Hey there, welcome to my writing blog. I’m Caitlin. I’m 22, and a recent college graduate that writes fanfiction in my free time. I use they/them pronouns for the most part, but am totally okay if you sometimes use she/her. I’m multi-fandom, and my muses flop around frequently—so there’s a nice variety of content hopefully to please you! For the most part, I tend to write for classic cult cinema and television shows, and some for more rarer fandoms that do not get the love they deserve. My current high muses are the fandoms in which I am currently very interested in, or feel motivated to write for. If you want to request something, shoot me an ask! I cannot guarantee I'll write everything that comes my way, but I'll do my best. I often write based off of things that grab my interests.
『 Current High Muses 』
Twin Peaks, Re-Animator, Columbo, horror movies, and The Evil Dead Trilogy.
『 Personal Disclaimer 』
I unfortunately do have very crippling social anxiety (which has only been exacerbated by our current state of things), and often have a hard time interacting and talking to my followers. These feelings ebb and flow much like my muses, and I hope you understand why I might not respond to your messages right away, or drop off in a middle of a conversation. I appreciate each and every one of you so much, and truly love to read all your comments, notes, messages, and DMs!
I also have a job / personal life and might go on random hiatuses for a few days. If I take any longer of a break, I'll usually post something saying that I'll be gone for a bit. Again, the writing muse takes me or it doesn't sometimes, as we all know the evil of writer's block.
『 Navigation 』
Everything I have ever written can be found here in this masterlist! Click on the link to the fandom of your choosing in order to access that specific masterlist. If anything is off or links are not working, please do not hesitate to let me know! Thank you for your continued support, I hope you enjoy my works!
if you enjoy my works, you can support me on ko-fi! My work will always remain free, and Ko-FI tips are completely optional! It is just a little thing if you'd like to show your support, and it means a lot to me :)
『 Content Warnings / Rules 』
Smut is clearly labeled on the posts, and will be delegated also with the ⭑ emoji next to it . 18+ ONLY for those works. If you are a minor and I see you interacting with these posts, I will block you. This is not negotiable. Some dark content and sensitive subject matter can be found in some of the fics, as well as some of the characters I write for are...very unsavory characters. Read the warnings before each work on individual posts to be sure!
However, I will NOT write: self harm/su*ci*al behavior, rape, non-con, and/or sexual assault, incest, underaged characters, dd/lg (daddy kinks are okay) and fetish content that personally makes me uncomfortable. If you're not sure, you can always just send me an ask to see if I would write it. This is a judgement-free zone, but at the same time I do have my personal limits
masterlist begins under the cut
Columbo Masterlist
Cape Fear (1991) Masterlist
Dog Day Afternoon (1975) Masterlist
Re-Animator (1985) Masterlist
The Godfather Masterlist
Twin Peaks Masterlist
Midnight Mass Masterlist
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Hi, Mom! (1970)
“Hi, Neighbor!” - Jon Rubin x Reader
“The Adults are Talking” - Jon Rubin x Reader
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
“Nothing’s Gonna Harm You, Not While I’m Around” (Alex DeLarge x reader fluff! fic)
⭑ NSFW Alphabet - Alex DeLarge
⭑ Alex DeLarge taking your virginity
⭑ Alex DeLarge showing romantic gestures towards you
Alex DeLarge seeing one of his droogs flirt with you
⭑ Alex DeLarge with an Innocent S/O
⭑ Just some Alex DeLarge Smut HCs
Cured!Alex DeLarge w/ a touch starved reader
Valentine’s Day with Alex
The Droogs with a shy + chubby s/o
Preference: First date with Dim
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Bang the Drum Slowly (1973)
Dating Bruce Pearson
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)
R.P. McMurphy with an Artist!S/O
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Taxi Driver (1976)
“Anywhere” - Travis Bickle x Reader
⭑ NSFW Alphabet - Travis Bickle
⭑ Dating Travis Bickle
HCs: Dating Travis Bickle (SFW)
Travis Bickle Kidnaps you for ransom
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
The Shining (1980)
⭑ Jack Torrance’s kinks would include
⭑ Jack Torrance being jealous would include
⭑ NSFW Alphabet - Jack Torrance
Soft Moments with Jack Torrance
Jack Torrance w/ a GenderNeutral! S/O
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
The Evil Dead
drabbles
↬ "Bedsheet Ghosts"
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Scarface (1983)
⭑ Tony Montana NSFW Alphabet
Valentine’s Day with Tony Montana
Tony Montana and his relationship with your child
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Angelheart (1987)
Louis Cyphre with a Soft! S/O
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Goodfellas (1990)
Dating Tommy Devito
Tommy Devito with a touch starved S/O
Tommy DeVito with a Chubby! S/O
⭑ NSFW Alphabet - Tommy Devito (Smut)
Valentine’s Day with the Goodfellas
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
My Own Private Idaho (1991)
HCs: Being best friends with Mike Waters
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・
Reservoir Dogs (1992)
The Reservoir Dogs Having a crush on you
The Reservoir Dogs with an artist s/o
The Reservoir Dogs and their relationship with your child
Snow Day with the Reservoir Dogs
Valentine’s Day with the Reservoir Dogs
The Reservoir Dogs reacting to their S/O calling themself ugly
Sonny helps you unwind with a bath and kisses, but gets clingy when you try to get out.
Steam curled up in lazy swirls from the edge of the bathtub, the soft scent of lavender and honey floating gently in the air. It clung to the candlelit tiles of the bathroom walls, birthing shadows that danced like little secrets around your submerged form. A content sigh escaped you, sinking deeper into the warm water, muscles finally unclenching after a brutal day.
Knelt beside the tub was the lean body of your lover, sleeves of his cream button-up rolled to his elbows, Sonny’s hand moves soothing strokes through the bubbles that clung to your arms. His eyes were soft, lidded with affection, long lashes slightly connected in parts as the hot mist of the bath slicked them, lips parted slightly as he watched you unwind.
“You look like your…melting, like a marshmallow in hot chocolate,” he murmured, voice lazy and warm, his words having little thought behind them as your form enveloped his mind.
You snorted affectionately, turning your head to rest against the edge of the tub, eyes flickering across his pretty face, “flattering.”
“I’m serious,” he grinned, his fingers trailing down your shoulder and into the water to toy with your wrist, pulling it out of the water and to his lips, “sweet and soft and perfect,” he muttered into your hand, words said softly between small kisses.
You smiled at him, a tired but full one, lifting your wet hand to cup his soft face, delicate features flushed from the warmth. He leaned into it instantly like a cat, closing his eyes and nuzzling into your palm, pressing soft pecks to your palm.
“You always take care of me,” you whispered, like a prayer, his lashes fluttered open, gaze hazy, “’course I do.”
Pulling your hand inward easily, he offered no resistance and allowed his body to be pulled, bent half double, over the tub. Only he let out a little squeak as you kissed him, gentle and slow, with the kind of fondness that sits in your chest for hours. Sonny kissed you back just as tenderly, soft fingers coming to brushing your jaw, brushing away the droplets that clung to your skin.
Minutes passed like that—lips brushing, hands caressing, the water starting to cool.
Pulling back slightly, you shifted and stretched out, shoulder blades bumping with the rim of the tub clumsily, “alright,” you murmured, starting to sit up, “I should get out before it goes cold.”
“No,” Sonny said quickly, half-damp hands coming to cradle your shoulders, eyes flickering over you in a slight panic as his voice became softer, “don’t.”
You blinked owlishly at him, paused mid-motion, “what?”
He pouted pathetically, grazing a hand along your collarbone and up to your jaw, grasping at it slightly. Sonny leaned in further, the bottom of his cream button up dripping thick droplets, “just… five more minutes, baby.”
“You want me to turn into a raisin?”
“I want you to stay with me,” he said, nudging his nose to your cheek, “you’re all relaxed and glowy. You smell like heaven. Can’t we just… stay like this?”
You tilted your head, smiling gently, “you could join me, y’know.”
He perked up immediately, “yeah?”
You laughed, “I was joking.”
“I wasn’t,” he grinned, bending impossibly over the tubs edge to needily pepper kisses to your cheek, begging for you to stay, “c’mon, you look too good in here, I’m gonna sulk if you leave me alone.”
“Sonny,” you warned teasingly, though a small grin graced your features as Sonny doted on you, “don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m literally built to be dramatic,” he quipped between pecks, “especially when you’re all slick and flushed and makin’ that little sigh you do when you’re cozy.”
You arched a brow at him, your cheeky grin widening, “you catalog my bath sighs now?”
He leaned down and kissed your jaw, then your neck, the your collarbone, “I catalog everything,” he murmured, a hand still softly cradling your cheek.
You made a noise that was halfway between an exasperated groan and a laugh, “fineee, five more minutes.”
He pulled back just enough to beam at you, triumphant and cheeky, quickly leaning back down and continuing his escapade down your throat. All you could do was grin and thread a hand through his hair, dampening it slightly, allowing your fingers to slowly scratch his scalp as a little noise escaped him.
“You’re warm,” he mumbled into your neck.
“You’re clingy.”
“Damn right I am,” he spoke reverently, pressing a soft, smug kiss behind your ear, “and you love it.”
You leaned your head back onto the tubs rim, eyes fluttering closed, “maybe I do.”
Tony doesn’t know what aftercare is in theory—but he gives it in his own way. Once he’s gotten off—groping, growling, cumming all over himself and you like a dog in heat—he’ll light your cigarette, kiss your thighs, pour you a drink with shaking hands. “You good, mami?” he’ll murmur, eyes still wide. He’s obsessed with your body but even more obsessed with being able to stay curled up behind you, arm slung over your hips like he belongs there. If you let him stay the night, he’ll curl around you like a pitbull in silk sheets.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
His: His hands—he thinks they’re strong, capable, the kind of hands that could hold you down or worship you, depending on how you want him. Yours: Your ass. Always. Tony is obsessed. Whether it’s hugged by your little red slip dress or bare and teasing while you lean over a vanity, he can’t stop staring. He gropes it when you kiss, and dreams of spanking it while cumming in you, nightly.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Messy. Desperate. Obsessive. He wants to cum on you more than in you—on your thighs, ass, tits, even your shoes if you told him to. He wants you to see what you do to him. If you tell him when to cum? He’ll do it instantly. The idea of being told drives him wild.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He jerks off thinking about scenarios where he owns you. Not in a sweet “relationship” kind of way—owned. Collar, leash, tattoo of his name on your hip. He won’t say it out loud often, but the thought of you being his in every possible way is his dirtiest fantasy.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Tony’s slept with a lot of women, but you’re the first one to truly unmake him. Nothing else compares. He’s experienced, but with you, he feels like a schoolboy again—clumsy, desperate, passionate, aggressive, and gives it his all. He’s surprisingly eager to please, especially if you hold control over whether or not he gets to touch you at all.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Anything where he can watch you squirm. Face-down, ass-up or straddling his lap, with his hands full of you. He loves you on top, tits bouncing in his face, especially when you take charge and ride him without mercy. Tony does not have a submissive side but more a worshipful side, instead of taking you like your his, he’ll treat you like a god—on his knees, face between your thighs, letting you ride his face, completely getting off on being underneath you.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Not in the moment—sex makes him serious. Sweaty. Grumbling. Desperate, but if he’s very comfortable, he might throw in a filthy joke or a cocky grin. “You like that, baby? Told you I’d ruin you.” Afterward he gets all cocky and smug, licking his lips and saying dumb shit like, “Told you I’d make you feel good, huh, baby?” (Even if you came once and he made you beg the entire time.)
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Dark, thick, and coarse, you tug it during sex and he goes wild. Rough stubble on his face scratches your thighs when he’s between them—he keeps his hair trim, slightly styled, but not overly groomed (but he thinks it’s charming). He doesn’t shave his body hair. Natural, masculine, and just groomed enough not to be a mess.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
It’s intense. He’s not slow or romantic by nature, but he feels everything, he can be tender when he lets his guard down, though it’s rare. In the moment, he’s more animalistic than romantic, but the little things—If you touch his face during sex, stroke his cheek, kiss his temple—he’ll short circuit and look at you like you’re divine. Every kiss feels like a prayer.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
All. The. Time. Tony jerks off a lot, especially when he’s frustrated. He does it thinking about specific memories—your scent, your thighs, something you said. He strokes himself while muttering, “fuck, you like that, huh, mami?” as if you’re in the room with him. He can’t help it. He’s obsessed.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Power imbalance: whether you have the power or he does, Tony lives for the battle of dominance and thrill of power.
Praise and degradation: his dirty talk consists of both, sometimes he’ll spank your ass and call you a slut, sometimes he’ll press kisses down your stomach and call you his queen.
Possession play/heavy D/S: loves to have you dressed how he wants, doing what he wants and adhering to his every desire, his deep want for control and to brand you as his becomes very obvious in these moments.
Denial/edging + overstim/ruin: Tony lives to have control over your pleasure, whether you go dizzy from it or beg him for it, all make him feel powerful and dominant. (Though theres also a side of him that would enjoy you flipping the narrative and having your way with him, but he’d never admit that)
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Anywhere you'll let him. Bent over his desk in his office, riding him in the back seat of his car, you moaning his name while he fucks you over a balcony railing, bathroom at a party with your lipstick all over his cock—he loves the thrill. But his favorite is the bed, when he’s got time to take in every inch of you and go at whatever rhythm he wants.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Anything you do. You could’ve just woken up or just run a marathon and Tony would’ve still gotten hard over something about you. Whether it be your legs, your scent, the way you look at him when you tease him. Just absolutely anything, he’s that obsessed.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Sharing. If you bring up anyone else, he shuts down. Not into you degrading him either—he’s cocky, but deep down he wants to be seen as worthy of you. Absolutely hates being ignored unless it’s part of a game you two are playing where you’re in control.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Giving: He lives to eat you out. Buries himself between your thighs like a starving man. Will stay there until you’re shaking or force him away. Receiving: He lives for it. His head falls back, mouth open, hands tangled in your hair, muttering “fuck” over and over. He talks to you the whole time, “that’s it, baby, you were made for this, huh? Look at you—look at you.”
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Rough and urgent most of the time, but he can slow down—especially if he’s feeling possessive. Then he’ll take his time, grip your hips, and fuck you like you’re his to own and mark forever.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Loves them. Tony can be horny at the drop of a hat. A whispered word or a look and he’s pulling you behind a door, grabbing your ass, and grinding against you, he’ll fuck you in a hallway during a party if you let him. He gets so worked up over you that he needs a release or he’ll lose it. Always cums quick, but it’s never enough. He wants a second round when he’s got you alone.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
He’s wild, loud and reckless. Office, beach, hallway, anywhere. The riskier it feels, the more excited he gets. If he thinks you might maybe let him fuck you where someone could hear? His dick’s already hard.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
High, especially when coked up. But if he’s not, he can still go two or three rounds, especially if you’ve finally let him cum after teasing and edging him. He’ll get sloppy with it, though. Sloppier the more desperate he gets. He cums hard, but he recovers quick if you stroke his ego (or his cock).
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He doesn’t own any, but he’ll buy anything you want. You tell him what to get, and he’s there, credit card ready, eyes wide, vibrators? Yes. Restraints? Absolutely. Whatever you mention, it’s yours. He’s especially obsessed with vibrators—watching you squirm from something he controls? Yes, please.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
He can’t tease for long—it drives him too crazy. It’s sloppy. Obvious. He’ll grab your ass and whimper “You feel that, baby? You feel how bad I need you?” But he lives to be teased. Sit in his lap and grind without letting him inside? He’ll beg. Literally. He starts off cocky but melts under a bit of pressure (but will never admit it happened after he cums).
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Tony is filthy. Loud, cocky, sometimes unintelligible when he’s too worked up—“So fuckin’ tight,” “You like that? You want more, mami? Fuck, I’ll give you anything—just let me—fuck—” “You got any idea what you do to me, huh? You look at me and my cock’s fucking aching. Fuck. Mami. Fuck.” “You gonna keep treatin’ me like a dog, huh? Is that it? You want me to beg, huh?” He calls you “mami,” “baby,” “muñeca,” and “fucking perfect” in every breath. When you deny him, he growls. When you ride him, he howls. He’s insatiable and he wants you to know it.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
About 6.5”-7” inches long, but thick, veiny, and heavy. You tease him about it just to watch him get cocky and defensive—but when he’s hard and leaking from a single kiss, you can’t deny: it’s a pretty dick.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Off the charts. If he wants you, he wants you. Constantly. He’ll walk around hard, angry, and agitated all day if he hasn’t been satisfied. He jerks off just to take the edge off, but it’s never enough. If you don’t give him anything, he’ll fantasize until he’s so pent-up he might cum just from you brushing past him.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He sleeps like a rock after sex, snoring, curled up behind you, hand cupping your boobs or thighs like he’s still trying to claim you even in his sleep. But if you leave him without sex? He stays up. Jerking off again. Groaning your name. Planning the next time he sees you.
NOT US MAKING A CURSED RETURN TO TUMBLR AT THE SAME TIME ‼️‼️ I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL AND THANK YOU AGAIN FOR MAKING TEENAGE ME A LITTLE LESS MISERABLE
HEY PRETTY GIRL LOL I feel around March every year I feel the desire to come back to this blog and I always giggle and kick my feet, I’m so happy to see everyone and I hope you’re doing well too ily droogie <3
In a flickering New York night, Sonny moans your name, undone by your control, your touch, and the worship between you.
The cracked bedside lamp shone low, flickering slightly as its bruised bulb buzzed, the sound muffled by the uncaring horns of the traffic far below. The night wanders of New York hollered and hooted all around us, on the stairwell, on the pavement below and all throughout the city, though the only sound that either of you could recognise was the creak of an old mattress and shy, soft pants.
Sonny’s head was tipped back against the crumpled pillow, cheeks pink from embarrassment and arousal as his dark eyes gazed up at you longingly, like a man in worship. Between his plump lips he bit his hand tightly, knuckles white from the tight tension in his body, his pants and whines enveloped barely by his soft skin.
The barrier of his fist proved ever futile as you rocked your hips forward again, taking his length impossibly deeper inside you, movements so controlled and teasing he couldn’t stop the shaking moan falling from his lips, loud enough those New York wanders could hear him.
His hips shuddered involuntarily as he began to rut up back into you, attempting to take some kind of control over his own ecstasy, but looking into those big, pretty eyes of his, you could see the helplessness in them.
You just smiled at his pathetic state as your palms came to press down on his flat stomach, a silent order to stop his movements and simply obey, eliciting a shiver through his whole body as his hips stilled.
Grinning, you leaned down to press your lips to his ear, “god, look at you, so fucking desperate,” the warm breath of your whisper practically seeping into his brain. A whimper shook from his throat, though still muted by his hand, without thinking you slid his hand from his mouth, bringing it above his head in one swift motion, “why’re you being so shy, baby? Don’t want the neighbours to know what I do to you?”
His eyes fluttered, wide and innocent, teeth catching his bottom lip as he shook his head — silently pleading for you to have mercy on him. You did nothing but raise a brow at him slightly, before pressing a kiss to his jaw, biting down on the sensitive skin, “don’t hide from them, baby,” you whispered, “let them hear how pretty you sound.”
Only with a roll of your hips did he let those sweet little noises slip out, shaky and needy and raw — only making you want to ruin him more. His hands gripped at your waist, palming and squeezing at the peak of your curves, like he was overwhelmed by the feeling of your warmth in his hands, so much softness, so much closeness, so much you.
His moans soon becoming mixed with your own as the movements of your hips lost their control, thighs burning as you bounced wildly atop him, both of you slick with sweat and need. Meeting your body’s rhythm, Sonny’s thrusts began again with the same neediness as before, whimpering your name each time his cock disappeared inside you.
The bed creaked again, the radiator hissed, somewhere in the building a dog barked, though somehow, Sonny’s moans and pathetic begging were louder than them all. A final roll of your hips pushed you both over the edge, breathless gasps and loud whines filled the room as you both were overcome with pleasure, pressed against one another.
You collapsed onto his chest, satisfied and spent, panting into the crescent of his throat as his heartbeat thundered in your ears, "think the neighbors know your name now," he muttered, trying to sound cheeky — but his voice was hoarse and his blush only deepened, still drunk on you.
A small giggle left your lips as you kissed the corner of his mouth with a smile, brushing the sweaty curls back from his forehead, “they’d have learnt it soon enough, baby, you make it sound so good,” you murmur against his skin.
I MEAN KINDA! I like to write sometimes and I need a place to just dump everything, im super obsessed right now with some obscure characters and just want to write them !!
Pairing: Dr. Victor Frankenstein [2025] x creature!reader (NSFW)
Word Count: 1.3k
Summary: Victor Frankenstein tries to outrun you, his creature. He has such hatred and distain for you, but is it really all an act of self preservation?
The Devil works hard, but Oscar Isaac as Dr. Frankenstein works even harder? Crazy how I go into crazy spurts of wanting to write, happy summer! Reader is kinda supposed to take on a bit of a bride of Frankenstein role here! Deviation from original book, not canon blah blah blah 18+ only you remember the drill
"You are blasphemy against God, you have damned yourself to an eternity of hellfire due to your hubris. What happens now is well deserved, Victor."
He runs. Runs and runs and runs across a frozen landscape, escaping visions of your newly arose body flash before his eyes. You were a mistake, he should have immediately burned your blueprints and body before the reanimation process ever began. His floor length wool coal whips against the wind, collar slapping him against his face.
It was a rather beautiful place to die, the sunset breaking over the glaciers casting a hue of pink and orange across the ice. This wasn't a suicide, it was an escape. A mixture of tears and snot plastered to his face, forming and creating miniature icicles that froze upon contact. He could no longer control you anymore, no longer keep up with your insatiable desires. His time on this Earth was coming to an end, and He'd rather be it by his own hands than that of a monster.
God. If you exist. If you hear me now, end my suffering. Kill me. I cannot bear another day on this hellish earth with my creation. If you cannot spare me, I will accept my penance and spend eternity in hell
He knew you were somewhere out here. You wouldn’t let him escape that easily. Outrunning you seemed to be a futile process. Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe the exhaustion and cold finally overtook the older man's body. A final merciful death as his body froze.
Victor landed with a silent thud against the cold, barren tundra. A whisper against an unforgiving climate.
-----
His eyes readjust, blinking slowly as the harsh light of sunlight reflected from freshly fallen snow assaults his senses. His body weak and covered in milky yellow patches, fingers and toes still tough like wax paper. Thick, dark curls fluffed and disheveled framed his unshaven face, brows furrowed together in confusion. Patches of thick, frozen ice still stuck to his coarse beard.
The familiarity of his laboratory began to come into view, the glass pane spiderweb-esque window behind him as he rested his head on a makeshift bed. A place he spent countless nights when he refused to leave your side, even during slumber. How he returned here seemed nothing short of otherworldly.
Something stirred within his loins. At first it was a subtle bounce, signaling someone else is occupying this bed with him. He blinks, looking up to find you on top of him -- naked, like you usually are —
he has given you the finest of clothes, tailored from the finest artisans in Switzerland, yet you always strip yourself of them, choosing to run wild and naked through his castle without care for proper society
— your cunt stretches and pulsates around him as he's deep inside you. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps this is his eternal punishment. His eyes showed with a glint of hatred, yet the whole scene before him was nothing short of titillating. He watched as your breasts rose as fall with each bounce of your hips, moaning as you took pleasure out of his half-frozen state.
Victor’s voice came out, a raspy, delicious sound of a man riddled from sleep.
"Y-you harlot. You slut. I've given you life and all you could possibly desire and yet you cannot be satisfied? All you do is take and take and take, like a greedy streetwalker. You were a mistake — you belong to the streets, or better yet, you should return to what you once were Dead."
His words are icy. Cold, trembling with each syllable. Whether from pleasure, or his still frigid body attempting to find any warmth. The way his hands could easily reach up past your bosom, finding the false pulse point within your neck that thrums beneath your bastardization of what one may call human flesh. How easily he could just take his fingers, digging in and snapping your neck to the side.
God giveth, and God taketh away. How fickle life is.
But he barely can deny the pleasure he gains from your flesh, as you bounce your perfectly created form on his cock, thick and stretching out your walls fully.
He should know, he molded you to take his cock perfectly, every inch and crevice and vein fitting inside you like a perfect puzzle piece.
You smile down and laugh at him, your flesh stitched together parts unable to fully interpret his words. They have no meaning to you -- your life is sex and honey and animalistic intentions, continuing to explore your body with your hands as you find your perked nipples, moaning at discovery of extra stimulation.
This is the perfect human. This is how we should be. An ascent to our truest forms. Raw, here are his arms. You’re beautiful. Otherworldly. Godlike.
Blasphemous.
You chase that constant high he gave you the first night of your creation - raw, feral, an unhinged animal as he slammed his cock into your pussy over and over again. Unable to even move you to the bedroom, he climbed atop your lab table, body still sparking from the lightning that brought your flesh to life. Your sharp nails clawed into his back, leaving bright red lines in their wake. Proving your existence -- proving that his ultimate desire has manifested.
"Y-You've damned me to an eternity in hell. My lust has finally consumed me, and I despise what I have created." You just moan in response, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips thrust in tandem down the length of his cock. You feel the familiar heat rising within your stomach, threatening to release at any moment.
"V-v...." a pathetic phoneme of his name. The air in your lungs rushing past your vocal cords, giving a first attempt to finally speak -- something other than just guttural moans and grunts, something that stirs an unknown itch.
Victor's eyes grow wild, his anger bubbling deep within him enough to gain a semblance of strength in his frozen limbs. His hands reach up to squeeze the flesh of your hips, sinking into it as he flips both of you over,
"D-Don't fucking...don't fucking say my name! You don't deserve to speak my name, you disgusting slut. Y-you abomination you...you..." his hips stutter, unable to even convince himself he doesn't want this. That he doesn't want you.
"L-look at you, howling and moaning like a bitch in heat. You can't even understand a single word, yet you understand all the pleasure I could bring to you."
His thrusts become ruthless, intense. If he wasn't careful he would bruise his little creation, inside and out. Perhaps this is the only way to destroy you. Remind you where you belong.
"Perhaps I should just tie you up here against this bed, and use you over and over again like a little harlot off the streets. Would you like that? Is that what would make your creation worthwhile?"
Acting like he didn't hand stitch and perfectly pick each piece to accurately place all of his desires, his needs, the things that woke him up in the middle of the night--sweat sticking to his brow and legs covered in sticky semen. You came to him in dreams. In nightmares. In visions in the market. In pieces and fragments of past women he's fucked, none of them you.
"That's all you are. All you are good for. Something to keep my cock warm. A woman of many holes in which I could stuff and use at my leisure. What fascinating research this will be, I'm sure every one of my colleagues would love to hear the way you moan and watch as you writhe while impaled by me…”
When you orgasm, it works your whole body, a shudder running through you not unlike the lightning bolt which awakened you first. Your nails claw down his chest desperately, leaving fresh marks that will scar over in time. Red blood leaks into your nail beds, as your breath is ragged and tired.
Victor's orgasm follows shortly after, his dark eyes fluttering closed as his rich lashes rest gently on his olive skin. His come seeps deep inside of you, as you greedily take every last drop. You’re satisfied, but it won’t last long. You do this song and dance over and over, never feeling full.
There's silence in the air. Something that lingers between you two, breaths mingling as his chest rises and falls. His soft lips part as his eyes remain closed, leaving behind a single sentence before he allows himself to be overcome by sleep once again.
"I...I fucking despise you. I should have killed you."
But he couldn't even speak it with a straight face.
Summary: You are called first to receive everlasting life from the angel's blood during Easter Vigil.
Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 6 of Midnight Mass and all the content that comes with it. Language. Taking some liberties with how the angel's blood works uhhh hehe. Millie who's that AU. Going off of the stream of consciousness / dream-like writing I am trying so hard to stay out of my head and just write what comes.
"Brothers and sisters,” Monsignor Pruitt concludes. “On this most holy night I come to you with good news. Not only the good news of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who arose to forgive us of our sins after three days in the tomb. But, also the resurrection of ourselves."
He clasps his hands together in makeshift prayer, eyes sparkling an unfamiliar orange glow that you've never seen before. That of a feral black cat's eyes bouncing back light. The ones that hunt on the outpost of the island, all teeth and heat and hunger and sex and wild and and and--
Visions of nocturnal holiness.
"I ask you. Trust in me. And God will reward your loyalty heavily. Know that I would not ask of the ultimate sacrifice of your life if I did not have utmost faith in our God for the miracle he is about to bestow tonight."
The silence within the church is deafening. Not a soul rises for his offer, parishioners stunned to their seats. His eyes scan, searching for a familiar face. Finally focusing on yours.
“Please. [“____”]," his voice like liquid honey calls to you, echoing through the church. "I call upon you to take the plunge first, my sweet child. Show the good people of Crockett Island that there is nothing to fear. That there is paradise waiting for us all tonight."
He leaves his pulpit, descending down the steps towards you. His arm reaches out, using his slender fingers to beckon you to him with a "come hither" motion. White vestments flowing, covering his human visage as he moves, billowing out like an angel's wings.
Devils were once just fallen angels. Symbols of purity be damned.
He notices your trepidation.
"One moment of pain, perhaps. But an eternity of youth and love and worship in His name. We have been given a tremendous gift, sister ["____"]. Be brave.”
Beverly Keene remained tucked in the upper corner of the church, stirring the choice of death for this evening. She's always been a witch in your eyes; now the harsh comparison rings true more than ever as she concocts a deadly potion of sickeningly sweet liquid.
The smell reminds you of too hot summers and running against the shoreline as the waves lap against your ankles and buying popsicles at the general store and sticky raspberry juice running between your fingers. Familiar memories and tastes intermingled with rat poison.
“And so Jesus rose from the tomb, trampling down death. As will we. I am with you, and you are with me. There is nothing to fear."
Don't drink the kool-aid, the old adage goes.
But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.
Jonestown redux is standing before you, with his hand outstretched for you to take; his body backlit by the illumination of hundreds of candles. You look up at him through your lashes, lips slightly parted. Your eyebrows upturned and eyes reposed.
"Monsignor. Forgive me, but I cannot," you swallow hard. Back yourself from that cliff, you have one leg dangling over the edge now! "For I have not taken communion as my sins have been too weighty, too difficult to ever be forgiven. I believe I did not deserve the body and blood of Christ at that time, which is selfish of me. Forgive me.”
John almost considers this for a moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing together as he stares down at you.
"There is no resurrection for me. I will die,” you state bluntly. Your words are finally registering.
Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.
But he smiles, against your expectations. A tight lipped smile, his eyes kissing at the corners when his cheeks raise. Missed by the miracle of reversed age, not reaching the crows feet that reveal only when he's truly happy.
"My angel. You've taken more than enough of my seed in your womb, and down your throat. The blessing is already inside you."
His hand grazes your cheek, and Hellfire reigns down as the finality of his reveal sets in across the room. Hot and prickling at the back of your neck. High pitched buzzing of bees in your ears. Whore of Babylon comes to Crockett Island. Mary Magdalene weeps. Hundreds of eyes descend upon your form, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice.
Hell has a special place reserved for you for tasting the most unholy fruits. You wear guilt like a halo.
John positions his index fingers and thumb underneath your chin, tilting it upwards. Your eyes dart away, unable to face him. For sure your very skin would burst into flames if you stared too long.
"Look at me," he demands. "Look at me, angel. Do not be ashamed.”
Oh, you’re more than familiar with this position.
Your eyes tilt back, big and yearning and scared yet wanting more. More of John, more of his smell on your bedsheets, more of his fingers in your mouth more of the salty bitter taste of his skin more breaking the boundaries between heaven and hell more more more more flesh more blood no sin no death no guilt.
Hell has a special place reserved for you in due time.
But real hell is living without him. You slip your hand into his, rising from the pew.
The church is silent, conversations about your unforgivable sin now hushed to murmurs. Somewhere in the distance you hear the gentle song of night crickets that intermingle with your delicate footsteps across decades old wood. A resounding creak and moan of the floorboards that echoes through the small church that makes it become an entity of its own, ready to swallow you whole.
Someone is crying, quietly muffled pathetically behind a cloth. A woman blesses herself using the sign of the cross as you pass.
A dead girl walking, and this is the sound of your funeral march.
Your toes bump into the first step leading up to the chancel. Guiding you by your waist, John spins you to face the congregation. Expressions of the crowd are unreadable.
Are you Joan of Arc or a witch about to be burned at the stake?
Blasphemy, blasphemy stood before your friends, family, acquaintances.
A light. The vision of John blocks you away from their watchful eyes as he stands before you, cupping your face within his hands. Your eyes lock together. Gently, he presses a chaste kiss to the center of your forehead. Lips just barely ghosting over your flesh. You tremble before him.
Bev stands behind you, both arms outstretched forward, bent at the elbow. You’re smart enough to realize she’s ready to catch you for when you involuntarily start seizing, your body putting up its final fight against the poison coursing through its veins.
Life. Death. Rise.
A sob starts in your larynx, unable to burst fully to the surface The warmth of his hands removed from your face, now reaching for Bev's as he takes the small plastic solo cup of juice from hers into his.
"I am with you," he whispers as he holds the cup up to your lips. "As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death I am with you, and you will come out on the other side anew. Whole. Pure as a reward for your devotion to Him."
Raspberry and vanilla threaten to break the seal of your lips, the cup tapped against it. His other hand snakes his way up your back, weaving his fingers within your hair. The digits tug against your locks slightly, tilting your head back.
"Open."
Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.
You can't, you can't, you can't.
You cannot dare to lose the chance to miss another one of those too hot summer days where the children of Crockett island throw their books haphazardly into their backpacks basking in their first hours of summer vacation and the salty water clinging to your hair making it curly and sticky raspberry juice dripping between your fingers–
But oh the visions of him with and the way he whimpers into your neck when he thrusts into you, his hot mouth on your pulse point, the way his hand pin down your wrists forcing you to stay still. Murmured praises and bedroom hymns whispered as the moonlight coats both of your bodies in a ghostly blue glow. Was it truly ever living without him? No more hiding no more secrets you are his and he is yours. A boundary death cannot even cross–eternity is a beautiful thing to imagine.
A tear slips out of your eye, rolling down your cheek. The pad of John’s thumb gently rubs it away. Sympathy for the condemned.
“i wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it”
For Papa Miles. 😈
Against the Window
Beta read by the lovely @littleredwritingcat
Glorious gif by @putonyourbathingsuits
This is the first thing I've written in years. Please take it easy on me, haha. Without further ado, I bring you Miles smut. 3.2k words
"Will you relax for once? Have a drink and mingle," she replies , "and stop worrying about your shorts. You look great."
"l can't believe I let you drag me here," you groan to Alex, tugging at the short shorts you are wearing in an attempt to cover more of your exposed thighs. You hadn't expected this many people to be here when you allowed your neighbor and friend talk you into going to a "small get-together", which was obviously a very not small pool party.
You sigh and stop fidgeting for the moment and look around to see if you recognize any faces. "Is Hank even here? I thought you guys were done for good this time." You look at her watching as she scans the crowd herself, pulling you towards the shaded open bar by the ridiculously large pool.
"He said he and Mi--" she stops as she realizes her slip up and you pull your hand from her grip, placing it on your hip instead.
"Miles? Really?" You glare at her as you order a drink, forcing a smile at the bartender.
"Come on, give him a chance. He likes you."
"So that's what this is about then? Not you and Hank. You're trying to set me up with Miles. Again." You accuse, your voice raising higher than you intended and you noticed other party-goers beginning to stare. You wince and lower your voice as you take your drink. "And if he likes me so much why didn't he call after that night we spent together? He just ghosted me."
"I don't know. Try talking to him about it," she suggests. "He's a really great guy, actually. If Hank were half as considerate as Miles we would probably still be together."
"I don't think giving a woman the best orgasms of her life and then pretending it never happened is very considerate, Alex." You chug the rest of your drink and order another. You decide if Miles shows up you'll get to speak your mind and if not, well, you'll just get drunk and make the most of the night.
_______
Forty-five minutes and two drinks later you're sitting next to a guy who calls himself "Clint", though you're fairly sure that's not really his name, as he tells you about the time he "met Mike Tyson at a strip club and beat him in a round of poker." You resist the urge to roll your eyes and internally curse Alex for stranding you to go off with some guy she'd been flirting with since shortly after you'd arrived.
You chance a look around to see if you can spot your neighbor when instead you notice another familiar face - Miles - headed directly your way and he absolutely doesn't look happy, especially when "Clint" suddenly gets brazen and sets his hand on your knee.
Just as you're about to push this jackass' hand off of you, Miles slides up and slings an arm around your waist and shoots the man a glare.
"Thanks for keeping my woman company, but I'd advise you take your hands off before I do it for you," Miles says, pulling you closer. You nearly push him off of you, indignant that he thinks you can't take care of yourself. But then Clint backs off immediately, his hands raised in defense.
"Hey man, she didn't say she had a boyfriend." His words come out slurred and you wince as he stumbles out of his stool and mumbles something about "not looking for any trouble" as he heads towards the poolside.
Miles relaxes his grip on you but doesn't pull away entirely and you turn to finally look at him properly; his thick salt and pepper hair has grown since you last saw him and his beard seems a little thicker. What you notice most, with a deep blush, is his open button-down shirt revealing his tan, toned chest and stomach. When your gaze slides back up to his face, you notice he's looking at you as well, though instead of a blush, he's wearing a smirk.
Breaking out of your daze you push his arm off of you and take a step back, making his smirk vanish and his thick eyebrows draw together.
For a moment you're not sure what to say so you simply stare, anger and confusion obvious on your expression judging by his own silence.
Finally you speak: "What's up Miles? Here to fuck and run again? A little wham bam thank you ma'am? Once wasn't enough?"
He has the decency to look ashamed, clearly at a loss for words. "Can we just, I don't know, talk? Inside I mean; too many drunks out here."
Against your better judgement, you nod in agreement. No matter how angry you may be, something about this man is irresistible to you, so you find yourself following him inside and up a flight of stairs when the lower floor appears to be crowded as well.
Miles leads you to what appears to be an office, with sparse, expensive looking furniture and a lot of windows along the walls so that you can clearly see the party going on below. You consider sitting down but you don't know how much time you're willing to give him just yet, so you simply lean against a wall opposite the windows and wait for him to speak.
He paces for a moment, then stops in front of you and gives you a weak smile. "I know I fucked up. I've never been good at anything other than one night stands, so when I realized I actually cared about you I just... freaked the fuck out. I thought if I ignored it then it would go away--"
"For you, you mean. You obviously didn't give two shits about how I felt, did you?" You spit out the words as you poke him in the chest.
He glances down to where you're touching him and steps even closer, and you can now smell his aftershave and cologne, which has more of an effect on you than you like. "I'm an asshole, I know. But I want to do better. I want to try," he says, "with you." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and leans down to press his forhead to yours.
"Please, just... give me a chance."
The rational side of you knows you should shove him off of you, and run back downstairs; just call a cab and go home, crawl in bed and forget this night ever happened.
Instead it feels like you're glued to the spot, so close to him you're practically breathing the same breath, the warmth of his skin seeping through your clothes. Everything about him seems to overwhelm you; his scent, his broad shoulders and his deep brown eyes peering intensely into your own and you feel absolutely paralyzed with desire.
You open your mouth to respond, but you're not sure what you want to say, so you just look at him, feeling what little resolve you had left break. If this turns out to be another disaster, you'll survive. All you know now is how badly you want him. Right now.
You're both breathing heavy, staring at one another as if daring the other to make the first move. You slowly slide your eyes down to his mouth, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. That proves to be his breaking point, as he pulls you towards him, one hand on the back of your head, the other on your lower back. He crashes his lips into yours, his teeth clanking almost painfully with your own. Wasting no time, he slides his tongue into your mouth when you gasp, bringing your hands up to rest on his shoulders as his hands slide down your body and firmly squeeze your ass, forcing a moan from the back of your throat.
He pulls you firmly against the growing bulge in his shorts and you moan again, grinding into him to hear him groan your name. "You drive me crazy," he pants into your ear, his warm breath making you shiver, and you feel yourself getting wetter from the sensation.
The way this man affects you...
"Miles, please," you say, though you're not sure what you're begging for exactly.
"Please what, baby? Tell me what you want," he says, a taunting edge in his words.
"Just touch me," is all you can manage, dragging your nails down his chest making him hiss in response.
"Oh, I'm going to touch you alright." He slides his nose across your cheek, kissing his way across your jaw before leaving wet, open mouthed kisses down your neck as he slowly sinks to his knees in front of you, backing up just enough to look up at your heaving chest and lust-blown pupils .
"Take everything off," he demands. Something about his submissive position mixed with the authority in his commands makes you feel dizzy with lust. "Keep your eyes on me," he adds as though he can tell you're really into his game.
You bite your lip, feeling a blush rise across your cheeks as you slowly slip off your clothes starting with your shirt. Just as you're about to remove your panties he places his hand over yours. "Not yet," he says, his eyes traveling over your body. Your eyes flicker behind him self-consciously as his gaze slides from your face to your neck, to your breasts and abdomen, and he slowly leans in. "I told you to look at me,” he tells you, and his voice has shifted. All in all, you’ve always thought of Miles as a fairly laid-back guy, but in this moment, he sounds direct. Demanding even. The change in tone does something to your bones, and you can’t tell if you’re still standing upright, or sinking.
"You're gorgeous, perfect."
He presses his lips against your stomach, making you tremble as his beard tickles deliciously at the soft skin. Miles never breaks eye contact as he slowly kisses his way up, finally landing on your left breast and wraps his lips around your nipple, tugging lightly with his teeth and then firmly sucking it into his mouth.
"Oh, fuck!" You can't help but throw your head back at the sensation, and he grabs your waist as though he can tell you're about to lose your balance.
He stops all movement until you look back down at him at which point he tells you're a "good girl" and returns his attentions to your other, neglected breast. You thread your fingers into his thick hair and shiver as he drags moan after moan from your lips, his mouth kissing, nipping and sucking your breasts, collarbone and stomach.
Just when you think you can't take it anymore and you feel like screaming at him to stop the torture, he leans in and huffs a hot breath against your clothed pussy, and drags his tongue over the thin cotton barrier. "So wet already," he whispers, clearly able to see the wetness through the material. "I've hardly even touched you yet." Part of you feels embarrassed but that quickly passes when he begins dragging your panties down with his teeth.
He gently guides you over to the chair against the window and encourages you to sit and pulls your panties off your ankle, his eyes immediately landing where you're spread open and glistening. He groans as he licks his lips and leans in pressing his open mouth to your inner thigh, biting down just hard enough to sting and again you find your hands in his hair, tugging slightly which only seems to encourage him.
You look over at the open window, knowing that at any moment someone could look up and see what you're doing; what you're allowing Miles to do to you in a stranger's home.
You've never really considered yourself an exhibitionist, but at the moment the idea sends a thrill right through you, and you feel yourself growing even wetter at the thought of someone watching as Miles slides his head closer to your throbbing center, sliding his tongue over your thigh on his journey upwards.
Miles smirks as though he can read your mind, and he slowly slides his hands up your thighs before lifting them over his gorgeous shoulders.
"You think they're watching? I bet every man here wishes he could do what I'm about to do to you; make you come so hard you forget your own name." You glare at him, though his words seem to carry a hot jolt of distilled lust straight through you – like good whisky down your belly. Instead of wasting your energy with coming up with a witty retort, you grab his head and pull him closer. "So fucking do it then," you challenge. You feel his chuckle more than you hear it as he finally drags his tongue from your opening all the way to your clit, sucking briefly before pulling back and adjusting your thighs and placing his hands on your hips to hold you in place as he sets to work.
At first he runs his tongue up and down in lazy motions to tease, but soon he brings up his right hand to spread you open and before circling your clit in rapid pace. Your hands don't know where to land: his hair, your breasts, the armrests of the chair so you alternate, moaning his name, even louder when you feel him slide a thick finger into you, quickly followed by another. You all but shriek when he sucks on your bundle of nerves and curls his fingers to hit just the right spot and this time you tug his hair harshly, which seems to spur him on as he moans nearly as loud as you and sucks even harder, nearly to the point of pain. Your thighs are shaking, your toes are curled, your back is arched and you're almost there when... he pulls back, leaving you confused and more than a little angry.
"What the fuck, Miles?" You glare at him, even as he licks the remnants of you off of his fingers and leans closer to your face, his nose nudging yours.
"Don't worry, baby, I'm nowhere near done with you." You want to tell him to forget it, frustrated that he cut you off right at the threshold of what would have surely been an earth shattering orgasm, but then he slides of his shorts and your mouth waters at the sight of him. Long, thick and just curved enough to reach all the best spots.
"Come here," he says, stroking his cock as he watches you with hooded eyes. "I'm gonna take such good care of you."
You stand on shaky legs, and your eyes widen as he leads you towards the window, looking down at you with a question in his eyes. "Tell me how you want it," he presses his body firmly against yours as you try to process what he means.
"Wh-- what?" You think you know where this is going but you're still not sure how to say it.
Miles chuckles, slowly turning you around so that you can see the remaining party-goers drinking, swimming and laughing. He sucks your earlobe into his mouth, lightly biting down while reaching down to slide his fingers though your soaking wet folds. "I wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it. And I think you want that too," he adds.
There's no need denying it. There aren't too many people left -at least whom are conscious- but still, the thought of being watched thrills you in a way you never imagined. Without responding you place your hands on the window, arch your back and flash a grin at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
His already dark eyes turn nearly black as he growls, placing one hand on your hip to pull your ass closer to him and sliding two fingers into your heat with the other. "That's my good girl," he praises pumping his fingers hard and fast as you moan, watching as a man jumps into the pool and another laughs at his friend's antics.
Your attention is immediately returned to Miles as you feel him remove his fingers and immediately replace them with his much thicker cock. You yelp and scratch at the glass, hoping like hell it holds up because you're pretty sure you're about to get the pounding of your life.
"Oh fuck, Miles," you groan, readjusting your hands on the glass and trying to balance your legs enough to where you're not entirely leaning on the window. While being throughly fucked wouldn't be the worst way to go, you'd rather not fall through a window naked into a crowd of strangers in the process.
Miles moans your name, his face pressed into your neck as he praises how "unbelievably tight and wet" you are, his hand sneaking around to rub harshly at your clit as he slams into you harder and faster.
"You take my cock so well," he tells you, his voice raspy, "like you were made for it; like this little pussy was made just for me." His words make you clinch and he hisses, squeezing your hip and rubbing your nearly overstimulated clit even harder. You're absolutely certain that you're going to have bruises for days to come.
Your moans start to come out louder and you glance down outside, and you swear you see someone watching but you can't care when Miles reaches his free hand to wrap loosely around your throat.
The wet sounds of him pumping into you and his hips slamming into your ass are vulgar enough but when your moans turn to actual screams of his name, he places a hard pinch to your clit and your whole body tenses up before you fall apart in his grasp, his arm moving from your throat to wrap around your waist to hold you upright and to make sure you don't fall through the now fogged up glass. Your vision goes completely black as your toes curl and your hands reach back to tug at his curls as you thrash against him, nearly wailing at the intensity of your orgasm. He continues to pump into your spent body one, two, three more times, pulling your hips firmly against his as he spills inside you with a loud groan and a whisper of your name. "Fuck baby, you're amazing," he tells you, sliding out of you slowly, rubbing a hand down your back.
You turn to look at him, the post orgasm high flowing through you as you wait to see what happens now. Miles leans in and kisses your forhead, then your nose and smiles sweetly at you. "Now that we've given a bunch of strangers a show, you wanna go get dinner?" He asks, "or would it be breakfast at this time?"
You just laugh. "Actually I was thinking we could just go back to my place." You say, turning around as you hear commotion outside and notice a small crowd has formed to witness your activities.
"Encore!" You hear someone shout and you're sure you're blushing down to your toes.
We are meant to celebrate the Resurrection tonight, and we will more than anyone ever has. But first, bless me, brothers and sisters, for I have sinned.
“Well, that’s the thing about where we’ve been. It’s important, sure. But it's not as important as where we’re going. And every place I was before where I am now, well, they, were just leading me here. Even if I didn’t know it at the time. Even if I didn’t see it.”
Summary: You are called first to receive everlasting life from the angel's blood during Easter Vigil.
Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 6 of Midnight Mass and all the content that comes with it. Language. Taking some liberties with how the angel's blood works uhhh hehe. Millie who's that AU. Going off of the stream of consciousness / dream-like writing I am trying so hard to stay out of my head and just write what comes.
"Brothers and sisters,” Monsignor Pruitt concludes. “On this most holy night I come to you with good news. Not only the good news of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who arose to forgive us of our sins after three days in the tomb. But, also the resurrection of ourselves."
He clasps his hands together in makeshift prayer, eyes sparkling an unfamiliar orange glow that you've never seen before. That of a feral black cat's eyes bouncing back light. The ones that hunt on the outpost of the island, all teeth and heat and hunger and sex and wild and and and--
Visions of nocturnal holiness.
"I ask you. Trust in me. And God will reward your loyalty heavily. Know that I would not ask of the ultimate sacrifice of your life if I did not have utmost faith in our God for the miracle he is about to bestow tonight."
The silence within the church is deafening. Not a soul rises for his offer, parishioners stunned to their seats. His eyes scan, searching for a familiar face. Finally focusing on yours.
“Please. [“____”]," his voice like liquid honey calls to you, echoing through the church. "I call upon you to take the plunge first, my sweet child. Show the good people of Crockett Island that there is nothing to fear. That there is paradise waiting for us all tonight."
He leaves his pulpit, descending down the steps towards you. His arm reaches out, using his slender fingers to beckon you to him with a "come hither" motion. White vestments flowing, covering his human visage as he moves, billowing out like an angel's wings.
Devils were once just fallen angels. Symbols of purity be damned.
He notices your trepidation.
"One moment of pain, perhaps. But an eternity of youth and love and worship in His name. We have been given a tremendous gift, sister ["____"]. Be brave.”
Beverly Keene remained tucked in the upper corner of the church, stirring the choice of death for this evening. She's always been a witch in your eyes; now the harsh comparison rings true more than ever as she concocts a deadly potion of sickeningly sweet liquid.
The smell reminds you of too hot summers and running against the shoreline as the waves lap against your ankles and buying popsicles at the general store and sticky raspberry juice running between your fingers. Familiar memories and tastes intermingled with rat poison.
“And so Jesus rose from the tomb, trampling down death. As will we. I am with you, and you are with me. There is nothing to fear."
Don't drink the kool-aid, the old adage goes.
But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.
Jonestown redux is standing before you, with his hand outstretched for you to take; his body backlit by the illumination of hundreds of candles. You look up at him through your lashes, lips slightly parted. Your eyebrows upturned and eyes reposed.
"Monsignor. Forgive me, but I cannot," you swallow hard. Back yourself from that cliff, you have one leg dangling over the edge now! "For I have not taken communion as my sins have been too weighty, too difficult to ever be forgiven. I believe I did not deserve the body and blood of Christ at that time, which is selfish of me. Forgive me.”
John almost considers this for a moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing together as he stares down at you.
"There is no resurrection for me. I will die,” you state bluntly. Your words are finally registering.
Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.
But he smiles, against your expectations. A tight lipped smile, his eyes kissing at the corners when his cheeks raise. Missed by the miracle of reversed age, not reaching the crows feet that reveal only when he's truly happy.
"My angel. You've taken more than enough of my seed in your womb, and down your throat. The blessing is already inside you."
His hand grazes your cheek, and Hellfire reigns down as the finality of his reveal sets in across the room. Hot and prickling at the back of your neck. High pitched buzzing of bees in your ears. Whore of Babylon comes to Crockett Island. Mary Magdalene weeps. Hundreds of eyes descend upon your form, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice.
Hell has a special place reserved for you for tasting the most unholy fruits. You wear guilt like a halo.
John positions his index fingers and thumb underneath your chin, tilting it upwards. Your eyes dart away, unable to face him. For sure your very skin would burst into flames if you stared too long.
"Look at me," he demands. "Look at me, angel. Do not be ashamed.”
Oh, you’re more than familiar with this position.
Your eyes tilt back, big and yearning and scared yet wanting more. More of John, more of his smell on your bedsheets, more of his fingers in your mouth more of the salty bitter taste of his skin more breaking the boundaries between heaven and hell more more more more flesh more blood no sin no death no guilt.
Hell has a special place reserved for you in due time.
But real hell is living without him. You slip your hand into his, rising from the pew.
The church is silent, conversations about your unforgivable sin now hushed to murmurs. Somewhere in the distance you hear the gentle song of night crickets that intermingle with your delicate footsteps across decades old wood. A resounding creak and moan of the floorboards that echoes through the small church that makes it become an entity of its own, ready to swallow you whole.
Someone is crying, quietly muffled pathetically behind a cloth. A woman blesses herself using the sign of the cross as you pass.
A dead girl walking, and this is the sound of your funeral march.
Your toes bump into the first step leading up to the chancel. Guiding you by your waist, John spins you to face the congregation. Expressions of the crowd are unreadable.
Are you Joan of Arc or a witch about to be burned at the stake?
Blasphemy, blasphemy stood before your friends, family, acquaintances.
A light. The vision of John blocks you away from their watchful eyes as he stands before you, cupping your face within his hands. Your eyes lock together. Gently, he presses a chaste kiss to the center of your forehead. Lips just barely ghosting over your flesh. You tremble before him.
Bev stands behind you, both arms outstretched forward, bent at the elbow. You’re smart enough to realize she’s ready to catch you for when you involuntarily start seizing, your body putting up its final fight against the poison coursing through its veins.
Life. Death. Rise.
A sob starts in your larynx, unable to burst fully to the surface The warmth of his hands removed from your face, now reaching for Bev's as he takes the small plastic solo cup of juice from hers into his.
"I am with you," he whispers as he holds the cup up to your lips. "As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death I am with you, and you will come out on the other side anew. Whole. Pure as a reward for your devotion to Him."
Raspberry and vanilla threaten to break the seal of your lips, the cup tapped against it. His other hand snakes his way up your back, weaving his fingers within your hair. The digits tug against your locks slightly, tilting your head back.
"Open."
Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.
You can't, you can't, you can't.
You cannot dare to lose the chance to miss another one of those too hot summer days where the children of Crockett island throw their books haphazardly into their backpacks basking in their first hours of summer vacation and the salty water clinging to your hair making it curly and sticky raspberry juice dripping between your fingers–
But oh the visions of him with and the way he whimpers into your neck when he thrusts into you, his hot mouth on your pulse point, the way his hand pin down your wrists forcing you to stay still. Murmured praises and bedroom hymns whispered as the moonlight coats both of your bodies in a ghostly blue glow. Was it truly ever living without him? No more hiding no more secrets you are his and he is yours. A boundary death cannot even cross–eternity is a beautiful thing to imagine.
A tear slips out of your eye, rolling down your cheek. The pad of John’s thumb gently rubs it away. Sympathy for the condemned.
Pairing: Herbert West x GN!Reader [Re-Animator 1985]
Summary: A lab accident renders you on the brink of death with little to no hope for recovery. But Herbert isn't about to let the only person he's ever loved to leave his life so quickly.
Warnings: Body horror, death, the usual re-animator content.
A/N: we love the angst. Changing a little bit of the ending to re-animator (1985) to fit my sick little evil narrative. This was written in an odd dreamy like stream of consciousness thing im not exactly sure what this is or if its even good, but I hope you enjoy it.
Memento Mori. Remember that you will die.
When you feared monsters as a child, ones that hid in the deepest corners of your room, you would close your eyes and count to ten. The fear dissipating as your heart rate returned to normal, there was nothing that could hurt you in the first place.
Applying that same practice now, you squeeze your eyes shut; hoping to re-awake in the comfort and safety of your shared apartment. In bed. Waking up from a horrible, incredibly lifelike dream.
But the monsters were real, now. They walked among the same Earth you did. There was no escaping the re-animated monstrosities of flesh and bone that clawed it's way out of the dark makeshift laboratory deep within the basement. The sound of inhuman claws ripping through your flesh, right through your delicate insides.
It's not a dream.
The white coffee cup in your hand you brought for Herbert loosened from your grip, making a resounding crash on the concrete floor. Shattering into uneven pieces as the brown liquid pooled beneath your feet. You didn’t scream. Simply widened your eyes at the spectacle before you, as the monster’s hand continued to create a penetrating trauma; right through to the other side.
The way you looked up at Herbert will be permanently etched into his mind for the rest of his days; a mix of terror, shock, pain, and something else within your [e/c] orbs.
One that Herbert immediately recognized as betrayal.
Herbert and Dan’s worried faces loom over you on the gurney as you are pushed through the Miskatonic University ICU. Your hand desperately clutched to your chest, doing little more than coating them with the blood gushing out of your open wound; painting the digits a bright red.
You didn’t dare to look down at it. If you couldn't see it, it wasn't real.
Metallic iron and antiseptic.
The faces of horrified onlookers parted the aisle like the red sea. Each of them blurred into a mirage of color, unrecognizable as they merged into a single entity. Your colleagues, friends, and professors surely spectating the horror no doubt.
What will they say about you in the morning paper, what photo will they use?
"I'm dying, oh god this is it isn't it? I'm dying, Herbert. I'm sorry I'm so sorry I'm sorry”
You hold your bloodied hand up to the overhead fluorescent lights zooming by above you, marveling at the way the harsh light bounced of the ruby liquid. In other less dire circumstances, one might even find it beautiful. Your fingers grasp and coil in the air towards Herbert's direction, desperate to make skin-to-skin contact with the one you call your partner. Your palm presses flat against his cheek, transferring your sticky blood onto his flushed face.
“Shut up, [____], you’re not dying," he huffs out, the warble of uncertainty in his voice makes you doubt him. "Stop being dramatic." He presses his lips against the middle of your palm, giving the area a chaste kiss.
These usual terms of endearment do little to comfort you; having never seen Herbert look this concerned before. The most unhinged events he's encountered have simply been brushed off with ease; he is the only man to have stared down death in the eye and challenged its finality. Never in those intense moments did his eyebrows even dare raise in shock. You lull your head to the side, attempting to hold back a choked sob stuck within your throat.
"Is it bad?" you ask, your chest rising and falling as you let out a pathetic laugh. He doesn't even bother to respond. You know the answer anyways. You'll be entering oblivion tonight.
Pushing you into the empty examination room, Dan and Herbert already knew it was too late. They weren't quick enough, not fast enough. Your eyes glazed over as blood continues to pour from you -- trailing and spilling its way down the side of the now still gurney. A cascading river of crimson. Your arms were stuck with a crosswire of tubes, gathering your vitals. It seemed more a formality at this point, as your heart rate already starts to fade.
Dan, with all his optimism, understands any attempts to save your life would be futile at this point. Instead, his infinite mercy injects morphine into your iv bag - a type of drugged-out relief washing over you almost instantly. Kneeling next to you, he holds your hand as your labored breathing fades into short breaths as the medicine enters your veins. Still painful, yet not unbearable. Just enough to bring you comfort before your expiration.
"You're gonna be fine," he smiles, squeezing your hand. You don't have the heart to tell him he's lying. Instead, you just give him a closed mouthed smile back.
Euthanasia. What a beautiful word.
You can hear the rummaging of vials in between your haze, your stomach twisting as Herbert pulled out his precious container of re-agent. His facial features become illuminated by the sickly green glow emanating from the bottle, neon reflecting off of his wire rimmed glasses.
Herbert notices you staring at him, as he waves his hand in front of you, seeing your eyes already grow wide in fear. “It's okay, this won't hurt. You'll be okay in no time, back in our apartment, you just have to trust us-"
"Oh, no no no. NO. You've got to be fucking kidding me, Herbert. You're not doing that to [____!]" Dan interjects, jumping up from his kneeling position next to you. Lunging forward, Dan attempts to grab the liquid. Doing what should have always been done.
Where it should have gone the first time Herbert played God.
Smashed onto the floor into a million fucking pieces.
But Herbert's too quick, as he moves backwards away from Dan's rather pathetic attempt. He cradles his potion like a newborn baby, holding it to his chest for dear life. Lips pressed together into a harsh line; his eyes aflame with fury. "It's the only way Dan. This, or we lose them forever."
Dan stares stunned at his partner, his eyes welling. "You want to turn them into one of those monsters, Herbert? Is that what you want? You want [____] to turn into a snarling, disgusting reanimated beast? Because that's what will happen! That's what happened every FUCKING time before, Herbert! I know you want things to be different but you can't save them. I-I'm sorry," his voice waivers as a sob threatens to steal his voice. "It's not working. At least the way you want it to."
"NO. That's not true. It's different! B-Because this time it's a fresh body, Dan! It will work," Herbert explains, hands shaking, barely getting the needle to plunge into the green fluid. "It's different!! It's different this time because...because it's THEM, Dan! Don't you understand? It has to be different!"
Dan shakes his head solemnly. "But it won't be, Herbert. No matter how much you love them."
"Is that truly what you think? What if it was Megan, Dan? Wouldn't you do the same for her? Give a second chance to the person you love the most, breath new life into what was lost?"
Silence.
"Look me in the eyes right now and tell me you wouldn't. This is what we've worked so hard for, Dan. We will eradicate death altogether. There will be no more suffering, no more pain. No more grief."
He wouldn't admit Herbert was right.
"I can't lose anyone else, Dan," he emotionlessly states, turning his gaze towards you.
"Herbert, please," you beg desperately, a gargle from the blood invading your airways makes your speech difficult to understand. There wasn't much time left.
“You're a monster, Herbert."
“And you’re a hypocrite, Dan,” he spits coldly, flicking the tip of the syringe with his middle finger. “I don’t need your moral superiority interfering with this."
With what little strength you have left, you push yourself to the corner of the gurney, cowering with fear as he stalks towards you. You feel like a lab rat, as Herbert stands before you with an emotionless gaze.
This isn't what love was supposed to feel like.
“Don’t. You promised...you wouldn’t." You feel the cold metal of the needlepoint run against the delicate flesh of your inner arm, and you jump. Your sobs of pain slowly materialize into ones of pure terror. "Don't turn me into one of those creatures! Please!"
The pleads fall hopelessly on deaf ears as every ounce left of your body thrashes in protest, fists weakly hitting against his chest. Your voice hitting a shrill octave that was unfathomable and almost out of the human sound waves. Dan turns his head, unable to bear witness.
"PLEASE, PLEASE HERBERT LET ME DIE. PLEASE!!!"
This was for your own good. You couldn't leave him now, not yet. There was so much more to accomplish, so much more that you had to experience together. You are the exception.
Reversed human decay. Memento Vivere. Remember that you must live.
Your clinical death was called at quarter to twelve.
