your gentle touch and hand fed meals nursing him back to health. You’re lying in bed with him, and the load of his brawny chest forces yours into the mattress with your legs on either side. You massage the pads of your fingers into his scalp, and your breathing weighted blanket emits a groan. Dazed and fully lax, lulling from the rise and fall of your chest. 

The second day is the same, but the lack of pressure divides your dreary lids. It’s midnight, and it casts a fluorescent glow that permeates the room. You feel your way from walls to banister, and as you’re about to step down the stairs to get water, you pause before the living room. Crouched, peeking through the bars of the banister, you see Ajax on the couch in absolute quiet. Shade stands in place of his facial features, obscured besides the hazy veneer in his iris that bores into the journal in front of him. The collage catches moonbeams on the coffee table, crowded with tiny notes that peak out the uniform pages, and polaroid pictures glued to each sheet, stacked so thick it can’t close. He uses the pen you thought you’d lost moving in, running his tongue over the older bite marks on its base. Squinting your eyes fails at registering the specifics. 

You suck in a breath and take another step, hoping the unreliable foundation won’t give way to whining wood. He skims across the words as if they’re memorized, and crows to himself. Eeeeir. It conforms, and the minute you press into it and that haunting sound whispers through the house, Ajax cracks his neck to your position. You stiffen, a deer in headlights. He puts down the pen. 

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry, did I wake you?” he coos. You shoot to a stand, and Ajax meets you at the bottom of the staircase. “I-I just wanna get some water.” You feel meek and small, fairly avoiding his gaze. He enfolds your jaw with his bad arm like it doesn’t hurt, and pecks you on your forehead, light with anxious sweat. “I can get that for you, dear.” Before he can go, you interrupt. 

“Ajax.” 

“Hm?” 

“The book over there, did you make it?” He alternates between you and the book and glisters his pearly whites. He delicately hauls it to you, “I was going to wait for it to be done, but you can read it now if you want.” You hesitate. You aren’t sure if you want to read it. Regardless, you ferry it in your arms, hefty despite being incomplete. 

You unfurl the cover. 

Page after page, your pulse pumps sonorously in your ears, uncontrollable where goosebumps surge through ebbing limbs. Without a doubt, you’re frightened. Aghast, gaping mouth with eyes the size of dinner plates. Dating from your first encounter, poems and chaotic paragraphs of infatuation. Your sleeping silhouette, columns of reverence, strands of your hair taped like art—pictures of you you’ve never seen taken behind cars and lamp posts.  

The lengthy muddled captions emphasize how beautiful you are, how gracious you must be, because he hadn’t met you yet. On top of it all, written repeatedly in red and smothered in hearts, “I love you (Y/N)”. You don’t want to hold it. It’s broiling on your palms; you want it thrown in fire and scorched to shriveling. It almost reads as a manifesto, with jumbled threats sprinkled above overriding ink. Brutal crimes he’d commit if you were ever harmed, the gory actions he envisioned doing to your male customers. It’s incoherent and unorganized. The last page you flip to etches drought in your throat; A dried scrap of the towel you used to tend to his injury is taped inside. A new entry: 

“ (Y/N) takes care of me! without her I am nothing  my sun and star        ♡    my blood and bone           ♡  ♡ my goddess, my angel,   the very essence of my existence     ♡        ♡     my love is infinite and eternal   you are destined to be mine   ♡     ♡        forever, forever she is mine ”  

You peek up from the book, not prepared to face the source. Ajax ogles you with heart eyes that can’t contemplate the absurdity. They surround you, limit you from speaking undulating panic. Part of you is fearful, the other reserves pure love you still have for him.  

“Do you like it, honey?” No, you hate it. It’s scary and not the man you fell in love with. But those sonnets and odes dripping in honey—descriptions that trickle raw vulnerability and expose his truest intentions—are hard to detest when he treasures you earnestly. His expression, he’ll shatter to flecks if you devastate him. So, you scrape back the bile and oblige a strained smile. 

“I love it, Ajax. Thank you.” 

You’re excited to be at work, and relieved to see Lyney. His banter distracts you from the overbearing air at home. Ajax proceeds like nothing happened, or at least nothing for him. It’s fresh in your mind, torments your thoughts as you get ready for the day. His bare chest hugs you from behind while your brush your teeth and he trails groggy kisses from your shoulder to your jaw. It leaves heat on your ears, and dread in your stomach. The necklace going around you is a cage. 

Closing arrives, and you start wrapping things up. 

“Could you get the dark roast box?” Lyney asks from the bookshelf. 

“Heard” you reply, strolling to storage to find that unnamed box squeezed beside larger product. Balancing the contents, you swing open the door, and let out a gasp to your shock. 

“(Y/N)!” Hollers from the dining area. Collei, Tighnari, and astoundingly, Zhongli swarm near Lynette and Freminent. They’re removing their sweaters, but you don’t give Collei or Tighnari time before you charge at them with an immovable hug.  

“Tiggy, Collei! Oh my god!” She welcomes your embrace, and you hear a labored sigh from Tighnari as he tries to pry your arms. “You might fracture my ribs if you keep hugging so tight.” Collei chuckles, and you break the reunion. “I missed you so much!” she bubbles, practically doing happy feet to exert her enthusiasm. You move to Zhongli and greet him with a lukewarm “Hello.” 

Zhongli, your college boyfriend. The terms you ended on were neither good nor bad. He was a cold selfish player, who wanted to have his cake and eat it too. Unfortunately, he got clumsy with the surplus of women he juggled, and you found out you were a number among many. You shed misery in front of his dorm room, and he stilled a detached glare whilst you shouted through its paper-thin halls with unfiltered rage. It was one of the worst moments of your life. A couple years down the line, and you’ve learned to forgive him for his disrespectful, arrogant attitude.  

“You look well” he charms with silky bass. “I am.” 

The couple hours you spend catching up and playing board games goes fluently. Tighnari, Lynette, and Freminent rib about the rules they established mid-way through their card game, and you and Collei sit enchanted by the cozy villager simulation on her handheld console. One of her legs is on top of yours, and you’re leaning in her space. Zhongli can’t catch your sight, purposely projecting louder than usual as he enjoyed a drink made by Lyney. 

“She’s so cute! What’s that one called?” 

“Merengue, she’s my favorite.” 

“Hope Merengue helps you with your PhD thesis” Tighnari intrudes, followed by an annoyed sigh at the “+2” card Freminent puts down. 

“Ugh, don’t remind me!” 

“I didn’t know you were going for a PhD, that’s great” you praise. 

“I guess you wouldn’t know, since you don’t bother to call. Had to find out how you’re doing from Lyney” he jokes. You tilt your head. “Me? You have me blocked on everything.” 

“You don’t come up for me either. I’ve tried calling you a few times, but it went to voicemail. I assumed you had a new phone” Collei supports. You reply with a dry chuckle, and navigate accounts you blocked, evidence they were restricted. It concludes with blank lists where their names should appear. Nothing, not even a way to add them again. This whole ordeal makes you feel like you’re going crazy. You feel bile filling the chambers of your throat, accompanied by a distinct unsettling swell on your temples. Collei notices your furrowed brows and rubs your back. 

“Is everything alright?” Her voice is removed from static hammering your eardrums. 

“Uh, y-yes. I need some water.” You move to the register, where Lyney is wiping down the counter. He slides you a water bottle from the mini fridge. “Don’t throw up, I just cleaned this.” 

“I’ll do my best” you retort. He slants to you, whispering, “Sorry about Zhongli, they didn’t tell me he was tagging along.” You wave it off and take a swig.  

“We gotta talk later. You were right...he’s hiding something.” He gives a comforting nod, and a slender hand enters your peripheral vision.  

“You mind making another, Lyney?” 

“God, you’re insatiable” he complains, and takes Zhongli’s cup for a refill.  

“You both did an outstanding job with the café. It’s homely.” You snort, head resting on your hand. “Is that your way of saying it’s shit?” 

Zhongli frowns, “I’m being serious, I’m proud of what you’ve done here.” 

“Interesting. I’m surprised this isn’t a downgrade to you.” 

“Anything you contribute to is an automatic upgrade.” That sad attempt at flirtation makes you scoff. “Guess your post-college affairs aren’t as frequent if you’re stooping this low.” Maybe you weren’t over it completely. 

“How many times must I apologize?” 

“Until you die.” 

“I’m willing to do that, as many times as it takes.”  

You huff, “It doesn’t matter, Zhongli. I’m in a relationship.” 

“Are you happy?” You don’t have a quip for that question, and it rains on your emotions when you consider it. A flower struggles to bloom through intense downpours. 

“Of course I am.” His smile is frail, and he places a mellow hand on your shoulder. “Then he has all he could ever ask for.”  

The door abruptly opens. Collei’s holding it, and behind it, is Ajax. Dire tension hangs in the air, arid like the anticipation of disaster. Faint smirk and murky glower; the swirling spiral coaxes the same fear you felt last night, and the previous days. His face can’t decide what demeanor to convey, it forces gladness where darkness veils his stare. You tread away from Zhongli, praying he didn’t see the hand that was on you moments ago. Your friend's wave, but he doesn’t return the friendly gesture, instead firing a shaded cast of disgust. He saunters to you with wrenched posture, and each step makes your heart race. 

“Sweetheart, you didn’t answer the phone. I was worried.” He guides you to him by your lower waist. Zhongli watches as Ajax kisses the corner of your mouth, and you beam from the one that tickles your nose. “’M sorry, not feeling so good.” 

“You didn’t tell me you’d be at a party.” 

“It was a surprise.” 

“Ah, I see. These are your friends?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. 

“Yeah, from back home.” 

“Hello” Zhongli chimes in, holding out his hand to shake. Ajax methodically turns his head to him. You swear you see a vein popping out of his forehead, a splitting stress on his teeth. “Who are you.” 

“Zhongli, I’m an old friend of hers from college. We had a few classes together.” 

“...Friend” he mocks with rictus, “I’ve never heard your name before.” 

“Emphasis on '’old’. I figured I’d stop by since everyone else was here, it’d be a shame to waste such lovely weather-” 

“You talk a lot” he states monotone. Zhongli sneers, “Some may say. I’m quite talkative during social gath-” 

“So shut the fuck up.” The room hushes. You feel the witnesses shrinking themselves at the crushing tension.  

“Excuse me?” 

“Why were you touching her.” He’s jittery, suppressing the turbulent urge shredding through him.  

“I didn’t realize she was your ‘property’” Zhongli scolds. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You put yourself between them, splaying your fingers across Ajax’s chest. His mood switches easily at your expecting gaze. “Ajax, baby, I’m tired. Can we go home now?” He pauses for a final glare at Zhongli. 

“Of course. Let’s go.” 

You breathe a sigh of relief and hold onto his arm as you storm out of the coffeehouse, no time for goodbyes from your friends. You center on leashing Ajax home. Blocks down, you hear the far-off patter of footsteps on stone getting louder. It’s too dinning to ignore, and as you turn around your free arm is snatched by Zhongli. You shriek, “(Y/N), wait, don’t go yet-” 

Whack! His head flies back and pushes him off balance before his feet find stability. It happens so fast, and you look at Ajax, who has a most terrifying dusk pouring on his livid features. Blood gushes from Zhongli’s nose, but he straightens up tall with his fists held in front of him. Ajax cackles, and jabs between the fists that barely have time to block. His movements are fluid, swinging effortlessly after they fall to his sides. Zhongli paces back, and Ajax charges towards him with quick solid blows that make his loafers scratch on the pavement. He plants a mean gut punch to his torso, and Zhongli doubles over until Ajax punches him in the eye with steel knuckles. He collapses, but his fighting hands linger, any chance to defend himself against your merciless boyfriend. That is, until Ajax sits above him, and begins beating him to a pulp. 

Whack! Whack! Whack! His hits are thundering and vicious, tracking blood to his skin from the momentum. You feel lost to time, lost on what to do to save this situation. It sounds like bone swimming in curdling clots and makes you sick. You dive to Ajax, gone by the dead visage. You snake your arms around his waist.  

“Ajax! Please stop!” you scream at the top of your lungs. It falls on deaf ears, but you continue to scream. You’re sobbing into his back and yelling to a hoarse end, when suddenly the punches stop. He gets off Zhongli mechanically and braces your faint legs to rise. It’d be wholesome if not for the blood splattering his hands. He notices your tears and wipes them away, streaking faint blood across your cheek. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here now.” 

The entire walk home, he’s silent. You hate it when he’s silent. There are cuts spread over his hands and blood steadily runs from the top lip to his swollen bottom lip. He stares off in the distance, concentrated on something—rage, anger—stirring in his cotton-filled brain. You can't read him, and you wonder if you ever had that privilege. 

The pieces come together themselves in a puzzle you unconsciously rejected. You can’t recall the last time you spoke to your parents. His ability to know your favorite meals without talking or gifting you outstanding presents that surfaced memories you’d long forgotten. Collei, Tighnari, Lyney, it’s unmistakable. You beg to be naïve again, hopelessly in love and enraptured.  

You’d rather keep your eyes shut. The sinister rampage spilling out of him is miles apart from the Ajax who serves you breakfast in bed every day and places soft kisses on your body from head to toe. Love is enough, and you know how much he does to show it. Was there another way? Is it your fault this happened? You can’t focus either or organize your jumbled thoughts, and find yourself searching for reassurance within him, any inkling of affection to prove he still loves you. When you sheepishly reach out to grab his wounded hand, he curls around it, and the thump in your heart reignites. A pulse loud enough to subside the dread clamoring in your feet, warning you to run. 

You make it home, and Ajax goes to the kitchen sink to wash away his crimes. He watches red cyclone down the drain, and you lean on a counter close to him. 

“Ajax?” 

“Yea?” he chirps.  

“Zhongli...will he be okay?” you meek. 

“Mhm. I didn’t kill him.” The matter-of-fact reply renders a shudder in your bones.  

“Is something wrong?” The kitchen is small, and from the way you’re standing you’ve closed yourself off to him. 

“No baby,  nothings….nothings wrong” he says, that convincing tone, smooth like satin. 

“But I’m worried. You’ve never acted like this before, tell me what’s on your mind.” He shuts off the water, and the cylindrical pull seeps a guttural groan. He grips the granite, and even that seems to deform. He finally turns to you, a hurt expression colliding with fiendish somber eyes and taut lips. 

“Am I not good enough for you?”  

“You are more than enough” you hearten. Ajax rebuttals a bitter laugh and spouts the candor he’d been gnawing on. 

“I tried. I tried ignoring your kindness. I tried being pitiful, hurting myself so that your eyes were only on me”, he creeps towards you, and your feet move on their own backpedaling. The echo of his self-inflicted scar produces beads of sweat, distracting so that the back of the wooden chair presses into your back and you almost topple over. Nowhere to go, and now he overshadows you with delicate fingertips slithering across your paling cheeks and behind your jaw, “but you’re surrounded by love. People love you.” 

His words drag and descend further, “Ohh, and it’s not fair at all.” 

“Why are they allowed your attention. It should be me. Only me. Don’t you want me?” Laced with love, but you can’t taste it. His dilated orbs ping-pong as they scan your face for confirmation. You bring your palms over his and muster fading courage in timid waves. 

“I love you Ajax. So, so much. But the way you’re acting scares me. It’s my fault and I could’ve gone home, but I haven’t seen them in a long time. I didn’t think things would end up like this.” He pauses, and engulfs you in an ardent embrace, his hand on the back of your head and another on your lower back. Oh, sweetie muffles through strands of your hair as he sways your bodies. You’re mannequin-like in his stifling sight. 

“Nononono, it’s not your fault honeypot. You’re too pure for this world, so kind without thinking. So perfect” he mumbles, absurd drivel seeping through the coherent parts in formidable notes—how he loves you, needs you, can’t live without you— “but they’re leeches. They try to taint you, show you horrible, disgusting things. That piece of shit was looking at me, he was asking for a fight. And he tried to put you in the middle. You could’ve gotten hurt, or God know what. I’ll protect you, my sweet, at any cost." 

“Ajax, I don’t need your protection.” It’s silent, profound when he retracts. You forget how to breathe or talk as he slides to your shoulders and holds them in place. His voice lowers. 

“You don’t need…me?” 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying-” 

“So let me help, let me be yours” he pleads. You don’t respond—you can’t. Each explanation you formulate sticks to the roof of your mouth and swells like a spell drunk in your throat. Ajax tenses, clinging to your skin. He reflects on a thought, and it blooms with a twinkle. 

“What if I just...lock you up?” 

“...What?” you say, hardly above a whisper. It’s arid to swallow, and shivers ripple under sweltering heat prickling your limbs. 

“I wouldn’t put you anywhere bad. It’d be a pretty place; I’ll take good care of you like I always do. Wouldn’t you like that?” He has a hopeful grin on his face, and when he lets you go for a second you jerk away from his reach. Your back hits the opposite wall, nauseous and lightheaded, shaking your head aggressively to push away the existence of the idea. He wrenches his neck, and you glimpse the deluded flush on his face. “No... I’m not gonna do that.” 

“Ah, sweetheart, I know it sounds scary. Can we try it first?”  

“You’re not gonna put me in some fucking cage like an animal” you assert. His eyebrows furrow, offended at your assumption that he’d trap you somewhere unpleasant. 

“I’d never do that to you. I love you.” He inches towards you, and you inch farther. The keys are in front of him, you can’t leave on your own. The steps you take feel critical. 

“Let’s sleep on it, we can discuss in the morning.” No. No no no no. You pan to the staircase, and Ajax curiously watches your paranoid glances. Before he can grab you, you sprint for the stairs. Wind travels in your ears and settles at your graceless movement catching hold of the banister, leverage used to leap. Adrenaline flows steadily in your veins, and your senses feel muddled to mush, focused on pushing your legs to proceed. There’s no room for thinking past the will of your body. You hear airy tsks coming from the dining room, and a singsong “Don’t make me chase you, baby.” 

Suddenly, the creaking floorboards succeed at a roaring parade marching behind you. Closer and closer, a sound you didn’t know he possessed. You don’t dare turn around; the squeak waltzes with your deafening heartbeat. You change direction, making haste to the peaceful bedroom you share, now eroding under his hearty stomps. You clash with the door, and barge in. Slamming it shut, your shaky hands promptly lock the knob. Ajax stops in front of the door and lets his fingertips dance along the wood, “Open the door, please.” 

The knob shakes aggressively, rattling in the socket and threatening to pop. It’s pulling against the edges of the door that rive at his harsh yanks. He perpetually pulls and twists it, “Darling, c’mon open the door, my sweet.” You’re sure if you don’t, he’ll axe his way through instead.  

“Please let me in, baby. Please, I’m dying without you.” 

“I don’t wanna fight anymore... please”, his tone barely lifts above the depth of wood, but you hear the faulty voice keeling in cracks. You know you shouldn’t open the door, but his sorrow beckons you as it often does. He wails so hopelessly, as if you’re punishing him for an unavoidable inevitable. It’s an innocent sob peerless to the ruthless violence he displayed hours before; the harrowing glare of the man you thought you knew was all too terrifying. But he’d never do that to you, would he? You’re his darling sweetheart, his infinity now and forever. You filled his divergent heart and sutured it anew. He needs you.  

Though your hands fidget to stay at their sides from common sense tucked in a forgone crevice of your headache, you force your hand up, and turn the knob. Maybe you should’ve never let him into the shop on that cold night, instead bidding him farewell and trudging in the snow to your crumby apartment. You’d continue running the shop as usual with Lyney. Things would’ve been different, wouldn’t have been so complicated to cut loose from tangling lies knotting the more he consumed you.  

But no, that couldn’t have happened. He would find you, it’s destiny that you’d never part. Stalking in bushes and narrow alleyways until the perfect moment he could walk towards you and catch your eye again, and you’d fall for another pass of courting words.  

Ajax stands there with sparkling sadness streaming down his cheeks that mingle with his quivering lips. He drops to his knees instantly in prayer and looks up at you with doey puffy eye bags that nearly make you overlook everything, about Zhongli, about the red flags that grow green the more you squint. It’s just you and him, that’s all it had to be. In times like these you reminisce about the sweet boy you cuddled and confided in, and things feel as they were. The messy-haired Ajax you remember pulls your lower half close to him with large hands that latch onto your waist the more you adjust. His face is mushed to merging in your stomach, and he sighs heavily, taking in your scent like the last breath he’ll ever have. They snake around you, and you meet eyes again. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I love you angel. So much I’d rip my heart out and put it in your hands…. you control me” Desperation clings to Ajax, and you urge to console him. You intertwine your fingers through his hair. 

“Ajax, this can’t happen again. Okay?” you caution, a warning dripping with compassion. 

“Mhm. Okay.” Unexpected warmth blooms over his cold aura, but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands travel the contours of your hips and thighs, occasionally squeezing with an appreciative huff. He parts your legs and dips to your inner thighs to mold the doughy fat as his lips traverse your lower abdomen, decorating it with wanton kisses. “Love you so much” he utters. His touch is impassioned and fluid, he softens underneath your bottom and circles his thumb like a masseur. Ajax takes his time navigating your sensitive points, and switches between fluffy and solid pressure that licks down your back.  Skin to skin contact wasn’t enough, he wanted to crawl in your ribcage and live in your lungs so he could sense your steady breaths. He wanted to bask in your existence, feel the radiance of your touch and ethereal voice curl and melt into him, to make him nothing and all in your eyes. 

Your digits tangle in his hair, and when he nips your tummy, you tug his scalp. “Fuck” Ajax groans, strained through his lips. The peachy wash draping his cheeks is cherubic, appeased by the rhythmic kneading. One hand slinks under your shirt and guides a fingertip vertically on your spine, the other sculpts your rear. It’s dizzying how easy it is for Ajax to captivate you, a trance that turns your knees to jelly and leaves you at his mercy. You ignored the impulse igniting your muscles to push him off. You want him closer, suffocating you so deep the clouds of his scent dismantle your fear. You take his chin and redirect his attention, and he waits for order like a loyal dog.  

“Ajax.” 

“Whatever you want, princess” he toys, that boyish simper releasing butterflies through your body. 

“I want you.” He hoists you up without a word and carries you to the bed. He brings you down, a priceless vase above the pillowy cushioned bedding. “You comfortable?” You nod, blushing from the way Ajax gawks at your half-hiked shirt, and shorts hanging low on your hips. “Good.” He’s breathless, restraining his impulse to pounce and devour you. No matter how restive he was, Ajax usually prevented himself from indulging beyond your comfort; but tonight is different. It's starving while a succulent meal taunts you, only satiated by the sight of it. He hastily removes his shirt and pants, freckled muscles flexing as he discards them to the floor. It’s hard to avoid the growing spot staining his stretched white briefs. Spreading your legs, he crawls between them. He regards you for a second, but when you reach behind his head he plunges into a longing kiss.  

A longing kiss followed by hungrier ones. It’s abruptly rough and needy against your bruising lips, some skimming the corner of your mouth and tracking to the main course. He frees you for a breather, but the space doesn’t subdue the dull ache thrumming in your core. His nose brushes against yours, and you pull his flyaways back to get the full scale of his feral demeanor, sweating and reddening in the unshakable heat.  

You collide again, hands behind your head through the wild exchange. You can’t keep up; he bites your bottom lip and relieves it with the glide of his tongue. Your slow and steady lover begs for entry with a ravenous push, and you allow it to ruin you. The wet appendage invades your senses, explores your mouth in nonsensical shapes and withdraws with a filthy sound before returning. “So. Fucking. Good” he exhales through your intertwining tongues. You’re moaning into each other, lasting in the moment, forgetting everything. His hips start to grind against you, practically dry humping your clothed lower half. You wrap your legs around him and steer his twitching length to roll into you, nudging the inseam of your shorts to your neglected clit. He engulfs your moans, and retreats with strings of spit connecting your tumid lips. 

Ajax descends to your neck, and places damp and eager kisses along it. You feel the piercing remnant of a bite accompanied by sucking. His fangs pinch and snag and make you whimper. A budding purple and blue blend blotches to your collarbone--draining you like a vampire. His hands stay busy committing your curves to memory in greedy gropes. Ajax doesn’t notice his low rambling, “yea, you’d never leave me, right? I’m all you need”, to “you're mine.” It’s overstimulating, and so is the hammering pulse in your clit.  

Your abused neck is exposed to the delicious sweep of cold air, and he hurries to your shirt. In one swoop, it comes off with the impatient unclasp of your bra. He submerges a stiff peak in warmth while he works the other. His tongue swirls around the nipple, pushing in with a stiff tip and trading it for sucking. It elicits a moan where teeth graze and tweak the bud. “My pretty girl” he murmurs and delivers attention to the next. Ajax massages your spit-soaked tits firmly and diligently in fondling motions. His passion renders him shameless, and it encourages you to fold. You find yourself swerving your hips to his bulge to goad his thirst. He responds with languid nudging, and glances at the space inside your shorts, coated with slick film from your panties. Whine caught in his throat, he salivates and unconciously holds your legs apart. You impel him downwards, and he nuzzles the line to the hem of your shorts.  

“Can I taste you, princess?” It had to be hypothetical, since he was already unbuttoning them with his teeth and tearing them off. “Please?” he pants, a half-lidded mess itching to immerse in your desire. Before you can answer, a rrrip shreds through the room; the culprit of your mangled underwear remains, and you shriek. “Ajax!” you scold, but he’s not bothered when he rips the rest of it to display your arousal. “I’ll get you new ones, I’ll buy you the whole store” he sighs, forcing your thighs rearwards with his hands. He angles himself like a sniper and submerses in your pussy. 

Ajax doesn’t rush, he lazily trails his tongue around the outside and plays with the folds shlicking against him. He outlines the clit and meticulously weaves his skillful tongue, caring for the spots that make your back arch; paying special attention to your entrance, as he teasingly delves in just enough to coax a moan, then laps a flat tongue over your wetness. Ajax’s  ministrations are torturous, rapturing all while ignoring your release. He parts the labia and plashes the juices covering his chin and glossy lips. Your heart is in your ears, winding and coiling at the flicks of his tongue, his fingertips forging red indents on your thighs. Ajax begins to rock himself into the mattress, a fleeting friction comforting his sore erection. His leisurely grinding matches the pace of his mouth making out with your pussy. Mmmf he groans, and the vibrations oscillate. He gently slurps your lips, gasping for another mouthful and lapping at your clit. Your back levitates, and you tug his scalp. It only earns another growl, and faster swipes over the sensitive bud. 

“O-oh fuck” you moan, watching Ajax lose his composure and rut himself into the bed like an animal. He’s panting with a quiver, whimpering some rendition of your name until he sputters. He jolts from the material emptying his balls and soaking the sheets, but his energy doesn’t deplete—It seems to motivate him as he hoists you to his mouth. Ajax always prioritizes your pleasure, but it’s difficult to stop him once he’s invested. And he isn’t done feasting, sloppily eating you up with little concern for your fluttering senses. He rides out his orgasm and brings you to yours, and you hardly realize the intoxicating slide over your clit spelling his name. Ajax, Ajax, Ajax, marked into you; It brings you to a chant as you come undone. Ajax doesn’t waste a drop, avidly cleaning up the juices pulsating out. “Thank you, fuck, thank you so much” he whispers. He swills the bud, and you spasm and squirm from ecstasy in his iron grip. “Ajax, p-please.” 

“I got you.” He gives one last French kiss before exiting tranquility. A combination of spit and arousal blankets his mouth, and he smiles like the happiest man alive. “You okay?” Not a thought in fruition, tender mellowness smothering you. You wince from the prolonged position, and he immediately puts you on your side.  

“Need to feel you.” He wrings his underwear down, and reveals his pulsing shaft adorned with beads of come dribbling down the rosy pale tip. He’s above you, trapping one leg over his shoulder, and aligns himself with your sex. “Perfect tits, perfect pussy. You’re so beautiful, all for me.” The bulb slips in effortlessly, and he sighs at the muscle clenching around him. Each inch drives seamlessly into you, stretching your unadjusted frame. He lulls on your ankle, absorbed by the coziness enveloping the base until he bottoms out. Then it’s unmoving. Agonizing, even, the way you feel him twitch inside. “Y-you can move now.” 

“Let’s just stay like this for a little.” He rubs your leg, savoring the serene patter of rain smacking the wide windows and toasty light dusting your dazed appearance. It’s intimate and placid minus the rise and fall of your bodies, and you’re surprisingly shy. You rush to cover your face, but Ajax grabs you. “Don't hide, pretty girl. You’re stunning” he flirts, kissing your hand. 

“Do you love me?” His blinks are exaggerated, confused that you’d ask such an obvious question. 

“Of course.” 

“What do you love about us?” He brings your hand to his cheek. “You complete me. You’ve forgiven me, loved me, and accepted me for who I am. I can be open around you.” He kisses your wrist, silken as to quell the trivial thoughts resurfacing. 

“I’ll love you until the end. I’ll find you in the next life and start all over, even when this universe collapses. I won’t let anyone get in our way, so love me forever.” Ajax pulls out to the tip, and you whine at the loss of wholeness. Then, he drives his sticky cock unhurriedly to the hilt. You mewl, and he palms your chest. “Shh, ‘s okay.” The milky translucent trail links you and erupts obscene syrupy noises. “What are you thinking for baby names?” You can’t focus, the swinging strokes graze your g-spot. You’d say anything to him at this point; you need him deeper. He casually thumbs your clit and continues at a sluggish tempo. “I really like the name Aleksei” In and out, veins embellishing your walls. You meet his thrusts and shudder, though he stops occasionally to redirect the sopping length. 

“A-ahn, you’re so wet, it keeps slipping out” he moans. He picks up the speed, squelching stirring with whimpers. “I love you, honeypot. Sosososo fucking much, just wanna breed this pretty pussy every second of the day. Ah- you wanna be a mommy, yeah? We can have a big family, hah, just you me and the kids. Wouldn’t you like that, darling?” He’s drilling into you, stuffed to bursting. You feel yourself approaching and seize his wrist. “’M close!” 

“Give it to me, fuck, please” Ajax whines, and you climax under him, juices saturating his balls. You don’t get time to recover; he fucks you through your orgasm. You’re reeling, clawing at his forearm when he puts you flat on your back. “Wanna come inside. Can I, please? I want it so bad” he pleads. He adjusts you to a mating press with brute force, and plummets inside.  

It’s vicious, staggering plap’s and squelching audible from outside. The headboard bangs on the wall while he pummels your pussy. A sheen of lust shrouds his eyes, and his heavy balls smack against your ass as he wrecks you. More, more, more drowns him in senseless fucking, precome frothing at the base. You convulse around him, and he burrows full throttle. When his tongue finds yours, you interweave through the sloppy pumps. His balls tighten, and he chases his high frenetically bobbing. “O-oh, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” Harsher, meaner strokes hit you quick, and Ajax melts into endless whimpers striking his climax. Ropes of thick white paint your insides, teeming to globs where they crowd your pussy and leak to your ass. Ajax bucks into you, and you milk him dry. The shakes eventually stop, and he goes limp on top of you. You feel him softening, his steady inhale. He smiles at you, showering you with affection you couldn’t resist.  

“I should use the bathroom” you suggest, patting his back as a signal to get off. “Sure. Wait here, I’ll get you cleaned up.” He returns after an eternity, with cloudy water and a tepid towel. 

“Here, drink this.” You take the cup and sip. Ajax tips it a bit, urging you to gulp. He wipes you down lovingly while you swallow the contents. He disregards your vulva, however, collecting the come on his fingers and pushing it in. Oddly, you’re leaden—insanely leaden, so much so that your head tilts to one side and threatens to give up entirely. Your knees are wobbly, and your bones are lost in a dreamlike state. Ajax passes the towel under your chest.  

“You know, I didn’t feel bad about it, when I strung his guts across the wall. I only thought of you.”  

No. It can’t be true. 

You can’t scream or fight, and simply gape at the words hulking through your numbed rationale. The towel cools your sweat, but the fear persists.  

“I met him behind your complex. He was bitching about rent, sleazy fucking scum. I asked him if you live there, and he went on a rant about it. Saying nasty stuff no one should ever say about you. I couldn't help it, (Y/N), I had to see his organs carved out of his body.” Your jackhammering heart doesn’t compare to your sloth behavior. You want to run, move in with your parents again and pretend; pretend like your life hasn’t been propelled into disarray, pretend that the ginger boy caressing your face didn’t butcher a man.  

“Ajax, let me go” you cried, a teardrop coursing across your temple. He wipes it, “I’m not holding you, dear. You can’t stand on your own right now, but the effect will wear off after you sleep. Rest for now, okay sweetie?” 

“What did you put...in my...” You’re swooning, ferried by the effect of the unknown medicine sprinkled in your cup. With no will to combat, your eyes reluctantly close. His pupils are desolate and obscure, the night of a severe blizzard. 

“I’m sorry, but I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

tags: @zhochikennugget (if anyone else would like to be tagged, dm and i'll tag you on the next one :)

[sehtoast]

One Big Wet Spot (Homelander x Reader Smut)

18+ | gender neutral reader, many creampies, aggressive homelander, come eating, biting, p in v sex, he's sweet by the end | Fic Directory

You were in shambles. This much you knew.

He has no refractory period, no need to take a rest. He can go on forever until all he can do is shoot blanks, and you?

You were to receive all of it.

You've been like this for hours, if not the entire day. Load after load shot down your throat, pumped into your cunt until you were nothing more than a leaking, whining hole for him to fuck.

It started off so sweet, too. Silly morning sex, tender and soft– but Homelander always needs more. His appetite for intimacy, for love, for you is insatiable even on a good day.

Today, he takes everything he possibly can.

He slams into you, strings of come trailing between your inner thighs and his hips with each thrust. Your body convulses with each orgasm– the count of which you'd long since lost track of. His fangs are bared above you as he grits his teeth, nails biting at your thighs as he yanks your body back and forth in time with his thrusts.

"Mine," he snarls. He rams into you deep, grinding against your cervix. "All fucking mine!"

You're covered in bite marks, some bloody, some merely indentations. His lips are stained from having pierced you, and you still taste a lingering metallic flavor from each time he'd kiss you or spit in your mouth.

You nod in agreement, head hazy at best as you try to hang on to consciousness. Each time your eyes roll back, he's gripping your jaw with a punishing force to put your attention right back where it belongs.

Him.

He presses your thighs to your chest as he fucks your near-numb pussy with a need so primal that a part of you wonders how he'll ever come down from such a state. He drives into you harsh, lifting himself off the bed just enough to really hit home, groaning deep as he pounds into another orgasm.

You feel him spill within, cunt pulsing at the twitch of his cock. He swats your legs away from your chest as his head falls into the crook of your neck, and you're unsurprised to feel another skin-breaking bite. He suckles at you, grinding lazily into your come-filled hole for a time.

Your hand works through his hair, mind and body dizzy. You wonder if you've lost too much blood or if it's simply because of everything.

He ruts against you suddenly, fucking you shallow and fast. You keen, and his hands are upon you. One at your hip, the other at the back of your neck - each one pulling you impossibly closer. He stays the way he was, face buried against you, but he's since licked your wound and let off.

He's relentless, starved, and desperate for all that he can have. He is an animal, caged and underfed for his whole life. But he has you, now. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't have to sink his claws into you for you to stay.

But it's all he's ever known.

He fills you past the point of gushing around his cock, fucks you from sunrise to sunset - but even then, you wonder if he's truly done.

Even when he's reduced himself to a whimpering, fucked out mess, you wonder if he's had his fill.

You certainly have, and you'll feel this one for the rest of the week - a delicious thought, actually.

He's reluctant to slip free, even when it's clear he's finally limp inside you. He wants to stay as one, wants to keep your slicked up bodies together. You're both covered in his come, and he's fussy sometimes about sleeping in wet spots.

Granted, he'd turned the whole fucking bed into one big wet spot.

You feel the hunger drain from his body bit by bit in the way he holds you. Bruising grips turn to soft caresses, nips and nibbles to kisses, growls to soft sighs and occasional whimpers of sensitivity. But that comes after.

After he slips his cock from you, after his come gushes from you, after he dives in and licks every ounce of it from your aching pussy.

He's thorough. His tongue traces through every fold, every crevice that the taste of your love could possibly hide. He licks you clean from mound to ass, and you almost wonder if a shower is even necessary at that point.

Of course, the slick covered face that comes up to kiss you reminds you that yeah, maybe it's just a little bit needed.

He licks into your mouth lazily, tonguing into you the shared taste of your love.

He refuses to let you walk alongside him to the bathroom, opting to carry you the second he saw how wobbly you were. He's tender and sweet, walking under the stream once the temperature was perfect, simply holding you to his chest.

You trail your fingers through the smattering of hair there, circling above where his heart is, smiling softly. You're exhausted, but he's more than willing to make sure you're cared for.

After all, look at all you've done for him.

You both end up sitting on the floor of his shower, warmth running over you as you hold each other close. He whispers love in your ear, and you do the same for him.

He looks at you with big, blue, doe eyes, and you know he means every word of it.

Tonight you two will sleep on his couch, wrapped tight in one another while the bed dries. Tomorrow?

Well, with Homelander as your lover, tomorrow will always be deliciously unpredictable.

[r0-boat]

If it's not too much trouble, may I request Foras NSFW alphabet headcanons? Thanks.

alrightt lets goo

Foras NSFW alphabet headcanons

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Gentle, gentle and caring. As soon as he finishes with you you are in his arms his soft lips on your skin as he asks if you are okay, if he was too rough, if he hurt you in any way. If you shake your head he will just reply "Good. I love you."before holding you close. However he notices He did His eyes will fill with worry before instantly holding in his arms turning you both invisible before going to make you a warm meal/drink and to tend to wherever he has hurt you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part is his hands, because he wants to touch you. He wants to make you feel good with them. He wants to feel every little bit of you.

His favorite part of your body is your face, a face he thinks about when he smiles, a face he imagines twisting in pleasure when he needs to cum, You're soft the lips to your vibrant eyes. He loves when you try to cover it when you're shy, You're so cute unaware of your own beauty.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Inside, to feel your walls clapping down on him as he fills you up is a feeling that is better than anything. To see evidence of what he has done to you drip out of your hole has turned him on to no end.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has watched you and Levi have sex and he wants to do it again. He wants to have sex with you while his Lord watches. He is very normal about you and Levi together in the same bedroom.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He is actually quite experienced, You may think that he is a vanilla virgin but he is far from that. He is also quite the closet pervert.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Anything as long as he gets to see your face He is not picky, However he prefers the classic missionary style.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He will be a little goofy if he feels that you're nervous. He's only like this to calm your nerves other than that I'd say he's pretty serious, He takes your pleasure very seriously.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Well groomed, a little messy depends on the day but he tries to maintain down there.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Extremely intimate, He will kiss you till you're dizzy He will pedals all over your sheets and floor before having you. He will have wine and even snacks. He wants to make sure the mood is just right. He wants to make you feel like you're on cloud 9 just how much you make him feel

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

You are not in Hades that often which breaks his heart because he loves you so much. When he masturbates he thinks of you he can't help it. He whimpers your name as he spills in his hand pretending it's inside you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Cuckold, for Leviathan only, there are a few devils and kings that come with a package deal and Foras is one of them. Being in the middle of you too is like his dream.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He can turn invisible. anytime anywhere he will be ready. Although he will be very shy to do it in public That doesn't mean he's opposed In fact to be honest it just turns him on more.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

When you're assertive, Your assertive almost bratty behavior against Levi It doesn't only work against Levi. When you snarl and raise your voice he just wants to get on his knees and make you feel better.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Like Sitri He will not hurt you seriously He will not let you draw blood. Seeing blood and associating it with you makes him sick.

He is a devil from Hades, He is ruled by the emotion envy, Levi is the only one who is right for you. He will not tolerate any other man in your life that isn't him or Levi.

(yandere foras)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving. But getting on your knees to suck him off will drive him crazy, He will try not to buck his hips and have you choke on his cock.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He is not fast but not slow but he knows how to hit all the right spots to make you squeal He tries to take an account what you want and adjusts accordingly.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Yes yes yes!!! God yes. He is hoping and wishing you uses invisibility skill well. He doesn't get to have you that often so any moment in his arms He will take it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Yes and no. If there's something that he or you really want to experiment then he'll do it but other than that he would rather stick to old fashioned sex. He thinks he could pleasure you enough for you to be okay.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He could last the normal amount that a devil could (What that means is up to you) All that you need to know is you won't be walking for a week after him.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Yes and no. He is ruled by The sin envy. He'd rather you not use toys on your own but he's okay if you use toys in front of him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Only a little bit. He doesn't like to tease you for too long only enough to get a little small reaction and he'll be satisfied. He must apologize seeing you upset is just so cute he can't resist.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Quiet and breathy. With some whimpering here and there. His volume isn't loud but he sure talks a lot whimpering or breathing your name and you swear just how much he says you could probably make out what he's thinking about.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Every now and then he breaks off a piece of his horn to carve into certain objects. He has never told you or showed you but he has done this recently and carved a ring that he wants to put on your finger.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He is bigger than Leviathan thick and Vinny and uncut with swollen balls.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He hasn't had sex and I'll really long time since you showed up and now all he can think about is bending you over. Any chance he gets he wants it so much. He can't help but he wants you too much!

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He waits till you fall asleep before he does after sex cuddles is a must He can't help if he falls asleep to your gentle breathing, You're so comfortable and cute snuggled into his chest like this He could lay here forever. Any devil would fall asleep to this.

[kylosjuul]

Kylo Ren NSFW Alphabet (reupload)

a/n: i posted this last year and here it is again! if ur expecting kylo to be a dom don’t read this. Also, this is AFAB!reader.

——

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Kylo has never had anybody to cherish like this, to hold. So you best believe after sex, he’s planting soft kisses across your face and lips trying to show how lucky he feels to have you; that you gave this gift of intimacy to him. It’s all soft touches and cuddles (fight me on this). He looks at you with a sense of longing, to have this feeling forever. He’ll hold your hand over his heart while you fall asleep on his chest, for it only beats for you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Everything about your body has Kylo red in the face, but he finds his eyes trailing to your thighs and your ass often. Your uniform clings to them tightly, and he feels guilty about how quick his blood pools to his thighs, constantly readjusting his leather pants when you bend down or “accidentally” brush against him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Okay, listen. Kylo has never had any sexual experience so you BEST believe he cums a lot. And hard. Borderline hyperspermia. He’s just so sensitive and you just feel too good wrapped around him. Expect rope after rope of thick cum coating your walls, spilling out of you and down your thighs :D

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You make him hard. A lot. He feels so perverted, especially in the beginnings of your relationship. The soft floral notes of your perfume made his pants constrict, the sweet smell making him dizzy. Every kiss, every brush of your fingers=boner. He was embarrassed. The worst part is the wet dreams. Oh. The dreams. Kylo’s mind would drift to images of you kissing him, sitting on top of him, the warmth between your legs remedying the pressure building in his hips; but he would wake up every time, hard as a rock, spilling into his sleep pants panting your name. Yeah.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Absolute virg. Never even kissed a girl before. The first time you climbed on top of him and started trailing kisses down his neck, he was 100% whipped, almost finishing in his uniform as you rocked against his length. He knew he couldn’t give this up, couldn’t give YOU up.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

A bit simple, but this man lovesss missionary. He gets off when your face twists up in pleasure, knowing he’s the one providing it to you. Plus, he can hear each moan, each sharp intake of breath; Between your face drenched in lust, your sweet sounds, and your tits bouncing with each thrust, this position makes him cum the hardest. (Besides you on top. He’ll dig his fingers into your hips watching himself disappear inside you over and over. yum).

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I’d say Kylo is serious during the deed. He just loves you so much and wants to worship you with every bit of intimacy he has in him. Large calloused palms smoothing back your hair, plush lips sucking on your collarbone, all of it.

“You’re so beautiful. My sweet girl…”

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He isn’t the hairiest man in the galaxy, but he does have a bit of hair down south. Nothing too extreme though. Kylo is very hygienic and well groomed, nothing to worry about here!

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

THE MOST INTIMATE. You can see in his eyes how he feels he doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t deserve your soft body beneath him. He treats you as if you’ll break, as if you’re the most precious being in the universe. Constantly asking if you’re okay, or, “Does this feel good?” He loves to serve you. To pleasure you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

As aforementioned, Kylo can’t help how hard he is around you 24/7. If he knows he’s going to see you, he’ll tuck himself away into his refresher and think of your figure, your eyes looking up at him, (that REALLY makes him cum fast) and stroke his cock with a punishing pace, imagining you slamming down on his hips. He feels a tinge of shame as he grits his teeth and releases his load onto the refresher door.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praise. He feels his thighs go weak when you drag your fingers through his hair and call him a “good boy.” He’ll look up at you through heavy lids, a silent plea for more soft touches and appraisals. Also, eye contact. If you ever want anything from him, just look up at his through your eyelashes and he’ll blush like a madman, giving you whatever it is you crave.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s a very private person and extremely jealous, so he prefers to fuck you in your shared quarters. Nowhere else. Okay, maybe in his TIE, but that’s only when you beg him so sweetly; and who is he not to give his girl whatever she wants?

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Yes. Just yes. A kiss that lingers a second too long, his name on your lips (in any context), your soft hand following the curve of his jaw. He’s a goner. If you want to torture the man, wear a low cut top around him, he’ll be desperately grabbing at your hips in no time.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything involving someone else. He’s a jealous, jealous man. All these fics about him sharing you with the KOR….girl. A big no no is anything related to degradation. Attention all Kylo writers! He would never even DREAM of calling you names or hurting you in any way. You’re his precious girl and he just loves you so so much:(

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Virgin, remember? The first time you sucked his cock, he’s was a panting mess, brows furrowed, low moans punched from his chest, finishing in your mouth in under a minute. After a few times together, you guided him on how to eat pussy, and he definitely prefers watching your hips rock up into his face, coming undone from his warm tongue. (Kylo will never admit this, but while he was eating you out he rocked against the mattress like a rabid dog, cumming all over his stomach, a pool of his spend spreading over the sheets. Yeah, he prefers giving).

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends on how much time you’ve spent apart. If he hasn’t seen you for a week, (missions, supreme leader shit) he’ll fuck into you with a strong and punishing pace, still careful not to hurt you, though. If it’s a normal day, he’ll slowly rock into you, dragging his cock along your walls in a sensual way, but you usually beg him to speed up, pushing you further and further up the mattress.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Kylo is a simp. He will take whatever you so kindly gift him with. You get to fuck your man whenever you so please. He gives it to you no matter the time. Day or night. He’s just so excited there’s a GIRL who wants him, his cock, this badly.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Nah. Not really. He’d rather savor the sex, instead of constantly looking over his shoulder. But if you drag him into a storage closet aboard and start massaging him through his leather, who is he to say no?

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Hate to burst any bubbles here, but he’s completely inexperienced, so don’t expect him to last very long, at least not at first. He physically has to tense his muscles, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, trying so hard NOT to blow his load the second your tight wet heat engulfs his cock. His skin is flaming hot, but he’s shivering above you, groans emanating from his slacked jaw, trying to fight the way his balls draw up, the way his stomach muscles tighten already.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Are sex toys canon in Star Wars? Someone please lmk. But my answer is going to be no for now!

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Kylo doesn’t have to tease you, like, at all. You just want him so bad all the time and he still doesn’t understand why. However. You’re quite the tease, and this poor virgin can’t take it. Seriously, if you want to see the mighty Kylo Ren crumble, all you need to do is press a chaste kiss to his lips, put a hand on his thigh, look at him, or just breathe basically, and he’ll be hard and wanting in seconds. I love our space boyfriend.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Ben Swolo can make some NOISE lemme tell ya. It’s all low groans and grunts, so caught up in the heat of your body and how fucking tight you are around him. No matter how hard he tries to contain the noises that slip from his throat, he can’t help it. He’ll confidently moan and moan in your ear, minted breath hitting your cheek, letting you know his pleasure is solely from you, and you alone.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Kylo is what we call a service top. He would do anything to put your pleasure first, his own pleasure depends on that. He had never cum harder than that first time you clamped around his cock, finally feeling your orgasm around him. Lights flickered and whirred; it was…intense.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Hung like a moose omg who said that? Anyways. My guess is 7-8 inches. Good luck girl.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Siri play ‘Everyday’ by Ariana Grande please. Seriously. He feels fucking insane with how bad he wants to be buried in you at all times. Whether he’s tired, beaten or bruised, you could catch a dick anytime.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Kylo will eventually fall asleep cuddled up next to you, but not until he allots himself a few minutes to admire your beauty, running his thick fingers through your hair, kissing your temple until he sees you eyes flutter shut. Awe. Whatta softie.

[starogeorgina]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings: Smut

Aftercare ― Anything you need, Jacaerys does it; from having a bath drawn to your favorite tea being brought to the room, he does it. The prince will always take the time to hold you close and make sure you know how much he adores you.

Body part ― His favorite body part is his hands. The prince loves knowing that not only can he make you fall apart cumming and crying his name while fingering you, but he can protect you while wielding a sword.

His favorite body part on you is your stomach; he loves knowing it can/has swells bigger as you grow his babe.

Cum ― He loves cumming inside you. Although there have been a few instances when the prince has gotten overexcited and cum in his pants when you’ve teased him.

Desires ― Jacaerys loves nothing more than being intimate with you; his sex drive is higher than you anticipated. The blood of the dragon runs thick.

Experience ― You both lost your virginity on your wedding night.

First time ― The first time was awkward and didn’t last long.

Grooming ― Both you and Jacaerys have neatly groomed body hair.

Horny ― Jacaerys is a young man, and it doesn’t take much for him to become aroused. He would fuck you every morning and night if possible.

Intimacy ― Aside from the odd rushed fuck, Jacaerys wants intimacy. It brings him comfort.

Joking — Jacaerys loves joking around with you but doesn’t often do it during sex.

Kinks ― The Prince has a praise kink; he loves it when you tell him how well he’s doing.

Location ― Your shared royal bedchamber is the most comfortable place to have sex, but he enjoys taking you in places you could get caught, like the council chamber, courtyard, or one in an empty hallway.

Masturbation ― Since being married, the prince doesn’t play with his cock unless the two of you are apart for a few days.

No go ― Anything that would cause you pain. He won’t spill his seed across your pretty face.

Oral ― He loves it when you fall to your knees and take his cock into your mouth, but prefers cumming inside your cunt rather than down your throat.

He could spend hours between your legs; making you come apart on his tongue was one of his favorite things to do.

Positions ― He loves it when you’re on top. Cock buried deep inside you, his eyes glued to your bouncing breasts as his hands grip tightly onto your ass.

Quickies ― Any sex outside your bedchamber is a quickie.

Rounds ― Jacaerys can go two or three rounds before needing to take a break.

Secrets ― His dirty secret is that he used to stroke his cock and think of you nightly.

Toys ― You don’t own any, but he would be open to trying it.

Underwear ― Neither if you wear undergarments aside from horse or dragon riding or special occasions.

Volume ― Jacaerys is still a little paranoid that others can hear you, so he tries to manage his own volume control and yours by smashing your lips together.

Watch ― He enjoys it when you finger yourself in front of him.

Xxx ― Jacaerys has never visited any brothels or seen sex acts performed on others.

Yearning — You and Jacaerys are in a never-ending honeymoon phase; as I said before, the blood of the dragon runs thick.

Zzz ― He becomes tired quickly after sex and can fall asleep in your arms easily.

[m2ok]

Golden Salvation

pt.2

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male Reader

A/N: HI GUYS!!! IM BACK!!! It’s been… a hot minute, and I apologize for my sudden disappearance (And all the unanswered asks which I will eventually get to don’t worry!) But here is a fic to make up for it! This is just part one, and while I have the rest planned out let me know if you guys even like this and want me to continue :)

             

   Batwing doors opened, a heavy squeak following their movement as the result of rusted hinges, Heavy footsteps hit against equally creaky wooden floors with slow and methodical steps. One Simon Riley came waltzing in… a smirk on his face and his hat tilted low over his eyes as the other people in the saloon looked away.

Everyone knew of him; it was damn near impossible not to with his reputation. He sat down on a worn stool, a gruff sigh leaving his lips as he took his hat off and rested it on the bar in front of him. His eyes, you would swear, glimmered when he looked up at you from his place on his seat, a rare moment when you were taller than him.

“Hi, pretty boy” he cooed “Miss me much?”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips, rolling your eyes as you set the glasses you had been polishing down. Without so much as a word yet you leaned over, plucking his hat from the wood it was settled on to place it on your head instead, a sort of teasing only you could hope to get away with.

“Hey there, Cowboy” you said, flicking the hat, his hat, up over your eyes so you could see properly. “’Course I missed ya… yer my favorite customer after all” Though you teased, you both knew he was much more than a regular customer.

Simons lips curled into an easy smirk as he gazed up at you, eyebrows quirking with intrigue.

“Well now, aint you looking pretty as a picture” he drawled, reaching up to trace his thumb along your jawline. A low chuckle rumbled deep from his chest- he always did love your teasing spirit.

“Favorite, huh? Reckon I’ll hold ya to that, darling” His eyes darkened just a touch as he leaned in, breath whispering against your skin. There was an unspoken question there, a hungry gleam that promised all sorts of trouble if you chose to indulge him.

For now, Simon simply toyed with the worn brim of his hat atop your head, satisfaction radiating off him in waves.

“Sure, do feel mighty fine seein’ my colors on ya. Been far too long” he’d comment.

You would hum as you leaned into his gentle touch, an almost laughable dichotomy when compared to the blood that had been spilled by them. You gazed up at him with adoring, devoted eyes.

“I could be in your colors every night if youd stay” you’d whisper, your words for him and only him to hear. It was almost impossible to get Simon to stay with you longer than a week anymore and he would get antsy to hit the wild again, his soul calling for him to wander from town to town.

Simon’s breath hitched at your words; eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he savored the simple intimacy you graced him with. Things were never simple with him – his was a dangerous line of work that more often than not left him with a target on his back.

And yet…the way you looked at him, like he hung the very stars in the sky…it was downright bewitching. Made a man forget all his wrongs and want to be redeemed.

“Darlin’” he sighed, rough palms gently cupping your cheek. His expression was unusually soft and vulnerable, a rare peek behind a steely façade. “Aint nothin’ I want more than to stay wrapped up in you forever…but ya know I got debts to pay, and it aint safe…”

His voice trailed off, unspoken realities lingering heavily in the air between you two. Staying was a risk he wasn’t sure he had the right to take, no matter how much you stirred his soul.

You would nod, glancing away from his eyes as you slowly leaned back up from where you were resting on your elbows, allowing his hand to leave your cheek as you created a space of distance. Both physically and mentally.

All you wanted was to be his entirely, but it wasn’t in the cards for you. “I know…” you’d acknowledge, a sad sort of smile permeating your lips. Part of you believed he liked the outlaw life, and could you rightly blame him? Going from town to town with nothing tethering you down for too long. Being able to leave with the sunrise, the only person you were answering to being yourself.

But oh how you longed every night to be the thing he wanted to come home to, to be the reason he would stay.

You would carefully take the hat off your head, placing it back down on his own, your actions a silent understanding of his words.

Simon would frown as you withdrew, immediately missing the reassuring presence of you in his space. He knew this life caused you pain – knew he was the source of it, in a way. But old habits die hard, and walking the outlaw’s path was engrained deep in his blood.

Reaching up, his fingers curled carefully around your wrist before you could pull away fully. Not to stop you, merely to offer quiet solace in his touch.

“I ain’t never meant to string you along, darlin’” he said gruffly “Fact is… part of me does like ridin’ the wind. But another part…” His gazed flicked meaningfully to where his hand held you, imploring you to believe the sincerity in his eyes.

“Another part thinks it might be time to settle. Plant my feet somewhere they can’t be dug up so easy. And there ain’t no other plot of soil that calls to me like you do”

It was as close to a declaration as Simon had ever come. His walls were crumbling away piece by piece in your presence.

You would carefully pry his hand from his wrist, picking up your rag and a fresh glass to polish, avoiding his eyes as you worked. “I believe you Simon, really I do…But that’s only part of you” Youd say, stealing a glance over at him.

“I couldn’t ask you to ignore that other part, what kinda man would I be if I asked that of you?” you’d say.

Simons fingers flexed instinctively as your hand slipped free, the loss resonating deep in his core. He sighed, long and low, tipped hat casting shadows across his weathered features.

You spoke the brutal truth – he was far too wild a creature to ever truly be named. And you, with your heart of gold…you deserved someone whole, not half a man forever torn between two worlds.

“I reckon yer right, as usual” He said gruffly, rueful smile playing at his lips. And yet his eyes remained dark, conflicted, as if desperately seeking an alternative solution you both knew did not exist.

This was your tragedy, written in the stars from the beginning. Two souls who fit together perfectly, if only the fates had not made them for different paths.

Reaching out, Simon gave your hand a final gentle squeeze before releasing in once more. “Ya never stop amazin’ me darlin’. I sure as hell don’t deserve ya. But I aim to prove myself worthy, one of these days.”

His words trailed off into weighted silence. For now, this was goodbye. Somewhere deep in his soul Simon swore it wouldn’t be the last, couldn’t be.

Simon rose from the stool with a grunt, his hat settled over his brow as he gave the saloon one last lingering sweep. Memories of your sweetness lingered in every splintered beam, in every scratch in the wooden floor where his bootheels had worn down the polish of years past.

This place had become more home to him than any house of sticks or stones ever could, all because of you.

With a sigh, Simon pushed through those familiar batwing doors out into the dusty street. Sunset painted the sky a flaming orange, shadows stretched long across the dirt. Another night was falling…and he had a debt to collect before morning came.

But in his heart of hearts, he felt a seed had planted, a hope that one day he might return to stay. For good.

You would retreat to your little home for the night after closing the saloon, doing your best to put the conversation in a box in your mind as you slipped into bed for the night. Another evening with the other side cold as the steel Simon holstered. You could only bite back tears as you closed your eyes, desperate to find solace in sleep.

It wasn’t but three hours later, after you had long drifted off into the reprieve that was your dreamscape, that you were awoken to the sound of glass shattering. You would jolt up, heart nearly beating out of your chest as a figure stalked into the room, their movements slow and at ease before they stepped into the moonlight and their face came into view.

“well well well…” the man said, a dark glint in his eyes “If it aint Ghosts little plaything” The man grinned, hand on the hilt of his belt as he took out his gun, pointing it right at you.

[justwinginglife]

The Best Of My Life

You accidentally just had the best sleep of your entire life. And so did Hoshina. 

You honestly hadn’t even heard him enter the library.

Everyone on base had been doing their best to uncover No. 9’s schemes, you and the Vice Captain especially, and that meant late nights poring over news articles, historical reports, eyewitness testimony, scientific studies, all to figure out what 9 was capable of.

All you figured out was what you were capable of, and it was not this. If you had to spend one more night reacquainting yourself with these same four walls, you’d asphyxiate from the claustrophobia. You swore every time you entered this room, it got smaller and smaller. Eventually, the exhaustion enveloped your body, and you were encumbered by the sheer weight of this sudden enervation. Unable to will your limbs into submission, to command them to make the long journey back to your room, you passed out in the library. 

When the smell of cologne and coffee finally stirred you from your slumber, you were shocked to find the Vice Captain resting on your shoulder. And it seemed, from the position you were in, you’d slept on his head. You’d never even said more than “Goodmorning” and “Goodnight” to him before, and now, you were using him as your own personal pillow. The sudden, unexpected intimacy made you want to bolt. But he was sleeping so soundly, you couldn't help but find it so precious how much comfort and ease something as simple as your shoulder could bring him. He was sleeping as though you weren’t in wartime. As though you weren’t practically strangers to each other, your only bond forged through spilled blood on a battlefield. 

Right now, you felt the way one did when they suddenly found the space in their lap occupied by a cat or a dog- you just couldn’t move. It wasn’t right. Never mind that you might have to pee, you made a vow to yourself right then and there that you wouldn’t leave this spot, not until the Vice Captain had woken up of his own accord. You wouldn’t ruin the only moment of peace he might have for a while. 

So you stayed put, you stayed still, so still one would think you were dead. Your muscles started to ache from maintaining the same position for so long and, even worse than that, you were incredibly bored. But it was worth it. You found his breathing a soothing sound, you found his scent was quickly becoming more addicting. You found out he occasionally talked in his sleep, and that revelation also brought with it the discovery that you loved to hear him talk. Especially when his voice was dipped in drowsiness. You’d never heard him talk to you this much, ever. You thought to yourself, if you made it out of this alive, if it wasn’t automatically social suicide once he woke up and discovered the shame that had transpired, you would make a point to talk to him more. You would be his friend.

You absolutely would NOT be his friend. This became very clear to you when he suddenly shifted and snuggled closer to you, his hand brushing up against your thigh as he sighed in his sleep. As his breath caressed your skin, you hoped and prayed that he’d remain unconscious long enough for you to get your emotions under control, or at least just your face under control. You were unsure how you were going to explain away the shade of crimson seeping into your cheeks.

But it seemed you had no luck to spare today because he began to stir from his sleep. You cursed the gods. 

As he blinked the library back into his view, rubbing his eyes languidly, you thought to yourself that even the way he woke up was cute. And when he finally pulled away from you, stretching and yawning, you pondered how his absence from your shoulder felt even heavier than his head. You wondered if you could coax him back to sleep, convince him he was still laden with exhaustion. You’d never taken up much more than a minute of his time in the past, and now your ambition was suddenly desiring every second of his time. You wondered if holding your breath would freeze time, if closing your eyes again, relaxing against him, would compel him to stay here, to stay yours. Just for a moment. You could go back to being strangers in the morning. 

And then he spoke. “Was it just me… or was that the best nap ever?” 

You immediately took back your thoughts. After tonight, you’d never be satisfied just being strangers ever again. “Not just you. I feel amazing.”

He took a moment to properly examine you. It was though he was trying to figure out what exactly it was about you that made him so completely at ease. It was slightly unnerving the way his eyes roamed over you but you didn't dare look away, in case you blinked and he disappeared into some dream. He finally spoke, "You know, it's funny, I feel completely rested and ready to take on the day even though we only napped,” He checked his watch, “For about two to three hours.” 

You blinked. Had it only been that long? It felt like an eternity. You’d known nothing about him before tonight, and now you felt like you were privy to his most intimate self. 

He paused, appearing to take his next words into heavy consideration before proposing them. “Imagine…” His voice dropped to a low, hushed tone, “Imagine how good we’d sleep for a whole night.”

You swallowed, cheeks returning to their earlier rosy color. Was he proposing what he thought you were?

“Just think about it. Everyone’s been on high alert lately. Stress is high. Tension is high. Shit could hit the fan at any moment. We’re never promised a moment’s rest, let alone peaceful rest. And I’ve never slept so well in my entire life than I did when I was sleeping with you.”

You tilted your head as you processed this information, trying your best to avoid feeling honored for such high praise when you knew he was simply stating data rather than complimenting the way in which your presence set him at ease. It was an interesting suggestion, and if you were honest with yourself, you were intrigued by it. 

“So, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you want us to sleep together?”

He nodded, a cheeky grin curving across his face. “I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable. It’ll be purely platonic. In fact, it doesn’t even have to be platonic, just business.”

You wanted to tell him that even if it wasn’t platonic, you wouldn’t be uncomfortable. And you certainly didn’t want to be just business. But, like an idiot, you held your hand out to him to shake on it like you were closing a contract rather than exploring a new level of intimacy together. Intimacy that no one else was allowed but you. You thanked the gods. 

He smirked and shook your hand. “Sounds like a deal to me. Shall we get started then? Because we’ve got a couple more hours until sun-up and I could use an extra boost.” He hoisted you to your feet and led the way to his bedroom, his hand still grasping yours as he navigated the halls. You wondered if he’d meant to continue holding your hand but you weren’t about to bring attention to it, the absence of his head from your shoulder was more than enough, you didn’t need to deprive yourself of his hand as well. 

As you neared your destination, you suddenly became all too aware of the tingling sensation that was slowly spreading through your body. Electricity soared through your veins as the anticipation consumed you. You imagined nestling into his bed. Inhaling the scent of detergent on his sheets. Feeling the divots in the mattress where he frequently positioned himself. You had unlocked the gateway to a whole new world, and yet still, it wasn’t enough for you. You wanted his universe. You wanted to know what he ate for breakfast, what kind of toothpaste he used, if he slept in just his underwear (you hoped he did), if he preferred boxers or briefs, if he was a morning person or a night owl, if he had any guilty pleasures, if he had a sweet tooth, you wanted to know every little thing about him. Every insignificant detail had suddenly been made significant in your eyes. 

He opened the door to his room and you entered his world. For such a rambunctious man, his room was surprisingly clean and orderly. He had shelves neatly lined with all manner of books, it seemed he wasn’t picky on the genre. He had swords on display, and you thought that was very like him. It probably served as both decor and legitimate weaponry, knowing him. His space was cozy, felt lived in, felt comfortable, but was also organized to the point that everything in view seemed to serve some sort of use, like he wouldn’t dare clutter his room with unnecessary baggage. He was an officer, his life wasn’t guaranteed, he had no time to waste on hoarding trinkets. 

It made you want to spoil him rotten. Made you want to fill up his drawers, his shelves, any empty space within sight, with gifts, with evidence of your interest in him. It honestly shocked you how quickly your interest in him had grown, from the moment it blossomed in the library to the moment you’d crossed the threshold into his room, into his life. You’d never go back, not now that you had a taste of him. 

Even the few moments he'd taken to slip into the bathroom and get changed into comfier clothes was enough to get you aching for his presence. But your sulking quickly subsided when he reemerged to toss you one of his shirts and a pair of his shorts to sleep in. He was a gentleman, he didn’t want you to be uncomfortable, especially when he was the one who had concocted this crazy idea of sleeping together. 

You quickly put his clothes on, not realizing you had been so eager to try them on that you forgot to make the trip to the bathroom and had changed in front of him. Once he realized what you were doing, he turned around to give you some privacy, but not before you saw the look on his face. It started out shocked, had a brief moment of bashfulness, before finally slipping into amusement. He chuckled and shook his head as he waited for you to finish.

“Some business partner you are, stripping in front of me so soon.” He teased.

You flushed but you retorted back, “And weren’t you the one just enjoying the show a minute ago?”

He shrugged and crawled under the covers, leaving you without a verbal response, but the smirk on his face answered plenty. 

You knew this was the part where you joined him in the bed but you hesitated.

He gestured for you to come over, so you did. 

But you positioned yourself as far away from him as you could. You weren’t sure where all your nerve from earlier went. You’d wanted to be closer to him, but now were somehow afraid to touch him. As if touching him might cement whatever feelings you were starting to have for him. As if you might not ever get up from his bed again, you might not want to. 

He laughed. “You can strip for me, but you can’t cuddle me? I seem to recall the deal was us sleeping together and I don’t think you huddling on the edge of the bed counts.” He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you as close as he physically could before snuggling against you. “God, you’re so comfy.”

You froze in his embrace. What now? What the fuck were you supposed to do now? This was the part where you went to sleep but every part of you was wide awake. Every part of you was enjoying the feeling of every part of him pressed up against you. You wondered how much you were allowed to savor this. Should you be feeling guilty for just how good this felt?

Fuck it.

You sank into his arms, allowing yourself to melt into his touch.

He sighed as you relaxed against him. “Good girl. Let’s have the best night of our lives, yeah?” 

And then he conked out.

You rolled your eyes. How the fuck were you supposed to go to bed when he said shit like that to you?

But eventually, after adjusting to his warmth, after getting drunk on his scent, you drifted off into a blissful slumber right along with him.

And he was right. It was the best night of your life.

And again and again, you continued to have the best night of your life every single night that you slept with him. On the days that you weren’t able to sneak into his room, on the days when even a small nap was out of reach, it was painfully obvious to you both how miserable you felt without the other nearby. And that craving, that desperate need for the other, it eventually made itself known in the daytime too. Soshiro -he’d made you start calling him by his first name because it didn’t feel right for someone who he’d seen in her underwear and who’d seen him in his underwear (turns out he did usually sleep in just his underwear, and you’d learned that once he’d gotten more comfortable with you) to be calling him by his last name- was startled to find that even on his most well-rested days, he still sought out your presence. At first, he thought maybe he wasn’t as rested as he’d assumed, maybe his body craved another nap, but eventually he realized he just craved your voice, need your laugh to get him through the day. And you needed him just as badly. 

You loved the way he’d read you passages from his favorite books as you snuggled in his arms and soaked in the sound of his voice. You loved the way he hoisted you up on his back and carried your dead weight back to his room when training had properly kicked your ass. You loved the way he had learned how to braid hair, just because he liked fidgeting with your hair and wanted to make himself useful while he was fidgeting. You loved every moment you stole from him in passing, every secret he whispered, claiming it was for your ears only, every act of intimacy shared between you. You loved it all. You loved him.

He loved you too. It was evident in the way that he ironed your clothes for you because he knew you hated wrinkles, even going so far as to wake up early to do it if he knew you had a meeting first thing in the morning (and he made a point of knowing your schedule everyday.) It was evident in the way that he'd started suggesting romance movies as a way to wind down at the end of a long day, because he knew they were your favorite but he also knew you were too ashamed to keep begging him to watch them with you. It was evident in the way that he made you tea every morning because he knew you weren’t a big fan of coffee. He’d even switched to drinking tea himself, though he was an avid coffee drinker before he met you, because he didn’t think you’d kiss him if he tasted like coffee. But you’d kiss him even if he tasted like sour milk. You’d do anything to kiss him and just keep kissing him.

The first time you kissed him was completely by accident. He’d been nudging your nose with his, trying to ease you into waking up. You’d jolted forward and woke to find your lips mashed into his. When he recovered from the shock, and you’d started to pull away, clearly embarrassed, he did the only thing he could think of to ease your embarrassment. He pulled you in for another kiss. And another. Until you couldn’t stop kissing each other, until you couldn’t keep your hands off one another. 

Every night with him was the best night of your life, this you knew, but every day with him quickly became the best day of your life as well. He became the best thing you’d ever had, the best thing you’d ever have. The best love you could ever or would ever know.

And it all started because of a nap.

[sungbeam]

𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

ji changmin x gn!reader

1.3k words, est. relationship au, hurt/comfort, minor fluff but more angst?, a bit of silliness, mentions of work pressures, neck kisses, intimacy, mentions of playful biting, pretty much not beta'd or proofread (past my bedtime; written in an hour)

a/n: @kimsohn saw some of the goofiness first <3 ily (*breathes in deeply* idk what im doing guys. anyways, this belongs in the category labeled "i get yappy and sappy when im existentially exhausted")

In the dark, the clock on top of the oven screamed “3:22AM” in angry, red light. You stumbled past it, vision blurry and footsteps as quiet as you could make them against the hardwood. Your bones ached to the marrow and you could feel the blood throbbing violently in your skull; you could not sleep.

It had been three hours of tossing and turning before you completely gave up and slipped out into the kitchen. Usually, it wasn't too difficult for you to fall asleep, but alas, there would always be exceptions.

You managed to find the opened bag of tangerines on the kitchen counter, the orange, wiry mesh already torn from the last person who'd grabbed one to snack on. As your eyes grew accustomed to the dark, you dug your nail into its skin and began to peel it open.

Through your daze, you just barely registered the sound of the bedroom door opening—footsteps followed after and came closer; they weren't trying to stay quiet like you were, as there wasn't any reason to anymore. Hands patted you down from your shoulders to your arms until they could settle comfortably around your waist; his body slid flush against your back like a puzzle piece, still warm from being in bed. Hair tickled the underside of your jaw as he nestled his chin into the crook of your shoulder, the ghost of his breath fanning across your skin like a caress, relieved.

“Did I wake you?” You murmured, forcing yourself awake a little as you felt him lean more of his weight against you.

A low hum. “Bed got cold.”

The corners of your mouth tilted upward as you stuck a piece of fruit into your mouth—it was summer; the bed couldn't have been cold. Juice spilled over your tongue in a comfortingly sweet tang, and you went for another. “Sorry, love. Do you want some?” You asked, holding onto a piece of tangerine.

“Mm-mm,” Changmin hummed, shaking his head with a slight movement. You felt his arms give your body a squeeze. “Are you okay?” He asked, voice small.

You shoveled the remainder of the tangerine half into your mouth, hands reaching for another one to keep yourself busy as you chewed, then swallowed. “Tired.”

“Is it the thing?”

Just the thought of the thing—the project you were given charge of at work—made you wish the ground would swallow you up. Your hands stilled on the orange.

The project was the first you were given a manager role for, as they thought it appropriate because you came up with the idea, but it seemed to only be an excuse to overload you with every Herculean task they could think of. You were practically chained to your cubicle desk until day's end, only leaving to go to the bathroom and attend another god forsaken meeting. Where home was supposed to be for rest, you were often slumped over the dining table, stressing yourself silver.

The thought of Monday… no, you couldn't think of Monday. You'd gone so long working on this thing—how could they make you loathe an idea that you proposed?

At your lack of an answer, there came a small breath against your neck. His thumb gently rubbed your side back and forth, the ebb and flow of the tide. “I'm sorry, baby. I know it doesn't mean much, but I'm proud of you.”

“It does mean something,” you countered quietly, and moved one of your hands to place it over his that rested over your stomach. “I'm just—I hate it here sometimes.”

The two of you seemed to sigh at once, your chests raising up then deflating in tandem. It made the knots in your shoulders loosen for just a moment, and you could release some of the strain keeping you tight and awake.

“One more,” he coaxed lowly. “In—”

You both slowly pulled air up through your nose to fill the caverns in your chests.

“—Out.”

As all things came and went, so too did this breath.

“Good,” he murmured, his lips pressing something sweet against your throat.

You were too tired to cry, but you might have just then. Sometimes it was just a project, but other times it was everything to you. It was born from your two hands, your brains, your back, your bones. Plenty of blood, sweat, and tears had seeped into every proposal and presentation, but you could never tell if it was enough. Would it ever be enough?

Changmin's head shifted as you snuck another piece of orange past your lips. “Remember,” he said, “when we were in college, and I let you text girls on my Hinge?”

Your mouth sweetened into a smile at the memory. “It was only because I let you text the guy who'd given me his number.”

“He was so lame—he clearly just wanted you to go see that new Stephen King movie so he could hold your hand.” You could feel him roll his eyes in the dark, though his voice remained syrupy with sleep.

You held back a snort. “That's the point, hon. If I remember correctly, the pick-up lines I used on those girls actually worked.”

“Crazy.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. You chewed on the next piece of fruit, swallowing it down before speaking again. “At least one of us has game.”

You felt the light pressure of his teeth against your shoulder, and you let out a surprised laugh. You didn't jerk away though—awfully used to your partner's strange language of affection—but you did push back against his forehead in lighthearted reprimand. “We talked about the biting.”

“Yeah, and you said you liked it.”

It was a good thing you didn't have fruit in your mouth. You warmed the slice of orange in your palm as you let the heat leave your cheeks and your neck. He could undoubtedly feel how flushed you were, and he seemed to preen at it.

“Gotcha,” he said smugly, and the smile on his lips molded against your skin as he left a kiss behind your ear. He nuzzled his nose there, too, fingers dancing along your side.

“I love you,” he said next. These words were quiet again. “I hate seeing you like this.”

You knew he meant the state he found you in—hunched over in the dark, eyes glazed over, and dread thrashing in your ears to fill the silence. The laughter that lit up your face just now had been his doing, his attempt at easing all of that burden.

You laid your head against his. “I love you, too.” You hated feeling this way, but some things had to be done. You had to see this one through, and you would.

“Don't run yourself ragged for this,” he said, as if reading your mind. “Can't let you lose yourself.”

The corners of your eyes prickled, your vision going blurry again. Your chewing slowed and you finished the last of the orange in your hands to clear the way for him to grab your fingers to intertwine them with his. He rocked your bodies slowly, dreamily—he was the gentle swaying of the waves beneath the raft you laid upon—and he was keeping you above water.

“Senior year of high school—” a miniscule break in his own voice, “—when college decisions came out… you didn't speak for so long, didn't eat. It was so quiet, and I—I didn't know how to help you.” Back then, the two of you were only labeled as best friends; you still hadn't decided if what you had back then was what you had now, but it was love in some form of the word and feeling. You supposed in every phase of knowing Ji Changmin, what you felt for him was love. “Can I help you now, please? How can I help you?”

You sucked in a breath and it came out trembling. “I'm just tired.”

“Yeah.”

“Just—that’s all. Just be here with me.”

You could feel his slight nod that turned into a tuck into your shoulder. Your pulse fluttered beneath the brush of his lips, his hands tightening around you. (I'm not going anywhere, not without you.)

In a night quickly dissolving into daylight, he held you and held you and held you.

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @gluion @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @kflixnet @bjnet

[littlest-w01f]

AZRIEL NSFW ALPHABETS

AZRIEL MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

Cw: Nsfw stuff, 18+ MDNI

A: Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Depends on the nature of your relationship, he doesn't care much to care for you after if it's a random hook-up.

But if you're in a relationship, he'll always make sure you are comfortable after, hydrated and clean.

He'll ask what you need at the moment and won't hesitate to give it to you until he knows you better than you know yourself and provides you with everything you need by your tells.

B: Body Part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

On him, it's his cock, straight up, a damn cocky little bastard he is knowing he's hung, loves the look in your eyes when you see the size of him every time, and loves how you always struggle to take him.

On you, It's your legs, love how they feel when they're wrapped tight around him to keep him close, loves feeling them up and down, your thighs, and calves.

C: Cum (Anything to do with cum)

Loves to cum on your skin, mixing his scent with you so that people know you are his for as long as possible.

Loves when you cum on his face and tongue so he can taste you directly from the source

D: Dirty Secret

He's been to many orgies in his times in Illyria, taking more males there than females, has dominated both Rhysand and Cassian.

E: Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's got 500 years of experience in pleasuring his partners, he knows exactly what he's doing.

And he's very good at it.

F: Favorite Position(s)

Good old missionary, loves to look at your face contort in pleasure as he takes you.

Cowgirl, he loves watching you on top, bouncing on his cock, gripping onto the talons of his wings, head tipped back.

G: Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

He's always been serious during sex, especially during a scene with you.

But if something goes wrong, he's started to make jokes about it after making sure you are alright and to make a lighthearted atmosphere.

H: Hair (How well-groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes)

A mess of hair as a teen, didn't much care for how his hair looked.

Grew to properly groom his hair, and doesn't really care how you keep yours.

I: Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Is very loving and gentle during soft sex.

Not so much expression on his face during play.

J: Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Doesn't really have to use his own hand when he had yours.

Only masturbates while he is on a mission and away from you

K: Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Corruption - He had a thing for messing up the innocence of his mate, loves how much of an experimentalist you are, willing to try most things he suggests

Bondage- Leathers: loves Illyrian leathers on you, loves the feel of the leather.

Chains: likes to chain you to his bed and his dungeons, chains over your throat for breath play and he licks over the cold chains on your neck.

Ropes: Hogties you on his bed, loves watching you struggle knowing the ropes would leave burns, then after, kissing over your wrists and ankles.

Dacryphilia - Your tears turn him on, loves your tears streaming down your face whenever he takes you rough, at a punishing pace mostly when you try to flirt with other males to get a rise out of him.

Erotic asphyxiation - Loves forcing air out of you, with his hands, pulling on chains to mark your neck up.

Gagging - Gags you with his fingers and cock, loves the sound of you choking

Blood play/Knife play - Uses truthteller on you, cutting your skin just enough to make you bleed, watching the blood spill and healing back up, carving his name into your abdomen.

Shadow play - His shadows LOVE you, just as much as he does, they love to play with you, make you cum, tie you up, and keep his cum inside you.

Public sex - Fingering you anywhere, making you be quiet as he makes you cum on his hands, then walk away nonchalantly.

Sadism - Adores seeing you in the constant pain and pleasure that he causes.

L: Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Prefers his bed and his dungeons, but will take you anywhere if he is horny enough, and has taken you everywhere at least once.

M: Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

You, just you, everything about you gets him going, especially your eyes and the way you look at him

N: NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

He will be wary of anything you aren't downright enthusiastic about.

Will stop if you close your bond with him during play, he needs to have you open your bond with him at all times so he can feel what you're feeling.

O: Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Loves both, has an obsession with hearing your whines as he keeps making you cum on his tongue.

And with the sound of you gagging on his cock.

P: Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

He prefers to be rough in most settings, it's the Illyrian rage he fucks out on you.

Is sensual when it's intimate, soft lovemaking for your anniversaries, important times for you both.

Or when you ask depending on what you want.

Q: Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Prefers to take his time with you, and make you cum hard over and over again.

Will have a quickie if either of you is in a hurry and doesn't want to pass an opportunity to taste you.

R: Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

You two take so many risks in your sex life.

You love the thrill of getting caught.

He prefers to sometimes fuck you on the door of Nesta and Cassian's room so that you can cry out directly in their room, as payback to everything they kept him up with their noises.

S: Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last?)

Loves nothing more than being inside you.

Things don't end until you want them to, until all your holes are dripping with his cum, your legs shaking hard for hours after

T: Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Less "Toys" and more like torture devices, he uses those things to bind you up.

Paddles, whips, vibrators, dildos, gags, he had everything you might want.

U: Unfair (How much they like to tease)

He's very fair, a little too fair, things didn't end till you cum so many times it's painful.

V: Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Not really loud, but growls and groans in your ear

W: Wild Card

He loves sharing you with people, Nessian, Feysand, Eris, Lucien, and anyone you want.

X: X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

MUSCULAR

Every inch of him has muscles, thick arms, legs, cut torso.

Biggest wingspan, obviously.

When you first gripped his cock while busy making out with him, you thought it was his arm.

Y: Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Very High

Especially after accepting your mating bond

He needs to be inside you as much as possible

He is dtf anytime, unless you don't want to

Z: ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He first wants to make sure you're comfortable.

After you are, he sometimes helps you sleep, whether singing to you or giving you a small massage.

He falls asleep to the sound of your comfortable breathing.

{General taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria}

{Azriel taglist - @fxckmiup @annamariereads16 @saltedcoffeescotch}

[daddyfordaeddy]

me devorer, tremee dans le sang [ateez ot8]

⟣ pairing: vampire clan! ateez x f! reader

⟣ genre: vampire au, smut, e for explicit

⟣ warnings: consumption of alcohol, mentions of blood, cursing !! smut warnings under cut

⟣ word count: 2464

⟣ summary: at the annual blood ball, hands wander and blood is spilt. but you have the honour of meeting the hosts of the major event.

⟣ written for a castlevania collab with the lovely sanjoongie [hongjoong & mingi], mingsolo [seonghwa & yunho], potatomountain [jongho & yeosang], flurrys-creativity [wooyoung] <3 enjoy! ive never written an orgy before and im pretty sure its ass but i hope u like it anyway lol

i also may have gotten carried away with wooyoung but mom i love him

smut warning: oral (m & f), vaginal sex, fondling, groping (consensual), biting, marking, blood play (not gorey), dirty talk, alcohol consumption during sex (theyre not drunk (on wine) and its consenual. they dont drink a lot and its only mentioned once), felching - if im missing anything else lmk!

The sound of wet noises fill the mansion, whispers and quiet conversations filtering through the obscene noises. In every corner, the smell of blood is prevalent, hands roaming over bodies. There’s a lustful haze in the room, as there always is during the annual blood ball hosted by the ancient Hala clan, the oldest vampire clan in the region.

Vampires from all over the country—and even some travelling from abroad—all flock to this event, eager to participate in the celebration of the first blood moon of the year. It is a night of celebration, of feeding off each other, of reaching a high, and the most important part…of intimacy.

—

Hands roam over your body as you moan into the mouth of one of the hosts, Mingi. His cold hands grip your sides, his thumbs pressing into your ribs as you helplessly try to ride his clothed thigh. Gazes from all around the room rest on you, and you find it vaguely awkward to be the only one unclothed, but Mingi does a good job distracting you from lidded eyes.

You’re the lucky guest chosen to entertain the clan leaders, and you’re already overwhelmed by the pleasure. Bite marks from all eight of the vampires surrounding you litter your body, on your chest, your neck, most of them gathering on your thighs. You aren’t the only marked vampire, though. Mingi shares the same red marks on his neck, lips, and even his pretty fingertips. His blood coursing through your veins makes your eyes roll back in your head as you moan into his mouth.

“I think we’ve done quite enough now,” Mingi groans into your mouth, his rough, honeyed voice making you still your hips. “Come, esteemed guest, why don’t you show your appreciation?”

At his prompting, you slide down to come face to face with his crotch. Carefully, with gentle fingers, you pull down his pants, letting his half-hard cock spring, bobbing against his stomach and dribbling pre-cum. You can’t keep your eyes off it, even as you lower your head to press kisses and nips to the skin of his thighs.

Mingi groans, a rumble in his throat at the sensations. “Don’t tease,” he commands, although there is a lilt of a whine to his voice. His hand works its way through your hair, gripping the strands and tugging, guiding your face closer to his dripping cock.

Instead of gracing him with a response, you lean forward, pressing your lips against the velvet head, before slowly enveloping the tip in your mouth. A long groan escapes Mingi as he throws his head back at the feeling of your warm mouth on his member. His hand in your hair tightens as his cock twitches in your mouth, spilling more sticky pre-cum down your throat.

You’re too focused on sucking Mingi’s cock, you don’t realise how close the other vampires have gotten until you feel cold hands roaming all over your body. As they grab at your flesh, you can’t help but to moan, sending vibrations down the dick in your throat. “Shit!” Mingi exclaims, his grip almost painful in your hair as he pulls you even further down his throbbing cock as he reaches his orgasm. Come shoots down your throat, slightly sweet, and as you pull off, it sticks to your lips and slides down his length. Unable to resist, you lean in to nip at his thighs until you break skin, eyes rolling back in your head as his sweet blood mixes with his come.

The hands are still roaming all over your body, pinching at your flesh and massaging your ass. They wrap themselves around your shoulders and lift your torso up until you’re sitting back on your knees, looking up at the other seven men surrounding you with obvious hard-ons.

One of them, Seonghwa, strides forward, reaching out and grabbing your jaw until your mouth parts involuntarily. “So pretty, hmm?” he hums, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Are you going to keep that pretty mouth open so we can paint you with our come?”

Eagerly, you nod your head, tongue lolling out. Hands reach out to grab at your flesh, pulling you this way and that like a ragdoll until you’re sandwiched between bodies. He leans in, pressing his lips against yours in a quick kiss before standing straight and stroking his cock, offering the length to you.

Happily, you open your mouth wide and let him guide his dick into your throat, drinking in the breathy moans that leave his mouth. His hands find their way to your hair, pulling you closer to his stomach, making you gag on his cock. The way he just uses you makes something in his gaze burn deliciously, and it doesn’t take long for him to hold your head down as he comes down your throat.

As he pulls out, he bites into his hand and offers the blood pulsing to you. Without any hesitation, you latch on, licking at the wound and your eyes roll back as ecstasy hits you. You can’t even really see what’s going on around you, the hosts surrounding you and making you feel dizzy with their presence and overwhelming aura.

Hongjoong’s face is in front of yours, leaning in closer and closer until he slots his mouth against yours. The kiss is brief, Hongjoong quickly pulling away and straightening up only to rest the head of his cock against your lips. “Come on, pretty,” he hums low in his throat. “Why don’t you put your mouth to use?”

Instead of gracing him with a response, you lean forward slightly to take him into your mouth. The taste of his precum floods your mouth, but it just serves to make you wetter. Your eyes flutter shut as you work your mouth around his length but a hand tugging at your hair causes your eyes to fly open again.

“Keep your gaze on us, esteemed guest. We wouldn’t want you to miss the show,” you hear Yunho’s gravelly voice near your ear as his large hands grasp your waist, squeezing at the flesh. Without warning, his teeth sink into your neck and you can’t help but squirm at the burning sensation of his venom flowing through your veins.

Yunho moans into your neck as your jerky movements have you pressing against his cock. ‘Hold still, pretty,” he murmurs before pressing his cock into your waiting cunt. The sudden feeling of being filled makes you groan, hands scrambling for purchase on Hongjoong’s thighs. Each time you whine or moan around his cock, you can feel it twitch inside of your mouth from the vibrations. His brows are furrowed as his gaze is focused on you intensely.

As Yunho continues thrusting into your wet heat, your mouth slows. “Don’t stop yourself on account of me, esteemed guest,” Yunho teases, reaching over to grab the back of your neck, pushing your head down further onto Hongjoong’s dick. This time, Hongjoong is the one to choke at the sensation of your throat tightening around him and he comes with a drawn-out groan.

The salty taste of his come floods your mouth, but just as quickly as it entered, he pulls out. After a quick pap to your cheek, a new presence moves to sit in front of you, a hard cock already waiting for your attention. “Hello, darling,” San hums, a smile pulling at his cheeks and dimples on full display. “How are we feeling?”

You whine as your response, but all San does is raise an eyebrow and grab your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Good, good, please, please,” you beg, not fully coherent enough to give him a full answer.

A delighted giggle leaves San’s mouth as he leans forward to press his lips against yours in a short kiss, his teeth scraping against your lower lip. His hands glide down your body, pulling at your thighs until your legs inch open enough for him to settle down in between him. He grinds his hips against your crotch, eliciting whines out of your mouth, swallowing each noise you make eagerly.

His cock is pressed against your stomach, and you can feel every twitch against your flesh. “San–” you gasp into his mouth, and it almost feels like his length becomes even harder.

“Come on, say my name, pretty,” San huffs, his breath warm and lips eager. “How much do you want me?”

“Stop teasing the poor guest,” Yunho groans, his hips stilling as he finds his release in your hot cunt, leaning down to bite into your neck and lick away the sting of pain. “She still has four others to service.”

As he pulls out, leaving globs of his release dripping down your thighs, San moves to sit behind you, pulling you into his chest as he slips his cock into your well used cunt. He sighs happily, leaning down to press his lips over the bite mark Yunho left, lapping up the blood beading.

Yeosang greets you quietly with a smile on his ethereal face as he steps closer. Happily, you reach out to grasp his cock, pressing your lips to the lip and looking up at him right before you envelop the head of his dick into your mouth. His perfect lips open slightly in a silent groan at the feeling of you lapping at his veiny length.

Both San and Yeosang are gentle, a welcomed break from the rough fucking you had been receiving up until now, and you let your body relax as you continue to get lost in the haze of being fed from. Their hands play with your hair, brush against your skin, grasp at your flesh, and you’re swallowed up by all the sensations surrounding you.

“You’re so good for us,” Yeosang praises through shuddering breaths as he reaches his high, filling your mouth and throat with his come as San chuckles at the whine escaping your mouth. When he pulls out, Yeosang leans down, licking and nipping at your lips until you can taste the copper taste of blood. Your eyes roll back and your cunt clenches around San’s thickness as you come for the first time of the night.

“Good girl,” San hums, leaning in to pepper kisses against your jawline, his hands moving up to cup your breasts. With every slow thrust, his breaths become heavier until he finally reaches his peak as well, filling you with searing come.

You’re granted a minute to catch your breath, gladly taking the glass of wine offered to you by Jongho’s warm hand. When the haze settles over your brain again, you look up at the two remaining vampires. Everyone else has trickled out of the room to mingle again, and the three of you are the only ones left.

Jongho steps forward, chuckling at the sight. “Gonna sit still and let me fuck your throat?” You nod eagerly, letting your mouth drop open willingly as he shuffles forward, pushing his cock into your mouth. He’s girthy, thick, and so fucking good. The ache in your jaw is welcomed as your eyes unfocus and all you can think about is sucking dick.

You’re so out of it you almost don’t notice the other host coming around to stroke your hair. Your eyes slide over to see his smiling face out of the corner of your vision and you whine, hoping he’ll fuck you as well.

Jongho chuckles, his hands cupping your cheek and settling at the base of your throat. “I think she wants you to fuck her too.”

Wooyoung can’t help but smile fondly as he leans down to press a kiss to your temple, letting his teeth scrape gently against your skin. “Then she’s gonna have to learn a little patience, no? I promise I’ll treat her well when it’s time.”

You can’t help the pout from forming the best it can around Jongho’s cock, and both vampires coo at the sight. “Aw, sweetie is just so needy, huh?” Jongho teases, thrusting a little harder just to hear the obscenely wet sounds of your mouth getting fucked. “And yet your mouth is still so fucking good.”

His thrusts become more and more erratic, just chasing his own pleasure, and yet it still makes your cunt drip.

“Do you want an extra treat?” Jongho asks, although he doesn’t wait for an answer from Wooyoung before he gently prods you to lay onto your back and presses the head of his cock against your fluttering hole, painting your folds and walls with come. “I’ll see you back out on the floor, sweets,” he winks at you, although you can barely process what he’s saying.

You’re in the middle of catching your breath when a sudden press of fingers against your hole makes your hips buck and a gasp rips its way out of your throat. “I hope you didn’t forget about me, honey,” Wooyoung smiles up at you from where he lays right between your legs. “Like I said, I still have to treat you.”

Before waiting for your response, he leans down and presses the flat of his tongue against your pussy, licking into you and tasting all the come from the others still stuffed in your cunt. Your legs twitch, but it doesn’t bother Wooyoung just grabbing your thighs and holding them in place without flinching.

He works his tongue into your clenching hole, his nose pressing against your clit and making you whine and moan. You think you might lose your mind if he keeps this up any longer, and yet his ministrations don’t stop.

It’s when he tilts his head to bite into the soft flesh of your thigh while shoving two fingers into your cunt and pressing against your sensitive spot that you feel the tension in your gut snap and you moan out loud, back arching and hips stuttering. Your head is thrown back and your hands come down to grip at Wooyoung’s hair.

It takes a moment for you to regain your senses about you, body shuddering as your eyes fight to focus. When you finally become a bit more aware, Wooyoung’s face is mere inches from yours as he smiles at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Doing okay? There was a lot of blood exchanged, do you think you want to sleep it off?” Although his eyes sparkle mischievously, his voice is sincere. “You can take all the time you need.”

You nod, and Wooyoung reaches out to fix your hair when you lift your arm to grab his wrist. “Will you sit with me for a little?”

A laugh resounds, straight from Wooyoung’s chest, but he sits by you, the bed dipping. “Your wish is my command.”

[desceros]

I gotta request a mating season scenario with Bayverse Donnie X Reader - Mutual Pining and Smut (I love him so much).

[openly weeping] thank you for giving me the excuse to write this anon-chan, you're too good, too pure donatello/reader, EXPLICIT, female reader, 1.9k. donnie's been too shy to take that plunge, but you just smell so good and it's that time of year

You’ve been friends with Donnie long enough to… think about it. What it would be like to let him know how pretty he is. To sit in his lap and press your forehead to his jaw. 

(To unbuckle those suspenders and maybe see what kind of mischief you can get up to.)

To… hold his hand. To… to belong to him.

…But you’ve probably been friends for too long, you think. The relationship would have changed by now if he was interested. He’s not the kind of guy to want something without having it for very long, not without doing something about it. It’s not gonna happen. It’s a wild, hilarious thought—you’ve been friendzoned by a turtle—but that’s just the life you have now, you guess.

So when it finally, suddenly happens, to say you’re surprised is a bit of an understatement.

You’re in his lab, helping him organize his screwdriver collection. Sometimes they get a little mixed up if he gets worked into a frenzy or so tired his eyes start to blur, and it feels good to help him. He likes having your hands for the more boring chores, and you like basking in the dorky little smile he gives you as thanks.

Lost in the monotonous task, you don’t notice him staring, his eyes burning between your shoulder blades, until you feel him in your personal bubble. It’s a blink of time, a breath of awareness, then everything changes.

Donnie tucks his face into your throat, his plastron pressed along your spine as his hands cup your hips and pull them back into his own. Shocked at the intimacy of the touch, you feel yourself go still in his hold, wondering if there’s a gas leak in his lab and you’re hallucinating. 

His mouth parts, his teeth find your pulse, and you decide this is very, very real.

“D… Donnie?” you manage, voice syrupy in your own ears.

“…Smell good,” he murmurs into your skin, pressing into you harder, stepping impossibly closer, forcing you forward until your thighs are caught between his and the edge of the table and you have to smack your palms onto it to keep upright. A cup of screws falls over, spills; but he doesn’t react. Your eyes dart over to the door of his lab; it’s wide open, and you’re not even remotely tucked away back here. 

“Donnie—Donnie, what are you—” you say, though your voice catches in your throat when you feel him turn his head, tucking his beak behind your ear and brushing a long line of claiming kisses down to your shoulder. Your eyes flutter, blood beginning to rush hot in your veins even as you look again to the door of his lab.

Donnie, if he cares, doesn’t show it. Not in the way he slides one hand up your shirt, seeking skin and seeming intoxicated when he finds it. You feel his moan between your shoulder blades as much as you hear it, making your eyes squeeze shut. Oh, wow, that’s—that’s even better than all the times you’ve imagined it, and you’ve maybe imagined it a lot. 

“…too soon,” he mumbles, though how you’re able to catch it when his fingers are fumbling at the button to your jeans, you’re not sure how. 

“Wh… What’s too soon?” you ask, licking your lips and trying to scoop enough consciousness together to talk. “Don—Donnie, you—Did you drink something? Smell something? This is—”

Donnie stops, his forehead finding your shoulder. He’s shaking, you realize, but when you try to turn he presses you harder against the table, pinning you into place. Oh god, oh fuck.

“About two weeks early,” he says through what sounds like clenched teeth. “Shouldn’t—Shouldn’t be happening yet. Normally I can feel it coming on and warn you, but—Have I ever told you you smell really good? You smell so good—”

He shifts his face again, pressing his beak to the corner of your throat and shoulder to inhale deeply. Your hair stands on end, goosebumps flaring down your skin like wildfire. An embarrassing noise catches in your throat. You swallow it, brow furrowing. “What’s early?”

His lips move in a mumble that disappears into the neckline of your shirt. A neckline which, you suddenly realize, is damp from where he’s mouthing at it. Like he’s trying to take it off of you with his teeth. That’s—okay. That’s a lot.

“Didn’t catch that,” you wheeze. 

“…mating season,” he enunciates, igniting every single cell in your body. 

“You… have a mating season,” you choke, staring deliriously at one screw that slowly spins in a circle. He nods. “And you—You’re doing this with—me?” 

“Always you,” he says, starting to ramble as he tugs at the hem of your shirt like it’s offending him. “Every Spring, I feel it coming and you always look so pretty and happy. I’ve been wanting to ask you for years, but I—I’ve never worked up the cour—You smell so fucking good. Can I—I want to—” He whines, trembling, you think, from the concentration it’s taking for him to hold back and speak. His hands are tight on your sides, gripping you, just shy of where it’ll leave a mark.

Your eyes burn as you squeeze them shut. There’s a conversation to be had here, about why he was so fucking stupid and didn’t talk to you, about how much you’ve wanted this too, about what it’s going to mean—but that can be had later, especially considering you’re not completely sure he’s all there. 

“Yeah,” you gasp out, reaching out a hand to snatch at his and bring it to the button of your jeans again. “Yeah, let’s—yes.”

His wrist twists and he’s got his fingers inside your underwear faster than you can suck in a breath at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Beak pressed to your cheek, you hear Donnie chanting thank you thank you thank you, mouth hanging open before he brings his slick fingers to his mouth to slide them inside and wrap his tongue around them. 

“Donnie, fuck,” you breathe when he groans like he took a hit of something hard. It’s wet in your ear, and when he slides his fingers back to your clit and starts to trail biting kisses along your jaw, you can’t help but think about it. Your arms quake where they’re holding you up, helping you press against him, taking the weight of where he’s draped himself like he wants to be your shell.

An impatient noise rips out of his throat, and you feel his other hand tugging at the waist of your jeans. Huffing a laugh at his uncharacteristic ineffectiveness, you grab his wrists to pull him away before you shimmy them down your legs. 

…It’s right when he gets his fingers inside you, stretching you, pretty moans of your name in your ear, when you remember the whole door situation. 

“Donnie—”

“Wanna fuck you,” he slurs against your nape. Your skin stretches too-tight, the bottom of your stomach dropping out in arousal. “Smell like you. Want you to smell like me—” 

He grabs something out of the toolbox, a loud clattering sound, and you feel your panties go slack at your hip, then fall to the floor when he pulls the fabric away. “You—Did you just cut my—”

“In the way. More efficient,” he answers, dropping whatever it was back into place without a care. There goes your toolbox organizing, though it’s maybe hard to care when you feel something slick rub against you, his tail dipping between your legs and pressing close. “Mmm. Spread your legs, pretty. Little more. There, right there.”

He holds you still when he’s happy with your position, one hand at your hip and the other spreading you open in a manner that has the whole door situation falling pretty low on your thinking about this right now list. You’re more interested in the glide of his cloaca against you, the promise of his hitched breath in your ear, the wet kiss that morphs into a low moan as he drops inside of you. 

“Donnie,” you moan, head falling between your rolled shoulders as pleasure makes you tremble. It feels incredible how he fills you, your lungs unable to expand to breathe as it feels like he’s all the way in your throat. His hands grab your hips and tilt them, using them as leverage as he ruts wetly in a filthy glide that makes you mewl and twist. 

Through the fog of bliss, you hear him; he’s babbling, nigh-incoherently. You can just make out a few phrases here and there—so pretty, smell so good, fill you up, breed you full—that make you absolutely incinerate. It feels like he’s consuming you, his whines and moans ringing in your ears. 

The rising tide of ecstasy burns like fire in your veins, your teeth releasing your lip as you’re no longer able to contain the animal noises he’s clawing out of you. Nails dragging along the surface of his table, you come, wailing his name. He presses, making your elbows bend, and you fold into the table as he rails into you with hard slapping hips until he, too, climaxes. His forehead presses hard between your shoulder blades as he fills you, hot and more than you’ve ever taken before, until you feel it running down your legs where you can’t take any more. 

“…Holy shit,” you pant, barking a disbelieving laugh. Donnie, seeming annoyed that you’re able to talk, sinks his teeth into your throat before he kisses it to soothe. 

“Sorry, I, uh. I was hoping we’d talk about that before it happened,” he says once he can breathe again, sounding a little guilty. You shoot him an incredulous look over your shoulder. 

“Are you insane? You just made me come my brains out. How are you apologizing right now? That’s, like, the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.” You glance to the door. “Um. Even if I’m pretty sure everyone else heard it, too.” 

He huffs a laugh, nuzzling his face into your nape. “They’re, uh. Gone. For the week. I’m usually on a bit of a delayed cycle from the others, but I think you being here triggered it. I always love how you smell, and I guess the turtle brain just decided it was tired of waiting on me.” 

Oh, that’s… really sweet, you think, trying not to cry. You lick your lips, opening your mouth to speak only for a whimper to come out instead, forehead rolling on the table’s surface, when you feel his cock start to slide out. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s—” he breathes, hips pressing a little harder against your own until you feel empty again. As he moves, you hear the wet sound of his cloaca rubbing against you. “Huh. You’re kind of a mess.” 

“Yeah, thanks for that,” you wheeze, trying not to get turned on again when you’d just come. “So, um… season. That’s like, more than once, right?” 

There’s a moment of silence, and then you feel a smile on your back that’s a little shy, and a lot hungry. 

[coryosbaby]

i saw that you wrote for donnie darko a while ago and since i’m currently fixating on him i present a very intriguing concept: stepbro!donnie.

i feel like he’d love the taboo aspects of it and would have no trouble justifying it to himself bc it’s not like you’re related.

18+, MDNI !! stepcest (stepbrother x stepsister), suggestive content , kissing

No cs he literally would. In the movie he’s all about “I don’t want to fuck my family, that’s weird.” But with you, he doesn’t even view you as family— not really, anyway. Sure, your parents are together but at the end of the day there’s no blood relation, right? It’s not normal to daydream about tit fucking your sister, either, so— yeah. Definitely doesn’t view you as a relative.

He’s a total horn dog. I can imagine him making a move on you for the first time when you’re both watching a movie— some dumbass sex scene comes on and suddenly his dick is springing up and he’s subtly placing a pillow across his lap. He watches your concentration on the screen, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.

“Why do they always decide to fuck in these movies?” You question. You say this because you’re both watching some random slasher with an unnecessary amount of girl on boy sex scenes. “There’s like, a killer on the loose. How stupid can you be?”

He shrugs. His hand moves to the bulge in his pants.

“Spur of the moment, I guess,” he replies. “Can’t really control it once it starts.”

“And what would you know about the art of intimacy?”

It’s a joke, an innocent little jab that usually has Donnie firing back with something like, “you’re one to talk,” and then making a joke about your empty dating history— but he doesn’t do that this time. No, you’re too pretty. He’s too horny. He needs to break the ice before he lands hard on his ass and doesn’t get back up.

“Wanna find out?”

Your pupils dilate, eyes a bit wide and freaked out when you hear the (incredibly impulsive) words spill from your stepbrother’s lips. But also— and only Donnie would notice this, seeing you all the time and all, and not because he thinks about you every waking moment— you seem to be intrigued. Your eyes scan over his body and move back up to his face.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” You tease, and let out a nervous chuckle. “You wish. I’d never fuck your virgin ass.”

“How’dya know if you’ve never tried it?” And he gives you that shit eating grin when he’s really amused, the one that makes your stomach do flips. “You could kiss me instead, then. See if you like it.”

“I’m not kissing my brother.”

“Stepbrother,” he corrects. His legs spread apart, almost like an invite. You pretend not to notice. “C’mon, kid. don’t be a pussy.”

He calls you kid even though you’re only one month younger than him. He does this because he knows it irks you. You roll your eyes, licking your plump bottom lip.

“Whatever,” you mumble, then you groan. “Come here, then. But if you slip me tongue, Darko, I swear to god I’ll tell your English professor that you cheated on your exams last year.”

He begins scooting closer, his jean clad thigh pressing against your bare one, and he seems very giddy.

“Won’t give you tongue,” he replies. “I swear it on my life.”

You give an annoyed hum. Donnie’s arm goes behind you on the back of couch, and you can smell his cologne and the dial soap he uses in the shower. When neither of you makes a move— an awkward stare into each other’s eyes, faces a few inches apart, Donnie’s eyes filling with something you can’t quite make out— you utter, “Well, are you going to do it or not?”

Instead of replying, he just.. goes for it. He presses his mouth to yours in a smooth peck. But fuck, he’s so hard, and he’s wanted this for so long. He goes back in for another, mouth opened slightly, awkward. Virginal. The two of you kiss like this because that’s exactly what the both of you are— virgins. When you pull away from him, his lashes flutter open and he grins again. You want to kiss him some more— maybe his tongue in your mouth wouldn’t be so bad. But you hold back, eyes blinking.

“This is really fuckin’ weird, Donnie.”

:: @mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry @princesstiti14 @aerangi @kaithoughs @jamespotterismydaddy @wildgirllz

[yandereunsolved]

Macabre Monster - ,, yandere pre & post death Kyle Spencer

tw(s): yandere themes, mentions of suicide (Kyle), Madison's sa mentioned, Kyle's boundaries being crossed (not by reader), Kyle's trauma (non-descriptive)

✧ Both you and Kyle attended the same campus. That is where it all started. You both attended the same party. Kyle was slightly intoxicated when he met you. You were standing in the corner awkwardly with the distinctly red solo cup. You both got to talking, and something just clicked. You made your way to a backroom in the absolutely trashed frat house and just talked. You practically spilled out your guts on each other. Kyle told you everything—how his father died at a young age, how he had to take up the role of'man  of the house', all of the trauma sounding to him and his mother. After that day, there was just a connection with you. Call it a sort of codependent need for intimacy. He never had someone healthy to just hang around. He needed that; he craved it with his very being. So what's so wrong with letting that little bud of codependency flower into an entire garden of obsession?

✧ From that day forward, the two of you were practically inseparable. He got your number and texted you all the time. He invited you out to places. He gave you a bunch of gifts and trinkets. He drank and danced with you. He even did a really bad rendition of “Is This Love” by Whitesnake. You guys may have kissed once, twice, or three times, but you just seemed fine not putting a label on it. You still flirted with people and went out on dates. Kyle still partied with his frat brothers and went with the flow.

✧ As the months passed and your friendship grew, strange things started happening. Certain items of yours went missing. You'd get drunk, forget to take off your make-up, and wake up with it completely off and your entire skincare routine done. Your messy dorm became neat and tidy. Sometimes you'd even feel someone playing with your hair or massaging you in your sleep. You thought that they were all just tricks of your mind. 

✧ One thing that definitely was not a trick of your mind was when you read Kyle's mind for the first time. 'They're so slammin'. You blinked in surprise and kind of gave him a weird look. He continued on with the conversation, but more weird things kept popping into your head. 'I wanna kiss them.' 'I wonder if they got my gift.' 'I should probably sort their clothing again.' 'I'm so lucky to have them in my life. They are a total catch.' It disturbed you. That was the day you learned you had magical abilities. You were shipped off to Miss Robichaux's Academy.

✧ You didn't see him for a long time. It felt like a long time. It was really only three and a half weeks. For those three and a half weeks, Kyle was a mess. He turned your dorm upside down, but most of your belongings were gone. He had a panic attack and sat on the floor of your room and bawled his eyes out. He frantically texted you only to get a 'unable to send text' message over and over and over again, no matter how many times he tried. He tried over a hundred. He passed out in your room and missed his classes that day. He gathered what was left of your things and hoarded them in his room. He asked about you, and they said absolutely nothing. They wouldn't tell him anything. He was on the verge of offing himself. 

✧ That was until he saw you at the party. You had grown a bit in your abilities. You were still barely able to keep everyone's thoughts out of your head, but Nan helped you a bit. You had gone to the party with Madison and Zoe. You hadn't expected to be scooped up by Kyle and dragged into the back of the house. He kind of just pulled you into a hug and sobbed. You weren't sure how long it was. The one time you wanted to read his thoughts, you couldn't. Your ears were too busy hearing all of your blood rushing, as well as his and everybody else's in the house. 

✧ The rest of it was almost a blur. You both discovered Madison being assaulted. She must have had her drink spiked. All of the frat brothers were 'taking their turn with her'. No, not Kyle. Not your Kyle. He stepped in and chased them off. The next thing you knew, you were standing with Zoe, and the frat bus was driving off. Madison flipped it over with her abilities, and suddenly your entire world was crashing down. Neither of them went towards the bus. You did. You ran towards it and collapsed on the ground. You could feel only two people breathing. Neither of them matched Kyle's breath.

✧ The next week, you were so closed off and depressed that Madison graced you with the ability to get your little 'boyfriend', as she had dubbed him, back. You were morally against it, but Zoe argued that it was the right thing to do. All three of you completed the ritual. While you weren't exactly thrilled with practically selling your soul to the devil, you were strangledly excited to see your closest friend again. 

✧ When it seemingly didn't work, Madison left without both you and Zoe. Zoe hid behind you when Kyle came to life and attacked the security guard. No matter what you tried to do, he wouldn't let go of you. He only aimlessly grunted and kept his hands securely around you. He held you desperately, animalistically. It was like it was the only thing he remembered how to do. Which is strange because you only cuddled with Kyle—well,  a lot, actually, now that you think about it. 

✧ You had to stay with Misty when you tried to drop him off to get healed. He had an entire breakdown and nearly destroyed her shack because you tried to leave him. You told Zoe to just brush off your disappearance by saying that you were visiting a relative in town. If anybody had a problem with it, they could kiss your ass for all you cared. You had Kyle back. His health is all that matters to you.

✧ You managed to slip back to the academy while both were asleep. You managed to use a sleeping spell you had learned to cure your insomnia. Only you made it much stronger, so neither would be aware of your absence until you had already left. You weren't aware of Zoe's plans to bring Kyle back to his mother— If you can call her that. You also weren't aware of how distraught he was when he woke up, and you weren't in his arms. Neither Misty, nor Zoe, nor the person who birthed him could calm him down. He was worriedly grunting the entire time. He paced and searched around every corner of whatever he could touch to find you. He looked like a lost puppy, walking in circles in search of his owner.  

✧ Post-death Kyle has an oral fixation. He's like a toddler. Anything that can fit in his mouth will go in it. That includes you. He likes gently nibbling or just licking your skin. It gives him a sense of comfort and security. It also lights up that part of his mind that reminds him of when he gave you hickeys once. The first time Fraken Kyle accidentally gave you one, he was both pleased and freaked out. After you assured him that you were okay, he kept doing it. You have to teach him not to give you hickeys and small bruises. He doesn't listen. As long as it isn't hurting you physically, he'll continue to do it. Not because his mind is muddled, but because he's just that possessive over you. It's a way to mark you as his. The more primitive part of his brain needs that; it needs you to be his. 

✧ He has a multitude of issues with his body and the way it is. He often cowers away from you when he is naked and does his best to cover himself up. His fingers awkwardly trace the scars and the tattoos. He tries to tear his flesh off because he hates it so much. It isn't his body, quite literally. Frat boy Kyle never did anything like that. You even think that sometimes he flaunted his body to you on purpose. No, now you have to be the one to gently coax him out of his shell. With each kiss and loving word, another one of those mental wounds is being stitched up and healed. 

✧ All of those issues became especially clear when you rushed to Kyle's previous home. Zoe had already gotten there before you. You both found what was left of his mother on the carpet. It made you furious to think of what would have caused Kyle to have a reaction like this. He came into his old room whining like a starved animal. He was sobbing and could only utter two words over and over again. 'No leave, no leave, no leave.' Zoe was horrified at the scene of Kyle's dead family member. She went to go cook you all something, and you were just stuck with Kyle. Not that you minded. You almost felt a little possessive of him now—overprotective. He's still himself, and yet he's different now.  

✧ He refused to wash off the blood without you. Post-death Kyle always does that. You think it's because he believes you protect him from the mental scars that his mother gave him. It's partly that, but it's also partly something else. There are still parts of this brain that work and are able to scheme. He just wants to feel your body close to his. He just wants to take care of you. Just like before the accident. He doesn't consciously understand why he is doing this. He just knows that it has to be this way. It's like there are two different Kyle's pulling at his new version of him: the yandere one and the traumatized inner child of his.

✧ He pulls you in a lot of directions. He does it harshly if you don't want to go with him. He'll just haul you around as well. You are standing one moment, and the next you are being bridled by Kyle down the street. You both left Zoe, and you couldn't convince him to go back, much less get out of his vice grip. For an undead man, he sure gained a lot of strength. 

✧ He brought you both to an abandoned arcade, which the both of you would hide in sometimes. The owners couldn't pay rent, so they closed up shop. They left everything there, so people often broke in to steal parts from the machines and fool around. He vaguely remembered the place. His mind cannot remember exactly memories and reasons but feelings. This place felt good, and his old house felt bad. So he took you here, and now he feels perfect.

✧ His speech is basically nothing in the beginning. As time goes on, he develops a greater ability to communicate his words. That's why you often end up reading his mind instead. It's like wading through the swamp that Misty lived in. His mind has three different tracks: feelings, broken thoughts, and future actions. All three clash with each other because they are in various stages of regaining normalcy. He thinks in broken sentences, and sometimes it feels like he knows that you are able to read his mind. With things he seemingly doesn't want you to know, he whispers them within his mind. They get lost in translation. It's like that fog in his mind is purposely keeping you away from certain actions, thoughts, or feelings he has.

✧ His mood is dependent on your mood. You first learned this when you brought him back to the academy. You locked both him and yourself in your room. You couldn't hold back the tears, and you broke down. You were just so fucking sick of everything. Sick of this house. Sick of the other witches. Sick of your powers. You just wanted the Kyle you knew back. They just went and revived him—he wanted to be an engineer. Now he's a Frakenstines monster built back with the parts of his shitty frat brothers. You guys didn't even label what you had.

✧ You were so busy crying that you didn't realize Kyle was sobbing as well. He had curled up next to you and just started crying. When you stopped, he slowly quieted down. He brought you into an awkward cuddle on the dusty floor of your room. You almost wanted to laugh. Kyle was always like that. If you were crying, he'd pick you up in a hug and start humming something from Toto or Nirvana. He'd make really bad jokes and show you silly faces. It almost mirrored now. Kyle was trying to do something to a silly face. It looked more like he was gonna start growling at you. It made you chuckle a bit. Even now, he could make you feel better.

✧ That was only one way in which he mimicked your moods—mimicks you. He's much more prone to outbursts when you are angry or frustrated. If you slam your palms on the table out of irritation, he'll do the same. Only he'll accidentally break the table. That's happened more times than you'd care to admit. The coven is going to need a separate fund to just pay for the stuff Kyle breaks. 

✧ Your habits and routine are what also help him regain some of his independence. He watches you with a keen eye. He imitates most everything you do. Of course, his actions are clumsy, and sometimes he breaks things, but he still tries his best. Frat Kyle would do that as well to tease you. He'd tease you out of bad habits such as biting your nails or forgetting to drink water. He nearly shoved a water bottle down your throat during your study hall when you casually confessed to him that you hadn't drank anything all day.

✧ That's the thing about people, right? They always surprise you. Zoe knocked you out and dragged Kyle down to the greenhouse to chain him up. She did. Madison returned. It's like death means nothing to these people. All of those memories with Kyle are yours. He remembers those feelings he had for you. Which is why it's so hard for you to be around him. He's just someone who needs someone. That someone just happened to be you.

✧ It's a good thing that little miss 'I'm going to save him' didn't kill him down there. He probably would have killed her if she really tried. He escaped and ran up to your room. He refused to move from your body until you woke up. You were the one put in charge of caring for him. Well, nobody else really could. You are the only one who is able to untangle his mind. You could still see Kyle in there. You saw almost every part of him. Everybody around him just took, took, took. You're the only one he'd let take from him anymore.

✧ He developed a habit of touching your temples whenever he wanted to really, really tell you something or communicate. It was kind of cute. He looks up at you with those doe eyes and just concentrates really hard on thinking correctly. When you respond, he lights up and bounces on the balls of his feet. It was cute until it wasn't. Sometimes the thoughts you heard from him kept you up at night.

'Kill everyone... for... you. You mine. Like before. Remember?'

'Steal stuff of yours. Keep it. Home. You.'

'Massage you like before. When sleeping. Adorable— adorable sleeper.'

'Scars. Scars like mine. Hurt you. Scars like mine. All get scars like mine.'

'Party together. Two. Us. Booze. Ex-boy dead. Me. Did it. So party. Us. Two. Only.'

✧ You didn't truly understand why he would think those things or act this way. You did understand it a little the day Zoe and Madison tried to make him a glorified sex doll. At that point, not even glorified. You knew all the things Kyle had been through. You constantly have heard his mind. When Madison started touching him like that the earth trembled beneath you, quite literally. The entire state shook. You may or may not have accidentally absorbed some of Kyle's emotions. So when Madison did that you just about wanted to tear her head off. Kyle gave you a scared, confused look.

'Good feeling? Bad feeling? Help, please.'

She was lucky to have been revived from the dead once. You were itching to put her back under. That scared you, but it also made you feel safe. Kyle always stood up for you when people made you uncomfortable. You never really had the chance to do it for him because he wouldn't let you. When you absorbed his feelings you really felt him. It was intoxicating. It's safe to say Kyle put his fingers on your temple and asked you a lot of questions about that encounter.

✧ Kyle asks a lot of questions. It's part of you teaching him how to remember himself. Some of those things are best left not remembered. Some of the questions are appropriate and some of them are not. You still remember him asking if you two ever did it. He asks a lot of questions about all of the witch and magic stuff. It is what he was most curious about before he died. After all, you just disappeared on him. He almost killed himself because of that. He ended up dead anyway. The irony is lost on him, but not on you.

'Magic? You?'

"I can read minds, remember? That's how we communicate. I've also learned that people's emotions affect me. I can make people feel things— or use their energy to make things happen."

'Like—'

He had a breakdown after that. He remembered you being taken from him. He would never let that happen again. Never.

✧ He's territorial, in case you couldn't tell. He isn't exactly the master of subtly. He grunts and smacks anyone in the house that gets too close to him, except you. He holds everything he loves close to him, including you. He has a bad habit of murdering people you interact with. You'd tried to explain it to him, but he adamantly refused to stop. You aren't naive about what all of this means for you. He isn't exactly in the condition to keep his darkest secrets away from you, mostly. Still, your abilities connect you with his emotions. You can't entirely control it. So you need to be around him just as much as he needs to be around you. You do your best to get him to stop killing people. You truly do. It's just that doe-eyed expression he gives you that makes you give into him every single time. 

✧ The tablet you gifted him is the thing he is second-most territorial about. He always keeps it with him. He watches it when it's on the charger. You gave him a protective covering for it and a bag so he could carry it around. It's like his safety item. You have a bunch of games on there to help him learn. You also downloaded things that he liked before his death. You have an entire album of just you and him on that thing. Every time he sees you, he wants to take a new picture of you to put in the album. It makes him remember a little bit more.

✧ He traces the outline of your figure in every photo. You've caught him kissing his tablet with a picture of you on it more times than you'd like to admit. He always gives you this kind of blank but dopey smile afterwards. His pupils are always dilated around you, so it kind of makes him look like he's high. You don't know if the pupil thing is because of his resurrection, something with your magic, or if he is just that obsessed with you. He is just that obsessed with you.

✧ He also decorated the bag you got him with cloth markers. It was an exercise you did to help him with his fine motor skills. It was relaxing until he drew himself with both of you holding hands while everything was on fire around you. That was what you understood of the drawing anyway. You still let him keep it on there. He doesn't let anyone else touch the bag. Nan tried to touch it once, and he nearly bit her fingers off.

✧ You have to teach him to be gentle with others. He's gentle around you, but with anyone else, he has a very high chance of breaking one of their bones. You start off with animals first. They are less confrontational than humans and are genuinely easier to get alone with. Only he snaps the dog's neck and most every other animal you try to introduce to him. He only stops when he sees you getting upset. His mind immediately filled with shame in those moments. 'No. You plus me. No animals. Sorry. Love you.'

✧ He has a tendency to watch you at night. Just like he secretly did before all of this happened. He crawls into your bed and plays with the strands of your hair. He wraps himself around you tightly. Most of the time, he is the big spoon. He just likes placing his head over yours. He is obsessed with listening to your breathing and the beating of your heart. It reminds him that you are still with him.

✧ He 100% kills any witch hunter within any radius of you. If he hears anything with the word 'witch hunter', he is off searching for that person. Part of him doesn't want to murder, but the other part of him is more than eager to get rid of the person who wanted the coven harmed. He still mostly protects you, but after awhile, he learns to grow a bit more protective of the people you actually like in the coven. He doesn't want to see you in any distress. So protecting those close to you counts. In a dangerous situation he will still save you first. Even though you are more than able to handle yourself, Kyle still does it for you.

✧ Madison still absolutely cannot stand your relationship and close proximity to Kyle. She believes that it should be her who loves him. During the test of concilium, she tried to make Kyle kill you. You sensed something in his brain shut off at that point. That scared inner child was angry, and so was his violently obsessive side. It's like his need for you outweighed any other thought Madison could put in his mind. He didn't kill her then. He waited until she failed. Then he stalked into her room, and well, they never found her body. On some level, everyone knows it was Kyle, but it's left unsaid. That's just one of the many secrets of Kyle's that you will keep with you to the grave.

✧ You may not have completed all of the seven wonders, but you did become one of the new witches on the Witch Council. With Cordelia's blessing and a yandere, semi-functioning Kyle, you both set out across the world to find witches and bring them to safety within the academy's doors. The question remains: will he allow you to do so? Or is his docile behavior just a ruse to hide you away and make you permanently his?

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⟿ taglist: @coentinim @bluerthanvelvet444 @cxndiedvi0lets @doll3tt33 @lacucarachapisser

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[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWELVE: FRUIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse

This is chronologically the twelve chapter

READ AFTER THE CUT...

-

You ascend to your room alone, glancing back over your shoulder in the paranoia that one or the other man pursues you like night after the sun.

Neither have taken you by way of carnality since Will rutted you against the wall. It seems an unnatural strike of fortune, and one unlikely to last.

There is too much lust between these beings, hunger of such echoing depths that the sensual urge is but one chained within. Their eyes all evening have picked you to the bone like carrion set at by desert birds. Your cunt parts, empty, about the memory of Will’s fingertips; there is a sense of art unfinished, a crescendo in the crashing of keys only the hands of men can bring into violent birth.

In dread of missing the sound of their approach across the landing you lie quiet in your bed, no music nor comforting hum of the television as your night-time companions. Yet footsteps only halve the house when your captors go to bed, each in their own room, an anti-climax. 

You think of Hannibal, tossed amidst the curse of unsung ardour, then of Will, crushed under the density of an unsated sleep. Such lonely men, in their way, divided by what lies unchartered between them, and with you.

Though by now settled, the skin which Will has touched—struck—still seems to burn with him. Five fingers, the rounded oblong of a palm, a hand that feeds dogs, has fired a gun, has rocked you, fucked you. A hand that Hannibal Lecter reaches for across dead miles of darkness to know as you have, and to love what you have loathed.

Unsettled, you roll on your stomach, but the pulse you hear when overwrought seems to peal through your very bones in its jeering song.

Filth, sin, soil: you taste your shame in its salt, as you have each night since long ago. Yet before your taking for the purpose of this ritual science there had never been pleasure in it, only the experience of staring always at the edges of things. The corners of ceilings, the light at the top of a door, a wall torn to grain by the night, liminality your legacy of innocence.

With Will, with Hannibal, you cannot look away, are made to witness and to partake in every aggression and gentleness with the same focus of attention. For that is what they want, your immersion in the devil’s playhouse. For you to be a doll, a daughter, embraced after the most inclement incident into a state almost soothed.

You cry yourself to sleep, wanting such a practice of love from someone who’s never once hurt you.

*

Hunger wakes you in the night, a restless drumroll that compels you upright in its rallying beat. As you stretch, thinking morosely of the marvel it is to have gorged and still not be full, you hear someone stumble in the nearby hallway, thudding against the adjoining wall.

A fight? Some drunken struggle? An intimacy overheard? No—

There is but a sole pair of scuffing footfalls on the floorboards beyond, too unbalanced to be Dr Lecter’s.

In consternation you go to your door and try the handle. It gives way easily under your hand, allowing you to peer out into the black mystery beyond.

Will lists against the right-hand wall, his eyes glazed and rolling under twitching lids. As you stare, abashed, his limbs fall under him, and he sprawls thrashing in unconscious spasms of animation.

There is blood on his face where he’s bitten his tongue, ebony in the negation of light. An oil spill on a seabird, drowning. A splash of mud on a bog's sunken dead.

You should let him suffer, step over his convulsing form and dart for nearest open window or outer door, but horror shakes you senseless of the thought before it takes full form.

Will’s fit continues, throwing the young man’s slim frame about like a machine caught in the throes of grim malfunction.

God help you: you pity him. He is human, and you are, as well.

“Will?” you say, stepping gingerly towards him. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

It occurs to you that Will’s death is also yours, your lifelines enmeshed, a symbiosis in which only he would survive your parting. You kneel with your palms hovering over him, recalling very little that you know of First Aid, and entirely terrified of making him worse.

Hannibal’s voice comes from your left, uttering your name with a softness that somehow bears all the authority of a bellowed command.

He steps up quickly behind you, his hair disrupted from its usual tidy arrangement.

“Will’s having a seizure,” you say, in despair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help him,” says Hannibal. “Go back to your room.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded by his apparent calm.

“But—”

Again Dr Lecter says your name, without raising his voice, or with any particular emotion. Yet you scuttle back the way you came, jarred by the suggestion of temper in that subtle repetition.

You hear Hannibal calling to Will, the sound of him lifting the other man and carrying his dead weight back to the spare room. The door closing, the subtle murmur behind it of Will rousing, his friend's soft, reassuring reply.

Silence, as of an exhibition ended.

Half an hour edges by, and not once do you stop shaking despite the heat of the autumn night.

Presently a knock comes at your door, and the doctor enters, his eyes lowered in remorse.

“I apologise if I spoke harshly to you. I know that you weren’t being deliberately disobedient. It wasn’t my intention to imbue your evening with additional distress.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quite disarmed by the apology. “It’s nobody’s fault. I mean, I shouldn’t have left my room, but I couldn’t just not go out there and see what was going on.”

Hannibal’s expression is opaque, a mask of ivory.

“I detect a concern for Will that isn’t entirely manufactured for my benefit,” he says. “Could it be that such a little cynic loves something other than her hunger?”

“What choice do I have but to care about Will?” you ask, shrilly. “What’s wrong with him?”

Adrenaline runs so high within you that you see the room on a tilt like some demented circus mirror reflection.

“What’s wrong with him?” you ask, again.

This time Dr Lecter answers, his tone low and even so as not to incite further upset.

“I suspect that Will is suffering from a combination of stress and fatigue, although I can’t deny the possibility of a neurological disorder.”

“Jack said he was sick,” you mumble. “And the other night, when I— you know. He looked awful.”

Will's face is punched into your retina like a flash of light, all blinding awfulness.

“And he’s been getting so angry with me,” you say, in a panicked rush. “Even though sometimes he’s almost nice. Is that why? Because he’s not well?”

“Will’s health has certainly contributed to his recent outbursts,” says Hannibal, smoothing your rumpled coverlet with fastidious hands. “The absence of control he feels amidst his fever leads to acts of impulse, particularly when in an environment he’s uncertain of, or feels threatened in.”

“I’m not threatening him,” you insist, hotly. “How could I?”

“I don’t mean in the literal sense. Will has very few close confidants, and those he possesses he guards dearly— that, or it is he himself that Will defends against his competition.”

You look up sharply, and Hannibal smiles, all benign conspiracy.

“Yes, little one. Having considered your thoughts on Will's dislike of you, I suspect that he also fears you may supersede him, or else share intimacies with me that he alone would otherwise possess. Yet Will’s envy is more complex than mere romantic ire, for unlike other rivals he has contended with, Will finds himself in the position of dizzying power over you.”

Dr Lecter pauses, his head at a rueful incline.

“For my part, I admit that it was rash to elect Will as the disciplinarian between us without taking all factors into account. It seems that I underestimated how antagonistic your relationship would become as his immersion in your treatment progressed.”

This you do believe, at least in that the doctor’s dissuasion of Will’s most outrageous verbal lashings is clearly genuine. Your bickering, in its familial likeness, he enjoys: an outright skirmish, repellent it its indecency, he does not.

“As you’ve indicated,” says Dr Lecter, going about your room to address its customary disorder, “Will’s becoming aware that his resentment is not entirely warranted as he finds himself increasingly sympathetic to your case. Such feelings are at odds with his desire to be alone in my company— an intricate conflict for any mind, let alone one so fiercely ablaze.”

“Ablaze?” you repeat. “What do you mean?”

“If my suspicions are correct, then Will’s condition may have been agitated by the ingredients in various dishes served in my home these past few weeks. The symptoms are closely matched to Will’s behaviour— disorientation, loss of consciousness, personality changes, mood swings. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t notice this much sooner.”

There is something performative in Hannibal’s guilt, his unshed tears like the glass eyes of a taxidermy animal. He’s known of Will’s ailment far longer than he suggests, and as he turns his back to close your chest of drawers you feel relieved, no longer forced to entertain this show of lies.

“You mustn’t mention any of this to Will until he’s received a formal diagnosis,” says Dr Lecter. “It may be that he’s simply mentally unwell, which would be a far more complicated outcome to navigate. But what you’ve seen of him lately is merely a conjunction of symptoms and heightened territorial emotions. Will’s true self you’ve yet to meet.”

The assurance is of little comfort to you, being that the nearest you’ve come to perceiving Will at his most natural and honest is in his private conversations with Dr Lecter. Through these you’ve glimpsed a complex creature, one that approaches evil with a newborn’s chary exploration.

You want to believe, for your own sake, that the sensitivity you’ve received from him sporadically evidences the continued persistence of his soul. Yet you cannot decide if he began a good man, changed through Dr Lecter’s influence, or if he’s always been a hunter, each kindness a flash of marsh fire luring you to drown.

The image of Will—twitching, defenceless—ultimately overrides this dilemma of thought.

“So what do we do now?” you ask. “We have to help him.”

Pleased by your concern, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss the downturned corner of your mouth.

“I’ll reschedule tomorrow’s appointments so that I can tend to him. Will needs rest, first and foremost. As for his role here, it would be safest for him to delegate the majority of his more strenuous duties until he's recovered. I’ll continue them, in his stead.”

Choosing not to linger on the implications of this, you ask, “What about me? What can I do?”

“Healing Will is not your responsibility, little one.”

“But I’m making things worse,” you say, fretfully. “I know it. How can I make him like me?”

Not without humour, Hannibal says, “You can begin by tempering that sharp tongue a bit. Like Will, you rarely attempt to sweeten your words. I’ll never encourage you not to bite, but it is important that you roll on your back when we bid it. You must be our good girl, above all else, or if not good then charming, at the very least.”

You roll onto your side, crushing your face into a valley of pillows.

“I guess I really haven’t been playing along enough,” you mutter.

Hannibal chuckles.

“Not nearly enough, for all your promises. But it’s early days yet, sweet girl. We’ll see how you are once we're used to one another.”

*

 

Morning comes rudely, stalling the excitement like an opera’s intermission.

You take breakfast with Hannibal, only distracted from the usual struggle of eating by the presence of Will’s vacant seat. Having thought of him without respite for hours you’re in state of nervous delirium, your flinching knee a seismic force under the table.

“I want to see Will,” you blurt out, at last. “I want to see if he’s alright.”

“I’ll be taking a tray up to him in a few minutes,” says Dr Lecter, scarcely bothering to hide his delight in this new interest. “Don’t ask him too many questions. No doubt he’s feeling somewhat delicate this morning.”

You watch as Hannibal prepares a separate meal for the other man, cutting fruit and stewing tea leaves with loving ceremony. When he puts a strawberry to your lips you take it, your tongue rasping the juice gamely from his fingertips.

The shock of the previous night has amputated your mulish declination to humour him; even the disgust that meets your every concession is hushed, made redundant by a renewed vow to leave this house on soft feet rather than screams.

Other women have befriended their keepers and lived, as will you, if you can bear to pander to Dr Lecter as long as they.

*

Accompanying Hannibal to Will’s room you find that you’re oddly excited, even gleeful in anticipation of the visit. You’re taken with the notion that his seizure will incur some unknowable change, though whether in Will himself or the dynamics of the households you cannot predict.

Never have you seen him so utterly fragile, the dilapidation of a man. You think of a child, foisted on a detached father by a mother Will had never seen fit to name.

Will he be ashamed that you’ve seen that self so clearly? Will he be angry, indifferent, or else fear the power his weakness allows you as though your thumbs press deep in the fluttering dell of his very throat?

There is another possibility, however, the one your morning-fresh hopes hang onto by their nails: that he’ll remember how you’d crouched at his side and called to him as he shook in the darkness.

“Wait here for a moment,” says Hannibal, as you crowd up behind him at Will’s bedroom door. “I’d like to speak to him alone first.”

You hang back as Dr Lecter goes in, pressing your ear to the door the moment it shuts at his back.

“You’re awake,” says Hannibal, simply. “How are you this morning?”

There is a pause as he sets down the beautifully arranged tray somewhere in the room.

“I feel like I could sleep for another forty-eight hours,” says Will, his voice thick and slightly nasal, a sickbed tenor. “I should probably get up and head home. I need to check on the dogs.”

“I called Alana and asked her to look in on them,” Dr Lecter replies. “It’s inadvisable to drive in this condition. Try to eat. You’ll revive much quicker if you line your stomach with something.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t make any guarantees of keeping it down.”

You hear the metallic scraping of a fork about Will’s plate and writhe in envy. Even unwell he eats without thought of the fat that disallows your enjoyment of any meal. You live vicariously through him, in that moment, imagining the liquor of fruit across his tongue, the forbidden pearls of white sugar.

What you’d give not to be a slave to thinness, the goal whose end will never form.

Hannibal says, "Present issues aside, I can't help observing that you've been conflicted, as of late, Will. One might even say confused."

"Have been since the start of all this,” says Will. “The clouds still haven’t cleared. A bilious forecast.”

"Yet you've no wish to abandon this project for brighter climes."

Will gives a little snort of derision.

"I'm too enmeshed in this household to extract myself now. The night I first touched her was my signature at the end of the page. Indelible ink. No taking it back."

You flatten your face to the door so as to better interpret Hannibal’s silence.

"You feel a genuine duty to our little one, for all your misgivings,” he says, at last. “I was beginning to question if I’d made a mistake."

"She's abrasive,” says Will. “Not exactly malleable. I believe you know what you’re doing, but on paper it seems like an ill-fitting adoption."

"Children are reflections of their parents, and so far she’s shown herself to be a mirror of you. Towards me she is cool, distant, and distrustful. With you, there is an attraction of sorts. Not sensual, nor even familial, but it’s enough that, in spite of your every rebuttal and harsh word, she’s beginning to develop something of a rapport with you."

Laughing tersely, Will says, "Not sure I see it."

"You don't allow yourself to,” says Hannibal. “But you’re aware of that truth, all the same. Each time you relent into even momentary tenderness you turn against her in savagery that is vastly unearned.”

“You asked me to punish her,” Will says, sharply. “Encouraged me to— relish it.”

The admission does not move you; these men have knifed ecstasies of you like oyster flesh enough times to have indicated their tastes.

It is the why you listen for, the object they skirt about with the same flirting avoidance of a tryst that cannot be.

“I’m not referring to punishment,” says Dr Lecter. “This I have openly supported. It’s how you address our charge that’s beginning to make her feel displaced.”

“Are you criticising me, Dr Lecter?” asks Will, with a smile in his voice.

“Certainly not. I’m merely observing a pattern of behaviour, and its impact upon my patient.”

To this Will says nothing, but the tension between the two men is as visible as the door that stands between you.

"If you yearn for the hours that you and I once spent alone, I'm able to accommodate by replenishing that time together,” Hannibal says, at last. “But the blame for that neglect is solely mine. I've foisted our little one upon you without consideration of what response such an abrupt change would elicit."

"You don't have to apologise,” says Will, as surly as ever. “It’s an adjustment. I’m getting used to it.”

Your ears catch the delicate action of him lifting the tea cup on his tray, then of setting it down again.

“I spoke to her alone last night,” he says, abruptly. “Told her of my intentions to stay part of this. For a moment it felt like we connected. Like that was the promise she was looking for. But when I refused her something she wanted, she accused me of being ‘like him’. I figured you'd know who she was referring to.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I can make what I imagine is an accurate guess.”

“Whatever parts we try out here, I don’t want to become the unnamed shadow that stands at her shoulder. It made her the way she is. There’s a tastelessness to that kind of evil.”

"I know. It’s more than apparent that you repel her less through genuine hatred, and more through the necessity to protect yourself from what it would mean to know her, and for her to know you in return.”

As Will replies you hear the huskiness of genuine emotion forced out between gritted teeth.

“All this would be a wasted effort if she were ever taken from me.”

“That won’t happen again,” says Hannibal, at once. “The pillar of salt left when you looked back at Abigail will never form with our new charge. When our second daughter turns to me with the same thirst for intimacy she’s developed for you she’ll be, at last, our Chloris, the nymph turned mistress of flowers."

He speaks with such tender compassion that it starts an ache somewhere in the underwing of your ribcage. What necromancy he conducts here to wake your dead and mangled innards into a living heart you cannot guess, only fear the compassion you’re capable of towards such creatures as would destroy you.

"Our little one would like to speak to you, it seems,” says Dr Lecter, closing the previous subject with a seamless finality. “Should I let her in?”

Will shifts uneasily on the bed, creaking its springs.

“She asked to see me?” he asks.

“She did.”

You imagine the younger man scraping a tangle of hair back from his temples as he gathers his thoughts.

“Where is she?”

Thus your cue to enter announces itself: you open the door, peeping at its edge, oddly shy.

"Hey,” you say, in a semi-whisper.

Will is as grey and moist with feverish sweat as deep-sea stone. His vast eyes nest in violet shadow, the whites a thread work of capillaries.

You pity him, this shambling experiment of Dr Lecter's creation, one of many, no doubt.

"Hello,” says Will, dully. “Sorry about last night."

Edging into the room, you allow Hannibal to slip discreetly away behind you with a light pat on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" you ask. “How are you feeling?”

"Tired, mostly,” says Will. “I'll get over it. Need to. I’ve got a case to work on."

He scrutinises the half-empty tray before him from under lowered lashes.

"I'm surprised you helped me. You could have run off. Hit me over the head with one of Dr Lecter's vases."

"I wouldn't do that,” you retort. “You even said so. That I— can't."

"No, but you could have gotten away. So why didn’t you?"

There is no surprise in his voice, nor even suspicion, which you’d expected. He merely sounds ill, and trying to be interested, in spite of it.

“I don't know,” you admit. “I felt bad for you, seeing you like that. I didn’t want to leave you."

A weary cynicism twists Will’s features into momentary ugliness.

"You were afraid of being alone with someone you could never hope to understand without me."

"Not just that,” you insist, alarmed by the truth of the insight. “I was scared for you. Really. You should go to a hospital. You need tests. Meds. Scans and stuff, maybe.”

Will searches your face with eyes like dull rain, and some of the guardedness falls away from them.

"If it gets any worse, I will,” he says. “Just not today.”

You see how much he detests his own weakness, the potential to be devoured like an animal fallen in a savannah. If you strike, he will struggle, and sick as he is, you will lose.

So you offer him the gift of submission instead, the cunning exertion of a child's mite power.

"Okay, Daddy.”

You feel rather than see Will straighten in response to the word.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he says. "It’s alright to use my name. There aren't any rules against it."

"No, but he wouldn’t want me to.”

“When have you ever cared what Dr Lecter thinks?”

Shrugging, you mumble, “I guess I’m just sick of fighting all the time.”

The sick man scrutinises at you for so long that you hop from foot to foot in discomfort, itching your sole against your calf.

“It’s going to be hard for me to trust you,” says Will. “You’re probably just going to pretend until you see an avenue to get out of here.”

“Everything’s pretend, here,” you say, smartly. “Nearly all the conversations in this house are about myths and dreams. Dr Lecter talks about them like they’re real, or something.”

Amusement lights the sunken dark of Will’s gaze.

“He finds their philosophies more valuable than the moral structures most people follow.”

“And me?” you ask. “Am I valuable to him?”

Being that you’re still convinced that your worth to Dr Lecter is entirely reliant on Will’s continued interest, you only ask to discern if he himself understands this, or if he believes Hannibal would love you of his own accord.

With a tired caution, Will says, “Right now, I think you entertain him. What else he feels about you I don’t know.”

“And what do you feel?” you persist. “Still don’t like me?”

At this the young man laughs and shakes his head.

“Ask me again once I’ve gotten to know you. If you can agree to a truce, that is.”

“Fine,” you say, and you put out your hand for him to shake. “Truce. Let’s try that.”

With a wry grin Will accepts, letting go almost at once with a sharp inward breath.

“You’re freezing!”

“Haven't you noticed?” you say, hastily stuffing the offending hand under one arm. “I always am.”

It’s an unfavourable symptom of your hunger, this blood and touch of ice. Under even the sweltering gasp of summer’s heat you’ll shiver, knock-kneed, and suffer at the slightest feather of a draught.

Still, that cold affirms you. Were you to be warm again you’d hate yourself, having regained enough of the weight your system craves to regulate its heat.

Glancing up, you notice Will examining his own hand as though he shares your temperature, his fist a twin to frost.

"Come along, little one," says Hannibal, materialising in the doorway again. "Will needs more rest. Perhaps you’ll see him later on.”

But by late afternoon Will has dragged himself home without saying goodbye, and as before his absence eats a crescent into the house.

*

Some days later you pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the new state induced in you through his medicinal enterprise.

You're accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of righteous hysteria into something slowly numb.

Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from today’s gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above you, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe all below with an objective eye.

Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without prompting or assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to a mycelium half-dream.

Thus entranced, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.

Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on.

Naturally, you’ve seen the piece many times before, and have been, in turns, startled and disturbed by its subject.

Now you find yourself dully intrigued, as you were by the Japanese prints. This attention does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.

“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently. “Do you have an interest in art?”

“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the banality of the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”

Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with a fond appreciation.

Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumpled bed towards which a curious swan approaches with its curved neck bowed.

Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.

“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”

You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.

“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask.

You struggle with the syllables of the words, spitting the sibilants in a manner unbecoming of so distinguished an event as dinner with Dr Lecter.

“Doesn’t it put people off their food?”

“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine like the blood of some celestial giant.

You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”

“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan? Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”

“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”

Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.

“So it’s the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”

You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the damned queen.

Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the gesture with flawless vision.

“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”

“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”

“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”

Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.

“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone: Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”

Hannibal turns his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.

“And what am I, little one?”

“I... don’t know,” you admit; a killer, certainly, though there is more to him even than that. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me.”

“Tell me your perceptions, then. There’s no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”

Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.

“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. Not just Tobias. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re the gods in all these stories.”

Hannibal absorbs this with the silence of having been sated by your answer.

“And what about Will?” he prompts, some moments later. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the cunning guise of a tender animal?”

“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”

Your captor laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

“That’s where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of a swan. Soon, you will glimpse beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”

A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, iron-like the lump in your throat.

“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It really was all a lie.”

Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing motion.

“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “I’m quite fond of you. I wish you to be strong. Each time you find yourself resenting Will and I you must remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, and not all of them so horrible as you imagine. There will be beauty in this conversion, as well.”

You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, close to rejecting the hope he grooms in you.

“What other outcomes are you looking for, Dr Lecter? How can I become all the things you want if I don’t understand them? What’s really going on?”

Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places your fork back into your hand.

“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. I’d like you to move on to dessert.”

Just like that, you are his little girl again, the moon having passed across the sun.