I’m hopetohell on ao3; come check out my body of work here . Some fics are only on ao3 as of now.
Masterlist for August Walker
Dream State (August Walker x Reader)
Masterlist for Walter Marshall
Masterlist for Mike
Christmas Senses (Mike x Reader)
Masterlist for Captain Syverson
Masterlist for miscellaneous Henry Cavill characters
Mob Will Masterlist (Will Shaw x Reader)
Masterlist for Evan Marshall
Threesomes Masterlist (now with a foursome!)
Henry Cavill RPF Masterlist
Ash and Sigil (August Walker x Evan Marshall, ao3 link)
Miscellaneous Characters Masterlist (Daniel Brühl, Chris Hemsworth, and more!)
Billy Lee Masterlist (Bad Times at the El Royale)
Helmut Zemo Masterlist
Bucky Barnes x Helmut Zemo Masterlist
Loki x Möbius Masterlist
Eddie x Venom Masterlist
Travis Hackett Masterlist (The Quarry)
Miscellaneous MCU Masterlist
A Fairytale in Silver and Glass Masterlist (Adhemar x Reader)
Fulgurite Dreams masterlist (Adrian Toomes x Reader)
Hector Munday masterlist
John Wick masterlist
Stobotnik masterlist
I’ve got a tendency to yeet micro fics, blurbs, little bits and bobs— holler if you want to see more of something. Requests are always welcome although there are no guarantees you’ll actually get what you asked for.
This entire blog is outrageously 18+ and NSFW so proceed with caution (this means no minors). Asks are always open; I promise I don’t bite. Much.
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This is our most popular post and we've seen more than one person tag it as "unreality." We understand why one might think that but we assure you: it was not.
These facilities chew you up. They suck the life from you and grind your body to dust to extract every ounce of profit they can.
These places destroy the body, the mind, and the soul.
Yesterday, someone on Reddit posted a video of a very strange raccoon - a fellow who seemed to have a condition that gave him a very short spine. This is the boi in question:
Now Seattle, Jimothy's territory, is being overrun by Jimothy fever with more spottings.
And just today, BABY PICTURES WERE UNCOVERED!
This is the most exciting thing in raccoon news since Conrad, the dead raccoon of Toronto.
ETA: Just checked. There's now a Jimothy subreddit with all the latest Jimothy news and fanart.
knives wrapped in wool. Betelgeuse/reader. Say his name, and he'll give you--what? Something, probably. A deal's a deal, even if the fine print is all smudged. How did you even fall into bed with this guy, anyway? This is a terrible idea and you'll probably regret this in the morning. But for now, well, better just go along for the ride. It's not like you have anywhere else to be.
----------
They say that all legends are grown from seeds of truth. Imagination is fed by ancestral memory, and even though most of the time it's just your eyes playing tricks on you, remember this: there's a reason people jump at shadows. And also remember that the power you gain from learning someone's true name flows both ways.
His cock twitches like a living thing, like grubs crawling through the earth— have you ever felt the larvae of the great beetles? They have such velvety soft skin, and their bodies are firmer— more like human flesh— than you'd expect from such a creature. Picture that attached to the shape of a man, wriggling its way deep into your guts. He's not really human, not anymore, but rather something else entirely. Some kind of demon, maybe. What are stories made of when they take form? At any rate, he certainly seems to have no trouble keeping you pinned down.
But the taxonomy of the underworld's inhabitants is only useful here insofar as it provides a means to describe the being who huffs and grunts against your back. "Say my name, sweet cheeks," he hisses out with a serpent's tongue. "Gonna make all your dreams come true." His body is cold, his breath richly fetid like the silt that gathers at the bottom of a lake, and he is strong. "Say. It."
The first one's easy, knocked loose in a cloud of dust like it was just waiting to be freed. His name aches in your chest like a fall from the monkey bars way-back-when, breath escaping in a singular strangled oof, but this time the sound takes the form of a name. "Betelgeuse—" and your reward is the sharp snap of his hips, pushing your face across the sheets and kicking up dust that fills your lungs. Ragged nails leave stinging trails down your sides, over your belly, digging in to feel the outline of himself burrowed inside you.
"Pardon my little friend here. It's been a while," he says with the voice of a stuffy Victorian gentleman. Don't answer him. You're not meant to say anything at all here, aside from what he's demanded of you. This is his stage, his center ring. You are not the entertainment, but merely a prop. Just be present and keep your mouth shut until it's time.
For a moment he pulls out to rub slick trails over the skin of your ass. All the bumps and ridges of him are so distinct, even down to the sharp prickle of tiny chitinous legs— legs? That doesnt seem right. Try to pull away, but it won't do you any good. The desire is there, but it smashes against a brick wall somewhere between impulse and action. You're stuck here until your end of the bargain is complete. And finding out like this that you can't move is infinitely worse than just telling yourself to be still. Remember the deal. Remember the bloodied X scrawled on the page.
His cock slithers across your back while the rest of him shrugs on a smoking jacket and settles into a moldy armchair in the corner of the room. His pants are long since gone, cadaver-pale legs open to show off sparse hair and the raw rough edges of flesh that's been pulled until the skin split and tore apart. He toys idly with the margins of the wound, smearing thick grey exudate everywhere. "What?" he grins through cracked yellow teeth. "Can't a guy take a little break? You're working me to death here."
His long lascivious tongue snakes out, black like a bruise; meanwhile, his cock continues on its meandering route. Try not to think about the cool wet trails it leaves behind, or how, like all the grubs you've ever heard of, it must be searching for somewhere warm and dark where it can burrow in deep.
And just as his cock finds its way back inside you, he's there once more, knitting himself together with a groan like houses settling. Can you feel it? That thick pulse of blood— or whatever its analogue might be— that makes him swell and throb inside you? Feel the filthy roll of his hips, sinuous in a way it shouldn't be, like all his bones are just an afterthought. The air is syrup-thick and strangely sweet, flies buzzing somewhere in the distance; he huffs and bars an arm across your throat to get a little more leverage.
The line between alive and dead is blurry here, more philosophical than physical. And like all such places, the room's dusty corners are hidden from prying eyes of all sorts. You wanted to see the world, right? Well, this is the inverse of the world, hollowed out with its rules all turned the wrong way round; this is what he meant when he answered the late-night call that you never should've made. A dare's a dare, a product of old stories and the brashness that grew from your own disbelief, but still the dare will damn you more completely than anything you might've done with real intent.
"Now, don't you go crying on me, baby," he croons. "One more for me." He leans down and bites at the tender junction of neck and shoulder, tearing through tender skin. Jerk back against him, and find only that it pushes him in deeper. He twists in your guts like he lives there, surely trickling venom with every thrust; in time to this he works his jaw to drive those rotting teeth through muscle and tendon until they scrape against bone.
What will you do? What can you do? "Please—"
"Use your words," he slurs wetly into your flesh, nearly unintelligible. The hurt of the bite is everywhere, radiating through your veins; it's warm and thickly grey like knives wrapped in wet wool, but somewhere along the way it transmutes into something more… needy. You can try to pretend like you don't feel it all you want, but you're still going to make your broken moans and drool into these grubby sheets.
Beg for mercy, why don't you. "Please, Betelgeuse, it's too much. I can't." That's two, you know. Say his name once more and he'll be set loose upon the world of the living.
Do you hate how good it feels to be rewarded, to see the sparks that dart across your vision when he hears his name and shudders top to tail? His movement is rough and artless, body jerking like he's trying to escape his own skin. He's an earthquake bundled up in a sack of meat; you'd lose your footing from the force of him if you weren't pinned down over this dusty bed. As it is, you're probably collecting friction burns all along your front. After all, comfort wasn't part of the deal.
Remember the time when jumping at shadows was just a game, those spikes of adrenaline just seasoning for an otherwise uneventful life? But when you played those games of Bloody Mary late at night, could you feel the veil between worlds grow thin? Could you feel malice in the dark, waiting on one final word to set it free? It was thrilling, imagining what waited beyond the mirror, but that feeling was tempered by the knowledge that none of it was real. It was all just stories.
This is nothing like that. This is visceral, inescapable sensation burning brightly through your tender flesh. It's a garish sort of pleasure that scorches the body and shames the mind. It catches at your throat, pulsing beneath his hand. If this pleasure had a taste it would be sourly metallic like corroded batteries or bile. As it is, he's got your thighs all a-tremble and your belly full of heat and it is awful how easily you could become lost to this.
"Good, huh?" he says like he can hear your thoughts. Can he? It's impossible, it has to be. "Nah," he scoffs, tilting your head back far enough that you can see him wink.
Asshole.
Don't think too hard about this; trying to be logical here will only give you a headache. Just go along for the ride, not like there's much else you can do. A deal's a deal, and even if the method is a little unorthodox, he'll get what he needs in the end. He'll drag his name from your lips again, even if the both of you are here all night.
knives wrapped in wool. Betelgeuse/reader. Say his name, and he'll give you--what? Something, probably. A deal's a deal, even if the fine print is all smudged. How did you even fall into bed with this guy, anyway? This is a terrible idea and you'll probably regret this in the morning. But for now, well, better just go along for the ride. It's not like you have anywhere else to be.
----------
They say that all legends are grown from seeds of truth. Imagination is fed by ancestral memory, and even though most of the time it's just your eyes playing tricks on you, remember this: there's a reason people jump at shadows. And also remember that the power you gain from learning someone's true name flows both ways.
His cock twitches like a living thing, like grubs crawling through the earth— have you ever felt the larvae of the great beetles? They have such velvety soft skin, and their bodies are firmer— more like human flesh— than you'd expect from such a creature. Picture that attached to the shape of a man, wriggling its way deep into your guts. He's not really human, not anymore, but rather something else entirely. Some kind of demon, maybe. What are stories made of when they take form? At any rate, he certainly seems to have no trouble keeping you pinned down.
But the taxonomy of the underworld's inhabitants is only useful here insofar as it provides a means to describe the being who huffs and grunts against your back. "Say my name, sweet cheeks," he hisses out with a serpent's tongue. "Gonna make all your dreams come true." His body is cold, his breath richly fetid like the silt that gathers at the bottom of a lake, and he is strong. "Say. It."
The first one's easy, knocked loose in a cloud of dust like it was just waiting to be freed. His name aches in your chest like a fall from the monkey bars way-back-when, breath escaping in a singular strangled oof, but this time the sound takes the form of a name. "Betelgeuse—" and your reward is the sharp snap of his hips, pushing your face across the sheets and kicking up dust that fills your lungs. Ragged nails leave stinging trails down your sides, over your belly, digging in to feel the outline of himself burrowed inside you.
"Pardon my little friend here. It's been a while," he says with the voice of a stuffy Victorian gentleman. Don't answer him. You're not meant to say anything at all here, aside from what he's demanded of you. This is his stage, his center ring. You are not the entertainment, but merely a prop. Just be present and keep your mouth shut until it's time.
For a moment he pulls out to rub slick trails over the skin of your ass. All the bumps and ridges of him are so distinct, even down to the sharp prickle of tiny chitinous legs— legs? That doesnt seem right. Try to pull away, but it won't do you any good. The desire is there, but it smashes against a brick wall somewhere between impulse and action. You're stuck here until your end of the bargain is complete. And finding out like this that you can't move is infinitely worse than just telling yourself to be still. Remember the deal. Remember the bloodied X scrawled on the page.
His cock slithers across your back while the rest of him shrugs on a smoking jacket and settles into a moldy armchair in the corner of the room. His pants are long since gone, cadaver-pale legs open to show off sparse hair and the raw rough edges of flesh that's been pulled until the skin split and tore apart. He toys idly with the margins of the wound, smearing thick grey exudate everywhere. "What?" he grins through cracked yellow teeth. "Can't a guy take a little break? You're working me to death here."
His long lascivious tongue snakes out, black like a bruise; meanwhile, his cock continues on its meandering route. Try not to think about the cool wet trails it leaves behind, or how, like all the grubs you've ever heard of, it must be searching for somewhere warm and dark where it can burrow in deep.
And just as his cock finds its way back inside you, he's there once more, knitting himself together with a groan like houses settling. Can you feel it? That thick pulse of blood— or whatever its analogue might be— that makes him swell and throb inside you? Feel the filthy roll of his hips, sinuous in a way it shouldn't be, like all his bones are just an afterthought. The air is syrup-thick and strangely sweet, flies buzzing somewhere in the distance; he huffs and bars an arm across your throat to get a little more leverage.
The line between alive and dead is blurry here, more philosophical than physical. And like all such places, the room's dusty corners are hidden from prying eyes of all sorts. You wanted to see the world, right? Well, this is the inverse of the world, hollowed out with its rules all turned the wrong way round; this is what he meant when he answered the late-night call that you never should've made. A dare's a dare, a product of old stories and the brashness that grew from your own disbelief, but still the dare will damn you more completely than anything you might've done with real intent.
"Now, don't you go crying on me, baby," he croons. "One more for me." He leans down and bites at the tender junction of neck and shoulder, tearing through tender skin. Jerk back against him, and find only that it pushes him in deeper. He twists in your guts like he lives there, surely trickling venom with every thrust; in time to this he works his jaw to drive those rotting teeth through muscle and tendon until they scrape against bone.
What will you do? What can you do? "Please—"
"Use your words," he slurs wetly into your flesh, nearly unintelligible. The hurt of the bite is everywhere, radiating through your veins; it's warm and thickly grey like knives wrapped in wet wool, but somewhere along the way it transmutes into something more… needy. You can try to pretend like you don't feel it all you want, but you're still going to make your broken moans and drool into these grubby sheets.
Beg for mercy, why don't you. "Please, Betelgeuse, it's too much. I can't." That's two, you know. Say his name once more and he'll be set loose upon the world of the living.
Do you hate how good it feels to be rewarded, to see the sparks that dart across your vision when he hears his name and shudders top to tail? His movement is rough and artless, body jerking like he's trying to escape his own skin. He's an earthquake bundled up in a sack of meat; you'd lose your footing from the force of him if you weren't pinned down over this dusty bed. As it is, you're probably collecting friction burns all along your front. After all, comfort wasn't part of the deal.
Remember the time when jumping at shadows was just a game, those spikes of adrenaline just seasoning for an otherwise uneventful life? But when you played those games of Bloody Mary late at night, could you feel the veil between worlds grow thin? Could you feel malice in the dark, waiting on one final word to set it free? It was thrilling, imagining what waited beyond the mirror, but that feeling was tempered by the knowledge that none of it was real. It was all just stories.
This is nothing like that. This is visceral, inescapable sensation burning brightly through your tender flesh. It's a garish sort of pleasure that scorches the body and shames the mind. It catches at your throat, pulsing beneath his hand. If this pleasure had a taste it would be sourly metallic like corroded batteries or bile. As it is, he's got your thighs all a-tremble and your belly full of heat and it is awful how easily you could become lost to this.
"Good, huh?" he says like he can hear your thoughts. Can he? It's impossible, it has to be. "Nah," he scoffs, tilting your head back far enough that you can see him wink.
Asshole.
Don't think too hard about this; trying to be logical here will only give you a headache. Just go along for the ride, not like there's much else you can do. A deal's a deal, and even if the method is a little unorthodox, he'll get what he needs in the end. He'll drag his name from your lips again, even if the both of you are here all night.
knives wrapped in wool. Betelgeuse/reader. Say his name, and he'll give you--what? Something, probably. A deal's a deal, even if the fine print is all smudged. How did you even fall into bed with this guy, anyway? This is a terrible idea and you'll probably regret this in the morning. But for now, well, better just go along for the ride. It's not like you have anywhere else to be.
----------
They say that all legends are grown from seeds of truth. Imagination is fed by ancestral memory, and even though most of the time it's just your eyes playing tricks on you, remember this: there's a reason people jump at shadows. And also remember that the power you gain from learning someone's true name flows both ways.
His cock twitches like a living thing, like grubs crawling through the earth— have you ever felt the larvae of the great beetles? They have such velvety soft skin, and their bodies are firmer— more like human flesh— than you'd expect from such a creature. Picture that attached to the shape of a man, wriggling its way deep into your guts. He's not really human, not anymore, but rather something else entirely. Some kind of demon, maybe. What are stories made of when they take form? At any rate, he certainly seems to have no trouble keeping you pinned down.
But the taxonomy of the underworld's inhabitants is only useful here insofar as it provides a means to describe the being who huffs and grunts against your back. "Say my name, sweet cheeks," he hisses out with a serpent's tongue. "Gonna make all your dreams come true." His body is cold, his breath richly fetid like the silt that gathers at the bottom of a lake, and he is strong. "Say. It."
The first one's easy, knocked loose in a cloud of dust like it was just waiting to be freed. His name aches in your chest like a fall from the monkey bars way-back-when, breath escaping in a singular strangled oof, but this time the sound takes the form of a name. "Betelgeuse—" and your reward is the sharp snap of his hips, pushing your face across the sheets and kicking up dust that fills your lungs. Ragged nails leave stinging trails down your sides, over your belly, digging in to feel the outline of himself burrowed inside you.
"Pardon my little friend here. It's been a while," he says with the voice of a stuffy Victorian gentleman. Don't answer him. You're not meant to say anything at all here, aside from what he's demanded of you. This is his stage, his center ring. You are not the entertainment, but merely a prop. Just be present and keep your mouth shut until it's time.
For a moment he pulls out to rub slick trails over the skin of your ass. All the bumps and ridges of him are so distinct, even down to the sharp prickle of tiny chitinous legs— legs? That doesnt seem right. Try to pull away, but it won't do you any good. The desire is there, but it smashes against a brick wall somewhere between impulse and action. You're stuck here until your end of the bargain is complete. And finding out like this that you can't move is infinitely worse than just telling yourself to be still. Remember the deal. Remember the bloodied X scrawled on the page.
His cock slithers across your back while the rest of him shrugs on a smoking jacket and settles into a moldy armchair in the corner of the room. His pants are long since gone, cadaver-pale legs open to show off sparse hair and the raw rough edges of flesh that's been pulled until the skin split and tore apart. He toys idly with the margins of the wound, smearing thick grey exudate everywhere. "What?" he grins through cracked yellow teeth. "Can't a guy take a little break? You're working me to death here."
His long lascivious tongue snakes out, black like a bruise; meanwhile, his cock continues on its meandering route. Try not to think about the cool wet trails it leaves behind, or how, like all the grubs you've ever heard of, it must be searching for somewhere warm and dark where it can burrow in deep.
And just as his cock finds its way back inside you, he's there once more, knitting himself together with a groan like houses settling. Can you feel it? That thick pulse of blood— or whatever its analogue might be— that makes him swell and throb inside you? Feel the filthy roll of his hips, sinuous in a way it shouldn't be, like all his bones are just an afterthought. The air is syrup-thick and strangely sweet, flies buzzing somewhere in the distance; he huffs and bars an arm across your throat to get a little more leverage.
The line between alive and dead is blurry here, more philosophical than physical. And like all such places, the room's dusty corners are hidden from prying eyes of all sorts. You wanted to see the world, right? Well, this is the inverse of the world, hollowed out with its rules all turned the wrong way round; this is what he meant when he answered the late-night call that you never should've made. A dare's a dare, a product of old stories and the brashness that grew from your own disbelief, but still the dare will damn you more completely than anything you might've done with real intent.
"Now, don't you go crying on me, baby," he croons. "One more for me." He leans down and bites at the tender junction of neck and shoulder, tearing through tender skin. Jerk back against him, and find only that it pushes him in deeper. He twists in your guts like he lives there, surely trickling venom with every thrust; in time to this he works his jaw to drive those rotting teeth through muscle and tendon until they scrape against bone.
What will you do? What can you do? "Please—"
"Use your words," he slurs wetly into your flesh, nearly unintelligible. The hurt of the bite is everywhere, radiating through your veins; it's warm and thickly grey like knives wrapped in wet wool, but somewhere along the way it transmutes into something more… needy. You can try to pretend like you don't feel it all you want, but you're still going to make your broken moans and drool into these grubby sheets.
Beg for mercy, why don't you. "Please, Betelgeuse, it's too much. I can't." That's two, you know. Say his name once more and he'll be set loose upon the world of the living.
Do you hate how good it feels to be rewarded, to see the sparks that dart across your vision when he hears his name and shudders top to tail? His movement is rough and artless, body jerking like he's trying to escape his own skin. He's an earthquake bundled up in a sack of meat; you'd lose your footing from the force of him if you weren't pinned down over this dusty bed. As it is, you're probably collecting friction burns all along your front. After all, comfort wasn't part of the deal.
Remember the time when jumping at shadows was just a game, those spikes of adrenaline just seasoning for an otherwise uneventful life? But when you played those games of Bloody Mary late at night, could you feel the veil between worlds grow thin? Could you feel malice in the dark, waiting on one final word to set it free? It was thrilling, imagining what waited beyond the mirror, but that feeling was tempered by the knowledge that none of it was real. It was all just stories.
This is nothing like that. This is visceral, inescapable sensation burning brightly through your tender flesh. It's a garish sort of pleasure that scorches the body and shames the mind. It catches at your throat, pulsing beneath his hand. If this pleasure had a taste it would be sourly metallic like corroded batteries or bile. As it is, he's got your thighs all a-tremble and your belly full of heat and it is awful how easily you could become lost to this.
"Good, huh?" he says like he can hear your thoughts. Can he? It's impossible, it has to be. "Nah," he scoffs, tilting your head back far enough that you can see him wink.
Asshole.
Don't think too hard about this; trying to be logical here will only give you a headache. Just go along for the ride, not like there's much else you can do. A deal's a deal, and even if the method is a little unorthodox, he'll get what he needs in the end. He'll drag his name from your lips again, even if the both of you are here all night.
knives wrapped in wool. Betelgeuse/reader. Smut, gore, dubcon, detachable penis. Say his name, and he'll give you--what? Something, probably. A deal's a deal, even if the fine print is all smudged. How did you even fall into bed with this guy, anyway? This is a terrible idea and you'll probably regret this in the morning. But for now, well, better just go along for the ride. It's not like you have anywhere else to be.
----------
They say that all legends are grown from seeds of truth. Imagination is fed by ancestral memory, and even though most of the time it's just your eyes playing tricks on you, remember this: there's a reason people jump at shadows. And also remember that the power you gain from learning someone's true name flows both ways.
His cock twitches like a living thing, like grubs crawling through the earth— have you ever felt the larvae of the great beetles? They have such velvety soft skin, and their bodies are firmer— more like human flesh— than you'd expect from such a creature. Picture that attached to the shape of a man, wriggling its way deep into your guts. He's not really human, not anymore, but rather something else entirely. Some kind of demon, maybe. What are stories made of when they take form? At any rate, he certainly seems to have no trouble keeping you pinned down.
But the taxonomy of the underworld's inhabitants is only useful here insofar as it provides a means to describe the being who huffs and grunts against your back. "Say my name, sweet cheeks," he hisses out with a serpent's tongue. "Gonna make all your dreams come true." His body is cold, his breath richly fetid like the silt that gathers at the bottom of a lake, and he is strong. "Say. It."
The first one's easy, knocked loose in a cloud of dust like it was just waiting to be freed. His name aches in your chest like a fall from the monkey bars way-back-when, breath escaping in a singular strangled oof, but this time the sound takes the form of a name. "Betelgeuse—" and your reward is the sharp snap of his hips, pushing your face across the sheets and kicking up dust that fills your lungs. Ragged nails leave stinging trails down your sides, over your belly, digging in to feel the outline of himself burrowed inside you.
"Pardon my little friend here. It's been a while," he says with the voice of a stuffy Victorian gentleman. Don't answer him. You're not meant to say anything at all here, aside from what he's demanded of you. This is his stage, his center ring. You are not the entertainment, but merely a prop. Just be present and keep your mouth shut until it's time.
For a moment he pulls out to rub slick trails over the skin of your ass. All the bumps and ridges of him are so distinct, even down to the sharp prickle of tiny chitinous legs— legs? That doesnt seem right. Try to pull away, but it won't do you any good. The desire is there, but it smashes against a brick wall somewhere between impulse and action. You're stuck here until your end of the bargain is complete. And finding out like this that you can't move is infinitely worse than just telling yourself to be still. Remember the deal. Remember the bloodied X scrawled on the page.
His cock slithers across your back while the rest of him shrugs on a smoking jacket and settles into a moldy armchair in the corner of the room. His pants are long since gone, cadaver-pale legs open to show off sparse hair and the raw rough edges of flesh that's been pulled until the skin split and tore apart. He toys idly with the margins of the wound, smearing thick grey exudate everywhere. "What?" he grins through cracked yellow teeth. "Can't a guy take a little break? You're working me to death here."
His long lascivious tongue snakes out, black like a bruise; meanwhile, his cock continues on its meandering route. Try not to think about the cool wet trails it leaves behind, or how, like all the grubs you've ever heard of, it must be searching for somewhere warm and dark where it can burrow in deep.
And just as his cock finds its way back inside you, he's there once more, knitting himself together with a groan like houses settling. Can you feel it? That thick pulse of blood— or whatever its analogue might be— that makes him swell and throb inside you? Feel the filthy roll of his hips, sinuous in a way it shouldn't be, like all his bones are just an afterthought. The air is syrup-thick and strangely sweet, flies buzzing somewhere in the distance; he huffs and bars an arm across your throat to get a little more leverage.
The line between alive and dead is blurry here, more philosophical than physical. And like all such places, the room's dusty corners are hidden from prying eyes of all sorts. You wanted to see the world, right? Well, this is the inverse of the world, hollowed out with its rules all turned the wrong way round; this is what he meant when he answered the late-night call that you never should've made. A dare's a dare, a product of old stories and the brashness that grew from your own disbelief, but still the dare will damn you more completely than anything you might've done with real intent.
"Now, don't you go crying on me, baby," he croons. "One more for me." He leans down and bites at the tender junction of neck and shoulder, tearing through tender skin. Jerk back against him, and find only that it pushes him in deeper. He twists in your guts like he lives there, surely trickling venom with every thrust; in time to this he works his jaw to drive those rotting teeth through muscle and tendon until they scrape against bone.
What will you do? What can you do? "Please—"
"Use your words," he slurs wetly into your flesh, nearly unintelligible. The hurt of the bite is everywhere, radiating through your veins; it's warm and thickly grey like knives wrapped in wet wool, but somewhere along the way it transmutes into something more… needy. You can try to pretend like you don't feel it all you want, but you're still going to make your broken moans and drool into these grubby sheets.
Beg for mercy, why don't you. "Please, Betelgeuse, it's too much. I can't." That's two, you know. Say his name once more and he'll be set loose upon the world of the living.
Do you hate how good it feels to be rewarded, to see the sparks that dart across your vision when he hears his name and shudders top to tail? His movement is rough and artless, body jerking like he's trying to escape his own skin. He's an earthquake bundled up in a sack of meat; you'd lose your footing from the force of him if you weren't pinned down over this dusty bed. As it is, you're probably collecting friction burns all along your front. After all, comfort wasn't part of the deal.
Remember the time when jumping at shadows was just a game, those spikes of adrenaline just seasoning for an otherwise uneventful life? But when you played those games of Bloody Mary late at night, could you feel the veil between worlds grow thin? Could you feel malice in the dark, waiting on one final word to set it free? It was thrilling, imagining what waited beyond the mirror, but that feeling was tempered by the knowledge that none of it was real. It was all just stories.
This is nothing like that. This is visceral, inescapable sensation burning brightly through your tender flesh. It's a garish sort of pleasure that scorches the body and shames the mind. It catches at your throat, pulsing beneath his hand. If this pleasure had a taste it would be sourly metallic like corroded batteries or bile. As it is, he's got your thighs all a-tremble and your belly full of heat and it is awful how easily you could become lost to this.
"Good, huh?" he says like he can hear your thoughts. Can he? It's impossible, it has to be. "Nah," he scoffs, tilting your head back far enough that you can see him wink.
Asshole.
Don't think too hard about this; trying to be logical here will only give you a headache. Just go along for the ride, not like there's much else you can do. A deal's a deal, and even if the method is a little unorthodox, he'll get what he needs in the end. He'll drag his name from your lips again, even if the both of you are here all night.
