#story: basked in red | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stsgooo · 6 months

Text

Subconscious Reassurance.

✩࿐ summary: even the strongest has dreams he longs to be reality.

warning(s): slight 236 spoilers, shibuya incident spoilers, mentioned death, poor coping mechanisms, lovesick!gojo, girldad!gojo, as usual not proofread (it’s 2 am give me a break). wc; 3.6k

pairing(s): gojo satoru x reader

a/n: keep seeing tiktoks about the lamp story and this came to me. it’s a shortie but i just wanted to get this out. also do we prefer the colorless manga panels or the ones like the above one? i was messing with filters on picsart so lmk :)

divider 1 | previous work | ao3

SATORU ARRIVED HOME EXACTLY 7 PM.

He knew it was true because that’s the time he always arrived. There was no need to glance at the clock or question anyone around him. He knew it was 7PM.

The sun was peeking through the curtains and basking your shared home in a golden hue. Warmth enveloped his very being as he closed the front door behind him. There wasn’t a surface that wasn’t being touched by the sun, that wasn’t feeling the same feelings he did.

The sky outside was illuminated in a mixture of purples, reds, oranges, and pinks. A palate that could be implemented into his very soul and he’d smile in return.

“Daddy!”

The call was familiar and came exactly one minute after Satoru walked through the door.

Again, he didn’t need to glance, he just knew.

A smile blossomed on his lips and he crouched down to catch the little girl that jumped into his arms with a loud squeal. Her nose pressed into her cheek as she happily rambled about how much she missed him. A norm and a routine that he greeted happily with his own reassurances that he missed her infinitely more.

"Daddy," she whined, her tiny chubby fingers reaching up for his blindfold. "Can't see your eyes, daddy."

This happened every night after he arrived home. She would always frown and trace her nails over where his eyes would definitely be. Most of the time it was uncomfortable and, frankly, a little scary, but he always welcomed it with an overly dramatic gasp.

"Oh, sorry, daddy forgot!" He hooked his finger under the fabric and pulled it down to rest against his neck. Her eyes (which were his) met his and brightened considerably. "Is that better, Rie?"

Rie nodded enthusiastically. "Yes!"

Despite the aching behind his right eye, Satoru kept the blindfold off for Rie’s sake. She had always expressed her upmost displeasure for the item since she was a baby. Crying and crying until he finally pulled it off. It’d been a rough first few years trying to get used to pulling the thing off whenever he got home. But he’d grown accustomed to it.

“What’s mama up to?” Satoru asked softly, tracing his finger briefly over the bridge of Rie’s nose as she giggled.

The little girl swayed slightly in his arms. “Mama’s been working in the eating room—“ dining room, Satoru softly corrected with a smile, “—she put on on Yuki for me to watch while she worked.”

“Yuki, huh? Lucky you!” He playfully pinched her cheek which resulted in her swatting his hand with a resounding “daddy!” in protest. Satoru adjusted her on his hip and raised an eyebrow. “Should we go bother mommy?”

Like usual, Rie enthusiastically nodded in response.

Poor you.

True to his routine, he made his way from the front door towards the dining room, loudly. He left no room for you to not hear him coming him and gave you ample opportunity to prepare for his and Rie’s interruption on your precious work (he swore you were almost as bad as Nanam— …. as… as…).

The smile on his lips didn’t falter as his mind trailed away from the forgotten name. What was forgotten obviously wasn’t entirely important. He enthusiastically turned the corner, arm thrown out as Rie squealed happily as his rather jerky movements.

You were as you always were. Responsible. In your usual space occupying your rightful position.

Despite the loud (dramatic) entrance he made, you did not react in anyway. Your eyes were glued to your screen as you furiously typed away a response to whoever got on your bad side today. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight. In fact, this should’ve been around the time Gakuganji of Ya— someone of higher standing emailed you something that didn’t sit right with you. Even the appearance of your amazing and rambunctious husband didn’t seem to deter you from your mission.

Satoru pouted, huffing as he peacefully placed Rie down (the girl now more interested in the TV returning to her show), and crept closer to you. Still, you did not look away.

He leaned over, his chin hooked over his shoulder as he peeked over the words you were putting out into the world. Oddly, he couldn’t read any of the screen. He tried squinting your eyes and blinking a few times— nothing. It was more reminiscent of gibberish than any Japanese he knew. None of it seemed to stay in one place and it all smashed together to create a blob.

You knew how to read and write, he knew that much. Was it something with his eyes? He doubted it. But something wasn’t—

The laptop clicked close.

“You’ve never been one to take a hint, Satoru,” you turned your head to place a soft kiss against his temple in greeting. He could feel your tiny smile against his skin. The warmth of your lips. The coolness of your silvia left behind. His chest ached. He missed— missed? “Although, I knew that before I married you.”

He pushed away the mud in his mind and turned his head, placing a peck against your lips. Strawberries. You always had remnants of strawberries on your lips. Rie’s favorite fruit.

“I think it’s one of my many charming qualities.” He hummed.

You rolled your eyes, but placed a chaste kiss against his lips once again. “Charming is pushing it.” You patted his cheek. “It’s definitely an interesting characteristic.”

Satoru pouted. “You make it sound so unappealing.”

“Well, if the shoe fits…”

He snorted in response, standing to his full height and peeking at you from over his nose. “You know, you’re not innocent either. Thought you said the TV would rot her brain, now you’re putting it on to keep her distracted?” He spared a glance to where Rie was hanging off the couch, upside down, her eyes glued to the television.

You shot him an incredulous look. “Because she’s your daughter and has the self restraint of a puppy. I needed a hour to get some things done.” You pat the top of your laptop. “Sue me.”

Satoru smirked. “I just might for emotional damages.” He gestured towards the laptop with a vague hand. “What exactly had you typing up a storm?”

There was a brief wave of giddiness in his chest when he saw the look in your eyes darken. Passion. Anger. Protectiveness. There were so many things he loved about you. Adored you for. Made him sick to his stomach whenever he thought about it.

“Well, I got an email from —— about some work in Shibuya, but I told him I already checked it out and suffered for it. Well, guess what he said? ——— and ———— suffered too so I can’t complain much. Set me off a bit, had to give him a piece of my mind and remind him what happened.”

Satoru wasn’t sure if he was having a stroke or he was just too awestruck by your beauty; but he swore that your voice simply stopped whenever you spoke names. As if your voice box couldn’t get it out. But you carried on like it was nothing. Your lips had even formed around the words that so desperately wanted to be out there, but were never uttered. You didn’t look panicked or disturbed. If anything, you looked normal. Just sipping from your capri sun that was definitely forced on you by Rie.

It was like he was the only one not hearing it.

It vaguely concerned him, but he was also Gojo Satoru. Sometimes weird things happened that had no explanation.

“But,” you continued once you swallowed down the fruit punch liquid with a twisted face. “I suppose I can’t really blame anyone for what happened. It was Halloween, we were all caught off guard. Some of us suffered for it more than others.”

Satoru, for the life of him, couldn’t recall what happened on Halloween. But he should. He had that overwhelming feeling that he really, really should.

Either way, he gave a nonchalant shrug, “Eh, my motto is that it’s always easier to forgive and forget.” He snatched the remainder of your capri sun and gave a loud slurp.

You grin, resting your chin on your cupped fingers. “I suppose so.” You eyed him warmly, then nodded to the chair next to you. Always warm. Always welcoming. “Now, what did you get up to today?”

Satoru groaned, flopping onto the seat with a creak. He placed the capri sun down to place his hands against his face. “Two specials grades in Iwate, one grade one in Kagawa, then three nasty things leeching off on the playground on the way home.” He knew he should feel exhausted. He usually did. But that day, this day, he did not. If anything, he felt well rested.

Odd.

You hum softly. “They’re overworking you, Satoru,” your tone is barely there. Your words could be missed if the house had any movement or loud noises. But it was just you and him. The soft background noises of your daughter. Always you and him. “They should recognize that you’re just a man. One day it’ll be too much. One day you’ll snap in half.”

Satoru frowned, finding the sudden shift in tone a little unsettling. “I’m the strongest, no need to worry.” He waved a passive hand in the air between you.

“I’ll always worry. It’s been my job to worry.” Your eyes moved towards Rie almost melancholic. “She’ll worry too, you know. She does worry. More than she should at 10.”

Satoru frowned deeper. “Eh…?” He blinked slowly, eyes sliding to Rie with confusion. 10? Was he crazy? Blind? Since when was the little girl sitting on the couch 10? Last he checked, she was six. It was 2012. Were you losing it on him? Was this your subtle way of telling him you’re spiraling again? “Baby, she is not—“

“I know you worry too. Think you’ve been worried about losing since the moment you got home.”

Losing? He’s never lost. Well, except those few times. But they didn’t count. Those were intentional loses.

Satoru was beginning to feel as though you both were having two different conversations. “Y/N, I’m not following.” He stated softly, eyebrows furrowed.

“What do you have to do tomorrow, Satoru?” You breezed through as if you knew where that was going. A pensive expression on your face now.

Again, he frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Tomorrow? I…Well, I’m going to Shinjuku to… to…” To…what…? What was it he had to do? He could feel it deep in his chest. That ache. That unfamiliar emptiness that made him rub over his heart softly. There was something he was missing.

“Tomorrow’s going to be romantic,” You said wistfully, eyes distant as you sighed. “Well, it’s supposed to be.”

December 24th.

December 24th. So I don’t have to remember two different dates.

How romantic.

Satoru felt his gut churn. He wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t explain it but everything felt so tight now.

“I’m not.. I don’t…?”

Why couldn’t he get words out. Why did he stare at you like that? Unmoving, unblinking? Why did his eyes collect with tears.

Why did you look so sad?

You reached out, taking his hand. It’s cold. It feels cold. Not like the usual warmth that envelopes him whenever you held him. Whenever you reached out from him.

You’re cold.

You take his hand. “Satoru, what’s happening tomorrow?”

Seriously, what is with you?

Satoru clenched his jaw. “What are you doing?” He wasn’t sure why but he felt so unnerved. He felt like he’s been disillusioned. As if his world was crumbling. But he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand.

You’re cold.

You looked briefly disappointed in his response. “You’re not well. You’re trying to appear to be, but you’re not. She worries. She’s so worried. And you know it.” Your hand reached out and cupped his cheek. Your cold thumb gently stroked against his bone, against the tears that were flowing— why was he crying?

“I’m fine. Just a little tired.” He didn’t feel tired. “I just need a nap.” He didn’t feel tired.

“Oh, Satoru, I’m so sorry,” you uttered it, barely audible. But it was enough to conjure up an earth shattering sob from his chest. A heartbroken tremble under your touch. “I’m so sorry for leaving you.”

“You’re right here?” Confusion was clear in his tone and his expression as he stared back at you.

You just smiled sadly in response.

He shook his head. “You’re right here.” He prided a finger against your chest. Firm. But cold.

You tilted your head and blinked slowly at him.

Satoru wasn’t sure why, but he took in as deep breath. Like he couldn’t quite catch it in the first place.

“You didn’t— You’re right here!” He desperately clutched onto your hand, pressing your skin against his own. “You’re right here. This-This is real. This-This is you. Please. Please, this is you.”

You only stared sadly in response.

Satoru wasn’t sure what was happening. Why he was so panicked or why he felt so terribly sad— but he knew it was making him quiver and sob. Why? Why? Why did this all have to happen to you? Of all people had you been the one to suffer?

What suffering?

“I…” He felt breathless. Feather light. He felt like he had no control of his lips or his tongue. “Tomorrow I fight… Sukuna…?”

Sukuna? Since when? When did—

“Since before Shibuya. Since before Itadori Yuji.” You answered his thoughts.

Itadori Yuji. Satoru thought that name sounded familiar. A blank face appeared in his mind, the back of a pink hair head facing him. Itadori Yuji.

He felt like he was living someone else’s life. As if he were placed in some point in space where nothing bad could touch it.

But these feelings, these tears, this ache in his chest wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t safe from the darkness of the world.

“Nanami… Yaga… Nobara…” You uttered the names that made his ears ring. That made his muscles tense and his heart sputter to a catastrophic halt. “But still you dream of Suguru…. of me…. of the lives you desperately want to hold on to.”

Suguru… you…

Satoru’s lips quivered.

Suguru… you….

“Why?” You asked the million dollar question.

Breathless whispers against sweat slick skin. Endless touches of tense muscle. Hair hanging and tickling. Eyes sure and hardened with undoubted honesty.

Why? Satoru thought that question was dumb. Why would the earth dream to reach out for the moon and the sun?

He stared at you, big blue eyes glittering with shimmering tears. “I’m the strongest… I should’ve saved the ones I loved… I should’ve… I’m the strongest.”

To be whole. To be loved. To love.

You sigh softly. Sadly. “Satoru, you can’t save everyone.”

“But I could.”

“Obviously not.”

The words were final. Absolute. No doubt. And he supposed, a deep part of him knew, you were right.

But that other part of himself. The one that hated himself for what happened, for whatever happened, convinced him otherwise.

“You don’t—“

“Get it?” You raised an eyebrow at his blink. “I’m your subconscious. I’m your deepest, most personal thoughts. I get it.”

Satoru stared in return. “…huh?”

You pressed your lips together. “Satoru, you’re the strongest. But you don’t always have to be.” You whispered if. A nefarious secret between the both of you that couldn’t be touched. That couldn’t be shared outside of this setting. You scoot closer in your chair. You’re slotted between his legs. “There’ll come a time where you need to step back. To rest. And let those you’ve guided this far to do their jobs.”

Resting. Stepping back.

No one had ever spoken those words to him before. It was never a guarantee nor was it ever a possibility. He feared, even now, he couldn’t even dream about something like that.

Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru? Or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?

Years later, Satoru didn’t know what to make of his words. But Suguru had always known him better, he supposed.

Distracted, he didn’t realize you had started to card your fingers through his hair, bringing his head against your shoulder. It was a blissful moment when he came to his senses. When he felt your fingers ghost his scalp. When he felt your lips brush against his temple.

“You should take a nap, you look tired.”

The moment the words left your lips, his eyes felt heavy and he felt exhausted. He hadn’t felt tired before. He would love to sleep. But…

“What about you?” He whispered, eyes unmoving from your face. He studied the bow of your lips. The softness and warmth of your eyes. The faint blush across your cheeks. The little wrinkles on your forehead. “If I close my eyes, you’ll be gone.”

“No,” you shook your head and placed your free hand against his rapidly beating heart. “I’ll be here.”

How cliche. He wanted to say. But he would take it. He’d take and savor any moment with you.

He took in a shuddering breath. “I love you.”

“I love you.” No hesitation. No doubt. How could this be a dream? Something of his own mind? He nuzzled into your neck with a small sigh. “Take care of her.”

Take care of her.

Satoru woke with a soft gasp.

He was not happy or surprised to find the ceiling of his dark room instead of the dining room.

The clock next to his bed illuminated 2AM in angry red outline. He’d been asleep for approximately 4 hours. And dreamt of you. Again.

His jaw clenched as he tried to push down the tears that threatened to spill over. You, angelic, in your rightful place typing away. That’s what you should be doing.

Instead, you were one of the first to die in Shibuya.

It’d been you, then Nanami, then Nobara, then whoever else.

She got caught up with Noritoshi in the tunnels, that Death Womb Painting kid tried to explain to Satoru when everyone else had been too distraught and nervous to reveal it themselves. She didn’t suffer.

It didn’t bring him comfort. Satoru was pretty sure it was a lie, but it still brought him no comfort.

It gave him all the more reason to make Kenjaku suffer.

December 24th.

Today was the day.

Almost two months since your death. Christmas Eve.

Satoru was pretty sure he was about to do the same. Embrace death for the sake of others.

He could look around, tell all of them that he’d win, but there was that growing inkling that this was mounting up against him. That Sukuna— Megumi— knew exactly what to do to get one up on him. He feared the unknown. The possibility this was it.

What would you say?

“Dad?”

Satoru’s eyes dragged from the ceiling and to the spot next to him.

Now 10, Rie was older and less rambunctious. But he blamed that partly on your death and his sudden sealing.

She had clung to him since he returned. Tears streaming down her face as she hugged him, begged him to never go again— she thought she’d lost him just like mama. (It’d been six years since he heard her call you mama.) And she slept in his bed. Said she couldn’t sleep otherwise. She’d curl up against him and he’d run his hands through her hair as he hummed a long forgotten lullaby to guide her to sleep.

Shoko said she needed this. Him.

Satoru knew she needed you.

“Rie, did I wake you?” He asked sympathetically.

“No,” surprisingly, it sounded like the truth. “I’ve been up.”

He frowned, “Why?”

There was a prolonged pause between them. A thick layer of hesitation passed and Satoru tensed up. What could she possibly be up for?

When he heard the small sniffle, his heart ached.

He sat up and drew her into his arms, holding her close as he pressed kisses against her head. “Hey, hey, why are you crying?”

“I don’t want you to die!” Rie sobbed immediately. “I don’t want you to fight stupid Sukuna! I just want you to stay here with me— I can’t lose you too!”

I can’t lose you too.

Satoru pressed his lips together as tears sprung to his eyes. “Rie, I’m not going to die.” Such sure words for a man who was worried over his own mortality only moments ago. Who had to be reassured by his subconscious image of his dead wife that it’s okay to lose.

Rie shook her head frantically. “No! I heard Kusakabe say you will!” She sobbed, clutching onto his night shirt with a vice like hold.

Satoru silently cursed the man as he rubbed Rie’s back. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? What does Kusakabe know anyway, the schmuck?” His poor attempt at joking fell flat, Rie only continued to cry. With a heavy sigh, Satoru pulled back, holding her face in his hands. “What do I always say, hm? I’m the strongest. I’ll get one up on him.”

Rie stared up at him and Satoru was painfully aware of how young she was. “You promise?” She uttered.

Satoru hesitated.

If he were to promise and it didn’t actually work out, who was he? Would she resent him for the rest of her life? Would she try to forget him and spit on his memory? He’d been promised many things in life by people he looked up to and every single one had been broken. Resentment festered. Trust was broken.

What kind of father was he if he—

Take care of her. She worries.

Satoru tucked some of her hair— your hair— behind her ear. “I promise.” He whispered, pressing a tender kiss against her forehead. “I promise.”

Rie clutched onto him once again. “I love you.”

No hesitation.

“I love you too.”

The worries of Sukuna and Kenjaku could wait until morning. Satoru had to focus on her now.

Take care of her.

#✩࿐ t writes #♡ oneshot #gojo satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen fic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru angst #yeahhhh #another one where reader is dead #can’t help myself sorry.

1K notes · View notes

2kmps · 8 months

Text

vampire x reader one-shot | 16.1k

story summary; you're a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it's close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner's beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you're tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.

story warnings; bloodplay, extreme dubcon, explicit noncon, cigarette burns, wounds inflicted on mc, implied masochism, extreme sexual sadism, hypnotism, graphic violence, gun violence, body gore, graphic details, heavy prose, unreliable narrator, religious themes, exploration of morality, obsessive + possessive behaviors, implied stalking, choking, murder, graphic depictions of crime scenes, manipulation/emotional manipulation, this entire oneshot is an allegory.

read the warnings! mdni under any circumstances! the events within this one-shot are not indicative of my personal viewpoints

thank you, @ceruleansol for the excellent proofreading.

this is a repost from my deleted blog, cardeneiv. please reblog/interact with this piece!

Another internet search bore fruit.

The image bouncing back at you from your phone had been hastily taken with a tremble in your hand, all the while launching a few too many cautious looks across your shoulder to either end of the dim, long hallway making up part of the second floor. There wasn't any particular rationale for your apprehension and busy eyes but the belief the mansion owner wouldn't be too pleased to see you taking pictures of his valuables rather than cleaning them.

That fear hadn't stopped you from reverse image searching a good couple of curiosities over the widening gap of time you had been living there.

Tonight was a Chalmette table vase displayed on a pedestal in the hall; brassy gold gilding cradled a somewhat drab white bloom that reached high and sprouted open to a hollow inside. Similar surviving articles went for thousands.

You totaled the prices of everything so far as enough to outright buy a house on the more modest side of town.

There was a daring thought that loomed in the back of your mind, an ugly little thing that told you one or two missing antiques wasn't any big deal. He wouldn't miss them, let alone even notice they were gone, because he was the strangest man you had ever met.

Four months ago, he had only ever introduced himself by the name Montague, letting an anticipatory stillness hang in the air while you waited for him to finish. He never did, handsome features lifting as his dark eyes thinned and smile inched higher. He had you in a tight handshake.

"I enjoyed reading the resume you sent in with your response to my advertisement." He had traces of an accent intact but had cleverly adapted to one more common to the area. "You're the first person I've come across wanting the room who's done that. It really stood out to me. A crime scene cleaner? Must be a difficult job."

"I know it was probably overkill, but I think this will be perfect for me." You were led to a suede armchair, his hand anchoring onto your shoulder to lower you into the seat. He sat across from you in something similar, one leg crossing. "I recently had to move out of my other place, and the university will be about an hour closer. My work won't be as far of a drive, either. I—I, uh, clean some gross stuff, so taking care of your house won't be anything."

Even after that spiel, Montague never let his smile slip. Rather, it seemed to widen as though delighted by your oversharing. He looked like a man basking in glee over a rare find, an offer he couldn't possibly turn away.

"All amenities in the house are yours." This was after he showed you to one of the rooms on the second floor: a capacious, well-dressed space behind a red door at the end of the hall. "As long as you listen to a few rules and keep things clean, we should have a very amicable... cohabitation."

You thought it was an odd choice of wording. "Okay. Well, what do I need to know?"

"No guests." It was immediate, his tone suddenly a touch edgy, razored, unyielding. "Not unless I give you explicit permission beforehand. I keep many important valuables; they're very dear to me. Also, do not invite anyone in unless I am there."

Again, odd, but it was his house.

"Sure," you said agreeably, having half the thought to write down these peculiarities of his. "What next?"

He was set on your shoulder, reaching out to pull a thin, frayed thread off of your jumper. "The downstairs—as in, the basement—is my personal space. If I need you down there, I will ask you for you to go down. You can go anywhere else in the house, on the property. None of it concerns me."

"Why the basement, though?" It felt damaging to press a question like that so early on, but you figured it was innocent enough. "This house is so big that we could be on the same floor and hardly see each other."

The muscles around his mouth twitched slightly, only once. You still noticed it. Noted: he didn't like to be questioned. "Sorry, I'm not trying to-"

"It's cold downstairs." he injected, shifting to look around the room as though taking in the newness of it as well. "I make sure it stays comfortable all year, all throughout the house, but the cold suits me best."

With how downright frosty his skin felt in that handshake earlier—on a mild day in mid-spring—you thought that explanation checked out. He must have only just come up to greet you at the front entrance.

You tried to forget the feeling. "Alright. Next?"

"Oh," he restrained an unseemly laugh, using one hand to crowd into a pocket on his dark blazer, "there is nothing else, at least nothing pertinent. It's my understanding that we're both quite busy, so this would be the current arrangement unless something changes."

What changes? You wanted to ask, thwarted to silence when he revealed some sort of silver thing pinched between his fingers with a thick handkerchief. It was a dainty-seeming contraption with chains linking several old skeleton keys at the end. The fabric he used to hold the clip concealed all of the elegant tracery that made up its shape.

"Traditionally, this is called a chatelaine. It’s something I’ve modified for you to get around the house. It’ll be easier to clean." Montague said, fast to force the mess of cold silver and chains into your palm, rubbing down his fingers with the handkerchief afterward. "The smallest key is to your room. The largest one opens the doors to go outside, so don't lose that. One of them is meant for doors in the basement—can't recall which."

He could see the wariness behind your eyes, a worrying crease forming in your brow. "This house has been around for a long time. I've just never gotten around to modernizing the locks."

Other questions came to you, but he hardly acted interested in entertaining them. You let him swivel on black soles, stopping him just as he reached the doorway.

"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"

Montague let his fingers rest on glazed woodwork framing the threshold, drumming out a soothing rhythm while considering an answer for all of two seconds. "In short? They couldn't follow the rules. Now, let me show you to the yard."

Afterward, the so-called cohabitation had become a seamless blend for you both. You had learned right away that Montague wasn't one for idle chatter and niceties without purpose. He had deviated from it once, on move-in day, to reassure you that the mysterious nature of your life schedule and odd hours you were called to a clean scene wouldn’t be a source of concern.

Shortly after settling your things around the house, the reason for his amenable attitude was a little more apparent. Several times a month, you would be pulled from your forensics projects to the landing at the end of the hall, piqued by fresh voices always indistinguishable at first, and folded your waist over the railing to see down.

The top of his head, hair short, impeccably styled, and ash-brown, was the first thing you noticed, followed by someone on his arm. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man—always conventionally attractive, always utterly enraptured by him. It struck a nerve with you once or twice, finding your thoughts swimming bitterly: Of course a man who looked like him would go for types like that!

Why did he act so much differently with them than you?

He wasn't nearly as friendly and affable as he was making himself out to be.

You stopped peeking down on him after an instance where his eyes shot straight up, pinning you where you stood. He simpered at you before leading his companion away to the basement, and that was it. You never saw them leave and never bothered to ask.

Tonight was different, however, both in the way you nearly toppled the two-figure Chalmette vase off its pedestal with flighty fingers and a duster, and the echo of a scream piercing the hollow halls to you. It stayed in one spot on the first floor, luring you down the center staircase with your duster clutched to you like a sword. At that point, your heart bursting in your ears was louder than the agonized cries resonating around the corner.

You looked around, spine wrapped in dread as another scream, weak, garbled, and wet, came from the basement, and then nothing at all. It was soundless in the house. Distantly, one of the clocks mounted in the kitchen archway toned onward. You followed its beat with the shuffle of your feet.

Hello, hello? Those words clung tightly in your throat, yet you were too afraid to announce yourself like that. Still, nothing came as you slowly pulled at the basement doorknob, brass and freezing and unlocked. The stairway plunging down inside was filled with inky black, so dark you couldn't get your eyes to adjust to it.

Is everything okay down there? Hello? Hello? You ran the imaginary chatter through your mind, lips sealed but trembling during your slow descent, the path now illuminated by white glow from your phone. At the bottom, the stone stairs turned into seamless gray marble and red wetness crawling toward the soles of your slippers.

"What–" You gasped, taking a step back while flicking the flashlight higher, deeper into the basement. The vivid red puddle glistened in your light, widening around a motionless figure with pale skin—a blonde woman you didn't know. Her face pointed up at the ceiling, twisted in terror, black tracks of mascara curving along her cheeks.

She was naked on the floor, surrounded by her own blood, something you didn't have to look at twice. Your breaths grew harsh, taking in the sight of her neck, or lack thereof; there wasn't much left of it. Only a few stringy bits of sinew and muscle kept it from a full decapitation, and blood still pulsed out in spurts from mangled arteries and veins.

A motion nearby made your nape prickle. It was like feet padding across wet pavement after a fresh rain, except this smell carried the malodor of rust and something sour under your nose.

You settled a pillar of light on the source, capturing the view of Montague standing amid the bloodbath, sickly skin bare and saturated in rich crimson.

Something was wrong with him, came an instantaneous, instinctual reaction the moment his head spun toward you, catching pale eyeshine in the white light.

The bones in his jaw cracked as the length of it began to recede into the semblance of something more man to you, rows of jagged teeth retracting into the depths of his throat until only a pair of long incisors remained.

Montague skimmed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, smiling at you affectedly, saying as though it were some trife thing, "She started screaming."

You were gone and out of the basement after that, clearing the woman's body and kicking away the slippers on your feet when they squelched with blood. Montague said something after you when shrieks ripped out of your lungs and reverberated through the house. You winced as the basement door let out a hollow rattle when he collided with it, heart matching the rhythm of the skin on your feet slapping against old marble, thoughts disarrayed, frantic the closer you got to the front door.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! You were panting in unison with the vicious chants.

The doorknob was in your hand. The door was open—and it was thrown shut with the force of your body thrust against it, fingers wrenched off of the handle and enveloped in Montague's cold fingers as he pushed himself flush into you.

You felt his palm clamp around your mouth, whittling your screams into panicked whimpers, nostrils flaring with your ragged breaths.

"Ah, no, no." He had to stoop his neck to talk into your ears. "Shh, shh, shhh. Far too loud. I don't like screaming. Shh, shh, shhhh."

Tears seared red behind your eyes, making you think you could follow the warmth down your face as they filled the crevices in his hand. "It's really, truly a pity. She was a pretty one but far too smart. I'm usually decent at picking out the ones who wouldn't suspect anything or, at least, catching them before they try to scream.

"You'll have to forgive me. I swear to you I'm not ordinarily that messy. I prefer to keep everything tidy, especially so you don't have to go down there. After all, you're already so busy. You're already doing so much. I can't recall when I last saw you relax."

The weight of his palm softened, a wordless agreement that you honored with continued silence as he used that arm to lean against the door. His voice shifted around your head to your other ear. "That's it. Just wonderful. There's no need for screaming, is there? It's only the two of us."

"Are—are..." You couldn't get it out, lips and throat suddenly sucked dry. "Don't kill me, please. Please. Please."

His chest quaked while a subdued, eerily delighted laugh hissed through his lips. "Kill you? Oh, no, no, no. Never. How could I ever kill you when you're so remarkable? My home has never looked so beautiful and lived in. I'm enjoying how it looks with you in it."

You wilted away from his lips sinking to a spot below your ear, now taking far too much notice of his erection curving up along your lower back. It felt disgustingly wrong to wonder whether the violence and blood turned him on, or it was you and your fear. The man wasn't even human; that much was clear.

"What are you?" There was no shortage of daring questions in your arsenal. Montague was beginning to find the charm in them.

"That's quite difficult for me to answer." He let his chin lay on your shoulder. "I've been called many things over the centuries. I suppose the closest anyone has ever gotten is vampire, but even that's not quite right. You're free to guess as much as you'd like, though."

He was satisfied when you didn't, freeing the weight off of his arm to slide his hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips still slick with that woman's blood as he explored your navel. You were too aware of the roundness of his fingernails stepping across your flesh, sometimes pressing deep, and other times a light touch you needed to scratch. His throat vibrated against your shoulder.

"What are you thinking? I'd love to hear it." He wanted to devour your fear in more ways than just feeling you wince. "Well? Tell me."

"I want to go." Go? Where could you possibly go that he couldn’t find you? If he ripped out the side of a woman's neck, he could track you down.

He leaned his cheek into your ear again, relishing the warmth that spread into him. "Where would you go? Who would you tell? Humor me, where is the first place you'd go?"

"The police," you said.

Montague let out a pleased hum. "Of course. It only makes sense to report a terrible scene such as that to them. Forensics and the police play together often, don't they?"

Your nod was weak.

"I know how hard you've been studying, how much stress you're under to commit to your degree, your work—to me." His hand crept along to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the protective layer of skin and fat. "Let's say they were to find something I left behind. Who becomes a suspect in their eyes when they learn that I have someone who tidies up after me? Who knows the dirty insides of cleaning up anything and everything?"

You were starting to panic, fitfully struggling against his body. It's like he was made of stone. "They wouldn't accuse me of murdering anyone."

"Haven't you seen the news lately? Are you so sure?" he said derisively. "No, perhaps you're right. Maybe you'd be fortunate, and they wouldn't have your head for murder, but they would certainly try to peg you with something else. As an accomplice, maybe? And that's assuming that I don't disappear and let rip you apart.

"Can you imagine it? Can you feel your heart break at the very thought of losing it all? Your degree? Your job? Safety? The world is cruel, darling. You'd never have another moment of peace or anonymity. Anywhere you'd go, you'd be found, every alias sullied with your sins. All because you decided to speak up about it."

You knew he meant to send you downstairs to do something about the mess, spend hours scrubbing and mopping until what had once been there was a secret that thickened your tongue and made it hard to swallow.

No one would ever find out, but you would carry it in every waking thought until, one morning, the cute barista on Market Street had an eerie semblance to that dead woman, and the light roast in your hand suddenly looked so red.

"Thump. Thump. Thump." Montague mocked the heavy thrum of your heart behind your ribs, his cold fingers skimming your nipples before resting over your sternum. "You can go if you'd like, but I'll find you. I'll hear your little heart until it bursts and drag you right back here. You're mine."

The push of his body gradually faded away, giving your chest the room to expand, leaving you to gulp quivering, greedy breaths that didn't stop even as the pads of his feet grew distant.

He called back to you, "Give me ten minutes or so, and then come down."

You were already partway through the front door with your car keys to pop the trunk when, floating like a spectre's moans in still night air, his voice reached out once more, "You may want to clean up yourself first. You have blood all over your face."

༺ ♰ ༻

A damp towel came before your descent back into the basement. In tow on your shoulders were three bags of absorbent, the fancy stuff hospitals liked to use to throw on puke and piss and anything else they just lazily wanted to sweep around. It worked for blood in smaller quantities, blood that was still wet, anyway.

The woman hadn't been dead long enough for her body fluids to dry, so you didn't anticipate needing anything except the basics stowed in your car trunk.

You weren't sure what you expected to see down there, noticing the lights were turned on high, fully illuminating the gray marble, the furthest reaches of the blood puddle with your slippers saturated dark red and ruined. What came as a shock was the woman's dead eyes and shredded neck being nowhere in sight.

Montague had moved her body but to where?

For some reason, you were drawn to ridiculous spots like the walls, ceiling, and tiny cramped corners that he could have feasibly stuffed her in. There was no sickly trail of blood leading any which way, droplets only reaching as far as the stairs and first landing where you had been pursued—nothing else.

Where did he take her?

Part of you was ready to turn a blind eye to all of this because you knew you would have to in order to keep everything. If you kept your head low and groveled a little bit, maybe he'd get bored and leave you alone, biding you the time you needed to finish your degree. But, that'd be two years of this.

You weren't sure you could stomach it.

As you moved granules of absorbent through blood with coarse bristles from the kitchen broomstick—shifting the puddle more than the actual absorbent—you wondered if he could hear your heart now from wherever he was.

You thought about a lot of things while letting your eyes roam the space. It was enormous, taking up the entire underside of the house, outfitted impressively with mahogany accents, sprawling bookshelves, armchairs, and loveseats pulled tight in leather and velvet. Across the room was a disheveled bed, creamy sateen sheets in a luscious heap but otherwise undisturbed.

To the adjacent end of this expanse were two doors you didn't notice at first, one a little taller than yourself in height, about as wide as any normal arm span, and looked old, so old that everything else was too new. Even from where you stood, you knew it'd take a skeleton key. The other door was more coherent with the rest of the basement, cleaner but certainly still part of the house's original construction.

By the time Montague had returned, you already had much of the ordeal pitched into a biohazard bag with some trace remnants putting you on your knees to scrub away. You hadn't realized he was even there until the tips of his shoes—brown leather loafers with a scalloped tassel near the toes—appeared in your peripheral, sending you launching back onto your hocks.

"This work is spectacular. I knew I had a good feeling giving that room to you." he said with a beguiling smile. All of the blood was gone; he was clean in a dark dressing robe with black trousers, a look you hated that you saw as alluring. "Don't forget to clean the floors upstairs. We made quite a mess there as well."

"What happened to that woman?" You were asking your pesky questions again. Montague wasn't so sure he found them as charming now, but you were still a prize.

You leaned away as he crouched in front of you, nearly risking the soles of his shoes in the blood and hydrogen peroxide. For the first time since meeting, you kept eye contact and saw that his reached a depth you didn't think could be possible for a human. He wasn't touching you, yet it felt like he had you caged, trapped in a vise that held you tight.

He did touch you then, grazing the side of your face with a thumb. Suddenly, he brought it to his lips and licked it as he rose to full height.

"You still had some blood just there on your cheek." There was an armchair a few feet away that he dropped into, withdrawing a gold compact from a chest pocket on his way down. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to carry away the bodies. I'm not that Roman."

"That's not what I asked." you rejoined.

Montague tucked a cigarette between his lips, igniting it with a match he kept inside the compact. His first few puffs looked like they calmed him as he crossed a leg and settled deeper into the leather. "You shouldn’t expect answers to things you don’t need to know—or want to.”

But he humored you with a slight lean of his head towards the old door far away. "The original owner of this house was ingenious and built tunnels that were used to shuffle people in and out. Mistresses. Servants. More unsavory things—you must remember the era. At any rate, it stretches beyond the house and some ways off. I do not recommend ever going inside."

You understood now why you never saw any of the dates he brought home leave. And you believed every bit of his warning.

It inspired you to move away from the grim reality dwelling beyond that old door. You hovered over the same spot, drenching the floor with more of the disinfectant, grasping for a distraction. "I didn't know vampires could smoke. Isn't blood enough for you?”

Montague flicked his cigarette over an ashtray beside his chair. "Well, we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be five or six of these a day. Keeps enough of the edge off so you get to sleep at night."

Something about that comment made the entire stretch of the basement feel so confining—claustrophobic, even. Your back was wide open to it, to his ravening gaze and leather toe turning fluid circles as though to pace himself before lunging.

"I have class in six hours." You finished the job by tying off the bag. "I'd like to get the upstairs done and take a shower."

"Of course. Try to get some sleep, you've had quite a night." He didn't move to see you out. "Oh, and leave the bag. I'll dispose of it."

༺ ♰ ༻

Meredith Nimu died approximately twenty-three days ago after a stroke left her immobilized in her favorite armchair. Her body wasn't peeled away from the murky-green polyester until day twenty-four, following enough neighbor complaints about a bunch of rats dying in the vents.

Getting rid of the chair was half the battle in this case, something that Meredith's overzealous, recently divorced daughter spouted off as sacrilegious. She insisted that the carpet cleaner she used for her obese dogs with raw patches on their legs could do it all. Your supervisor had been inflectionless when telling her it didn't work like that.

One of your teammates, a middle-aged black man affectionately nicknamed “Hoss” had unceremoniously slammed the apartment door shut and flipped the lock so the daughter's rancorous eruptions were somewhat contained outside. The other half of the duo responsible for pitching the chair, T.J., a white man who could never tan, wheezed out a laugh as he labored a hard bristle brush through the gunk left behind from Meredith's decay.

"Boss ain't gonna be happy about that." T.J. couldn't commit to the act of a brownnoser even if he wanted to. A couple more chortles rattled through his respirator. They were infectious, ridiculous sounds that coaxed similar from Hoss when he rejoined the effort to get the job done and over with.

You could still hear the daughter on the other side of the door, never once allowing your supervisor a word in edgewise. A part of you wanted to pity her, perhaps conjure up a shred of empathy for someone so completely enmeshed in the throes of grief and anger. She was clearly spiraling, her entire life yanked out from under her—and she was free-falling with nothing to catch her, no thin wire she could snag in the bend of her fingers and watch as the velocity of that cruelly, cleanly severed white tendon and bone.

Where would she fall after that? You didn't know. You didn't care. She could regain control over her life even without fingers, but what about you? No one understood how disconcerting it was to know that your survival depended on a vampire's good mood.

An old woman was meant to expire, but you were young and had aspirations—yet that could be stolen from you just as quickly as a clot could kill the brain.

It wasn't fucking fair.

Hoss had called out to you repeatedly until the hard brushes stopped scratching the floor, and he and T.J. were settled back on their heels, staring at you. You were used to leveraging your commitments in life as a means to get them off your case, but even they could tell this was different.

"You've been real spacey lately." It was enough to gently reel you back to the moment, eyes unstuck from remnants of putrid matter hidden under a deluge of chemicals and soap. Now you were thinking that the landlord would probably have to replace this entire spot in the flooring. It would be an expensive fix.

"Everything okay at home?" Hoss tried again, emulating fatherly concern in his tone and sidelong stare. It was something he couldn't help since you were so similar in age to his adult kids. "I don't think I've seen you eat today. We oughta finish up here up and grab somethin' quick on the way back.”

"Sorry, yeah, it's just the usual things." They didn't know what that meant to you, but readily accepted with dour expressions masked by their respirators. "I think I saw a gyro truck down the street."

As many times as you had regurgitated the same thing when they pried into your well-being, you were surprised they still asked at all. That made it hard to wave after them as you pulled the lever to the trunk, waiting to be left alone once the job was done to stack half your weight in absorbent until the back bowed to it.

It was just past two in the morning when you were locking the front door of Montague's sprawling estate behind you. Every time you did, a part of you hesitated to seal it the whole way, as though if you did, your final traces of freedom would be stripped away entirely.

"Welcome home!" Montague came out from prowling somewhere in the shadows, seeming to materialize from the darkest parts your eyes couldn't adapt to. He was in a dressing robe again, this one forest green with gold embroidery and a burgundy handkerchief tucked away nicely in his breast pocket.

He already had a cigarette lit between his knuckles, fussing with the little stick as he went to an open window, sucked in, and expelled pungent gray smoke. "I apologize. There's a bit of a mess for you tonight. It's unlike me to be so untidy, but it shouldn't take you too long—oh, darling, don't make that face."

"Why can't you get blood from other sources, like a blood bank?" It's been on your mind for a while, but Montague had a habit of turning petulant if you asked him too much.

He was in good shape tonight, though, despite still puffing away antsily. "Where's the satisfaction in simply being given what I want? Blood banks are a finite supply, but out there"—he gestured through the open window—"there is an infinite supply from any walk of life that I so choose. Did you know that not all blood is equal?"

You sensed him at your back, awash with that same vulnerability as the night on your knees in the basement. He strolled along with you while you collected your things, examined his leftovers, which fortunately wasn't as sensational as before. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot almost, purple-red and pristine, obviously untouched for some time.

Just like that dead blonde woman, there was nothing left behind of the victim except what Montague was too careless to handle himself.

"The worst blood is what you find in hospitals or on the streets. It doesn't matter their type; it all tastes like shit." he continued, even while you worked. Just like before, he sat himself nearby and observed your process with gross fascination. "In a pinch, though, I do what I must. It doesn't matter if a man is homeless or a woman is looking for a night out. When I hear their hearts dance, that thump, thump, thump—oh, I have to have it. I can taste them through their skin, even before I sink my teeth in.

"The fear in their eyes. The ragged breaths I see in their chests, watching their bellies pulse. I like to think in those moments they know exactly what's going to happen, like little flies in a spider's web."

Montague let more smoke slither out from his lips in skinny, swirling wisps that dissipated once it touched the air. The haze of it remained, just traceable to your eye. "I always find it interesting that they all struggle, even as they're writhing in their own blood. Sometimes I'll count how long it takes for them to die."

These weren't confessions of a madman because that would imply he was human. He was treating you akin to the way an old man recounted the fondness of his flawed, flickering memories. There were sensations of joy and affection in the work he did, a true love and visceral desire for carnage and suffering that made it hard for you to stomach.

A few times throughout his soliloquy, you needed to bear your weight on the kitchen broom to keep yourself from toppling from nausea.

You shouldn't have been curious. "Has anyone ever survived?"

The surrounding space grew darker, not from loss of light but from the way his lower face sunk behind the hand wielding the cigarette. You saw his smile widen through sickly appendages and faint smoke.

His response pierced straight through you. "I'm looking right at it."

Suddenly, the urge to run rushed forefront in your mind, an instinctual reaction that you had trouble wrestling over with logic. The broomstick was easily pulled from your fingers and discarded onto the floor with a reverberating clatter that made your spine race with cold needles as Montague stepped into your proximity.

You shivered against the hands slowly climbing your neck to the underside of your jaw, cradling your face as he lifted it to meet his eyes. Something was so wrong with how black they were; you didn't see a pupil, nor did your reflection stare back at you in them. It's almost as though there was nothing there at all, the dark of them growing into an abysmal chasm that made your vision cross and blur, eyelids weighing like lead when you felt him kiss you.

His lips were the same kind of cold as the rest of him but full and unrelenting, never granting you the chance to mold the kiss in any other way. Surprisingly, the taste of stale smoke on his breath was just slight, a mediocre vexation you overlooked the moment his hands started groping you under your clothes.

And you didn't think much of it when your back settled into the clean linens on your bed, skin flushed with the crisp evening air and lips mapping their way south across your stomach and navel, delving lower to your core. It was too dark in your room to see down your body at the top of Montague's head, but you felt him with your fingers, coiling pieces of his ash-brown hair to your knuckles while he pushed your thighs wide open for him.

An anxious patter swelled in your chest, a vague understanding that something was horrible about this, but you were too wrapped up in a dreamy fog to think about it. More than the resounding boom of your heart, you heard your own breaths dissolve into lewd moans and slurred pleas for him to do more, more, more.

It didn't sound like you.

It didn't feel like you despite knowing that build-up in your abdomen better than most things in your body.

The hands in his hair, the back bending off of the mattress like an archway, the shaking limbs, and the cries begging for more were someone else entirely up until the very moment rapture fluttered behind your eyes in searing white, body deluged in hot release that left your scalp tingling and toes curling and spend on your sheets.

"Give me more." You tasted him again, his tongue pushing hard into your mouth where those salty notes of yourself lingered on your cheeks. His silhouette melded with the rest of the room, tangible only in the way he roamed every surface of you.

Montague had shucked the clothes from both your bodies earlier, preferring to lean into the flush of heat you radiated. Everything was only skin-deep away from him; he could feel your pulse throb on his lips when he teased himself against your carotid, your radial, trailing all the way to the powerful beat of your femoral nestled there in your groin.

His teeth came close many times to piercing you, allowing him a sliver of a taste like a parched king waiting for a drop of golden wine. But half the thrill of having you around was denying himself of you, knowing well that if he were to start, then he'd never be able to stop, and he'd fully hamper your dreams of escaping.

The air smelled like you now, heavy and like damp skin and your fluids soaking into the linens. He watched your face bunch and fall apart when he split you open with his cock, hips colliding, your skin sure to bruise as his thrusts turned savage. There wasn't much left in his heart anymore. Most of it had atrophied over the centuries, and yet the sound of yours spurred him on.

He could follow the path of your blood through your body, an extensive subject he had studied and dissected at length in his lifetime. The most vulnerable spots were gorged and worked the hardest, almost glowing red through your skin for him. When he thrust a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and felt your fingertips pushing against his chest, he heard your heart be the loudest it ever had been.

"That's it. That's it. That's it." His own breaths were ragged now. The sheer exhilaration of pushing his lips deeper, hot sweat leaving a slick layer on them, and that one big artery in your neck pounding out was doing everything for him.

Your frantic pants were a close second. He could feel you unraveling, tightening around his cock until you were soundlessly writhing on the mattress, clutching anything you could bunch together. The final few thrusts he made were purposeful; they were forceful and jolted your body, a show to make sure you wouldn't forget the feeling of him inside of you.

The clean linens were sodden with cum, some still dripping out of you while you lay there, legs splayed enough so you wouldn't feel it stick to your thighs. Whatever haze had been hanging over your eyes before lifted away, leaving you ruined and exhausted on the sheets but not alone.

"You've got class in a few hours, don't you?" Montague said from above, shoulders nestled in your headboard while one leg hung off the side of the bed. He was smoking again, acting the calmest you had witnessed him. "I don't really think you're in any shape for that. Why don't you stay home today?"

You were too spent to respond to him, somehow using the occasional breaths he blew out into the vast room to lull you into a dreamless sleep.

༺ ♰ ༻

Shin Nakamura had been a selfish man in life. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, and twice divorced from women who knew better—his tenants did not. He had built a reputation on the north side of town for hidden costs and faulty appliances that were never fixed. Once or twice in the past four years you had cleaned up scenes, they came out of Nakamura's buildings in the summertime, stuck to the floor and infested with maggots and flies in different orifices.

Everyone had asked at one point, yourself included, how he was able to get away with that level of blatant cruelty and disregard—and the answer was as simultaneously simple, complex, and terrible as poverty. The north end was an area notorious for local crime and violence, but more than that, it was forgotten in favor of gentrifying other areas of the city—pretty little boutiques that'd make a splash on social media and a couple of upscale dining spots, all of those meant to change the online scales deeming an area's walkability, and therefore, profitability.

The blind eye most city commissioners turned to the north end made it an easy life for Shin to do as he pleased without many consequences despite living in the area himself. Most of everyone found it an odd sort of justice when he was discovered in his office, unrecognizable from how badly the dozens of stab wounds had disfigured his face and body. One look was enough to know that it was personal, a tenant who had received their condemnation via a neon-pink eviction letter hastily taped to an off-white door.

Only, this time, Shin chose a person backed into a corner at their breaking point. There wasn't much left to lose, yet Shin had ultimately lost it all. Rumor had it that no one sold out the tenant who committed the crime, something even the more moralistic part of yourself could fathom.

These were the cases that painted a grim picture of your future in forensics and often speared to the front of your mind at the worst of times—could you really be part of the reason why a person shattered by the powers of society goes to jail?

Shin Nakamura was a terrible man, but were his crimes punishable by that sort of torture? What about the tenants who probably heard Shin screaming for help, crying in agony—were they any better than murderers themselves?

What did that mean for you? An accomplice who quietly scrubbed clean murders at a monster's behest, you allowed those people to be swallowed up by Montague under a guise of fear, or was it selfishness?

That discomfort lasted you your entire shift, like an incredibly nauseating pill with a bad smell that sat in your nose for hours. You couldn't wipe away the thoughts like you could dried blood on smoke-stained walls or lumps of serrated flesh and fat wedged between slabs of wood on the floor.

"Man, he coulda been cleaner about this." T.J. had his feet planted solidly on the middle step of a ladder, well at work with a long-handled brush pushed flat to the ceiling. The splatter had gone that far, earning a few awestruck coos from him and Hoss earlier. "It would've made our lives easier."

It was a normal joke.

You'd laughed at the exact same one many times before, even finessed your own commentary in there on occasion because the dead can't sue, and a murderer had no rights—but now, you thought it'd taste bad on your tongue.

The two hulking men noticed, far sharper than you gave them credit for. Or maybe you were just worse at hiding things than you thought. They didn't allude to anything until everyone was packed up in the van, dried from the sweaty protective suits and summer heat by the AC.

"Listen, it ain't my business, and I swear I've been trying my best not to ask." There was a furtive look linked between Hoss and T.J.; it was something they had talked about when you weren't around. "That guy you're living with. He isn't doing anything to you, right? You used to talk about him all the time in the beginning. Haven’t heard a peep about him in ages. God, you're not living in your car, are you?"

From the outside in, you weren't doing much to try to embellish fancy stories and reasons onto your drastic change over the months. You simply let it be and navigated every day with the hope you'd remember where you were going with your head down. It probably didn't look too good to a paternal man like Hoss, and to T.J., who had several younger siblings.

"No, it's not him—" But, of course, it really was and everything surrounding his cruelty, everything he made you do, and what you never refuted. "I'm just perpetually exhausted. I'm sure you've heard that from Sylvie and Deshaun while they've been in uni."

"All the damn time." Hoss beamed, chest perked a little higher with the mention of his children. It wasn't enough to diffuse the tension lingering in the van, however. "Just know, I'd do for you what I'd do for my babies—put the fear of God in that man. If he puts a finger on you, you let me know."

T.J. gave an agreeable hum, fingers sticking to the steering wheel as he moved them around, making a turn down some street. "We'll catch him by surprise and everything. I'll call in a couple favors, grab a few shovels and bags of cement from my dad's place. It's all good."

For some reason, their entire spiel only spiked your uneasiness, and suddenly you were far too aware of your bladder. It was enough initiative for T.J. to floor the gas and get back to headquarters, giving you the chance to break away and race the remnants of daylight all the way home.

༺ ♰ ༻

It had never happened before, but you managed to catch Montague by surprise when he walked through the front door to find you standing there in the foyer. The kitchen broom wrapped in your hands was a nasty ploy, along with the look you cast between him and a young man not any older than yourself.

Again, just like all the others, you didn't recognize him. Montague's victims were fast, fleeting fixations for him, none worthy of names or an identity in his eyes. You suspected this guy was much the same.

Montague's bewilderment was swept away by a smile and laxing posture. He had settled back into his element. "You're home early today. I didn't expect to see you until much later. Not much to the scene, I assume?"

"It was pretty bad." A certain stiffness trailed on the end of your words, letting them echo through the hall and hang in the cool evening air.

The young man was fast to perceive that tension: the tightness in your shoulders, fingers subtly wringing against the cracked wooden broom. Montague's anticipative smile climbed higher the longer he looked at you.

Would it be such a bad thing to turn around and pretend you had never seen him come home with that other man? You considered doing it, hiding upstairs and using your headphones until everything seeping through turned into an amalgamation of ambient noise that meant nothing to you, and you willed away the guilt like you'd always done.

In that moment, you thought about Meredith Nimu's apoplectic daughter, a woman so embittered by her own suffering that she was foul and relentless to anyone she crossed paths with. You thought about Shin Nakamura, a greedy, pitiless man who'd rather let coroners scrape up his tenant's remains rather than grant them mercy while they were alive and had been left in pieces because of it.

You thought of them and all their wickedness and edged your gaze towards the young man still standing in the doorway with his hand holding it ajar, clean fingernails picking at chipping paint, just steps from outside. "I think you should leave."

Run! Run! You'd better run away as fast as you can! Nothing would stop Montague from keeping his prey there, if that's what he chose to do.

He did the opposite of that, and that was, simply, nothing at all. No pretty blandishments, nor a mouthful of teeth. Rather, now, he was particularly piqued by what you were trying to do.

To the young man, he had meddled into something rather egregious, probably convinced it was extramarital. You battled a surge of pride blooming inside you, shifting your chest a little higher, anchoring your spine back into your body.

"Don't come back here." You didn't need to say anything else. He was gone after pinching out a look of disgust towards Montague, tutting at him with his upper teeth showing through a curled lip.

Nothing happened for a while, not until the front door was secured after his departure. You were left to that responsibility, triple-checking the lock, while Montague ambled deeper into the house, but not too far away as you could follow the leisurely path by his heel strike. There was a rhythm in how he moved. It was deliberate, as though mimicking something.

It took you five paces to figure out he was miming your heartbeat, and he only stopped once it quickened in your chest. He appeared from around the corner, still taking his time reaching you, toying with some trinkets displayed on shelves built into alcoves throughout the lower floor.

You couldn't explain what you were feeling at that moment. Of the thousands—maybe millions—of victims Montague had taken in the previous times, you had just deprived him of one. That man would continue living, and he would tell his friends tomorrow about the weird night he had, and he would never have to be grateful that you saved him from a hellish death.

Yes, oh yes. Even as Montague approached you, carried by his deft gait with both halves of his gold compact open in his palm, you couldn't help but be in complete awe of yourself.

A life continued outside of this mausoleum, and it was all because of you. You were entirely different from Meredith Nimu's daughter and Shin Nakamura, and, for once, your hands weren't sullied by bleach, blood, and body matter.

All that heaviness you had been carrying was suddenly so much lighter, and you felt like your chest could open up as wide as the room where you stood. The breaths you took were dry and cold in your throat, yet fresh as though you were walking outside in wintertime.

Montague must've seen something he didn't like on your face because he sucked down on his cigarette for a while, winding his wrist with it at his side once he was adequately calm.

"Did it feel good? I've only seen you this happy while I was fucking your brains out." It was jarring to hear him talk like that. He took another quick drag and let it out slowly as he rounded you. "Truthfully, darling, I didn't think you were the type to break the rules—on purpose, anyway. But I suppose we all get a little wound up every now and then, right? I've already forgiven you."

And then, you watched him drop the cigarette to the marble and snuff it underfoot until the weak ember was turned to soot. A black smear was left behind when he took his foot away. His stare into you was unwavering.

"Clean it up."

You figured this was how a frightened animal felt when it wanted something within reach of an observant predator because you were trying to think of all the ways to get close without getting too close. It was a pitiful, humorous sight to him, seeing your steps forward so light and on the verge of bolting. But he showed no intention of doing anything more.

Still with the broom in hand, your knuckles turned stark around the handle while sweeping the remains towards you. It would take more elbow grease to get up that smudge, and he knew that just as well.

He reached for the broom and snapped it to a halt, making you jump, jaw clenching. A noiseless gasp lurched in your throat, his fingers wound tight into the hair at your crown as he yanked your head back to show all the fleshiness of your neck.

"What will you do about it, darling?" His lips were already cold and flush to the artery dancing in the curvature built of skin, muscle, and tendon.

Your teeth chattered as the wetness of his tongue followed that intricate, breathtaking network inside of you as far as the neckline of your shirt would let him.

"A man has to eat. Have you ever seen it? A man near starvation and the sorts of things he'll do to survive? Why, I've heard stories of desperate, little men eating their own lovers—their children—themselves just to claw around for a little longer. It's inspiring, I think."

He dragged you away then, up the stairs and through the hallway on the second floor to your bedroom, fingers still nested your hair until the moment you were shoved down onto fresh linens. There wasn't anywhere for you to go once he joined you on the mattress, feeling it bend towards his weight.

"Don't be afraid." he said this with all the fond familiarity of a lover, blunt fingernails digging crescents into your thigh through your clothes. In the waning moonlight that filtered through the dusty window over your bed, his pale eyeshine snared you like roots bursting from somewhere within your busy sheets to keep you there—keep you tame. "That's right. Come to me. Come to me."

There was a new drowsiness behind your eyes, one you couldn't stave by blinking. Montague's face was closer now, and you were struck with just how beautiful he actually was. The longer your gaze lasted, tips of your fingers exploring every shape and edge of his exquisite features, the less you were convinced he was a threat to you—that he couldn't have possibly been all that you'd feared up until now.

"I want you." His lips inched up like he expected you to say it. He felt your hands rest on the sides of his face, guiding him down into a soft kiss that he returned, that he kept clean and let you command until he was bored with it. You chased after him, lower lip pulled between both of yours and eventually out of reach. "Don't you want me too?"

"I wish you could understand just how much I do." He rummaged his pocket for the gold compact, losing it somewhere in the sheets, and then busied himself with stripping himself and you of clothes.

Each piece discarded showed a greater expanse of your skin, a delight in his eyes because he could see that gorgeous webbing of arteries and veins throughout you, even in the darkness, through every defense your body created to protect you from every bacteria, virus, infection—from him.

He didn't need the breath, but he took one and held it anyway.

You withered against his touch, those freezing, lithe fingertips traveling down all the areas where he wished his teeth could be, clear down to your groin. His smile stretched, feeling you search eagerly for a fistful of his hair with his lips smoothing across your inner thigh and then going higher.

There was warmth between your legs, a colorless glisten that leaked out onto the thin sheets, darkening a spot on them that tempted his tongue out for a taste. He came close to entertaining the notion of giving you that glimpse of heaven, allured by your hips leaping off the mattress and against his face.

"You really do think this is all about you." Montague kept you still by pressing down into your abdomen as he rose onto his knees, erection fitting tight between your bodies in the moments before he guided himself lower and hitched up into you.

The sharp motion knocked a startled gasp out of your throat, where it quickly dissolved into a slew of filth and breathy panting. Your nails clawed into your palms, a sight he thought to make worse by digging himself deeper into you.

Montague had no issues biding his time this way, looming over the sprawl of your body beneath him, manipulating parts of you until he saw your face flinch and the first moans of discomfort shake all the way from your chest, up, and through your teeth. They matched the pace of his hard thrusts, smothered by sharp slaps of skin that carried in the inky air.

Indeed, I can wait. That thought of his unsatiated hunger melted in the back of his mind with the precedence of arranging the course of blood in your body. The drum of your heartbeat was deafening to him, but it wasn't enough.

It wasn't loud enough.

He wanted to be able to envision the arteries and veins bursting in his teeth, saturating the sheets and walls and both your bodies in hot red. He wanted it to paint his skin while he fucked you to absolution.

"It really, truly, is all about you in the end, isn't it?" He could still speak clearly, despite you being unable to utter noise beyond the air being forced out of your lungs. "You really are magnificent. How could I ever think to let you go? Not after everything you've done for me, how beautiful you look next to all of my things."

His hand shifted away from your abdomen at last, tracking across the soft span of your stomach and the muscles spasming there under his fingertips.

All he would have to do is dig through you a little bit, and he could bury himself in those twitching fibers and insides. But he continued on his path to your pert nipples that he rolled against his palm a few times, higher still to fold his fingers together against your sternum where he felt your heart thundering there against your ribs.

"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump," came his mocking chant that cracked into raspy moans as he lingered there. It had been a long time since something had made him feel this good. He had forgotten what bliss was truly like.

He reached your neck before long, trapping the underside of your jaw against his knuckles, forcing you to see him as his weight bore down on your throat. You both heard the cartilage and muscle in your neck shift, a subtle crack that sent your limbs flailing. You were thrown out of the rhythm of his thrusts in an attempt to grab at him.

"You really are despicable, aren't you?" He let out a gleeful laugh, letting your fingers turn ashen while you wrung his wrist. You weren't able to do much with your legs except use them to plant your heels into the mattress, vaulting your hips in the air to try to wrench yourself free. His cock slipped out of you, but he was hardly bothered by that.

"Does it feel good that you chased off my guest? I could get him back, you know. You're aware of this. I know you are. But righteousness just feels so… rewarding, doesn't it? You couldn't resist. Desperation must've been eating you alive."

Strings of saliva glistened in your mouth, breaking apart the further your jaws spread. You were convinced, in that moment, that you would die like that in a silent scream. None of the words that Montague spoke truly reached you, not as your chest quivered and lungs burned as though swallowed in an inferno.

"Every misdeed in life vastly outweighs the good, you know? The scales have never been leaned in our favor—not I, and especially not for you. If that's the sort of thing you believe in. Isn't that what you're taught? Goodness for the sake of salvation at the end of a short life of inhibitions? How miserable." Montague took his hand off of you and let you breathe.

You sucked in crisp air, gasping from your side through wet coughs and the sourness of vomit spat out on the floor.

Your respite was brief, weight on the mattress shifting as the hair on your scalp was used to lever you to your knees, body suspended upright only by his fingers tangled at your roots.

"This is all I can see." Montague loosened his hand from your head, moving south along your spine to your ass. He kneaded the bruised parts of your hips for a while after, lips ghosting their way along your neck up to the ear. "All I can see is what's right in front of me. And how it tastes. All that matters is that I have my fill—and that I feel good."

He smeared slick into the heel of his palm, rolling the head of his cock in that mess as he instructed you with every bit of lewdness how he wanted you to bend against the headboard, how far apart for you to spread your legs for him.

Every bit of it was humiliating for you, while he wished he could memorialize that moment of sinking back inside of you as your breaths broke into stifled sobs, face warped by anguish.

"Does it hurt? Tell me, I have to know, what does it feel like?" He enjoyed the suspense of not receiving an answer, listening as your fingernails dug tracks into the wood headboard and the dark room filled with obscene wetness that grew louder as his thrusts turned wild.

"Mmm—" He hinged forward, bracing his weight on top of your hands with his own. You shied from the surge of coolness that came with his cheek pressing yours. "You and I aren't so different. It makes me wonder if you actually like this. Isn't there something so freeing about it?"

"Mer—mercy, please." It was a coarse whisper from your dry throat, so much of your time having been spent with your mouth agape. The idea of having you that way was as tantalizing as all the others he thought up. "Montague, please—mercy."

Oh, now you were begging.

This was more than what he deserved. He managed a few more thrusts, spilling over into you by the third with a moan that he felt no shame to leave ringing in your ear. "Every part of you, every single part—I'll burn myself into your skin and your bones. You'll feel me in your veins, your blood. I'll make for certain that I'm all you remember—forever."

The vastness of your bedroom had grown warmer, permeated with the thickness of sweat and salt that left your palms slick against the headboard. You let your body slump against it, skin sticking to the wood. It didn't offer you the relief you wanted at that moment: a glass of ice water, all the tenderness of a soft bed to lull you into a blank dream—you just wanted to rest.

Montague knew this just as well, fishing his compact out from a muddled heap of linens and clothes. He checked inside to grab one of the two cigarettes left, making a mental note he'd need to replenish again tomorrow before lighting it and savoring it. At this rate, he anticipated he'd be empty before the end of the night.

For a while, he sat there cushioned on his haunches, admiring the way the smoke coiled towards the ceiling in dainty wisps and mingled with the stench of sex.

"It's not enough." he said, barely eliciting more than a glance from you. His current cigarette was already burnt to the filter, forcing him to pull the last and light that one too. "This is my last one. Such a shame."

You smelled the smoke strongly now, just seconds passing before you were yanked across the bed onto your back, the soreness in your scalp near excruciating as you yelped. Montague made a place for himself between your thighs again, leering down the length of his nose at you.

If he wanted to, he could trace the dread etched in your features with a finger, feeling all along your hot skin, into all the cavernous lines he wished he could preserve—right there, just like that. There had never been a more gorgeous visage than the one you wore right now. Only your gleaming, glowing, pink insides were more beautiful.

He watched your lips twitch while he teased a fistful of his hard cock against your sorest spot. You were swollen and bruised, and he could only imagine what it felt like when he bottomed out in you again.

The curve of your spine arched off the mattress, fingers frantically raking the air at him, reaching for any part you could sink into to get him out. Even your body seemed determined for the same, wonderfully stimulating walls squeezing around him.

It made a shiver roll all along his spine to his tailbone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, with his first thrusts feeling positively divine. Especially when you jolted, an almost exaggerated response amplified by jagged cries and wet gasps you couldn't seem to swallow back down into your chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You sputtered around the mucus piled in your throat. "Montague, I'm sorry. Please, stop."

He had burned away half of his last cigarette when he leaned over you, his body eclipsing what poor light had managed to illuminate the room for you. You could only follow the dainty mesmerizing glow that worked away from his mouth—his exhale barely masking a moan that he blew away with the smoke—and towards you.

"Keep doing it." His other hand was crawling up your neck, forcing you to suck in a hard breath. "Beg me again. Keep doing it."

All sound but the steady pulse of the headboard striking the wall had deadened, lasting well until the moment the cigarette touched your skin—and you screamed. Your throat vibrated, suddenly stopping when his palm closed around you again, silencing all your noise, his thrusts sloppy and rough while you thrashed under him.

This time, he kept you pinned by his chest, letting your feet dig for traction and slip and slide on the sheets. The bright smolder turned dark as he twisted it into your neck, taking all the remnants of restraint he had not to drill into you as far as it could go. He curled his tongue behind his jaws, keeping them tight.

Montague let go of your throat to allow you the grace of a stifled wail before that same hand sealed your lips. "Ah, ah. You know better than to scream. Shh, shhh, shhh. It's such an ugly sound."

He rubbed the cigarette into your skin until it crumpled, leaving him to lament for a moment once flicking it away to the floor. For him, it left behind a beautiful burn: raw, mad, red, and enticing. As his hand fell off of your mouth, daring you to do more than whimper and cry, his tongue was already flat against your wound.

"Oh, God," you wheezed, voice hoarse and jarring with the force of his hips knocking into you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Stop, stop, stop! I swear I'll never do it again! I swear. I swear!"

Montague caught the wrist you swung at his head, giving the taste of your seared flesh time to settle on his palate before turning towards the pulse in your thumb. He tried to match how he was fucking you out to how it throbbed on his lips.

"Oh, I'm well aware that you won't do it again. That much is a given." His strokes into you were suddenly languid and intentional, so achingly deep that your eyes rolled back. "I've already said that you're forgiven, haven't I?"

You could barely speak over the depth he reached. It didn't feel right. "Th-then, why?"

A smile flourished across his face, but your eyes couldn't pierce that dark veil to see it. You could feel the damp path he left on your wrist, how the muscle writhed all around the sprawl of your veins, going as far as to wind your fingertips before it receded back behind his lips.

"Because I'm enjoying myself." There was a weight of finality to those words before his mouth engulfed the side of your wrist, away from your fragile network of bluish-purplish channels. And when he bit into you, it was the incisors that sank through.

You didn't know what it was. A clamp seized you by the neck like his fist, steeling itself there and robbing you of a scream. The pain was unlike anything else—paralyzing and deep, like a pair of sharpened, narrow skewers made of molten fire piercing you with such an agonizing ache that you could do nothing but lay there.

But you still felt everything he was doing.

His thrusts had grown truly vicious, chasing a high that came as the warmth of your blood seeped from a pair of punctures he had created. The steady flow he fed from was something he lapped on at his leisure. Enough of it streaked the length of your arm and dripped onto your bedding, onto your naked, warm skin when he guided the fall over your neck and chest, south to your stomach and abdomen. He let it fill and pool the seams of his fingers while smearing it with the fluids between your bodies.

At last, breaking the trance to speak, feebly, in between intermittent pockets of pain and numbness rolling through you, you asked with some hopefulness, "Are you going to kill me?"

"You? Kill you?" Montague dropped your wrist. It felt like a limp, dead thing that didn't belong to you. He dove at your neck for those drops he teased himself with, nudging your chin high with his nose to reach it all. "Death would mean letting you go. You're all mine, darling. Whatever other existence waits beyond death will never have you."

His tongue wet a trail to your chin, collecting a watery essence of blood and spit that he pushed into your mouth. Your lips were sealed by his ravenous kiss, relenting to the thickness of his tongue swirling the taste into your cheeks and down your throat, a nauseating intermix of iron and stale smoke that lingered and made you pucker.

And then, you heard him back in your ear, craning his neck only as far as to aggravate the cigarette burn with his breath. It gave several angry throbs. The weight of his body was almost flush on you, spreading the blood around as though your skin together was a single canvas.

To his eyes, it bloomed breathtakingly, seeping into every crevice, pore, and scratch that made up your design, an impermanent stain that he could saturate you in again and again and again. The things he whispered in your ear were vile and wicked, all on unlabored breaths while his strokes turned sluggish and stayed seated deep inside you until the final hitch of his hips left you full of him.

"I don't think you should go to work today."

You were only scarcely coherent of him—or anything for that matter—eyes unmoving from the black void above and unfeeling of how he chose to manipulate your body, still, hours later. All you could think about was the flutter of your lashes weighing down heavily over your eyes and how this world only survived on suffering such as yours.

༺ ♰ ༻

A small pile of things was arranged fussily in a duffle bag Hoss had given the day you returned to work after an impromptu leave of absence. It had only lasted three days, just enough time to acclimate to the pain that seemed to synchronize to every part of your body, throbbing everywhere, all at once, and at times with sharpness so great it toppled you to the ground. You could only lay there—wherever you dropped, on whatever cold slab of marble or concrete until it dissipated, unfurling from your limbs and organs to a rapturous wave of relief that melted the tension out of you.

It had only happened once while at work on a scene amidst a balmy summer night and came out of nowhere like an electric shock surging to your fingertips and toes, a hammer landing on your bones and leveling you on the sidewalk leading back to the company van. And that was all it took to incur a ruinous sort of anger in the two hulking men.

"You're going to take this bag, pack some shit, and you're leaving. Tonight." Hoss had to shake out the dust on the old duffle bag he pulled from somewhere in his car. "You ain't gonna tell me the reason, but I know he did something to you. T.J.'s calling in a favor."

"No. Don't—don't do anything. Don't try to come to the house—" There was a bandage around your wrist that you couldn't stop fiddling with. "I don't know what'll happen if you do. Just fucking don't."

"Nah, not us." T.J. slapped his phone back into the clip on his belt loop, eyeing the motions of your fingers on your wrist uneasily. "One of my old buddies—name's Roscoe—said he wants to handle it. Apparently, he and your guy have a history of some kind. He says to be ready to go by three."

The meaning behind what he said was left nebulous and concerning to you, even after you returned home with the duffle bag and started pulling things from your closet. Some ways across your room, high up on the wall and out of your reach was a clock. Its monotonous ticking brought your eyes over to it.

It was just after one-thirty, still enough time to change your mind if you wanted to. There was something so effortlessly easy about following along to the whims of other people. It felt safe, reassuring—their confidence was infallible. Not once in four years had T.J. or Hoss given you a reason to doubt their intentions, but right now, it boiled over in your mind.

But where will I go? What am I going to do? He'll find me. He'll find me. Montague would find you, but he wouldn't stop you from leaving. You could see it with clarity—him perched on the armrest of a chair, watching you walk through the door. He'd give you a headstart, a few days, maybe a few weeks.

You weren't sure you knew what to do without him. There was nowhere else in the world you could go, no one you could confide in that wouldn't be destroyed. He would keep your heart beating all the while breaking you apart until he had his fill, reminding you that this was how it was meant to be. This was how he showed you how you belonged.

And you—silly little you with your consciousness floating on the fringes of inscrutable ecstasy and some personal purgatory built on agony in your bones and blood—would believe him.

"Going on a trip?" His voice drifted to you from the doorway, far sweeter than it usually was. "I wish you would've told me. I can't imagine what it'll be like without you here in this house. You breathe life into it."

He was lured over by your silence, fitting his fingers between your shoulder blades to push along your spine, easing away the discomfort that had settled there. It was hard not to lean into that relief, a misstep that shattered any lasting hold of willpower when he stooped his neck to sweep you into a kiss.

"Why don't you stay instead?" He knew you wouldn't be coming back, not without dragging you back himself. "Stay with me instead. Right here. In this bed."

"Montague, stop—" He pressed down harder on your lips so those words withered into guttural frustration in your throat.

The duffle bag was flung far away, opening space on your bed for him to lay you out and begin to unravel the bandages around your wrist. Once he had access, his mouth was already full against the two puncture sites.

"Stay." He wasn't playing coy now. "I'll take care of you. It wasn't enough before. I can see that now. What can I do? It'd be too easy to break your legs. What if I chained you to this bed? What if I locked you up in this room? I wouldn't mind keeping you downstairs with me, but it would be too cold for you, I think."

"I want to leave." you said, mustering your composure through tight lips while he teased the infected purple holes with his flatter teeth. "Let me go."

He smiled derisively. "I don't think you know what you want."

"I—" You balked at him, reiterating with a stumble, "I—I just want to leave. Get off."

"How will you ever survive without me?" You didn't know if you'd be able to. "You'll be all alone, all alone in a world that's just ready to tear you open and spit you back out. I've told you before: Society doesn't reward virtue over vice—only those who play along. You won't last, not after you've known and tasted me."

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, whereas he swelled like a man who had salvaged a victory, lying himself down to kiss you again—

And then, the doorbell rang with an immense melancholic echo that you could feel vibrate up your arms and legs. Nearly a year later, you were hearing it for the first time and grasping onto the lapels of his suit vest, keeping him still when you remembered T.J.'s promise.

"Ignore it." you said.

"We have a guest—" Something in his tone made your stomach clench. "It's not polite to leave them waiting, especially at this hour."

Montague had untangled himself from you and was gone before you could stop him. Another wave of pain put you on the floor when you moved. Drool piled from your mouth. An ache so unreal pounded in the wrist he had played with. The crawl to your duffle bag was far, arduous in that every inch felt like carrying stones on your back.

I'm going to die. I might as well already be dead. You didn't have any more time to wait, so you slung the strap over your shoulder and used the wall to guide you along the quiet hallway, bumping into every pedestal and display where Montague's most treasured things had stayed undisturbed.

You were one of them, something he could keep on the second floor with the rest of his stuff, but unlike brittle porcelain and fraying embroidery—he could break you as much as he wanted, again and again and again, and fit you back whole. He could do it forever while you wasted, longing for an end he would never give you.

But as you crept along the bleak wallpaper and all of his curios, you were so gentle with them, steadying any wobbling base or piece as you went. The central staircase was close, voices at the bottom of it faint and unintelligible, drifting alongside you as though part of the house—

The air exploded.

Just once.

A single gunshot brought back all the alertness to your body, neck and shoulders at full length, pain dulled to where you could shuffle faster and look off the bannister at the landing below.

Montague was staring back up at you from the floor, entirely still and soundless. His jaw was unhinged, askew, frozen in a position that should've been impossible. A black hole gaped between his eyes, but didn't bleed.

"If you're not ready, that's going to be bad news." Another man stood nearby sheathing a gun, unfamiliar and yet with sameness in the way his gaze felt hollow and reached through you. "I'm repaying my debts. I'd like to make good on this one."

You were slow descending the stairs, even slower while you rounded Montague's body and denied yourself the chance to stop. Something invisible wanted to pull you to him, plow your knees into hard marble and weep over his chest. However, your insides bending in disgust and twinges in your bones kept you onward.

This man, Roscoe, was just as sickly-seeming and gray as the other, every slot of space on his arms and neck filled with images of religious iconography and portraits of saints—Mary being the only one you recognized with just a glance. It was tempting to touch him, something he noticed and stepped out of your reach.

"Is there another way out of here?" He made a weak motion towards the front door just ajar, but his eyes were stuck on the wrist wounded and unusable to you now. "We need to go. Now."

You were racking your brain for an answer, turning half-circles in place before pointing to the archway with a clock. "There's a backdoor, but the yard is fenced in and there's nothing but forest for three miles. There's also—"

Roscoe waited expectantly, ushering you to continue when he went for the gun in its holster. "Start moving, we'll figure it out." He unloaded another round into Montague's head, a near indecipherable twitch in the fingers made the hair on your neck shoot straight out. "Silver only keeps him down. It won't kill him. Go!"

"Th—there's, there's the basement." You smacked your lips, trying to swallow around a bulge in your throat. "There's an old door. He said there are tunnels, but I don't know where they go. I don't know if he was telling the truth. I don't—"

He threw a hand into your back, thrusting you forward at least three feet. You almost didn't catch your footing. "Then that's where we're going."

"Not a friend of yours then, I assume, darling?" Montague's voice from the floor was as much of a relief as it was terrible. The silent gaps of air all around were disturbed by sharp snaps and cracking bones as his jaw moved back into place and he sat upright over his thighs. You were transfixed by the silver bullets being sucked into his skull, holes shrinking until they closed completely. "I'm not surprised you're still fraternizing with the wrong crowds, Roscoe. You and that entire Society have always been a fucking eyesore."

Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."

Montague laughed all the way to his feet, tugging at the edge of his vest to make it neat again. He opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue roll out, shards of silver bullets tinkling as they hit marble underfoot. "You can't take what's mine."

He looked to you, stepping closer every time Roscoe moved you back with his arm. "Come here. Come back to me, darling. This is where you belong. This is your home. You belong here with me, here with everything that you know."

"He doesn't mean that."

Another gunshot snapped you to attention, blinking out of a stupor you hadn't realized you were in.

The bullet landed in Montague's forehead, teetering his balance in such a way that his back curved towards the floor, arms hanging like useless instruments, yet he still somehow kept his soles planted. "Time to go. Get to the basement."

Roscoe didn't fail to reach you this time, running tight on your heels through the house to the basement floor. He stopped partway to the old door to help you scour the duffle bag for a key—one attached to the chatelaine Montague had given you the day you accepted to move in.

Your breaths were ragged, heart ablaze and beating against your ribs. In that moment, as you flipped through the assortment of keys with an unsteady, slippery grip, you wondered if Montague heard your blood racing in your veins, if he could follow the suffocating drumbeat your heart made in your ears.

Just above, fast approaching the locked basement door, came a thunderous roar so inhuman and reverberating that it scared the clip of keys out of your hands into a clattering heap on the floor. Time was up.

"Move!" Roscoe shoved you aside, illuminated by the hectic flare of your phone as he fit his fingers through a gap in the door and ripped the entire thing off its hinges. He pulled you by the scruff of your shirt and heaved you inside the tunnel. "Go! Go! Go!"

The first thing to hit you was a putrid smell intimately known but always through protective equipment and a respirator. And as you went deeper into the tunnel, led by a single route and the light off your phone, the dirt packed under your feet turned soft, sinking to the tops of your shoes.

And then, you saw bodies.

Numerous—countless corpses in varying stages of decay with twisted faces reflected your terror and pain right back at you. Most were intact with missing limbs or dark red chasms in their abdomens that had been scraped hollow and dry under the white light.

A few had been fully decapitated, briefly reminding you of the dead blonde woman from that night, but most of what lay stacked against the tunnel walls were emaciated figures with skin pulled so taut to their bones you could still make out their faces.

You were doubled over your knees, sucking in fetid mouthfuls of air and retching them back out on the ground. It burned in your throat, in your nostrils, and behind your eyes, but stifled your sobs as Roscoe dragged you alongside him.

"What did he do? What did he do?" You were crying, wheezing out those words on every shallow breath you took all the way to an end just ahead.

The more you thought about it, the more you smelled the rot, tasted the bitterness of your own vomit, the more came out. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

Roscoe had to let you rest in the grass once you both surfaced. One of the exits turned out to be near the house, less than half a mile. But the tunnels kept going and so did the bodies. You suspected that there wouldn't be any reach of that underground labyrinth that didn't have some form of decay along it.

The thought brought the tears back, but now you could relish the sticky summer night humidity and touch dewy tendrils of grass under your hands.

"Can you drive?" Roscoe had a pair of keys hanging from his index finger, giving you a long moment to take them. He saw confusion in your watery stare. "I'll tell you where to go, just drive."

That's how it had been for hours at this point. You kept your hands locked around the steering wheel, one stronger than the other, gnawing the inside of your cheek while ruminating everything—tonight, the night Montague had bitten you, every other night before that, and your decision to have ever trusted him.

"How long ago did he bite you?" Roscoe had the seat reclined, arms over his eyes to shield them from oncoming headlights. "It doesn't look good."

You tested your grip on the steering wheel, but you couldn't do much without a sharp sting in your wrist. "I don't know—a couple weeks ago? I've tried everything short of going to the emergency room."

"That won't help," he said. "Modern medicine can fix a dog bite, antibiotics can kill an infection, a vaccine can protect you from a virus. Those aren't going to do any good."

Solemnly, you asked, "Am I going to die?"

Roscoe didn't sit up but had your wrist in his hands, turning it in little ways that didn't aggravate you. Besides the occasional glare from passing vehicles, there was no light in the car, and the holes in your skin were hardly distinguishable, though they had gotten darker. You weren't able to move it with any ease now.

"What you need to know right now is that he's never going to stop following you." He put your hand back on the steering wheel, careful as he enclosed your fingers around it. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, what you do, where you go—a parasite finds a host, and it latches on. And it doesn't let go."

You glanced between him and the road several times, tongue wetting the dry parts of your lips. "He's a vampire—you're a vampire. There's got to be something—"

Roscoe finally sat up in his seat, now cramped sideways with his shoulders flat to the window. The car veered a bit into the other lane. "You need to understand something. What you're saying would imply he ever had any humanity. Vampires are created." He paused for a beat, waiting for the realization to strike you. "Montague was never created."

"What—what the hell is he, then?" A horn abruptly blared by, prompting you to yank the car back onto the correct side. "He drinks blood. He has teeth. He—he hunts. He doesn't like silver. His eyes are the same as yours."

Roscoe lowered his gaze, but remained in that uncomfortable position. "There's a story I heard about him once. I don't remember the details except for one: ‘If the devil exists, they're one in the same.’"

You kept your eyes on the road, counting every car that flitted on past. They were probably going to work at this hour—green numbers on the dashboard showed it just after four—and they'd be able to have a place to return to at the end of the day. Now, you didn't belong anywhere, and twenty-four hours from now you still wouldn't.

The town where you had lived with Montague for a year was long behind you, backtracking would take hours, and you wouldn't know how to get back from the direction that Roscoe had told you to go. Dim streetlamps and cozy houses with spruced yards had morphed into an endless network of concrete, signs, and off-ramps to places you'd never heard of.

It was scary how everything could change in one night, and how it did. The only semblance of normalcy to you right now were the aches throughout your body, which had returned the moment you fully comprehended that you had escaped that house.

"Why…" Roscoe looked up at you, seeing your lips shake and eyes turn red. "Why do I want to go back to him?"

He fixed himself right in the seat, tousling a hand through his hair while looking out through the windshield. "You shouldn't do that. But you'll never be able to stop running."

You never saw Roscoe again once the car ride ended several thousands of miles later, mentioning something about how he repaid his debt to T.J. and had disappeared from a restaurant you both walked into. When that happened, you sat paralyzed at your little table for most of the day with a soul-crushing realization that you were truly alone with nobody in the world—

Just like Montague said you would be.

And, for the sake of others, you'd never be able to have anyone else in your world.

It stayed that way for close to two years. The hardest part hadn't been the homelessness or constant vigilance, not the door revolving each person to come into your life since, but the fact that you still yearned for what you once had. Everything so awful about what you experienced sometimes looked like heaven when you thought about it, like soft, cloudy nostalgia from a time where the throes of agony were all you had ever known.

You were capable of thinking soberly as well, and with that came the understanding that a part of you would always want that time back—want him back. He had left you with a permanent scar and neurological damage that could never be corrected. It was anticipated you'd lose that wrist at some point in the future, but for now, you could still hold a cup and brush your teeth with enough conscious effort.

The pain never went away either, but you refused to let it impede your work in the field. And your two roommates were a couple of engineering geniuses who'd managed to make the flat more accommodating to your needs. They'd been patient with you during every step of your transition into a new life, calling you an enigma because you had nothing to your name except a dusty duffle bag and a "strange-looking dog bite" on your wrist when you first met them.

Sometimes, especially on the weekends after clinking together enough shot glasses, they tried to probe your brain for some clue as to who you were, who you had been historically. You had decided it was better that they—that no one—knew about it or what actually existed out there in the world.

And when you returned home from the lab late that Saturday night, you were surprised to find the lights off and the flat immersed in the kind of soundlessness that made your ears feel clogged with cotton.

You were slow in lowering your backpack to the floor, keeping the front door slightly ajar so a slither of light from the residential corridor slipped inside. "Jordan? Felix?"

No answer. You didn't hear anything from their bedrooms upstairs either.

"Jordan?" The nearest light switch didn't work, neither did the one after that, or any others you hunted down with the diffused beam from your phone screen. "Jordan? Felix? Are you guys home?"

It was possible they had gone out somewhere for the night and just hadn't mentioned anything to you, as unsound as that logic actually was, considering it simply wasn't their personality. But as you wandered through different rooms checking the switches, you knew you were rationalizing to keep yourself in check.

The light from the hallway still piled inside like a narrow pillar, raising all the hairs on your neck and arms, knowing that it wasn't a building-wide outage. They had never left you in a situation like this before. Something was wrong.

"Jordan! Felix! Whe—" Your foot nearly shot out from under you when you slid through something slick on the laminate. After a moment to fix yourself, bracing the edge of the countertop with a clammy palm, you steadied the white glow of your phone at the floor.

There, glistening back at you, was the vast richness of blood in a tall puddle that spread like long winding tendrils through grout in the flooring. It looked almost black under your light at a certain angle, estimating it had been there for several hours—untouched.

You held in a breath and grit your jaws together as the more you moved, the more you saw. And when the top of a head came into view, silky hair shining like fine thread before clumping together at the base where the blood had pooled the most, it was everything you could to keep yourself from hitting the floor.

Both of them were there, perfectly out of sight of the front door and completely unrecognizable. Their bodies had been left in one piece, though where their faces had once been were cavernous holes with pale, pink ribbons of flesh and fat left behind. The roundness of their skulls let blood fill inside it like a vessel. What little pieces of brain matter remained had floated to the surface.

You staggered back from them, phone loosening from your weak hand and returning them to the maw of darkness, while groping the wall behind you as far as your arm could reach. This wasn't a result of crude knife work or even bludgeoning; no, it was a slow kill, one meant to steep someone in torment so immense that you prayed to whatever was out there that they succumbed immediately.

"Help…" Your voice was trapped in your throat, barely registering as a whisper even to yourself as you sidled along the wall. "Someone—anyone, please help."

The patter of your heartbeat was torturous. Your every step back to the entrance was leaden with fear. You couldn't get your legs to move fast enough, and the light reaching in through the gap seemed to stretch on forever—further, further, and further still.

You thought back to that day you met Montague and shook his hand, noting how unnaturally cold it had been despite it being a nice day in spring. You remembered the dead blonde woman with mascara tears, and the bodies he used to decorate the tunnels, and the young man who was able to walk away that night believing it was all some shallow quarrel—never knowing he had sealed your fate.

You regretted all of it.

The door was in your reach now, and you could get out, call for help, and go back to running. This time, you wouldn't be tricked into false satiety or let anyone too close. You would see mountains and forests and oceans a thousand times over before you stopped again.

Two years hadn't been enough time for you to accumulate many things, you thought. It wouldn't be hard to leave most of it behind, just like you had before. You would unpack that old duffle bag from the back of your closet, fill it to the brink, and that would be enough.

You had your hand over smooth metal, but that cold reached greater depths in you as the door was pushed shut from behind, light shrinking away through the slot until you were swallowed whole in the dark.

"Hello, darling. I've missed you." He sounded the same against your ear. For a split second, you felt relieved. "Don't worry about cleaning up. We're not staying long."

He clamped damp fingers over your mouth before you could scream.

a/n; I hope this scratched some awful itch for you. onto the story notes:

on montague: what he is exactly is open to interpretation. tell me your theories! his character has been around in my arsenal for a very long time, but as a human cannibal in those days. he's been resurrected into something worse imo. he exists in my vampire universe more as a side-character, and, surprisingly, is not the central antagonist. he is meant to more or less be the embodiment of depravity and the consequence of a being without internal moral compass.

on mc: represents the fallacy of man and how unreliable the narrative of morality actually is, and how we as people have tendencies to twist and turn the meaning of it for our own benefit. mc in this story is not meant to be a good person, but did they deserve condemnation to a personal purgatory?

so, while this is a monster story, I wanted to parallel the treatment mc endures + mindset to the horrors of trying to escape abuse. I wanted to explore this through the lens of a monster story, though. if you suspect you are in an abusive relationship, please reach out to people to help get you out.

what's funny is that this story was originally supposed to be a dark comedy that moved towards something a little darker, and eventually turned into this. montague was initially going to just be a nuisance to mc by inserting himself into friend hangouts because "it's my house".

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

dc divider by; @/benkei-bear

if you read and enjoyed it, please share your thoughts and reblog!!

1K notes · View notes

akumakosuke · 3 months

Text

Satoru Gojo was born a god among mortals.

From the moment he opened his eyes he was automatically better than everyone, worth more than everyone.

Satoru Gojo stands alone atop a pedestal at the pinnacle of Jujutsu Sorcery, forever destined to bask in the glory of being the strongest. No one could ever dream to reach his level, he didn’t dream to reach his level but it was cast on him like a curse.

He is a cursed child indeed.

Exactly a week after the miracle birth of Satoru Gojo another clan also welcomed a miracle birth.

M/n Goto was born a god among mortals.

From the moment he opened his eyes he was automatically better than everyone, worth more than anyone…except…

M/n Goto forced the pedestal to grow.

Satoru Gojo tipped the balance of the scales and M/n Goto totally destroyed the scale.

All curse users went into hiding, curses became almost completely inactive for an entire year following the birth of two gods.

During the first few years of their lives they remained blissfully unaware of how deep their destinies intertwine, how truly connected they are.

The day they met was another day to go down in the history books.

Two lone gods, wandering a world that will forever be beneath them, filled with people who will forever be beneath them.

Their paths cross and in that moment time stands still for the young gods, a feeling they’ve never experienced, a sudden tugging at their souls, telling them to turn around and they do.

Crystal-like icy blue orbs clash with star-like fiery red orbs and in that moment two lonely gods became a little less lonely.

The two grew close much to the dismay of many. They knew of their places in the world and they knew no one else understands but them. No one else understands they’re cursed children.

Days of meeting for play dates turned into weekend sleepovers, weekend sleepovers turned into months of bonding, months slowly turned into years and M/n and Satoru thrived, they grew and changed but their bond only got deeper.

They pushed each other to the limits, forcing the other to evolve and keep up and evolve they did.

By the age of 15 they were both Special Grade sorcerers heading into their first year at Jujutsu tech.

Their relationship has also evolved over the years much like their power.

They’re best friends, sure they’re closer than most best friends. They have regular sleepovers and share the same bed, unable to fall asleep without cuddling and sure they are affectionate in public, always staying glued to the others side, an arm around a shoulder here, hands resting on the others hips there and maybe they have kissed a few times but that’s just them being best friends, totally platonic!

Do they have an unspoken agreement to reject any advances from other people? Yes.

Do they acknowledged the agreement? No, that’s why its unspoken, just like the reason they reject everyone else, an unspoken mutual agreement to be each others and only each others without putting any labels on it, besides its not like there’s anyone else alive that could ever tear them apart, come between them or even stand on the same level as them.

Suguru Geto.

The moment M/n and Satoru met Suguru their pedestal was forced to widen again.

They were confronted by another and they had mixed feelings about sharing.

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

Okay so I was thinking of making this into an entire fic but im not sure.

I have a lot of ideas already, especially about the in depth relationship of the three of them and how they would function.

It would focus on M/n, Satoru and Suguru and how their relationship develops throughout the years in Jujutsu Tech and what would happen during the hidden inventory arc with M/n present and how he would affect the story.

There will be smut of course with Domtop Amab M/n and Subbot Satoru and Suguru .

Let me know if I should make a full on fic or just a smut with a bit of plot sprinkled in~!

#akumakosuketoughts #dom male reader #seme male reader #top male reader #male reader #jjk x male reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #satoru x male reader #gojo x male reader #satoru gojo x male reader #geto suguru #suguru x male reader #geto x male reader #suguru geto x male reader #sub jjk

1K notes · View notes

landograndprix · 8 months

Text

「Feel the magic ๛ l.n」

part ii

✧.* it's the end of the season and you've never been so eager to say goodbye to your team and while your'e celebrating the end of another era, lando shoots his shot, making you question everything.

✧.* reader is older. Slow-burn who? Don't know her. Taglist open! Typos add some personality, ignore them pls 😂

✧.* prev part - next part

➽────────────────────────❥

y/nusername posted to their story

➽────────────────────────❥

y/nusername posted to their story

➽────────────────────────❥

teamy/n

liked by landonorris, y/nusername and 189,783 others

teamy/n getting some laps in with the papayas 🧡

tagged: y/nusername, mclaren

view all 367 comments

landoscar this is the best thing to wake up to 🥰

hannahh this family suits her so much better

charlos16 that's hot 🔥

mclaren welcome back y/n! 🧡

y/nusername 🧡

julieeeexo can't wait to see what you're going to do next season!

landonorris the color suits you 😉

norrizz boy stop flirting, isn't y/n in a relationship?

bott_ass haven't seen them together in a while so they might've broken up!

➽────────────────────────❥

y/nusername

liked by albon_pets, landonorris and 215,871 others

y/nusername reunited with the youths 🐾

view all 625 comments

carlandooo look at my siblings being all cute and shit 🥰

milouberger youths? Mans is 56 in dog years.

cecilemoulin time to put him in a retirement home

y/nusername bully a dog? Life must be at a all time low for the two of you..

y/nusername keep my son's name out of your fucking mouth

f1girlies I can't with these three 💀

livelaughlovelando I just know these pets are spoiled rotten 😭

albon_pets play date when?

y/nusername they are grounded 😔

albon_pets for being too cute? 😔

hamilt44n dash just chilling, basking in the sun, unbothered king

landonorris gotta meet them soon

norrizz yeah are you ready to be a dad lando?

landoscar boy is just not hiding it anymore 😂

➽────────────────────────❥

y/nusername posted to their story

➽────────────────────────❥

if you want to be removed from a taglist, please let me know. Of your name is in red, it means I was unable to tag you!

Everything taglist; @thomaslefteyebrow @hopefulinlove @smoothopz @softboystarkey @buffysummrsx @honethatty12 @cixrosie @parkersmjs @ireadthensuetheauthors @celestialams @be-your-coffee-pot @idkiwantchocolatee @heli991113 @kodzuvk @reality-is-a-con @80sloverry @bibissparkles

Lando taglist: @beatricemiruna @simp-for-fictional-people @ihrtdan @landossainz

Feel the magic taglist: @lighttssoutlewis @celesteblack08 @mrsmaybank13 @cha-hot @judesgfirl @fangirl25reader @guilliaabergaminii @roseseraj @moonclaine @kissesandmartinis @jpg3 @amulhermaisfelizdomundo @marialovesf1 @silkenthusiasts @luvrrish @di-yum

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfic #lando norris au #lando norris #lando norris smau #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #f1 x reader

1K notes · View notes

shrenvents · 1 month

Text

Professor Howlett

Warnings: Minors dni, smut, no protection, fingering, vaginal, doggy, pet names, squirting, age gap (legal!)

Pairing: Logan Howlett/Wolverine x Student (Mutant) reader

Summary: Your history professor always seemed uninterested in you, that was until you missed his class.

Word count: 2.6k

…

Throughout high school I’ve always kind of stood out. To be honest, I only have myself to blame. Bright colours and statement pieces are just so much more appealing, than wearing something ‘plain.’ Unfortunately, I did more than just “stand out” that day, just three weeks away from senior graduation. That fateful day, I was so close to the finish line, before my stupid ex-boyfriend discovered my secret, and outed it to the entire student body.

That I’m a mutant…

That was what led me across the coast, for most of the past year, running from god knows what. I heard the stories of mutants being hunted and gone missing, and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough, that I wouldn’t at least make it to my 20th birthday.

However, my days of swindling folks of cash and food came to a halt, when I spotted a man with red-tinted glasses watching me. His invested gaze observed my every movement, so I grabbed all my shit, and the last bit of petty change I managed to get, and sprinted into a crowd.

Just as I thought I was in the clear, my face collided with a colossal, firm chest. I pressed the heels of my palms into it, and felt the cotton of his white shirt, and the rough, yet smooth texture of his worn-in, leather jacket.

Logan Howlett, or should I say, Mr. Howlett, my history Professor... After he and Scott captured me, they dragged me by the ankles to their school for the “gifted.” I cringed when they said where we were headed, but once I arrived and saw all the kids, like me, going about their lives, free, I knew everything would be more than okay.

And one thing I knew for sure, is that I wouldn’t mind attending Mr. Howlett’s class. Did I know shit about history, yes. But I’ve always had a thing for the older guy, and from what I’ve heard, he’s more than enough in that department.

...

This morning, racing out of my room, I swore profusely at my tardiness... Just my luck. The one day that week I get to see and listen to Logan talk for an hour straight, my alarm malfunctions.

Multitasking between attempting to put on my hot-pink heels, wrapping my sparkly bag over my shoulder, and shutting my door, I missed the approaching figure behind me.

“It’s past 11 am, where do you think you’re headed?” I swivel on my toes, spinning to face Storm. “Class?”

“The only class you have left today kid, is at 2. You’ve managed to miss the rest already,” she scolds flatly.

“Noooo,” I fake astonishment and defeat, as I slowly back away from Storm's scrutinizing stare. She calls my name after I’ve taken at least two large steps backward. “Logan wants to see you,” she states, exasperated.

“Oh?” I straighten out, stopping my next step short. “Ok!” I exclaim, a little too perky. She huffs a faint smirk and walks off, and I take flight, zooming to Logan’s class, where he’s most likely dozed off.

Lo and behold, after knocking once and receiving no response, I open the door to see him snoring. With his legs fully extended, and feet resting on his desk, I bask in his lengthy physic. I giggle and then go towards him.

Mr. Howlett?” I say, clearing my throat loudly, he grunts in his sleep and I smile. “Mr. Howlett?” I say even sweeter. A second later, I swear he mumbles my name and my heart stutters, but he’s still sleeping. I move in closer to his ear. “Logan,” I announce rigidly, and my change in tone makes him flinch, legs falling off the table, eyes popping open.

He rasps my name, voice echoing through the classroom. I refused to move away from my position, wanting to seem unaffected by him, but I was anything but. With his lazy eyes roaming over my skin, my heart races wildly. He clears his throat, and rolls his eyes away after taking in my attire, as he usually does —gives me a once-over, and rolls his eyes back to his focus on his lecture.

“You missed class, that isn’t like you,” he notes, almost to himself.

“Yes and I’m sorry-“

“I hope it wasn’t because you were too busy picking that outfit.” Logan scoffs and my eyes widen. He’s always made snarky comments, and this wasn’t anything new, but every time he does, I can’t help the boiling feeling in my lungs, that makes me rise to defend myself. “No, maybe I just felt like sleeping in?” I declare. A short-lived chuckle escapes him. “And you’re just gonna admit to that?” He smirks as he faces me. “I don’t like kids skipping my class.”

“First off, I’m an adult, second, you don’t care when kids skip your class,” I retort, with a growing smile, beaming across my face. Though, his complimentary smile, drops as mine comes to full form. He’s never seemed fond of my smile, or maybe it’s just me.

“You don’t skip my class.” He states once again, and my head quirks in confusion. “Um, I’m sorry?” I compromise, “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” He remarks dangerously. My brows furrow.

“Okay, I don’t get why it matters so much to you Mr. Howlett.” I place my hands on my hips, gazing down at him in his chair like I'm reprimanding a child. Which he is not akin to.

He lifts from his chair, standing up. I gasp as he towers over me. “Watch your tone, or I’ll fail ya,” he counters, fighting a smirk, staying stoic. “What?” I yelp and his smirk breaks through. My jaw goes slack. “Mr. Howlett, that’s not funny!”

“What’s not funny, is you pretending like calling me 'Mr. Howlett,' doesn’t turn you on.”

I freeze in disbelief. Was this one of my daydreams? Am I really awake right now?

“You heard me, you damn highlighter,” he asserts. “Call me Logan for fucks sake, if you’re a damn adult.” His scratchy voice loses its humour, and I stay frozen to the spot. “Get outta here, would ya,” Logan orders as he leisurely retakes his seat, getting comfortable for his next nap.

Unable to drag myself away, my eyes refocus on the subject of my desires. “Why do I have such a thing for assholes.”

Before Logan can respond angrily, I sit on his lap, dropping my purse to the floor, and straddling his hips. I cup his perplexed face and crash our mouths together, moulding them into one. He grunts in surprise as if he didn’t expect me to retaliate, as if he didn’t expect that I would want him this way.

He half-heartedly pulls away between kisses, whispering my name in small protests, but he gets muffled by my lips and grinds on his lap. Quickly, his objections turn into fierce groans. He takes my hips into his hands, tightly gripping into my flesh as he pushes me back, onto his desk. I whimper as his crotch stays glued to my core, even as we move. One hand then moves from my hip to my neck, holding it, then slowly sliding to my jaw, grasping it in a hungry, pressing kiss. His tongue laps my mouth, completely dominating me, and I struggle to breathe.

Just as I’m about to pull away to comment on how desperate he seems, his other hand flips me over with ease. My stomach is now on top of his desk, his crotch, like iron against my ass, and his hands trace down from my shoulder blades, to my bum. With my head hung over the desk, I pant, practically drooling.

“You’re asking for detention pinky,” he mutters, and I respond by pushing back into his hard cock. “I'm a sucker for extra attention teach,” I mention, as sensually as I could muster. He chuckles lowly, and I shudder. The pressure of his dick doesn’t change, and his hands continue their unhurried venture of me. “You like attention sweets?” Logan questions softly. His tone makes me shiver and whimper, yet again. “I like yours.”

“Just mine?” He questions darkly, telling me he doesn’t actually want any opposition. “Yes,” I whisper.

His voice drops an octave as he swears, rolling his hips into me once. I moan loudly. “Shhhh princess, you tryna alert the entire building?” He asks with amusement evident. I shake my head, no, and he laughs by my ear as he dips down. “Good, because I don’t like sharing your attention,” he says passively. “And I’d like to be the only ‘asshole,’ that gets to see what’s under these ridiculous clothes.”

“Hey!” I object meekly. I feel him smile as he leans away from my ear, and I turn my head over my shoulder to watch him peer down at where our bodies meet. “You probably want me to fuck you on this desk.” He speaks as though I’m not there to hear him. “Ya probably want to be taken here so that every time you’re sitting in my class, you can vividly imagine me deep inside you.” He trails off as his hand pushes up my shirt, touching my lower back.

“But we can’t do that,” he sighs hoarsely.

“Why?” My reply is so quick that I grimace.

“Because, if we did, I’d be hard every time I’m in this fucking room, and that isn’t the smartest idea.” I moan at his crudeness and gasp when he pecks my naked spine, just below my bra clip. “Even your lingerie is pink huh?” He laughs smoothly. “Imagined it would be.” My legs rub together instinctively at his words.

“You imagined it?”

He pauses. “Hell yeah I did, though I tried to fight it,” he muses in between a groan. “It didn’t take me long to figure you wanted this too, princess,” he murmurs pleasantly.

After a long beat of silence and a little grinding, I speak up. “So now what? If you’re not going to make love to me here.”

He slowly pushes the hair over my face, behind my ear, tilting my head to face him just a bit. He then leans down and kisses me on the cheek.

“I’ll come to you,” is all Logan says as he reluctantly wrenches himself from me, after giving my ass cheek a mild slap. I yelp and nearly pout at the loss of touch. We hold eye contact as he backs away. “Get going, otherwise you’ll be late,” he comments airily. I nod and scurry out the room, with a grin plastered on my face.

...

After a long, vigorous rest of the day. I collapse into my plushy bed with a sigh.

“Took you long enough,” a dark voice rings, with a hint of familiar sass. I jolt up to see Logan leaning on my wardrobe. His tight shirt is only more strained as his arms cross. “Been waiting to ‘make love' to ya all day,” he claims, with a mocking tone, repeating my "childish" words from earlier. My best guess is that he assumes I’m a virgin.

So, in an attempt to remedy my reputation, sitting up on my bed, with my arms bracing my figure, I slowly spread my bent legs. I bite my bottom lip, and his eyes shift down and blacken. “Get on with it then, Logan.” I roll my tongue as his name teasingly leaves my mouth. His head twitches in an almost feral manner, and I gulp.

“You’re asking for it,” is all he mumbles before pouncing on me. Our limbs tangle and I moan as his leg presses into my clothed clit. “Please,” I just about sob, to which he responds with an aggressive kiss and another crushing rub of his thigh. I moan louder, and he grunts, “You like that?” I push my hands into his hair, running my fingers through his thick locks. He lets out a coarse groan.

Loving how vocal he is, I decide to encourage him by groping his cock over his rugged jeans. “Fuck, baby,” he groans out when his mouth leaves mine. He then runs his tongue over my neck and collar, soon nibbling on my earlobe. His thigh continues to make work of me, and I match his pace. “You're so dirty,” he grins while his nose brushes my rosy cheek, and then he's kissing me. “I love it,” he professes with amusement, again, coating his tone.

Just as I begin undoing his belt, he flips me over on my stomach like before. Then, when I'm lying flat underneath him, he grabs my hips, to lift them towards his crotch as he kneels above. “I better see a pink thong,” he jokes as he strips me bare. He groans in satisfaction as I’m left in just my underwear for his viewing. “Unreal,” Logan practically purrs.

I wiggle my ass playfully, and he growls and smacks it harder than he did in his classroom. I squeal into my pillow, briskly going quiet when I hear his belt being ripped from the loops of his denim. Leaving my underwear in place, he runs his digits over the lace, making me whine, "Logan."

With his name on my tongue, it shortly turns into a cry as the lace covering my clit gets moved to the side, and two meaty fingers dive into me. "Shit, princess," he rasps. "How am I gonna fit?" He asks rhetorically, and I choke a sob, as he wastes no time building up an energetic pace, with his fingers.

He swiftly tears an orgasm from my trembling body, still holding my hips up with one hand. When his fingers leave, I hear his mouth clean them, and I swing my head to face him hastily, but he shoves my head back into my pillow. "So eager," he more or less snickers.

"Very," my smothered voice emits, barely audible.

I nearly shriek when his tip swipes my wet slit. Logan, without notice, suddenly pushes himself inside me, with an agonizing slowness, but I quietly persist. "Atta girl, that's it," he lazily groans out encouragements. My hands pathetically slide onto his thighs, unsure if I'm urging him for more, or begging for discretion.

At once, he shoves himself in all the way, and I let out an extensive sigh. His palm, which was just holding down my head, joins his other hand on my abandoned hip. He lets out various curses, along with my name, and begins to move, in and out. Soon enough, he's pounding into me at a savage rate, completely untamed. As well, it seems purposeful, how he simultaneously bends down to growl and moan in my ear, still thrusting.

He stirs another orgasm, still notably, not experiencing his own. "You look real pretty like this princess," he begins to ramble. "Gonna do this every fucking day." The rest of what he says gets lost in translation, as I grow overwhelmed and overstimulated.

Thoughtlessly, I try to crawl away while he still has my lower half hoisted up. Once Logan realizes what I'm up to, my pitiful effort has him laughing. "Where ya going?"

"Lo, it's too much-"

"Lo? Call me that again, it's cute," he hums.

"No more," I whimper, ignoring him.

"Just one more baby," Logan coos, while somehow increasing his pace, making me cum instantly, squirting a little. His moan rumbles in his chest, and he doesn't stop hammering into me. I grip my headboard, and one of his arms stretches alongside mine, to do the same.

When he cums, his grip snaps the wood, breaking a part of the headboard, making me shout in between sobs. He seems to not notice the damage, too busy finishing on my backside.

After a long minute, he slumps his large frame beside me. One of his arms stays drifting across my skin as his eyes intently coast over my features. "Maybe consider skipping my class more often," Logan expresses as his lips slightly tip upward. He presses his lips onto my shoulder. I smile, giggling, "Why?"

"Cause it doesn’t matter where I fuck you, there's nowhere I won't get hard looking at that pretty face," he smiles dreamily, "And you're impractical wardrobe.”

I giggle, "You truly have a way with words," I pause and smirk, "Mr. Howlett."

He rises onto his elbow with a devilish grin, "Now you're really asking for it princess."

453 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 2 months

Text

Azalea - A Lucien Flores One Shot

Summary: A man from your past shows up at a party and leaves you on the cusp of making a life changing choice. Do you stay, or do you leave with him?

Pairing: Lucien Flores x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. However Reader has hair long enough to be brushed over their shoulder and wears a dress.)

Word Count: 4.8k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶 “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral F recieving/mild ass play/kissing/infidelity/mentions of past issues with alcolholism and addiction/toxic relationship traits/unrequited love and longing/Lucien's chains come with their own warning

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: I get the sense (from the little clips we've seen of Lucien so far) that he's in love, and probably loves hard, and is messy and complicated with a turbulent past, and isn't a bad guy at all. So here he is, my version. I hope you like him. 😘 (I've used some of his lines from the clips we've seen too.)

MAIN MASTERLIST | LUCIEN FLORES MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

As guests mingle and laughter fills the air in the grand house, you can’t shake off the heavy feeling of discontent grinding sharply around your teeth.

As you stand invisible amongst the cluster of your braying friends, you can't help but cast a wistful gaze back towards the brown eyes staring at you from across the room, loitering casually with a hand in his pocket and lips wrapped around a cigarette.

It makes your skin itch and pickle that he's here.

How is it that he’s fucking here?

He’s like a ghost haunting the hollows of your bones. A constant white noise that only you can hear.

He looks good, well. Better.

He has colour in the capillaries of his cheeks again, and the way he stands is different, he seems taller somehow, a little more grey and wispy, but still handsome. He’s put on a little weight, a small paunch evidence of that. He appears more foreboding with those squared-off shoulders in their thick broadness.

He smirks at you, he never smiles. Just smirks, crookedly and you look away immediately. Those itches and prickles melting into warm heat that floods down your spine.

Fuck, why is he here?

You turn your attention to Mitch, basking in the spotlight of adulation. His animated gestures and booming laughter echo out through the open windows, mingling with the soft strains of music drifting from within the dining room.

Guests cluster around him, hanging onto his every word; their faces alight with admiration and respect. And it makes you fucking sick.

You slip away unnoticed, carrying a bottle of open and warm champagne, seeking solace amidst the blood red azaleas in the expansive garden.

You’re drinking from the bottle of flattening fizz bitterly, leaving your partner toasting his fortune and parry, and there’s tension swirling around your gut that hasn’t died down since the vicious verbal spat you endured the previous night with him.

Your jaw still aches from clenching it all night.

As the celebration in the house continues, the siren call of the garden seems to provide a contrasting haven for you amidst the vibrant azalea bushes that grow plush and full.

An immediate sense of relief washes over your clammy skin, being away from the pomp and grandeur of the party inside, where Mitch holds court with his characteristic charisma. Mitch is a man of stature, exuding an air of confidence that borders on total arrogance.

Tonight's gathering is, after all, in honour of the recent success of his book - a testament to his hard ambition and callous drive. You have no idea what it’s about. You’ve not read it, tiring of your opinions and input being constantly quashed.

Mitch moves through the crowd with ease, regaling guests with anecdotes of his success and achievements, which doesn’t care to highlight the months of patience and suffering you’ve endured whilst he wrote it; his crackling laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses and the hum of vibrant conversation.

Despite the outward display of celebration, you can't shake off the underlying tautness swirling in your gut, lingering from the fight that still hovers between you both. Mitch's ego often overshadows the relationship, and controls it, leaving your own feelings and desires overlooked and unappreciated.

And as you find welcome loneliness in the garden, a fucking moment to just breathe, you can't help but wonder if Mitch has even noticed your absence amidst the ass-kissing bestowed upon him.

Well, it's all about having the right mindset, you see. I've always been driven by success, and I refuse to settle for anything less than the best...

You roll your eyes at Mitch's self-congratulatory tone that follows out the windows and berates you further. It’s moments like these that remind you of the growing chasm between you, feeling a pang of disconnection, a sense of longing for something more profound than the superficial trappings of hollow success.

You find yourself retreating deeper into the shadows of the garden, seeking pause amidst the fragrant blooms with the champagne bottle as your only companion.

And then, startled by a familiar voice, one that grates on you for completely different reasons, you find yourself vis-a-vis with your ex-boyfriend, Lucien Flores, who’s unabashedly shown up uninvited.

Somehow inserting himself back into your life in blocks of time to taunt you further no doubt. The tension between you is palpable as you exchange awkward looks amidst the blossoming flowers under the moonlit sky.

His molten brown eyes are soft and deep as he smirks in your direction as you cast an aloof glace over your shoulder at him that is anything but. You swig on the bottle like his presence hasn’t jangled your nerves tenfold, but you both know that it has.

You can feel his eyes wandering and burning holes across your body framed in a cascade of vibrant crimson fabric; its rich hue contrasting beautifully against the wild backdrop of the garden. With every step, the hem of the dress brushes against the dew-kissed grass as you turn from him and head further into the darker recesses of the plush oasis.

Lucien follows, checking behind him to make sure you’re both still alone.

Lush greenery envelopes the space, with vibrant bursts of blood colour provided by the clusters of azalea bushes in full bloom, their delicate petals casting a gentle fragrance into the air. He watches as your fingers brush through their leaves and velvety heads as you pass.

Stone pathways wind their way through the verdant landscape, leading to secluded alcoves, where you find yourself now with Lucien’s presence engulfing the small space.

“This isn't really a good time for your bullshit, Lucien." You say, as you drink from the bottle again, feeling a trickle of its nectar within roll down your chin.

“I wanted to see you, amante," (lover) he says, nonchalantly.

You wince at the endearing nickname he used to shower you with, whispers of it keening from a set of explorative lips as they inked the affectionate moniker under your skin.

“Really.” You snort rather ungraciously. “Why are you even here?”

He drags on the last of his cigarette, smoke billowing from pink lips, before flicking it away, its embers dying in the night. “Can we talk?”

You shake your head adamantly. “We never just talk. You know I'm with someone else now."

“Yeah. Mitch.” He nods over to the house, the party still in full swing. “Quite the catch.” He slurs with a strained hiss, then smirks.

“He wants kids,” you scoff.

And Lucien’s face softens. “You’d be a great mom.”

“I don’t want to be a mom.” You confirm and he nods.

“I know. That's why I got the snip.” His eyebrow flexes in sympathy. “Remember that summer in Tuscany?”

You shake your head again. “We never went to Tuscany.”

He thinks for a second through the haze and frowns. “No, that’s right. That was Annabelle.” He corrects with a dip in his cheeks. He simply clicks his tongue at his mistake.

“Right. Annabelle.” You bristle. “How is she these days?” Although you don’t really care.

“We should go.”

“To Tuscany?” You baulk.

“Yeah, let's go. Right now. Slip away.” He suggests with a warm seriousness.

“Lucien-”

“Kiss me.” He steps in gently and you place a palm on his chest; the silk of his shirt like fluid under your touch.

Your eyes trail over the shiny watercolour of it, the way it hangs flimsy and baggy at the hem before you brave yourself to trail upwards over the familiar shape of his chest and exposed collarbone, shiny with sweat in the hollow. A duo of gold chains knotted around one another twinkle at you before your eyes find his own.

“You are so unfair.” You shake your head despondently.

“You’ve wanted to kiss me since you saw me tonight.” Lucien states, casually. You feel him take the bottle from your fingers and he drinks a mouthful of it for himself.

“I thought you were sober.” You frown.

“I am, but I still drink.”

You roll your eyes as he clears his throat and puts the bottle down.

“I don’t even know why you’re here tonight. Who invited you?” You question with a knitted brow. You’re pretty certain he doesn't know anyone here. Except you.

You he knows really well. Too well.

He looks at you for a moment, head dipped and cocked to one side as if taking you all in.

“You’re not happy.” Lucien says, brushing your hair over your shoulder and it lingers there, his fingers in your roots gently massaging.

You turn, your nose brushing the inside of his wrist and inhale the scents there. The sun, the natural salt musk of his skin, cigarettes. You close your eyes just basking in the innocent feel of him. He was always so generous with his touch.

“No, I'm not.” You turn your face up to meet his. You can't lie to him, not when he sees you - really sees you. “But I wasn’t happy with you either.”

“I am sober.” He reassures, dropping his hand. “Eight months. I have control of my life now.”

“Right.” You fold in on yourself. You can’t go there. You refuse to go there.

“I came here to apologise to you.” Lucien says, stepping back and casting his glance down the pathway back at the house and its design.

“Is that what your sponsor suggested you do?” You remark.

“Is it Venetian?” He asks.

From the outside, the house exudes an air of opulence, with its intricate facade adorned with ornate columns and graceful archways reminiscent of palazzos.

You shrug, watching him carefully as he frowns.

“I never knew Mitch had such exquisite taste." Lucien smirks with a sneer.

“He doesn’t. It’s his parent’s second home. We’re renting it for the summer. His stupid book tour.” You mutter.

"Pshoo. Fancy." He shakes his head. “No, my sponsor didn’t tell me to come here to apologise to you.”

He turns back to you, his features soft and moulding into concern at your watery eyes looking back at him.

“You seem... melancholy." You feel his thumbs stroke either side of your face and this time you don’t stop him. Just helplessly letting those rough, calloused pads swipe over the skin under your eyes.

“You’re all glittery and sad,” Lucien says, looking at the metallic shadow brushed delicately over your eyelids.

“Why are you doing this?” You query, deflating. Surrendering.

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me.”

“You think this is torture?” Lucien asks, stroking your cheeks delicately. “It got dark. I wanted to see the sun again.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he presses a long, lingering kiss to your forehead.

A phantom sensation dances across your skin - a gentle caress, feather-light and tender in its hesitation. In that brief, ethereal moment, you feel transported back to a time when what you and Lucien had was untarnished by the shadows of addiction and betrayal - a time when his touch had been a balm to your weary heart.

And you missed the sun too.

He walks with you, guiding you backwards to the craggy, stone wall encased in the curve of the dark. You can still see his eyes as they drop to your lips and you remember the taste of him, choking on the smoke of him as he draws nearer to your face.

A hushed conversation stirs your attention from the other side of the wall. A faint, muffled voice drifts through the thick stone wall, and your heart clenches as you recognize Mitch's unmistakable tone.

Lucien covers your mouth gently with an engulfing, warm hand as he ghosts his nose gently over the skin of your neck.

It's hard to focus as you inhale a faint remant of his heady cologne, but on the other side of the wall you can hear your partner Mitch on the phone; his voice dripping with honeyed affection that he hasn’t used with you for a long time.

Lucien pulls back as you push against his chest, standing straight, his palm flat against the wall above your head as he listens out curiously with you.

I can’t stop thinking about you either, darling…

Lucien’s eyes drop to yours, his smirk dipping. “He’s fucking someone else?” He mouths.

You nod. You’ve suspected it for a while now and are only more confounded as to why you haven’t left him yet.

"Pendejo." (Asshole/idiot) Lucien bites in a growl.

As he’s speaking beyond the wall to his clandestine lover, Lucien pulls back, standing upright and shaking his head.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms as Mitch waves his infidelity around the garden so casually.

His voice eventually fades out and Lucien takes one of your fists, unkinks your fingers, and brings your palm up to his mouth where he kisses it gently, eyes lancing at you, deep and entracing.

“Fuck him. Come with me to Tuscany.” Lucien drawls.

You wrinkle your nose. “What about Annabelle?”

He shrugs. “It didn’t work out.”

“Why am I not surprised?” You snort.

“Wasn’t the drinking.” He says, shaking his head and cupping your hand in between both of his ginormous ones. “Sober, remember?”

“You just drank from the champagne, I'm not an idiot.”

“Proof.” He says. “Proof that I can control it now.”

“You’ll never be able to control it.”

He nods. “Yeah, not without help. And I have help.”

You sigh and he looks at you earnestly pressing your hands to his chest. You can feel the ribbing of his heartbeat underneath them.

“I ended things with Annabelle ages ago.”

“Why? She was good for you.”

He breaks off with a garbled sigh amd swallows. You watch as he stares intonthe distance, and then he smirks.

“Do you remember when you threw my keys over the fence?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why did you leave her?” You say, fearing the answer.

“She’s not… you.” Lucien kisses your palm again and you can only watch him. Watch, rooted to the spot, heart thudding as he kisses slowly up your wrist and arm.

"I can't be with someone I don't love." He says simply.

You know it’s empty promises and hollow words as he paints this fantasy of a forever with him on your skin with his hot tongue. And it’s an illusion you’ll happily let yourself fall into for a while because it seems almost better than your current reality.

So you kiss him back. Pulling him by the lapels of his thin shirt until his lips are felt against yours, desperately.

He kisses you like the first time, when he was unsure and flighty. Before he became the man who broke your heart and left you walking barefoot on the shards of it.

His hands roam your face, cupping your cheek, thumbs stroking again as you feel his body crush against yours. Hips winding into your belly as he gasps around the taste of your lips.

You both part, panting and wanting, his deep eyes searching you out. He knows you’re in there somewhere, knows you’re better than this life, and also the one he tried - and failed - to give you.

Amidst the confusing turmoil, you can't ignore the unspoken longing lingering between you both, a palpable undercurrent of tension and desire on both parts.

He’s crushed tightly against you, bleeding into the shadows of the stone wall propped up behind you and your skin alike. You can almost feel the thrum of his heartbeat against yours, aquiline nose brushing up the side of your jaw inhaling the sweet scents of you that make his mouth water and his cock stiffen into your gut.

His hand pulls at the silk of your belt and your dress falls open, cascades of rich velvet and silk opening for his hands to roam gently over your naked skin.

You feel a rush of warmth flood your body despite the cool breeze puckering your nipples - warmth at the way Lucien looks at you, marvelling at you.

At the way he touches you, reigniting the sparks that you ensured you snuffed out a long time ago. You shudder at Lucien’s tender touch, the way his fingertips barely glide across your exposed skin, your weak heart fluttering in response to the raw vulnerability you see reflected back in his eyes.

You find yourself leaning into Lucien’s touch, finding solace and comfort in the unspoken connection that has always lingered between you both, despite everything. In that moment, amidst the fragrant blooms and the moonlit shadows, that small nagging thought mutates, that perhaps the love you’d always been searching for had been right here, in his stacked arms all along.

You shake your head, quickly gathering your wits and wrapping the dress around your body.

“We can’t do this.” You croak, trying to convince yourself of it despite all the blood in your veins rushing towards your centre and throbbing like a jungle drum.

“Yes we can.” Lucien assures. “I’ve fucking missed you, amante.”

It stops you in your tracks.

The words hang in the air, sharp and raw, teetering on the edge of a dreamy possibility that you’ve only allowed yourself to relive in the dark corners of your mind in quiet moments of a self-loathing masochism you allow yourself to harbour.

You feel his thick fingers on the tips of yours, a delicate yet invading touch that spreads its poison quickly and renders your resolve to crumble at your feet.

Any thoughts of regret are pushed aside as you wrap your arms around him and kiss him again.

Lucien worships your body as he trails his mouth over your naked breasts, sucking nipples into his mouth as he pushes you back against the wall. You gasp, already squirming and clenching as his lips leave more devastation.

He makes out with your stomach, dipping his tongue lavishly into your belly button as he sinks to his knees. Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging gently as you wind fluffed, messy curls around them.

Lucien turns you with ease in his large hands, gathering your dress to the side, and kisses across your butt, biting the pert cheeks of them softly into his mouth as his hands pry them apart and his tongue makes lewd discoveries that make you gasp into the wall.

He crushes you to him, wrapping his arms around your thighs and forcing his face further in between your cheeks as you reach behind and rake desperately through his hair.

Running his tongue around the tight knot of your skin, and your mind can't help to revisit all the times when he claimed it with his fingers and cock too.

He kisses over the dimples of your thighs, all around them, under them, the backs of your knees - just everywhere and anywhere he can run his scuffed lips against.

Turning you again, he stares at your cunt inches from his nose, that’s soaking through the flimsy, black lace panties you’re wearing.

“He doesn’t fucking deserve you.” Lucien growls, looking up at you. “I don’t fucking deserve you.”

“No, you don’t.” You breathe resolutely. But you pull your panties aside and he gasps as you yank him forward by the back of his head.

He groans out in sweet relief as soon as his tongue makes contact, swiping into your soaked folds.

His hands run up the back of your thighs as he squeezes your ass, pushing your sopping cunt further onto his mouth.

“Yes, Lucien, get in there… get right in there,” you pant as your eyes roll back.

You struggle to stay upright, your body like jelly as you feel yourself slipping against the ragged stone wall against your skin.

He pries you open with his thumbs, licking over the shiny, wet bead of your clit and your thighs shakes uncontrollably. He brutally sucks it, flicking his tongue over and over in his determination to make you unravel.

He won’t stop until you come, you know this. He always was a generous lover in carefree abundance. Far from what you’re used to now - Mitch hasn't touched you in months, and the thought of it makes your skin crawl.

Lucien’s tongue works you up quickly, lapping and gliding expertly as he mouths on you exquisitely. You hear him grunt in hunger and want as he pulls you onto him further; his blunt fingertips pressing bruises into your ass cheeks as he grips tighter onto you, your hips winding into his face.

“Lucien…” you whine as you bubble and brew.

His eyes look up at you, mouth and nose buried into your core as you come; the silvery moon bathing your face in sweet, adoring kisses through its crescent smile as your body heats and your bones shake.

He lets you taste it as he rises up and kisses you, slipping his honey coated tongue back between your lips as you groan.

"Taste so fucking good." He groans.

His fingers attack your pussy, sliding in and pumping fast as you gasp. Clutching onto his shoulders, the silk bunches up around them in knotted waterfalls spilling over your knuckles as you claw and squeeze.

“Come for me again, baby.” Lucien encourages in a low, deep tone. Eyes watching you as the shadows of the alcove play over his ragged face like Rorschach inkblots.

“I’m gonna fuck you right here, amante,” he grunts as you squeeze and contract around his fingers brushing over your spot. “And then I’m gonna take you away from here, away from that piece of shit, and fuck you again. And again.”

“Lucien, please…” you whimper.

“We belong together, baby. I fucking love you.” He mumbles into your lips. “I never stopped. Not once. And I know you didn’t either. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby... come for me, that's it, let go... come... Fuck, you're so beautiful.”

You cry out as your orgasm floods your body and his fingers. Your body shakes beyond your control, eyes glazed over and lost in a tumble of his sweet ramblings and bewitching ministrations.

“Come here.” Lucien reaches to his fly as he kisses your neck. His heady grunts sound like gravel in your ears, breath warming you with the acrid scent of smoke seeping into your pores.

He hoists your leg up over his thick arm, his hand coming to rest on your face again as you feel him run his cock through your folds. He dips his hips low as he breaks on through inside you.

“You feel that, you feel that all the way?” He asks, as he slides all the way in and out again.

“Lucien!” You gasp, your lips nipping onto his as you feel him pack you out. You never forgot the feel of him, so hard and thick.

"That's it, baby. Back where I belong."

His pants are desperate; puffy little breaths that soon grow into laboured whines of lusty need. Drunk off of you completely, sobriety smashed in an instant.

He vowed to stay away, to let you heal and move on, but he’s selfish. He knows he is. He can’t abstain, can’t ever quit you. It’s why he’s here, fucking another man’s woman because he’s selfish. Sabotaging every relationship he’s had since you, trapped in that cycle.

Basking in the addictive feel of your cunt squeezing around him as you come, watching as your eyes soar into the sky, howling his name into his mouth as he tastes your tongue and sucks on it greedily.

"Fuck, you feel so good." He grunts.

He comes inside you, filing you full, but he still keeps pumping, still keeps himself buried inside of you, fucking deep and slow. Unable to pull himself out of you, unable to be parted from you now that he has you back inside his hands.

You clutch on tighter to him, not wanting this to end; wanting to indulge in this secret shame in the back of the garden you've allowed yourself to wallow freely in.

He feels so good, so warm and thick. He peppers your face with kisses, the silk scruff of his jawline smooth against your cheeks. Your fingers coil in the curls behind his ears and the back of his bronzed neck, damp with sweat.

They tangle in the chains, one that you're pretty certain in your cock-addled haze that was a gift from you that he still wears - you pull him closer to you still.

“Come inside me again, Lucien,” you whisper as he pecks over your face gently.

“I wanna spend forever coming inside of you,” he whispers back, voice breaking.

And you know he means it. He always means what he says, it's just the follow through is often lost in translation. He’s not a bad man, you know this in your heart.

You spent days convincing your reflection in the mirror that he's not a bad man; he was just weak when you needed him to be strong - an unravelling mess. But he was your mess for time.

And now that he’s inside you again like this, so uncouthly unperturbed that anyone could venture down here and see him claiming you, you know a part of you still loves him too.

You believed it when he said he loved you and you suspect he probably hasn’t loved anyone else like he loved you.

It was raw, unfiltered. Intense. You know it because you felt it too. It hurt, viscerally. Consumed you both and spit you out.

A gaping wound that you’ve not been able to stitch up and every day you’re bleeding out. You wanna tell him how much it fucking hurt to watch him willingly drown, inadvertently pulling you under with him.

You want to lash out and scratch at his beautiful face, slap him and bite and bruise him like he bruised you.

But instead you kiss him, you hear him falter and become weak inside your ear and he groans and whimpers your name as he comes once more.

You let him flood you again, feel it dripping down your thighs, thick and warm as he stains your skin with him all over again.

In the afterglow of your post-coital bliss, your hand traces the contours of his weathered face, running lightly through the wiry greys along his jaw.

Lucien nestles into your palm, lips finding the skin to press in a kiss.

You want to believe it, you want to believe he’s changed and grown and learnt. That he's spent time reflecting, healing.

But you're still marred with the splinters of hurt that’ve lacerated your heart.

Looking into the rich, warm browns of melted chocolate, flecked with golden hues that dance like sunlight on water, you allow yourself to remember the days when Lucien was your everything.

When his gruff, nicotine soaked laughter was the sound that filled your days, and his touch chased away any fears you could harbour.

The ways he would fuck you for hours into the night; his sweat soaking into your skin, as you gnawed on his shoulder, like perfume you’d wear for days without showering him away.

You remember the first time you noticed the signs - the subtle scent of hard liquor on his breath, the empty bottles hidden away in the depths of your home in the most unusual of places. At first, you’d dismissed it as stress or a passing phase, but as the weeks turned into months, the truth became impossible to ignore.

You’d watched helplessly as Lucien spiralled further into the grip of his addiction, his once-charming demeanour giving way to bouts of anger and despair that would paint your bathroom in plumes of his vomit. You remember the sleepless nights spent drowning in tears, the ache in your chest that refused to relent, the biting emptiness that hollowed out your soul into a pair of unblinking eyes and a heart cemented over.

You wonder if that’s why you’re with Mitch now. Wonder if perhaps that this is all you deserve; that you’ll never be happy, so what's the point in trying to fight for it?

The nights had become endless cycles of fear and uncertainty, each day a desperate struggle to hold your crumbling world together. You’d become withdrawn, adept at hiding the truth from your friends and family, plastering on a smile to conceal the pain.

But amidst the chaos and despair, there had been moments of hope - fleeting glimpses of the man you had once loved, the man buried beneath the weight of his addiction and trying to swim out of it.

And though you had often questioned your decision to stay as long as you did, you can't deny the flicker of love that still burns within you for him, the belief that perhaps, just perhaps, there’s still a chance for redemption.

And you hate yourself for allowing your mind to go there.

Lucien reaches to the bush and plucks an azalea off the stem and combs it behind your ear.

“Beautiful.” He says with a smile. Not a smirk, a smile.

“I can’t go back to that place, Lucien.” You say, shaking your head.

You stare out at the house and the sounds of music and chatter still tinkle down the pathway towards you both.

“I know,” he says, running a hand through his hair listlessly.

You untangle the flower from your hair and look at it resting in your palm, the velvety petals smoothed out under your thumb as you stroke.

“But you can’t stay here, either.” His voice pulls you from your swampy thoughts.

"No," you agree. You turn to glance back at the house.

“Come with me,” Lucien pleads softly, deep eyes searching yours out. "What's stopping you, baby?"

Fingertips on your chin tilt you towards him. You tuck the flower inside his breast pocket and he looks forlorn as you do, eyes sinking and any trace of a smile vanishing.

You wrap your dress around your waist and he watches you belt it up into a messy bow on your hip. You can still feel him pooling between your legs.

You take in a deep breath, a steadying one that seeks clarity through the confusion, and inhale the familiar, swarming fragrance of the azaleas one last time.

My first time writing for Lucien and I'd love to know your thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog too so others can read and enjoy. Thankies! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | LUCIEN FLORES MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Tagging @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @undercoverpena @linzels-blog @avastrasposts @trulybetty

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #lucien flores #the uninvited #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #lucien flores x f!reader #jett's writing

451 notes · View notes

demonidoodles · 1 year

Text

𓆩♡𓆪 Angel Face 𓆩♡𓆪

#this was just posing practice since I’ve been character designing more than usual #but it’s Valentine’s Day today so this fits :))#I was hoping to show her and her gang members’s character ref sheets but that can wait #ocs of mine #ch: Lilith #story: basked in red #nsfw-ish??#artists on tumblr

4 notes · View notes

rheya28 · 4 months

Text

Bloom Garden & Cafe ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Bloom Garden and Cafe offers a delightful escape from the hustle and bustle of city life. Housed within a historic red brick building adorned with timeless elegance, the cafe boasts captivating skylights that bathe the space in natural light, creating an inviting ambiance throughout the day.

Whether you're savoring a freshly brewed cup of coffee, indulging in delectable pastries, or simply basking in the tranquility of the surroundings, our cafe and garden offer a haven of relaxation and rejuvenation

➽ Extra Notes:

● I built this last minute but It turned out so cute so I hope you all enjoy. I'm not quite done my main build, so I'm putting this out for now.

➽ Important Notes:

● Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators ● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

➽ Speed Build Video

00:00 Beginning 00:02 Intro 00:38 Speed Build 14:54 Photos

➽ Lot Details

Lot Name: Bloom Garden and Cafe Lot type: Cafe Lot size: 40x30 Location: Windenburg

➽ MODS

● Tool Mod by Twisted Mexi

➽ CC List

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, Tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make downloading a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, Peacemaker, kiwisim4. This will also ensure that the lots are complete and are not missing any items upon downloading ! Severinka ● Industriallight II [lamp C & D] Felix ● Chateau (all) ● Berlin pt [1] ● Colonial pt [3] ● Grove pt (all) ● London Interior ● Paris pt [2][3] ● Florence pt [4] TheClutterCat ● Dandy Diary Bathroom (wall scone) Harrie ● Klean pt [3] ● Shop the look pt [1][2] ● Spoon pt [2] ● Orjanic (all) Little Dica ● Rise & Grind (esspreso machine) Myshunosun ● Garden Stories (Patio lights) Peacemaker ● Kingston Dining (mirror) Pierisim ● Coldbrew ● Domaine Du Close pt [1] ● Mcm pt [1][2] ● Unfold ● Winter Garden pt [2] Charly Pancakes x Pierisim ● Precious Promises (Dining Chair) Softerhaze ● in bloom Syboullete ● Fency (statues) ● Inconstruction (Stake fence) Taurus Design ● Lilith Chilling Area (coffee grinder)

● Tray File: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: Applez ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Patreon: Rheya28 ● Youtube: Rheya28__ ● Reference: x

#ts4 #sims 4 #thesims4 #sims #thesims #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 cc #showusyourbuilds #sims 4 builds #builds #build #the sims 4 screenies #the sims 4 cc build #windenburg build #simblr #sims 4 interior

625 notes · View notes

z3rinn · 11 months

Text

# #. GASP ! THERE'S ONLY ONE BED ?!

featuring : our favorite dormleaders ! After booking a hotel it seems as if Crowley took the easy and cheap way out, leaving you without a room. Oh ? But the dormleaders aren't sharing a room with anyone ? And they offer to share a room with you ? But what's this ? Gasp ! There's only one bed ?!

warnings !! this story does contain some cursing

# #. RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Riddle is the type to offer you his bed and sleep on the floor instead. He knows it's the proper and gentlemanly thing to do and most likely wouldn't budge on the matter…. In reality he would love to lay beside you, basking in your arms and hugging you as close as humanly possible- ahem. He lets go of that fantasy, until you suggest creating a blanket barrier.

Alright. He'll agree. But only if you follow some of his rules. You must use separate blankets whilst you sleep and must sleep facing opposite sides- mainly because he doesn't want you to see the reddening of his cheeks. Not a word will be spoken between you two- as he doesn't want you to hear the cracking of his voice- and you must come to his next unbirthday as repayment!! Both you and him must abide by these rules, or else its off with your head!

However, in the dead of the night, where silence and chill slowly seep in through the cracks, you might catch Riddle shuffling closer to you for warmth. Arms wrapped around your waist as he digs his head into your chest, feeling your arms wrap around his form, your loving warmth envelope him completely. You'd best hope that he doesn't wake up like this though, for the collar around your neck isn't the only thing that'll be red.

# #. LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

Let's be honest, Leona would make you sleep on the floor, and probably wouldn't even give you a blanket. He would roll his eyes and tell you to deal with it on your own. But let's say that he's grown a softspot for you... and the way that pretty little nighty fell over your shoulders.

He'd beckon you over to his laying form, pulling you onto the bed, opposite from him. His front would face your back, and you could feel his eyes staring intently into your form. However whenever you looked back they were shut and he seemed as if he was sleeping soundly. It’s like sleeping with a predator, much more different from the naps he’d take in the botanical gardens.

As you finally fall asleep you may feel Leona shift closer to you, pulling you into him. His arms are snug against your waist, head against your shoulder, hair sprawled against you. A sigh left his lips as he pressed small kisses into your neck. His tail would be wrapped loosely around your thigh, legs entangled with yours. It was like he was trying to mold every body part to yours. And when you snuggled back into him, the lion couldn’t help but chuckle, he knew he chose the right one. It was some of the best sleep either of you had ever gotten.

# #. AZUL ASHENGROTTO

Sleeping with Azul is... stressful to say the least. His idea will no doubtly end in you making some sort of deal with him. If you disagree he'll let you sleep on the floor... only to not sleep the whole night because, 'how could he ever let his dear crush sleep on the floor???' If you agree, however, he will undoubtedly become a flushed mess, trying to stay calm and dignified as he utters his terms with a completely red face. He was absolutely sure you were going to disagree!! Either way it'll end up with you sleeping besides him. Either due to guilt or his own expectations.

Azul sleeps like a brick. His arms are by his sides or resting on his chest, legs straight and still. He doesn't move whatsoever, it doesn't look like he's even breathing. His face is unmoving and calm, like he has nothing to worry about. However if you look closely you can see the faint twitch of his eyes, and the slight reddening of his pretty cheeks.

Late into the night he finally begins to loosen up, turning onto his side to face you. His hand intertwines with yours, pressing your foreheads together in a sleepy spell. Your breaths mix with one another, adding a feeling of warmth that contrasts his cold body. His legs entangle with your own, acting as his tentacles that he so desperately wants to hold you with. He can't help but smile within his dreams. Hmm... he might have to make a deal with you to do this again sometime.

# #. KALIM AL-ASIM

Kalim offers his room to you with no hesitation whatsoever. A bright smile is on his face as he takes your hand in his own, bringing up to his bed. Out of all the boys he is the one most used to sleeping with other people, and due to having so many siblings that needed their brothers comfort at night it took him a while to finally be able to sleep alone.

It would take a while to actually fall asleep with him next to you though, as the two of you would be too busy goofing off instead of actually sleeping. When you finally rest Kalim climbs into bed facing you, his smile never once leaving his lips. He faces you as he lies there, his hand cupping yours in a comforting manner. He would entangle his legs with your own, sometimes playfully kicking yours when you would accidentally tickle him within your pile of blankets and pillows.

As exhaustion begins to settle in Kalim shifts closer to you. He hugs you in his sleep, both arms are wrapped around your waist as he pulls you into his chest. His head rests atop yours, smile never once leaving his face as he cuddles you even closer. The blankets are kicked off as one of his legs wrap around your hips, the other hanging off the bed. Its a mix of holding you like a koala and a monkey. If even possible, his smile grows tenfold, not being able to help the dreams of doing this over and over again with you.

# #. VIL SCHOENHEIT

Vil knows that beauty sleep is important, so I believe that he would offer to share the room with no questions asked. Although you can see a hint of irritation in his eyes. What if his fans got a hold of this? However, he'll do it for you. Like some others, he would make you do some things before sleeping besides him. Things meaning you have to follow his 15 step skin routine while he drys your hair and puts a face mask on you.

When finally getting to bed the two of you lay on your backs, Vil having his hands crossed over his chest with his eyes closed like a sleeping princess. He's tucked into his blankets carefully, legs straight and poised. Of course he had perfect posture even in bed- it only made sense. No words would be exchanged between the two of you

Vil doesn't move much in his sleep, but he definitely sleeps elegantly. Even while you cuddle into his side, a hand resting on his chest with a leg thrown over his own- sleeping like the potato you are- he still stays regal. One of his hands holds yours, intertwining your fingers while the other pulls you in by the waist. He moves your head to rest on his chest, moving the hand that was on yours to comb through your messy hair. He sighs to himself, but it's not one of annoyance.

# #. IDIA SHROUD

Idia was absolutely flabbergasted. He definitely wasn't the one who offered you his room!! It was his brother's doing- he saw a golden opportunity and wasn't about to let it pass! Idia planned on letting you keep the room yourself- and was close to renting a whole ass hotel for himself. He much rather preferred being ten thousand miles away, watching you from afar then actually interacting with you. However seeing that guilty look on your face as you asked him to stay made his heart race in ways he had never experienced. Oh sevens... what the fuck did he just agree to?!?!?

He would be freaking out the entire time, hair flashing a light pink at the tips as he stole glances at you from behind. The two of you would be back to back, sometimes brushing up against one another when shuffling around for comfort. Whenever this would happen he would curl up into a ball, pressing his hands to his face as he apologized profusely. And when he would hear your laugh- telling him not to worry about it- he couldn't help but flush more.

Idia could not fall asleep the whole night. And it was not because you were pressed up against him. Nor was it because you were hugging him like he was a stuffed animal. And it definitely wasn't because he could feel your breath at the back of his neck, sending cold shivers down the hot mess he was becoming. He just hoped Ortho was actually charging and not giggling silly at his ship finally coming true. Well, I guess he wouldn't mind if it did.

# #. MALLEUS DRACONIA

As soon as you enter the room Malleus is all over you. He fusses over every little detail, trying to make sure everything is comfortable and in a good enough condition to suit your needs. But in the least subtle way possible. Is the room too hot? Perhaps too cold? How are the pillows? Do you need more? Are they too stiff- or too fluffy? Or maybe you need some more blankets? Perhaps he should get some more just in case.... He knows he is being overbearing but how could he help it? He had to make sure everything was just absolutely perfect for his child of man.

It takes a while, but once you finally get Malleus to settle down he flops down into a comfortable position on the bed. Right on top of you. His head lays on your stomach, horns near your chest. One of his hands supports his head, feeling how your heart beats while the other holds you in place by the hip, gently rubbing circles into it. His claws lightly dig into your skin,and he feels your heartbeat increase. Its ever so enticing to just sink his claws into you to see how you'd react. His legs trap yours in place, wrapping around them like a dragons tail would. He can't help but sigh in content, looking up to your flushed face with a sly smirk on his face. Oh how he would love to cuddle you for eternity.

Your forced to sleep like this the whole night. And the next... and the next. You shouldn't have ever agreed to sleeping with him- as this is how you would spend the rest of your nights. Trapped in his ever-loving embrace.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia

2K notes · View notes

florencemtrash · 6 months

Text

Please remember me - Azriel x Reader

Ok but just imagine how heartbroken Az would be if he lost the woman he loved, but when the Cauldron brings her back, she doesn't have any memories of him.

It's after midnight and I'm feeling things...

___________________

You broke through the frigid darkness, something fragmenting beneath your fingers into a million sharp pieces as you wrenched your body up and gasped for breath.

Freezing. You were freezing to death in a pool of water. Or so you thought. Weak, uncooperative limbs flung over the lip of the pool, rough skin grabbing hold of you. You spilled out of the Cauldron into Azriel's waiting arms, and he wasted no time in burying his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your familiar scent no longer tainted bitter and metallic by blood.

"Thank the gods. Y/n. I thought... I thought I lost you. Y/n. Y/n." He whispered your name over and over. A word more precious than the holiest of prayers.

You basked in the safety of his arms, the strength in the hands that gripped your hip and cradled the back of your head. That feeling of safety didn't go away when the stranger pulled back, molten hazel eyes staring into yours. He was the most beautiful male you'd ever seen. A face composed of graceful lines broken up by the tragic pain in his eyes, the tears that traced a path down his cheeks, the pained smile. He looked at you the way mates did in all the stories you'd read. Like holding you was the same as holding the world in his palms.

But when he kissed you, stealing the breath from your lungs like he was the one that had nearly drowned, you knew you needed to put a stop to this. One hand on his chest, the faintest hesitation on your lips, was all it took for him to pull away, eyes searching your body for any sign of hurt.

"Y/n? What is it? What's wrong, love?"

You hesitated. Your name was familiar on his lips, like it belonged there, like it belonged to him. But none of that changed the fact that you had no idea who this raven-haired male was.

"I-I don't..." You didn't want to say it. Didn't want to break the look of hope and relief on his face.

"Y/n?"

You finally noticed the small collection of fae behind him. A striking female with silver-tinted eyes beside a male as strong and wide as a mountain, Illyrian wings held tight against his spine like a notched arrow. A male and female, clearly mated, looking like figures carved from the fabric of the night sky. A female in red with golden-blond hair and doe-brown eyes. All of them weeping, or wiping away tears from red-rimmed eyes.

"Y/n? Please, look at me." Azriel begged, "Please." He whispered, feeling the tension in your body and the panic in your eyes, "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

When your eyes slid back to him, his heart plummeted in his chest, nose diving faster than he'd ever fallen in his life. He knew what words would tumble off your tongue before you said them. The confusion in your eyes spoke volumes.

"I don't... I don't know you."

The room stilled, voices trapped in everyone's throats along with their breath, and Azriel's hope shattered into a million pieces.

#azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel acotar #please remember me #angst #reader x inner circle #the night court #acotar #acotar fanfiction

544 notes · View notes

wolfythewitch · 1 month

Note

hi I feel like I've been attempting to interact with your stuff way too much and I'm probably annoying you but I wanted you to see some of my own sketches of your Hadestown au bc it had a chokehold on me yesterday and it wouldn't leave me alone. I decided Elias would be Hermes for several reasons

(You don't have to read this bit if you don't want to lol)

Tim doesn't have anything close to a guide/mentor figure in tma and Elias is probably the only person who a) has a connection to him and b) actively utilises Tim's decisions for his own ends. He's a bitch yes, and his Hermes would be a much more insidious, manipulative one, but there's really nobody else who fits the bill as much as Elias does. He enjoys the tragedy, actively basks in it in fact, and I think while Hermes continues to tell the story hoping that it might end well one day, Elias would tell it knowing that it never will and enjoying the inevitability of it all. He would appear genuine to the other characters, but the audience would know that he's a rat bastard - and this would show through to Tim during "Hey, the big artiste...".

Also I gave Jon a bundle of heliotropes instead of a red carnation bc they signify devoted, undying love and they have a tragic origin derived from an old Greek myth.

enjoy (or don't, whatever floats your boat). your art is very cool and got me to enjoy my own art process for the first time in a very long time so thank you a lot for that :)

Oh this is so cool!! Your style is so pretty and aaa jonmartin dancing <33 I've thought more about Elias as Hermes but I've come to the decision that I don't want the tone to shift that much haha, and Elias being hermes would definitely switch the tone of hadestown needing you to think every time that maybe, maybe this time it will end with a happy ending

#ashaltra #wolfy tedtalks #hadestown au

356 notes · View notes

raven-moon-ink · 2 months

Text

Yan!Kane x reader darling

Pairing: Yandere Vampire OC Kane x reader

Content: MDNI!! (๑•̀ㅁ•́๑), TENTACLES, uhhh….unprotected sex??(tentacle condoms not applied ☹), feet fetish (sorry, I read a Nanami fic with this and have been low-key obsessed ever since), rough fucking, edging, suuuper dubby-con- yeah say bye to consent cuz he kinda manipulates her into thinking it’s a dream (never give up consent irl babes!!), BLOOD, biting, vampire kink, reader is mostly an oblivious soft cinnamon roll who already has a huge crush on him, daddy kink surfaces for a bit lmao, vampy dark romance aesthetic, oh yeah- yandere oc~ (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⁾⁾

Reader is a young writer who got selected for a writing retreat that is being held in a medieval castle. Only ten participants were selected after the interviews.

You were absolutely bewitched by the dark, mysterious castle that was nestled deep in the upper woods. When you first entered the castle, you roamed it for hours, excitedly skipped around the long, lonely corridors, your soft laughter waking up the castle monster. The stained windows with splashes of bright red on melancholy purple and green sparkled vividly on your beautiful skin. You stood next to them, basking in the morning light, unconscious of another splash of bright red- two glittering orbs that stared at you, hypnotised.

At dinner, the retreat organiser stood up and raised his wine glass to the tall figure that glided into the dining hall. “Lord Kane,” he said enthusiastically. “Thank you so much for hosting the Young Writer’s Retreat. Your castle is so otherworldly!”. You looked up from the mouth-watering food to the face of the castle master.

Your face heats as you stares into the most breathtaking face you has ever seen. Sharp, angular features framed by spiky silver hair. Your eyes distractedly wander the slopes of his broad shoulders and tight waist that strained against the velvety black of his shirt. Kane’s smiling eyes move from the organiser and rest on you, the cold garnet eyes enchanting in the bejewelled light of the chandelier. Your eyes flinch back to the silverware, heart stuttering nervously in your throat.

Yan! Kane ignores the empty spot next to the organiser and slides into the seat next to you at the end of the table.

You focus all your energy on not choking on the itty-bitty ass bites you shove down your dry throat. You reach for your wineglass, before realising it’s empty. Kane produces a bottle out of the shadows and pour the dark liquid into your cup while you stare at his long fingers that balanced the cold bottle, mind blank.

You hear him chuckle under his breath and murmur something. Huh? Did he just say “Cute” ? Aah, you must have misheard. You smile and murmur your thanks softly, not noticing the way his red eyes flashed the moment your lilting voice came out. “Is the food not to your liking?” he asked, looking at the painfully small bites you were taking. Your stomach twisted anxiously, “No, no- the food is lovely. I… I just don’t have much of an appetite today.” you said apologetically meeting his eyes.

Yan! Kane who pours all his energy on putting you at ease throughout the meal, asking you about your story and yourself. He is absorbed in everything you say, blood-red eyes resting on you warmly. You slowly relax and start smiling brightly as you chattered— both of you wrapped in a cocoon of your own, while everyone else talked amongst themselves.

You are the last to leave, as you hang on to Kane’s stories about the castle (not at all distracted by his dark red lips or husky voice or intoxicating scent that wrapped around you with how close he stood).

“Good night, Lord Kane.” “It’s just Kane.” And you half-ran back to your room, chiding yourself for being such a romantic all the time.

But you can’t deny the way you were clenching your legs after drowning in his scent throughout dinner. You can’t help whimpering when you caress your sensitive folds while soaking in the bath. Your fingers disappear into your warm hole, while you think of his veiny arms and fingers gripping the bottle. Since when did you get so horny by someone you hardly knew? You guiltily draw your fingers out, before climbing out and drying yourself. You fall asleep fitfully, rubbing your thighs to stop the ache in your cunt.

The moonlight withdraws from your windows and your room is washed in darkness when your door opens silently. A shadowy silhouette walks to the foot of the bed and watches your sleeping form.

Yan! Kane didn’t think much when he offered to host the event. In the many hundreds of years he had lived, he had always supported the arts, and the writer’s retreat sounded intriguing enough to him. He loved the quiet of his castle, where he could work on his magic all day and go hunting in the privacy of his enormous property, which his servants looked after meticulously. But doing the same thing for a whole decade can tend to be boring, and mortals…were interesting little things.

Yan! Kane who was obsessed with you the moment he saw your dreamy face as you wandered the halls. What a darling creature you were! So pretty and adorable. Were you trying to tempt him with your shy eyes and tiny smiles and that fucking sweet voice?

He was so fucking hard throughout dinner, his mind drowning in your sweet voice. He glared at the rest of the company who peeked at you now and then. How dare they listen your lovely voice or look at your enchanting face? He wanted to rip their eyes out and drown them in the lake nearby for their impudence. You were his now, and only his. His pretty little darling~

He knelt next to you feet on the bed and gentle lowered his lips to brush the soles. You squirmed in your sleep and he grinned lightly, sharp canines glinting in the darkness. He made his way up your leg, planting wet, open mouthed kisses on your calf and your soft, plush thighs. His dick throbbed as he bit lightly into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. It would look even prettier painted in his cum.

You shivered in your sleep and he tilted his head to frown at the blanket you had kicked off the bed. Whatever. He had other ways to warm you. His eyes glowed scarlet and smoky tendrils gathered around his back, curling and uncurling excitedly as they solidified.

Two long tentacles slid up your nightdress, pushing it up past your waist and revealing your clothed pussy to him. His nostrils flared as your arousal hit him and he reverently dragged his fingers up the wet cloth.

More tentacles wrapped around your ankles and your thighs, holding you open, as he pressed a soft kiss to your core. You mewled softly in your sleep, and pressed your legs together, pushing him in deeper.

Your eyes opened and you blearily looked down at Kane’s face between your legs. “K-K-Kane?,” you ask, shocked. “Shhh, darling, it’s just a dream,” he whispered his eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. Your mind felt pleasantly hazy and you hesitantly smiled down at him, “I-It is?” He moved the scrap of fabric hiding you from him, a silky growl escaping him when he sees how sweetly wet you are. With a snap, he got the fabric off, making you yelp. Wrapping his corded arms around your waist, he buried his head in your core, his tongue lapping at the slick. “Kane!” you gasp, when the tentacles up your dress wrapped themselves around your soft breasts. The little suctions at the tip sucked hungrily at your hard nipples making you cry out from pleasure.

Kane nibbled and sucked on your clit, making you tremble and grab his hair. He abused your poor clit till you were grinding desperately on his face, your walls clenching emptily.

“Kane!,” you sobbed softly and he groaned into your heat, sending delicious vibrations up your womb. You repeated his name like a plea as you bucked into his mouth. He raised his drenched face and grinned at you.

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Touch me, please,” you sobbed shamelessly (this was a dream after-all, right???), tugging at the long strands of his moonlit hair.

Yan! Kane inserts two fingers into your hole, before slowly driving them in and out, the dragging pace driving you insane. His fingers buckled and pressed against the sweet spot that made your mind blank and arch off the bed. Your juices run down his fingers as he drives it in faster and faster, pushing you closer to the edge. “Kane, it’s too much!” your fingers push weakly at his head, but another pair of tentacles bind them and hold them over your head as he feasts on you. When he wraps his mouth around your clit and sucks, you fall apart, coming with a fractured moan. While the orgasm shocks pulsed through your body, he licks you through it, his tongue cleaning up everything you gave dutifully.

“You’re so perfect, darling,” he whispered happily, rising up and hovering over you. His eyes widen in surprise when you push up and capture his lips, tasting yourself on him. He returned the kiss greedily, sucking and biting on your soft lips. His tongue slipped in and drove into you with the same rhythm as his clothed cock grinding against your slick cunt. He drank in your moans with a heady grin, grinding more and more desperately against you.

He finally pulled back when you looked like you would pass out and sat back on his haunches at your feet, while you gazed up dazed, with your hands and feet still bound by his tentacles.

“Such a good girl. And you know what happens to good girls, sweetheart?” he cooed.

You blinked at him softly. He groaned.

Another tentacle rose up beside him, different from the others. Little suctions lined the underside, while the body was ridged and bulbous. He panted as he stroked it up and down, making it jerk excitedly. He smiled up at you as the tentacles moved towards your pussy.

“They get fucked like the sweet, little sluts they are.”

“Don’t you want daddy to fuck your pretty little cunt, princess?,” he asked, rubbing the hard length up and down your dripping core. It sucked along your folds, squelching as it slid along your wetness.

“Yes daddy,” you shakily whispered, thrusting your hips.

“Such a good girl,” he praised as he slowly fed the tentacle into your pussy.

Your eyes rolled back with a whimper, while your back bowed jerkily against the mattress, as it stretched beyond anything you ever imagined. He pushed deeper and deeper till it would go no further, and you felt so full you couldn’t think. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, grasping one of your feet. His appendage move inside you, sucking along your sensitive walls and making you cry out. He rubbed the bulging tent of his pants on your bound feet, humping it like a dog in heat, while his tentacle fucked you roughly, it’s bulbous head hitting against the spot deep inside that made you shake and scream, over and over, till tears streamed down your face from the overstimulation.

“Kane, kane, KANE,” you moaned like the sweet darling you are.

He bucked against your foot, his eyes rolling deliriously and a lopsided smirk on his lips.

He leaned forward and kissed sloppily along the underside of your breast, while you moaned and whimpered incoherently, your body bucking from the way his tentacles thrust into you, curving and filling your tender walls.

Another smaller tentacle played with your clit, edging you relentlessly. You mewled and clamped around the tentacle pounding into you, making him hiss.

“K-Kane! I’m …!”

He nipped his way up your chest, marking the delicate skin. Your thighs shook as pleasure built up like a storm. He reached your throat and the sharp canines dragged across your skin. Right before your climax overwhelmed you, he bit down. Blood trickled slowly, mixing with the aphrodisiac of his saliva.

You broke with a scream. You came for what felt like forever, squirting pathetically, with stars glinting sharply in inky darkness of your vision while you floated weightlessly. When you came to, you felt his tentacles release you and slowly drag out of your cunt. It thrusted gently into you once more before pulling out with a wet pop.

Kane groaned one last time as he bucked against your feet, before he shuddered and collapsed on you.

You shivered weakly, the soft caress of his lips on your neck and his body wrapping tightly around you being the last thing you register before passing out.

“Sleep tight, darling.” He smiled into your hair, bloody canines flashing.

“Tomorrow has only just begun.”

286 notes · View notes

sanjisboyfie · 7 months

Text

sanji has a crush you ♡

-> alternative title: sanji's ass is gay as fuck and you gotta deal with his flustered ass desperately trying to win you over.

-> kinda rushed aat the end

sanji is exhibiting normal sanji behavior, cutely obsessed with you and everything about you. he's soooooooooooooooooo obsessed. i'm sorry i couldnt help it. forewarning: if you are scared of obsessively in love men DO NOT READ THIS lmfao (that's a joke, but he is rlly in love w u and overwhelmingly so)

sanji x male reader

— just sanji crushing on you and acting like a whole ass middle schooler with a crush, but not in the "i'm gonna pull your hair because i like you, but i don't want you to know" type of way, rather a, "i, uhm, found this pretty flower that...i think you would like...do you like it :3"

you were lounging on the deck of sunny, basking in the sun beside robin and nami. the three of you were peacefully enjoying the breeze, while the girls were talking about their recent adventures and you happily listening on to their stories.

when suddenly, a shadow covers the sun from hitting your skin. lifting the glasses from your eyes, you grin when you notice that the figure is sanji. and he's looking everywhere but you.

"hi, [name]," he greets in a quiet voice, eyes darting everywhere but your bare torso. if he were to look at your glistening skin any longer, he might just get a really bad nosebleed...it was tempting for him, though. you were so handsome, he'd get as many deadly nosebleeds if he needed to just to stare at you longer. but for the sake of keeping you clean of his nosebleed, he continued averting his eyes.

robin and nami stopped their chatter and smiled at each other when they recognized the flustered look on sanji's face.

"hi, sanji," you said in return, leaning against your elbows to comfortably look up at him, "what's that you have there?" you ask politely,

the blonde jumped at the question, clearing his throat as he finally met your eyes, "oh, this, i thought you'd want a drink...it's your favorite," your eyes widened at that, making sanji's heart do leaps.

at moments like this, he loves being the ship's chef. there was no one else on board that could make you react like this, only his careful expertise as being a chef could do this to you. it made him feel important and his face got redder at that fact.

"wow! thanks! you're like a mind reader, i was starting to get a bit too hot-"

"do you want me to move the umbrella more to cover you?" sanji asked immediately, happy to be of service to you. you laughed at his eagerness, shaking your head.

"i think nami and robin are using it right now, i'll be alright. i don't want them to burn up,"

"oh..." sanji's voice trailed off as he lifted his head to bravely look towards the women on the side, "nami-san, robin-chan, is it alright if [name] uses the umbrella for now?" he very politely asked, shoulders square and head held high.

nami laughed at him while robin took it upon herself to answer, "no, it's alright with us," and sanji was bolting over to lift the umbrella and position it right above you, a meek, but proud smile on his face.

"sanji, you didn't have to," you said softly, but then you thanked him for his efforst in making you comfortable. that was enough to make him burst into a tomato red color. "and, by the way, this is delicious! i love it so much, sanji,"

"i love you so much."

"sorry?"

"oh, nothing!! i didn't say anything, [name]!! i said, nothing!!!" and he was running off before you could tease him further.

he slammed the door to the kitchen shut and then repeatedly hit his head against the wood as he muttered degrading words to himself, "idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot!!!"

"well, you are an idiot, we knew that, but now you're acting borderline insane, what's up with you, pervy cook?"

of course, zoro had to be in the kitchen. sanji whipped his head around and screamed at the top of his lungs, "out of my kitchen, marimo!!!"

this made zoro laugh in his face and then leave at his request, muttering something about how love sick sanji was and how obvious he was about it.

— sanji carefully crafted each dish he makes for you, making it look pretty and extra nice. cooking is his speciality and acts of service are his love language. combining the two is the closest he can get to confessing his actual feelings to you.

the crew was lively in the kitchen and you were hidden away in the crow's nest. sanji had drowned you in treats throughout the day, leaving your appetite for the dinner not very big. you assured him (more than 20 times) that you indeed felt full, you weren't skipping meals, and you were already satisfied. that was the only way he let you skip out on dinner.

but while the crew was eating, sanji was still behind the stove. his fingers nimbly moved in decorating the platter very carefully, holding his breath every now and then in anticipation.

"whatcha making, sanji?! extras for me?!" luffy excitedly asked, coming bounding around the counter and standing beside the chef.

immediately, sanji kicked him away and warned him, "do not!! touch this, this isn't yours, luffy! i'm serious, don't even think about it!" sanji looked at the men of the crew, "that goes for the rest of you too, this isn't yours, filthy batards!" and his voice softened as he spoke with a smile to robin and nami, "if you want a dessert, ladies, i wouldn't mind making seconds for you two!"

"it's alright, sanji-kun, just focus on making [name]'s," nami said with a wave of her hand, a knowing look in her eyes.

"yes, i am quite full of the dinner you served already. it was delicious as usual,"

there wasn't a grand shift of emotion on sanji's face as he politely thanked the ladies for their kind words. but then his cheeks erupted in color when he finally caught on to what nami said, "ah! no, no, this isn't for [name]-"

"there's no denying it, sanji, just keep spoiling him rotten and leaving us to starve. even if he is a man just like us, for some reason he's not a "filthy bastard" but [name]~" usopp said in exasperation, eyeing the dessert sanji was making with longing, "we wouldn't expect you to spare us any of that...anyway..."

sanji's red face from embarassmnet instead turned into one of annoyance, "shut your mouth and quit complaining! i'm not spoiling him - he deserves this! he didn't come and eat dinner with you guys, meaning there was more servings for you! be thankful to him! ... and don't call him a filthy bastard!! he's very clean and neat, unlike you guys!"

"ah, yes, lord and savior [name]!" usopp said, clapping his hands together as if he were praying to the man, "i wish he were here right now, though, to save us from sanji's fury, ughh," usopp sighed at the end of his sentence, making sanji's eyebrow quirk in annoyance.

"calling me a god, usopp?" your voice rang in the dining hall, making everyone's heads snap to you. "that's a pretty hefty title,"

"woah, that was just like that enel guy - you came when we summoned you! do you have ears all around sunny, [name]?" luffy asked, wonder in his eyes as he walked towards the door, "you should teach us that sometime!"

you smiled at your captain, allowing him to pass you with ease as he went to blow off his energy on the deck. chopper and usopp grinned at you as they followed after luffy, going to entertain each other. robin and nami walked past with kind smiles, the orange haired girl winking at you. franky pat you on the back, a thumbs up being thrown at you, only making you more confused about what you possibly missed.

brook was singing on his way out, something about young, forbidden love. you didn't see it, but sanji threw his head in his hands in embarassment. zoro was the last to leave, whispering to you to, "fix the idiot cook already, it's getting tiring dealing with his bullshit everyday," and then leaving you with no other explanation.

"what was up with all that," you rhetorically asked, chuckling underneath your breath and making sanji just shake his head in response. "sanji, did you forget to serve that to robin and nami? if you want, i can give it to them?"

sanji shot his hand out, catching your own that was reaching for the plate he was just preparing. realizing his actions, he immediately released you from his hold and shook his head, "no, no, it's...um...it's not for them."

the blonde cursed himself in his head, wishing he didn't become so blubbery in his words whenever he spoke to you. but he couldn't control it! not when you were looking at him so gently, so patiently. god, just thinking about you looking at him made him weak in the knees. because that meant you were just focusing on him. sure, you could be thinking of others things that weren't him (his heart literally shatters at that notion), but in the moment, you were physically turned to and only paying attention to him.

it made him almost sigh dreamily. his heart was already beating faster and his stomach was filled with butterflies.

"they're not?" you leaned over the counter, taking a seat as you did so.

"no, they're," he took in a deep breath, fists clenched at his sides, "they're for you,"

your eyes widened. and sanji internally cursed you for being so effortlessly handsome, while tilting your head in confusion, "but, sanji, i told you you don't need to prepa-"

"i wanted to," sanji cut you off, quickly apologized for doing so, before continuing, "i wanted to make your favorite, just to give you something to eat before bed,"

you smiled, and sanji internally cursed you again for being so sweet, and gently rubbed his arm, "thanks, sanji, you're so kind,"

he bit his lip in content, trying to hide his happiness as he simply nodded his head. there was no way his voice wouldn't shake if he spoke now.

wordlessly, you moved your hand off of his arm and picked up the spoon from the plate. humming in content once the food hit your tongue to let sanji know that his expertise did, in fact, not fail him.

"it's so delicious, sanji!" he was going to thank you, but was cut off when the spoon you had just used was shoved into his mouth. you were grinning at the surprised look on his face, "let's share!"

sanji got a nosebleed. because the gears in his head quickly turned. the spoon in his mouth, which you just used, meant that you two just...indirectly kissed.

his head flew backwards and blood was streaming down his nose. the last thing he saw before passing out was your worried face above his own.

— sanji often times thinks he looks like an idiot pining over you. he just feels so awkward. he cannot mess this up or else his life might seriously just cease having meaning. he's never felt so serious about someone before. it was always fleeting thoughts of how someone was attractive in his eyes. now, with you in front of him everyday, looking like an actual angel (or handsome devil, both are fitting, he thinks with an odd smile). he just can't help his thoughts from running wild. what if after your pirate adventures, the two of you settled down together? happy. near some shoreline, not a worry in the world. sanji just catches himself thinking of a future with you in it, despite the two of you not even dating or being remotely romantic towards one another...not yet, at least.

it was nighttime and the both of you were on night watch. you were scheduled to be in the crow's nest and sanji confidently took it upon himself to join you out of courtesy. in the crow's nest, you were looking out at the calm sea while sanji was just looking at you, admiring you.

"sanji," you called out, your eyes still trained on the sea, "you've been staring at me for the past 10 minutes,"

the man gulped nervously, wondering if this would be the moment. the moment he finally confessed to you. it's been long enough for him to be sure of his feelings (he was in love with you), this was the perfect setting - just the two of you, and it was all calm.

but what if you rejected him? then his heart would be laid out in front of you, you wouldn't reciprocate, and then you'd have to sail together for however long needed, knowing in the back of your mind. he would know you didn't like him back and you would know that he one-sidedly liked you.

it was too painful of a loss. that was the main reason why he hasn't ever thought about pursuing his confession to you.

"make it 11 minutes now," you chuckled, finally turning your head to him and examining his confused features, "what are you thinking about, sanji?"

you. he bit his tongue to prevent that single word from slipping past his lips.

"nothing," he said quickly, maybe too quickly.

out of nowhere, your hand went to the back of his neck and pulled him in close. he turned rigid at the action immediately, turning into a stiff statue as you stared right into his soul.

"why're you lying to me?" you asked quietly and sanji almost collapsed into your lap and began begging for forgiveness. you, obviously, weren't actually mad or annoyed at him for his little white lie, but sanji didn't want you thinking he lied so easily.

that wasn't a good quality to have as your boyfriend, your lover. so sanji quickly said, "i'm sorry," with a weak tone and looked right into your beautiful e/c eyes with nothing but sorrow.

you could so easily spur an immense amount of strong emotions from sanji. he felt like he was being played like a toy. but, also, he didn't mind. not if it was you. he didn't mind a lot of things if it was you.

"sanji, why do you treat me so differently?" you just saying his name made him feel like he wanted to just collapse on your lap and stay there. be nurtured by you.

"i don't mean to," he answered, "i really don't. i can stop, if it makes you uncomfortable, i'll stop,"

you shook your head and sanji felt some strands of your hair brush against his skin. goosebumps formed at those points. even the strands of your hair made him react so vicerally to you.

"no, that's not what i meant," finally, you released your hold on his neck and leaned back to create a more comfortable space between you two. unconsciously, sanji leaned in towards you. "i mean, have i done some amazing thing to you before? it kind of feels like you're making some thing up to me, like you're repaying a debt..." your voice trailed off awkwardly, "you don't have to act so doting to me, sanji, for whatever reason - especially if it's to repay a debt. i don't want you stressing about something silly like that,"

what? sanji was confused. you thought, this entire time, he was just being nice to you to make up for something. there's no way. he wondered how oblivious you had been ot his advances. have you been unaware this whole time? was he perhaps not acting as obvious as he thought he was?

that was slightly comforting to think about, if that was the case. but also a part of sanji felt as if he failed. he was pursuing you. behind all his blunders of stuttering words, unhealthily red faces - he wanted you to know that he was pursuing you. he wanted to hint at his feelings so you could hopefully pick up on them.

"that's not why i act the way i do," sanji carefully said, watching your reaction. and when your face twisted into confusion, he urged himself to take this chance to continue, "i wanted you to know...want you to know, i mean, that i really, really, really..." he took in a deep breath, offering a weak smile, "i really like you, [name], and i was too scared to tell you like i am now, so i was catering to you to hopefully make it obvious. well, i see how ambiguous that my actions are now and i wish i had done it different so i could properly have wooed you, but, it's too late for that. i wish i had done it more-"

he was cut off when you suddenly moved forward and pressed your lips to his. he melted into your touch immediately, his body reacting so naturally to yours. his eyes fluttered shut, intenally sighing in relief at how his confession did in fact work out in his favor.

and it took a lot out of him to move away from you, but he did need air to breathe, unfortunately. if only he could just breathe you in and live off of you alone.

he sighed, chest heaving as he really wrapped his head around what just happeneed.

"i know," you said softly, a smile on your handsome face that was literally captivating him, "i knew, i mean. just wanted to hear you say it,"

sanji blinked. were you...taunting him? no, teasing was the more appropiate word because you weren't hurting him with your words. but your mischevious grin and glint in your eyes did tell him that you were in fact teasing him.

"uhm, you knew?" he repeated, making you chuckle and pinch his cheek lovingly.

"i wanted you to confess to me," you clarified, leaning forward and playing with the strands of his blonde hair around your finger, "i though you'd sound cute confessing," you leaned in further, lips ghosting over his, "and you did,"

sanji's face was exploding a dangerous shade of red. god, this was so embrassing. but, your lips were on his again and he wiped away any self preservation and completely gave himself to you.

you pulled away quickly, speaking in breathy tones, "i like you a lot too, sanji," his heart skipped multiple beats, then started racing even faster when you gently pushed him down onto the cushioned sofa, "been wanting to kiss you like this since i joined the crew,"

sanji was going to pursue more answers, but your hands carding through his hair made him speechless.

"been wanting to kiss you all over like this for so long," you peppered short kisses all over his skin, making him feel like he was on fire.

"why didn't you?" he quietly asked, making you pull away and grin down at him.

at this point, he was completely laid out on the sofa, his legs spread and hugged around your waist as you leaned yourself over him. the hands on either side of his head felt like a cage that he definitely didn't mind being in. with you looking down at him from above, he wouldn't mind staying there forever.

"i liked imagining you confessing to me," you grinned, "plus, i wasn't sure if you were even into me. i heard from the others that you were exclusviely nice to the women of the ship, so i didn't want to bother pursuing you either."

so, you were basically saying that you and sanji could have been together even sooner if he had just showed more obviously to begin with that he was deeply enamored by you.

sanji was cursing his past self very colorfully right now.

"sorry for being so mean to you, though," a bashful apology was enough for sanji.

and he missed the feeling of your lips on his, so he leaned up to meet you halfway, but you stopped him, "do you forgive me?"

"yes, yes, i do," sanji breaths were hitched from how excited and happy he was.

you grinned at his reaction, feeling proud that you were the cause of it, "aren't you glad we waited, though?"

sanji almost shook his head no on instinct. if he could have had this sooner rather than later, he would've taken the former over the latter any day. you saw the way his head stuttered in place, unsure of the right answer. so you leaned down, right next to his ear and sent shivers down his spine by whispering, "cause this is gonna feel so much better now after such a long wait, right, sanji?"

#sanji male reader #sanji male reader fluff #one piece imagines #one piece x reader #one piece x male reader #one piece male reader imagines #sanji x male reader #sanji x reader #male reader imagines #x male reader #sanji imagines #x reader #gooooodododoododdd i love this man #WANT HIM SO BAD #HASHTAG SMASH #HASHTAG SMASH SANJI #sanji is gay

1K notes · View notes