•I must let it be known that my work and page are 18+.
♡ Haley! | lvl 23 |a horny she/they | ♡
I went on hiatus bc I had a lot going on. But a year later and I’m back to this hellsite.
Genres: fluff, angst, smut. I also enjoy writing dark themes 😵💫😵💫😵💫
My Conditions
I will write whatever as long as that person/character is not a minor.
I, under no circumstances, will write for watersports, scat, vomit, snuff, necrophilia, wound fucking, extreme gore, specified mental illnesses, suicide, pedophilia, and underage.
Absolutely not accepting any racism, homophobia, transphobia, fat phobia, any of the phobias. I have time, you wanna be big and bad, get off of anon.
ANYWHO
Obviously, I’m gonna have SFW stuff on here, but this blog is literally to dump my thoughts. Please send in prompts or requests, my inbox is open.
Tags will be placed, but I am only human so if I miss any, please let me know!
I am black and plus size so expect to see a lot of that round these parts. However! everyone is welcome to submit, read, and ask anything they would like.
Please may I request more bear!Billy Butcher. It was so hot and so sexy and made me feel so warm. 🤲🏾 I beg of thee. I dont even care what it is. Having bear billy nestled so deep and feeling hating how good the intimacy feels. Im-
anon… you came bearing blood and gold and honestly i’m not about to deny you when you’re asking so sweetly for something this filthy.
so here—take him like this!
bear!butcher behind you, settles behind you like something large and inevitable, his weight folding over your back as you brace on your knees, chest pressed into the mattress and hips tipped just enough for him to line himself up. he doesn’t rush, never does when he gets like this, when the need isn’t sharp but deep and dragging, something that sits in his chest and pulls him closer instead of driving him forward. one thick hand anchors on your hip, fingers spreading wide and possessive, while the other plants beside your shoulder to hold himself over you, his breath already heavy, already uneven before he’s even inside.
he presses forward slowly, deliberately, the broad, softened head of his cock nudging against your slick cunt before easing in with a thick, dragging push that forces a quiet sound out of him. your body gives way inch by inch, your cunt stretching around him even while he’s soft, wetness already coating him enough that he slides deeper with a slow, obscene glide, your slick clinging and pulling as though reluctant to let him go once he’s inside. he exhales through his teeth, a low, strained sound, hips continuing forward until there’s nothing left but the weight of him pressed flush against you, his stomach settling warm and heavy along your back as he bottoms out fully.
the moment he’s seated, he stills completely.
not hesitation, not uncertainty, just a deliberate stop, like he’s reached exactly where he wants to be and has no intention of moving from it. his forehead drops between your shoulders, breath hot and damp against your skin, and for a second all you feel is the sheer presence of him, thick and heavy and completely buried inside you without any attempt to fuck.
“christ…” he breathes, voice muffled where his mouth brushes your shoulder, hips giving the faintest shift, barely more than a testing press that makes your cunt tighten reflexively around him. “look at you… takin’ me so nice even when i ain’t doin’ a damn thing…”
your body reacts on its own, a tight, wet clench that ripples through your cunt and grips him all along his softened length, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sensation, his fingers digging harder into your hip as the movement drags him just that fraction deeper, as though your body is trying to pull him further in even when he’s already fully seated.
“nnnh—f—don’t do that…” he mutters, but there’s no real protest in it, no effort to pull away, because instead of retreating he lowers himself further over you, chest pressing into your back, weight increasing until you’re pinned beneath him in the most deliberate way possible. every inch of him settles, his thighs bracketing yours, his hips pressed firm and unyielding, his cock held deep inside you with no room to slip free.
when you try to shift, just a small adjustment of your hips, he follows instantly, like a reflex, grinding down in a slow, heavy press that pushes him right back to the hilt, the motion thick and dragging, your slick smearing between your bodies as he resettles himself exactly where he wants to be.
“tch, stay,” he growls, low and rough in your ear, the word carrying more weight than the rest of him already does. “i mean it…i just— fuck—i just wanna sit here… wanna feel you like this…”
and he does exactly that.
time stretches in a way that feels almost strange, the usual urgency gone, replaced by something slower and heavier, something that settles into your bones along with his weight. his breathing gradually evens out, deep and steady against your back, his chest rising and falling where it’s pressed to you, every inhale shifting him just slightly inside you without ever pulling him free. his cock stays soft but thick, completely enveloped by your cunt, held there by the constant, subtle pulsing of your body around him, the slick heat that never quite settles, always moving, always clinging.
every small movement becomes amplified, every breath, every tiny adjustment of your hips or his, creating a slow, dragging slide of warmth between your bodies that makes him exhale under his breath. he doesn’t turn it into thrusting, doesn’t build it into anything more, just lets it happen, lets your cunt move around him, lets your slick gather and spread and coat him while he stays exactly where he is.
his grip softens slightly but never leaves your hip, thumb rubbing absent, slow circles into your skin as though he’s grounding himself there, as though keeping you steady ensures he gets to stay buried just like this.
“yeah…” he murmurs after a while, voice lower now, rough but quieter, almost thoughtful in the way it drags out of him. “that’s it… jus’ hold me there… good girl…”
his hand doesn’t stay at your hip for long, the grip loosening only so it can wander, broad palm dragging slowly up the curve of your side until it settles over your stomach, fingers splaying wide as though he means to cover as much of you as possible. the weight of his hand is deliberate, grounding, pressing down just enough that you feel the subtle shift inside you where his softened cock is seated deep, your cunt tightening instinctively around the intrusion of pressure.
he exhales low at that, something almost reverent slipping into the sound as his thumb begins to move, tracing slow, absent circles over your belly, the motion unhurried, almost contemplative, as if he’s mapping the exact place where the two of you meet beneath your skin.
“feel that?” he murmurs, and his voice has lost its earlier edge, roughened now by something quieter, something dangerously close to embarrassment, like he’s admitting to a weakness he’d usually bury under anger. his hand presses a fraction deeper, testing, feeling the way your body yields around him. “got me tucked in there… nice ’n deep… like you’re keepin’ me right where i belong…”
the words settle into you, and your body answers before you can think about it, your cunt tightening again in a slow, wet contraction that drags along the full length of him. the slick heat of you shifts, clinging, pulling, and he breaks on it—a rough, fractured sound spilling from his throat as his hips rock forward in a shallow, involuntary motion, just enough to feel the drag of your wetness around him before he stills again, like he’s caught himself chasing something he doesn’t want to lose control of.
he hates how much he likes this.
you can feel it in the way his jaw tightens against your shoulder, in the faint hitch in his breathing, in the way his hand pauses for a moment on your stomach before resuming those slow, circling strokes. there’s a tension in him that doesn’t come from restraint so much as reluctant surrender, like he’s aware of how deeply this is getting under his skin and resents it even as he leans further into it.
because this—being soft, being buried inside you without movement, without the usual rough insistence of his body—strips something back in him that he doesn’t quite know how to guard against.
hates how being inside you like this, useless by his own standards, not even properly fucking you, makes his head go quiet in a way nothing else ever does.
“don’t need to move,” he mutters, the words half-formed, more confession than statement, his face pressing deeper into the crook of your shoulder as though he can hide in the space there. his breath is warm, steadying, his lips brushing your skin with every word. “feels too good like this… you holdin’ me like that… fuck…”
your body betrays you again, another soft clench, a reflexive tightening that grips him warmly, your slick shifting around his cock in a slow, enveloping pull. His reaction is immediate, a low groan vibrating into your ear as his fingers dig more firmly into your stomach, holding you in place as though the movement came from you intentionally.
“yeah… there you go…” he breathes, voice dropping lower, rough with need despite the lack of motion. “keep squeezin’ me… keep me right there… nice and fuckin’ warm…”
he doesn’t thrust, doesn’t chase friction, doesn’t break the stillness he’s settled into, but the way he presses into you changes, subtle adjustments of his hips that keep him seated as deep as possible, every shift designed to maintain that full, buried feeling. his body molds over yours, heavy and encompassing, his warmth sinking into you until it’s impossible to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.
summary: Pup meets Daredevil for the first time. He calls her adorable (not exactly) and Frank fucks her about it.
tags: size difference (pup is smaller), doggy style (Ha!), unprotected sex, praise kink, dirty talk, wet & messy, facials, masturbation, squirting/ejaculation, vaginal sex, she/her pronouns, manhandling, muteness, (human with dog ears/dog tail - hybrid), dom/sub undertones, dom frank castle, established relationship, dead dove do not eat, puppy play (if it wasn't clear enough - nasty dirty sex)
a/n: im spreading the owner frank x pup agenda one word at a time. ive got 12k total on ao3 for the au. i love them so bad and i want to talk abt them so send me stuff. ive already got a list of scenarios i want to write for them but more ideas wont hurt :D
more on ao3
Pup doesn't remember when she first met the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, but she does remember how.
She was patrolling with Frank on a cold bitter night, that only registered as cold to her because of her breath clouding in front of her face when she exhaled. Still, Frank made her wear a big, warm jacket, gloves and a beanie. She was sitting criss-cross on the roof, by the edge, watching people all the way below, hands in her pockets when a dull thud was heard from behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw Frank, The Punisher, standing face to face with a man dressed in blood-red, with horns on his head.
Pup knew he was Daredevil, she's read a few stories about the vigilante on the newspaper, and Frank told her about how he does an honest to God half-assed job at vigilantism. But he's a good guy for the most part, more than Frank.
Daredevil was looking straight at her, his head tilted the tiniest bit to the right. Frank then glances her way, he doesn't say anything and Pup watches, not moving from her position.
Then Daredevil speaks, "You're making friends now, Frank?"
"You jealous, Red?" Frank scoffs, dry as ever.
"Jealous? Oh no, not me. I'm fine where I stand in your social circle, but her, you'll introduce me?" Daredevil smirks.
"No," Frank crosses his arms over his chest.
"Oh, come on, look at her, freezing her ass off in the dead of night and you won't even let me say hello? What she doing here anyway? She like you?" Daredevil presses.
Frank rolls his eyes, then says, "She's like you,"
Daredevil' smirk falters, "What does that mean?"
"She has talents," Frank says.
Pup hears all of it, not because they're standing near but because they're at the end of the roof and she's got the hearing of a K9 dog. She flushes at Frank's praise, the words going straight to her tummy and spreading down her legs, making her shiver in her thick coat.
Daredevil freezes when his enhanced senses pick up the reaction.
The lower half of his face must've showed his realisation because Frank hums, "Did she hear?"
"Yeahh…" Daredevil says, a little distracted.
"Pup, come here," Frank calls.
She immediately gets up and walks up to them. Her eyes flitting from Daredevil to Frank and back. Once she gets there, she smiles, looking up at Frank to introduce her.
"Pup, Red," He nods at Daredevil. "Red, this is Pup," Frank says.
"Pup," Daredevil repeats.
She watches Daredevil with a shy smile, greedily taking in his red costume. The little details on it, the DD on the chest, the textures and the Billy clubs attached at his hip. And the glaring lack of any real weapons.
"She's mute," Frank then adds.
"That's alright," Daredevil smiles, not mentioning how he's blind because Frank knows already and Daredevil doesn't know her just yet to tell her his business like that. "It's nice to meet you, Pup,"
Daredevil hopes for everyone's sake that 'Pup' is just a fake name to protect her identity.
"I'm sorry, why Pup?" He tilts his head to the side confused.
Pup glances at Frank and he gives her a shrug, she looks back at Daredevil and reaches for her beanie, taking it off, revealing a set of dog ears amongst a mess of dark curls framing the rest of her face.
Daredevil feels like an idiot for not noticing any sooner, because he can make out the ears in his mind, their presence more much obvious now that they're not pressed flat against her scalp.
"Oh, wow," He breathes out, 'staring' with his mouth ajar.
She twists her beanie in her hand, somehow nervous at his reaction. Once her anxiety registers in Daredevil's head, he smiles, "It's unique, I bet they're adorable in the daylight,"
She immediately grins at his words, tucking her chin in. And Frank plants his hand on her head, shaking out her flat curls for her while scratching at her scalp like he would to a real dog.
She immediately shivers, eyes fluttering close as she lets him play with her hair and ears. Her previously motionless tail, tucked inside her jacket, escapes out of it from the bottom and starts wagging, making a 'swish, swish' sound against the back of her jacket.
Daredevil stands there, mouth agape.
Then Frank drags his hand lower, to the back of her neck and squeezes, making her moan. She reaches to grab at one of the straps on his vest for support. Frank chuckles and releases her.
Daredevil stands there, hearing her fast heartbeat loud and clear in his head. And he can practically feel the heat emitting from her body and smell the aroused pheromones spilling out of her pores.
And he's not sure how to react because Frank's heartbeat was calm and steady. And yet, Daredevil knew the man did it on purpose. He can't prove it but he knows it in his bones.
.
.
.
"Just a bitch in heat, hm? The second Red gives you attention, you're ready to go belly up? Do I not give you enough attention?" Frank speaks in her neck, his warm front to her sweaty back as they're messily joined in the middle.
Pup is panting and crying on her hands and knees. Or more like, arms and knees, because her ass was only up because Frank was holding it up. Him and his massive fucking hands. They practically looked brutish gripping onto the sides of her ass like that. Her skin was soft and her tail even softer, wrapped around her own leg.
They already had a noticeable size difference, but joined like this, it was even more obvious. Frank swears he could feel his middle fingers brush against each other when he holds her waist. It was too much.
And worst of all was his dick. He knew he was big. But when he's with her, as in, her smaller body and so smaller pussy, it was even more obvious.
But she was lucky to be what she was. Because she doesn't get wet like any normal person gets. Oh no, her pussy was a mess of slick. She leaks like Frank's never seen before, and she gets all hot down there, her pussy lips getting engorged with blood and hormones, her body getting ready for a pounding. And that's exactly what Frank was giving her today. Doggy style.
Frank sits up, pulls back all the way until only his tip was suctioned in her slippery hole, and the sound it makes is disgusting and wet.
Then he slams back in, heavy and hard, angling his hips down a little. His full balls smacking her pussy lips, her wetness spreading at the force of his thrust, splashing further up her ass and higher on his chiselled and scarred pelvis.
Frank's almost snarling like a fucking animal, his spine tingling with heat and pleasure. He feels stupid with desire, his balls were tingling and throbbing and he's sure he's going to come so hard he'll get a headache from it.
And his puppy is not doing any better either, she's whining and moaning, barely able to close her mouth. Her face was squished on his pillow, eyes closed and hair stuck to her forehead, small tits brushing the bedsheets every time Frank buries himself inside her. Her nipples were starting to hurt from how much they've rubbed against the sheets. They're hot and they hurt.
"Fuu— Fuck. How are you this wet? You're always like this? Huh?" Frank says after gulping and continuing his slow and hard thrusts. His brows are furrowed and he can barely finish a single thought in his head. He doesn't remember ever feeling like this before. Was that just her? Her pussy? Or was it something in her slick that made him feel this way?
Whatever it was, Frank was dizzy with it. He throws his head back and moans openly when she starts pulsing harder around him, sucking his dick further inside her. Then she whines, frantically reaching back for his hands. She grabs them and pulls them up, Frank is pulled down, almost crushing her under his weight if not for his core strength and his strong thighs. She pushes his hands between her nipples and the bed and he curses under his breath, forehead against the back of her head.
And he starts to feel around, gentle and careful. When he notices the heat radiating off them and hears the wince she lets out when he rolls her nipples in his rough fingers, he coos. Frank wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her up. So now she's sitting on his lap as he's sitting on his thigh, "They hurt?" He pants against her jaw.
She nods and he hums, "It's okay, we're almost done,"
He doesn't wait and starts thrusting in and out of her hot pussy with his hands on her waist, lifting and dropping her back on his dick. All the while her head was bowed, watching the bulge in her stomach move with each thrust.
Then he licks his lower lip and lowers his left hand for better grip, and the second he feels her skin move under his fingers he grunts like he's been punched in the gut. Frank uses his other hand to move her face so he can frantically swallow all of her noises. Their kiss was messy, and downright disgusting. Especially when Frank drags one of his hands even lower and cups her whole pussy in his palm, feeling exactly where he's buried inside her. She screams when she comes. Her pussy tensing and choking his dick as she shakes and bows forward, Frank goes with her, her forehead to the bed, back arched, pulsing slick and squirting around him.
Frank's eyes were close tight, a roll of sweat drips down his chin and falls on her shoulder as she shakes like a leaf underneath his huge body.
Everything was hot, too hot. Their bodies plastered together with sweat and heat. And Frank is about to go out of his mind because she was so warm, much warmer than him, which was concerning for her size but she wasn't really a human to begin with. So maybe that's normal for her.
Frank is barely thinking when he moves to get off her, "Get on your back," the words come out scratchy and strangled.
Frank is the one who slips out of her pussy and flips her around like a little doll. Her eyes are barely open when he moves further up the bed, closer to her head and throws a massive, hairy thigh on the side of her head, he brackets her small face between his legs, and with one hand on the wall and the other between his legs, he furiously jerks himself off, whimpering when she tiredly brings both hands to grab at his thighs, just holding him there as he spills little droplets of precome and her own juices on her face until he finally comes with a pained gasp.
Her eyes flutter close and she opens her mouth, sticking her tongue out as he wrings out every last drop of his come on her precious face.
When Frank was done, he pants heavily above her, making sure to stay still so he won't accidentally sit on her and hurt her. Both of his hands were on the wall, holding him up as he panted and tried to calm down. All the while his head was bowed down, staring at his puppy between his legs, who opened her eyes and casually swallowed his come like nothing. She licks around her mouth while staring at him, and Frank can't look away, especially when she gives him a tiny smile and tilts her head to the right to kiss his thigh, over a scar, and he trembles when his dick jerks and dribbles come on her chin.
She giggles and he huffs, "That's it, enough," And he carefully gets off her, sitting heavily next to her on the bed, feet on the cold floor. She immediately turns to her side and hugs him from behind, curling her body around his naked one.
Frank reaches back and scratches her ears without looking. She shivers and curls even closer against him, chin hooked on his sweaty, warm skin.
After several months, you stumble upon a drunken Jud in Il Diavolo.
A/N: Thank you for the support on the epilogue! I would suggest reading it prior to this part if you haven't already. This is the official part one of a multi-part series. As always, forgive any grammatical mistakes. (I recently realized I've been spelling some things with British English and I am American lol?) Please keep in mind this is a work of fiction and not intended to disrespect any persons or their religious affiliations. Thank u! WC 2.6K
Warnings: 18+, lack of faith, f!reader, reader can be interpreted as atheist or agnostic, language, alcohol consumption, sexual tension, mentions of sex, mild corruption kink, slowish burn, reader is a cop, mentions of being shorter than Jud, forced proximity
You never went back to the church like you promised. It had been several months since you had seen Jud, yet Jud's face seemingly found you everywhere.
Through Facebook postings, and clippings of church fundraisers, Jud's relaxed demeanor was always caught lingering on the sidelines. His face was posted in small flyers on the station's bulletin board, stapled amongst various town events. A wide gap between himself and the habitual parishioners prompted the corners of your mouth to pull down in resentment. And, whomever was composing the flyers neglected to list Father Jud's name, only ever mentioning a Monsignor Jefferson Wicks. You had begun to note the pattern of repeated parishioners, and their apparent desire be as close as possible to the monsignor. Their willing bodies positioned themselves upon the older man's vestments, so much so that they could likely smell the detergent Martha had used weeks ago. It wasn't hard to find her name, nor any of the others, and you had both a police issued laptop and nosy town residents to fill you in. You never bothered peering into Jud's history, however, figuring it was something he would have to tell you himself. But as you avoided Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude like a boxer dodges his opponent's fists, Jud remained more of a fond figment of your memory.
Wednesday night, you trudged into Il Diavolo. Your eyes felt as if they were made of cotton. The glitter on your eyelids did little to conceal your exhaustion. A cacophony of music and laughter rang about the small establishment. Glasses slid across the wooden counter. Gatherers clinked their beverages with neighboring glasses. The wooden bar stool dug into the plush of your behind, forcing you to readjust as often as you took a sip from your drink. Rattling of beer bottles chimed as your coworkers drank beside you. Menacing devils danced along the bar's decor, grinning sinisterly at the abundance of patrons. Smiling to yourself, you wondered if this would be a catholic's worst nightmare. Yet, as you glanced at the end of the bar, a familiar heap of brown hair looked grimly down at his glass. Maybe not, you thought.
"I'll be right back." You mumbled, as your hand slipped along the curve of your coworker's back. Her drunken state ignored this gesture, and you steadily made your way to Jud's seated position. He sat lousily at the end of the counter, a nearly empty glass glaring up at him. A battered hand entangled in his mousy curls, spilling through the gaps between his fingers. You swore every time you saw the priest his knuckles were swelling with purple splotches. Perhaps he did live a double life. You tilted your head down to catch his eyes, but they were narrowed shut. A smirk threatened your lips. But as your hand slivered over the black material on his shoulder, the man awoke suddenly with a readily closed fist.
"Jesus!" He gasped, blue eyes softening as they focused on you. His hand straightened onto the flat counter.
"Are you alright, Father?" You could barely withhold the laughter that stumbled from your glossed lips. You figured only elderly people made a habit of falling asleep in public.
Jud chuckled to himself, swiping a hand over his mouth. "Got ahead of myself, I guess."
"Long day?" You asked, prompting a quick elevation of both of his thick brows. Sitting carefully in the stool beside him, the space between the two of you diminished. Your knee collided with his, your thighs lingering in mutual agreement. Jud grasped his glass, soothing the hard liquor down his eager throat. You watched as the muscles of his neck tensed and relaxed once more. That barely noticeable tattooed skin stretching leisurely. He signaled Nikolai with two diligent fingers, studying the lack of alcohol before you. "Buying me a drink?" You teased.
The bartender slid fresh glasses before the two of you. Thick ice cubes resting among the deep brown liquor, like white mountains amongst barren trees. "I should've asked what you liked." The priest shook his head solemnly, hands up in what could only have resembled defeat. Though the lighting was dimmed and overwhelming rosy, you swore a slight rouge tinged his pale cheeks. You had the inkling he hadn't drank with a woman in a long time, never mind been with one at all. And then the thought struck you.
"Are you supposed to be drinking?" You cursed yourself at the foolish question. He was an adult after all. An adult priest with neck tattoos and blistering knuckles at that.
Jud smiled, surveying the concern written along your complexion. "I do a lot of things I'm technically not supposed to." His digits flexed as if to mirror quotations.
Your fingertips gripped the cold crystal. The condensation melted, slipping down onto the base of your palm. It could very well likely be the generous amount of alcohol in your system, but as the warmth in your abdomen persisted, you nearly prayed it would subside. "What else do you do?"
He leaned in, the smell of whiskey nestled in the warmth of his breath. "You confess your sins, and I'll confess mine."
Your hazy vision scanned Jud's expression, and the growing intensity in his blue eyes. It was wrong, you knew that. But as the lamp spilled amber along the depths of Jud's complexion, highlighting the intricateness of his features, you wondered if it could ever be different.
"Are you offering to take my confession?"
"I would without hesitation take your confession," he admitted. The bobbing of his head only furthering the proof of his intoxication. "But if I'm being completely honest, I'm quite sick of taking confessions."
You scoffed gently, imagining the lot of maybe six parishioners that attended weekly mass, piling in front of one another to have their confession taken by Jud. "Have you run out of absolutions, Father?"
"For Wicks? Absolutely."
Your brows twisted in bemusement, skin creasing fine lines between them. Sure, the parishioners preferred Wicks, but was he not taking their confessions at all? "He has you taking his confessions?"
The priest dramatically rolled his eyes, head turning toward you. That lopsided smirk seemed to be permanently stuck to his face. "I only take his," he admitted. "Once a week, or so, where he gives explicit detailing of his masturbation techniques."
There it was. Adjusting in your seat, your eyes raised in expert enthusiasm. "Anything worth noting?"
Jud shook his head in disgust, suddenly grimacing. "He's not even capable of getting an erection. He just does this to torture me."
"Why would he do that?"
"To get me out of his church." He stated this as if it were completely obvious. His face was screwed, and you noted that this was a bother to Father Jud. Whatever was happening inside Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude was causing the priest to shack up with an uncountable amount of whiskeys on the rocks. Though, something told you Jud wasn't as holy as you envisioned him to be. To what capacity, you couldn't be sure. The priest brought his whiskey glass up to his lips, tilting the glass back to swallow all of it's contents. His tattoo whispered carefully beneath his collar, revealing the most you'd seen thus far.
"You know, I'd never taken you as the type to have a neck tattoo." Your fingers tingled at the thought of gently tracing over the colorful skin.
"You seem to admire it often."
This took you by surprise. Yet, there was no semblance of discomfort in Jud's posture. "What is it?" You asked, and he only hummed in perceived confusion. "The tattoo," you insisted.
He waved a large hand in the air, an abysmal attempt at dismissing you. "Something from my past," he said. "It's embarrassing, really." He stroked the back of his neck.
"Your past or the tattoo?"
A deep breath escaped the brunette's lips, the question seemingly sobering him momentarily. You watched as his chest rhythmically rose and fell beneath his black uniform. His eyes examined the rim of his glass before they found your sincere gaze. It was your turn to practice zero judgment. "I was a boxer in my previous life," he finally allowed. "I killed a man in the ring."
Your gentle hand found Jud's, enveloping the rough skin with your intoxicated warmth. Your thumb trailed over the areas that appeared to have been pressed against fresh raspberries-- an unconscious attempt to somewhat remedy what's been broken. "Is that why you became a priest?"
"That amongst other things," he said whilst nodding. "I killed that man with hate in my heart. Figured Christ was the only one that could save me." The priest pointed two fingers at his chest.
"Thank you for trusting me with that."
It was fascinating. You had never felt that way. The glimmering crucifixes in Jud's eyes slowly faded, returning to their cloudy haze. You had never believed in anything that much. Not a man upstairs. Not a virgin impregnated by miraculous intervention. He must've. He had to. You tried finding solace in what could be, but you were always guided back to what you knew to be reality. What was practical, and sometimes what was tangible. You had seen crime scenes that made you lose faith in goodness. Sat in court rooms where testimonies had you praying for the defendants to meet their deaths sooner. But praying to what exactly? To whom? What did that say about you, or your morals?
The priest let you search his face as if the answers were embedded within it. Within the crow's feet beside his blue eyes. Or along the stubble caressing his chin. Something about Jud made you want curious of these things. It was rather compromising. He was married to God, you married to the job. And as the alcohol resting in the pit of your stomach became guilt, the curiosity dropped from your brows. "I should go," you murmured. Relieved from the pressure upon your bottom, you stood before Jud. You couldn't help the sourness that had become of your expression.
"Let me walk you home," he slurred. His feet were laid unstably against the ground, legs wobbling as his six-foot stature stood straight before you. He steadied himself, eyes unfocused as they surveyed the crowded room. Perhaps the attendants thought it odd for a young woman to have her hand enveloped with that of a priest's upper arm. But as Jud stumbled into the lamp, you'd hoped they would be forgiving. "Oh man!" He gasped. "I broke the lamp." The wolf's head rested in the palm of Jud's hand, and he cradled it as if it were precious. You tugged on his arm, sobering by the minute. "Nikolai, I'm sorry! I broke that... with my hand."
"They're junk lamps," the man promised. His hand clapped the priest's back, flashing a friendly smile to you from over Jud's hunched shoulder. A sorrowful Jud followed closely behind as you led him out of Il Diavolo.
The walk to the church was not far, roughly a mile and a half. Your booted feet were practically numb, and the leftover liquor blanketed your shoulders in a sense of comfort. Perhaps it was Father Jud's embrace, but you had decided to safely bet on the whiskey. The man's shoulder bumped into yours the entire way home, every unstable step sending him knocking into you. Your hand remained grasped around his bicep, which you shamefully noticed was not exactly scrawny. He appeared somewhat boyish then, though, curls all muddled and eyes tinged with tired tears. Being April, it wasn't exactly chilly, but you were appreciative of the extra body heat as you made the journey. The difficult part was walking back to your apartment, which you concluded was an issue for later you.
As if habitual, Jud began leading. The cusp of Our Lady could be seen illuminated under the moonlight. Few lanterns strung along the exterior, caressing the stone pathways with amber glow. The gravel crunched beneath your footsteps, echoing into the darkness surrounding the chapel. Jud paused, slipping his arm out from your captivity. The sudden lack of warmth caused a hiss to escape your lips. The priest twirled an object in his palm, gripping it with extensive force.
"Is that-?"
"Yeah." An exhale weaved it's way out of his lungs. It was as if he watched it dissipate into the sky before chucking the wolf head at the church. It hurled into the night, disappearing within seconds. Not a semblance of anger appeared along his expression. His brows remained steady, eyes focused on the building before him. Until the shattering of glass echoed through the air. Your eyes widened.
"Hey! Who's there?" A man's voice burst from the tree line, and Jud grasped your hand.
"Oh shit!" He swore. "Let's go."
He marched you towards the archway, the open gate to the church grounds. The leaves bristled in the wind. The air softly tampering with the hair along your face. Jud paused before you could step under the entrance, angling his head downwards. His hand remained entangled with yours. "You looked beautiful tonight," he admitted. "I meant to tell you earlier." A confession, you thought. Right before the two of you crossed onto holy grounds. You should've been flattered, and perhaps you were slightly. Yet something about the confession, and the location, prompted insecurity to fester in your chest. You refused to get involved. You refused to harbor feelings for a man that wouldn't-- no, couldn't reciprocate.
"Don't- I can't-" Your hands rested on his broad chest. You refused to let them sink into the heat radiating from beneath his jacket. His eyes feverishly searched your face, and you tugged him further along the path.
You lugged Jud up the staircase. His bedroom was humble; a small bed, dresser, and closet against the wall. It lacked materialism, naturally, and your booted feet sunk into the carpet pleasantly. The curtain billowed welcomingly. Your fingers tingled at the thought of undoing the zippers on your heels.
The priest began undoing his collar, kicking off his shoes into the corner of the bedroom. "Jud, if you don't need anything," you trailed off. His hair was tousled upon his head, collar removed from his dress shirt. The neck tattoo was almost apparent then, and small tufts of chest hair peeked from the newly exposed space. God, help you.
"You're staying here." He peeled his comforter back, fluffing his pillows accordingly. You're afraid he'll reach for his belt buckle next.
Your head is shaking profusely. "That's not a good idea."
"Neither is you walking home alone." He faced you. The moon was the only light filtering through the room.
"I'm a cop," you scoffed.
"And I'm a man." He was sobering. That fact destroyed you. You should've never came to the church all those months ago. You should've stuck with what you knew. Yet here you were, having a priest beg you to sleep in the same bed as him.
"You're a priest first."
Jud shook his head slowly, angling his eyes away from yours. He must've known something you didn't. When he caught your gaze, you finally began undoing the zipper on your boot. You slid the leather off of your foot, tossing it near his discarded shoes. It was an act of approval. Of submission. He watched carefully, eyes wide as if he couldn't believe what he had convinced you to do.
As you slipped under Jud's comforter, the smell of him permeated through your nose. Masculine and earthy. A pleasant amount of laundry detergent underlying the natural musk. It was a rather small bed, small enough to be considered blasphemous to be shared. Why didn’t it bother him? Why were you the one feeling guilty?
He slipped beside you. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. His lashes rested upon his cheek. His mouth slightly agape. A breeze drew in from the window, the curtain dancing before it. You watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath. Your head settled upon his shoulder, eyes fluttering in blissful exhaustion.
POV: Remmick and I had a feral, wild, passionate affair while I was in my 20s, but he fucks off for 60 years and comes to visit me when I'm in the nursing home, but this is how I greet him because I've BEEN ready for him and I'm about to bounce on that ancient vampire Blarney Stone with my lethal Meemaw Muff
hi there! 24f looking for a 20+ partner to write mickey17 with! i would love to create our own characters to interact with the cast, so we’d be playing both ocs and canon characters. please be okay with smut and darker themes. discord is my main platform so interact here and ill get back to you! 🧬💝
-> Thomas offers himself to you, but he’s not the only one blinded by desire
Warnings: some manhandling (by reader), hair pulling, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering, tease and denial, sub!Thomas (with a hint of cheeky though), dom!reader (but kind of soft for him) (even when she’s mean), shadow sex? sex with shadows? whatever you wanna call it, mentions of blood craving/drinking, lying in a coffin
*Written in the same vein (ha) as Moonlight. Consider it a sequel if you like.
Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!
He comes to you willingly. Eagerly. Even knowing what you are and all that you could take from him with barely a lift of your ancient, beautiful finger… he offers so much more. A predator you may be, but this sweet surrender of his nearly feels as though it is you being ensnared, so intoxicated by his desire that your own grows blinding.
“The gates are open,” you remind him, standing next to your coffin as he stops a mere few paces away from you. “The wolves have left.”
His throat bobs as he swallows—his fear, or pride, or both. “I know.”
In a moment of… weakness, you suppose, you had decided to spare him. You called the shadow of dread you had cast upon him back into yourself, cleared his path, offered him freedom. In truth, there was still a chance you might send the wolves who so dutifully served you to track him down and drag him straight back to your castle. Part of you so longed to keep him in your greedy clutches. Another fought against it. Now, you would never know which would have won, but of one thing, you are certain: this is not your doing. His choice to stay, despite the chance he was given to flee this horrid place and never look back, is exactly that—his own.
“You seek me out of your own free will, then?”
You know the answer, but you need to hear it out loud. You want to drink the words from his lips like you would his blood, savour the taste of them. And though his eyes are loud enough, he can’t seem to say it outright at first.
“I wanted to leave,” he confesses, voice wavering with raw emotion. “The moment I knew escape was possible, I ran faster than I can remember my feet ever carrying me. Yet with each step I took farther from these walls, it wasn’t relief that I felt. It wasn’t the forest or the snow I saw before my eyes. It was your face. Lit by the fire, bathed in moonlight. Each word we exchanged as we talked late into the night, each lingering gaze. The hunger in your eyes which so terrified me, even as I… as I longed to be the one to sate it,” his eyes fall shut as he speaks the words, struggling to let them out. “And though I knew, in my heart, that you were not of this world, though I saw your marks upon my skin and understood that you held my very life in your grasp, I couldn’t help but wish for more. To know you better, to see and understand every single part of you. Even if it brought my utter ruin. I knew that, if I left you behind, never to see you again… my every waking thought for as long as I live would be of you. Not a day would pass that I would not feel the urge to make the journey back and look upon your face, if only one last time. So, yes,” he admits, nearly breathless, “I come to you of my own will, seeking relief… from the torment of wanting you.”
It’s torment, indeed, which laces his every word and breath. A decent man such as him, wanting nothing more than to make himself respectable in society, to secure the good living a potential future bride would deserve, stripped of everything he had ever known about truth and fable, about his own fears and cravings. Baring his soul to the one who had made it unravel. You should find it pathetic, mock his foolishness.
You don’t quite find it in yourself to do so.
“I am not a person for you to want,” you remind him, a dangerous edge to your voice as you approach him slowly. “I am craving itself. Insatiable. Pitiless. I would devour you.”
“If that were true, you would have done so already,” he claims still. “Pitiless, you say, yet—here I stand. Had you not spared my life, I could not have returned to lay it at your feet.”
Oh, what a sweet romantic. When you stop, he takes the last few steps towards you, careful yet bold, coming to stand before you within perilous reach.
“How long has it been,” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “since someone chose to stay? When were you last offered something more than blood?”
“Offered?” you scoff. “I am not offered blood. I take it.”
Thomas clenches his jaw, frustrated, and a decision is made. With quick, determined fingers, he undoes his buttons, pulling open the top half of his shirt.
“Take it, then,” he dares you.
It’s bait you shouldn’t take—but you can’t help your eyes falling to his flesh the moment it’s been bared. Your bite marks are still there, puncture wounds begging to be reopened. You fight back an animalistic hiss. If you do as he says… you would be doing as he says. Acting on his terms, even when fulfilling your own cravings. That thought alone might dissolve you more quickly and painfully than the first ray of dawn.
So fixated you are on his heart, you hardly notice Thomas reaching for your face. His fingers graze your cheek, hesitant at first, then more securely cradling it as you lift your gaze to his. His expression is as soft as his touch, hopeful and compassionate. He is taking your hesitance to feed off him as confirmation that he was right. That his willing presence is some kind of balm for what he believes to be a deep longing of yours.
There is only one thing you can do in the face of such a pure sentiment.
You bring your hand to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his soft curls. Still damp from running away, then straight back to you. He lets you pull him closer, even closer, until your lips are nearly brushing, your breaths mingling. It’s him who means to close the distance once and for all, but you plant your hand onto his chest to keep him at bay the moment his mouth begins to graze yours.
“Do you truly believe,” your voice begins soft, then grows into a growl, “that I am some wounded soul in need of deliverance?”
Your long nails drag against his scalp as you pull at the roots—hard, down, forcing him to his knees. Thomas gives a hoarse cry as they hit the cold ground.
“Do you wish to save me, Thomas?” you spit the word like it’s rotten in your mouth. “To ease my pain? My loneliness? Do you truly believe I can feel such things?”
Your words echo harshly against the stone walls, charged with blinding rage. How dare he look at you with such pity in his eyes? How dare he presume to know your heart, when it has been lost to you for centuries—
Thomas grabs your waist and, before you can even begin to push him away, buries his face in your stomach.
“My soul weeps for you,” he persists hoarsely, shaking his head against the fabric of your dress. “I cannot help it.”
You release his hair, quite frankly stunned by the feeling of him so desperately clinging to you. You are still angry, and you could untangle him from your body with ease, but…
“You are a fool with a death wish,” you say, more softly than you had intended.
“I wish for you,” Thomas counters heatedly. Something wild, downright feral burns in his eyes as he looks up at you. “Let me prove it.” His hands leave your waist only to plant themselves on the back of your thighs—creeping ever so daringly upwards. “Let me taste you. As you have tasted of me. Please.”
You know very well what he means, but still: “You lack the teeth,” you taunt.
“But not the tongue,” Thomas insists, somehow pleading and stubborn at the same time. “May I please you?”
Blood is what pleases you. The hunting. The haunting. The biting.
But right now… you want this.
“You may try.”
The moment your permission has been given, Thomas hastens to lift the skirts of your dress. You don’t move a muscle, standing above him like an unfeeling goddess as he frantically works to move past any layer of fabric standing between him and your bare flesh. But you do feel, and it’s odd, so odd, to let yourself be worshipped rather than feared for the first time in what feels like an immeasurable amount of years. He kisses your knees with reverence, his lips ascending your thighs as though heaven itself might be waiting where they meet. His mouth is so hot on your skin, so sweetly arousing. If you were still human, you’d be trembling with want.
Yet when Thomas lifts his eyes to yours, silently pleading to see so much as a spark of his desire reflected in them, you deny him. Your pride demands that your gaze remain cold and expectant, as though you are unimpressed by his efforts so far.
That only seems to spur him on. He must make do with the little access granted, but your closed legs do not deter him. Determined to elicit a response, he plunges his tongue into the folds of your sex with vigour, seeking—and finding—that bundle of nerves which remains as sensitive in death as it had been in life.
For so long, your lust had been reserved for blood, you had forgotten how it felt to have it pool low in your belly, producing slickness and a delicious ache between your thighs rather than a compulsion to sink your teeth into a fresh vein. You certainly remember now, as Thomas licks and sucks at your clit, stoking the ache into a blazing fire spreading throughout your body.
He eats you out like his life depends on it—which it very well might. Though you don’t feel much like the ruthless predator your kind is supposed to be at the moment. A sound, foreign and breathless, reaches your ears, and you are shocked to realize you had produced it. Thomas groans in turn, satisfied with his feat. You grip his hair, pull at the roots in retaliation, but that only fuels the lust consuming you as much as it does him. When you feel him attempting to work his fingers into the space between his mouth and your cunt, you finally part your legs slightly, to better allow it. The bunched up fabric of your skirts obscures his face, so you pull it back to look him in the eye as he slides his fingers into you, two at once. He holds your gaze, brazen and feverish, and the sight combined with the stretch and curl of his fingers inside you are a strange kind of torment, endlessly frustrating and frustratingly addictive. You should be above such human afflictions, but it seems you are not after all. Your body still seeks pleasure, still weakens with it, now that you have Thomas kneeling at your feet with his tongue between your legs.
Thomas. Your beautiful Thomas. You’d have allowed no other soul such intimate caresses. It’s even worse to know that he alone could stir these emotions within you, from the pity that had led you to free him to the vexingly human lust which strips you of control over your breath under his touch. Relentless, his tongue strokes you to madness, his fingers find impossibly sweet places within you, and when a small whine from his throat reaches your ears, the dam breaks and you are coming, lost to rapture without a drop of blood on your tongue. You gasp, crush his face against your core, and in turn his nails dig into the back of your thigh as if he could pull you any closer than you already are. For once, you are being devoured rather than devourer. It’s freeing. It’s infuriating.
Even when you are done clenching around his fingers and the pleasure begins to subside, he doesn’t stop. His tongue drags almost unbearably against your sensitive clit, over and over, threatening to pull cries from your throat which would be dangerously close to whimpers, and that is when you use your grip on his hair to throw him away, rasping out, “Enough!”
Thomas falls on his back with a short cry. He scrambles to sit up, but remains there, looking up at you as he touches his glistening lips—glistening with the proof of his success in pleasing you, just as he had claimed he would. Certainly, that is why the faintest trace of a smile tugs at his mouth.
“Pleased with yourself, are you?” Your tone is biting, despite your lingering breathlessness. Thomas lowers his hand from his face, but not his gaze from yours.
“Do I not have reason to be?”
Here he is, offering himself to a vampire like a lamb to the slaughter, and yet his pride has not entirely left him.
To your chagrin, you must admit he is not wrong. Your chest still heaves after your climax, you still ache for more. For too much, in truth. Thomas is straining against his trousers, quite visibly so, and though you would rather have his cock buried between your legs than shredded in your teeth, you are excruciatingly aware of the blood that has rushed to fill it into hardness, pumped there by the heart you can hear pounding in his chest.
You are far from sated.
“That is enough for tonight,” you deadpan. You are too close to losing the last sliver of control you still possess, and that is as corrosive to your pride as it is potentially deadly for him. It’s a miracle, frankly, that you muster the will to walk away.
Thomas doesn’t see that line of reasoning. Looking as though you have struck him across the face, he catches your hand as you pass by him. “Wait. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Still on his knees, he shifts closer to you so he has to crane his neck even further up for his pleading gaze to meet yours. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
Your hand is still in his. Once again, you allow more than you ought to and leave it there as he brings it to his lips, pressing a most delicate kiss to your knuckles. “Bite me,” he murmurs. “Take me. Anything. Just… don’t go.”
“Take heed what you ask for, Thomas,” you warn, though your voice lacks the bite he ought to be warned against. Your chest is tight with longing, warm with… affection. When you pull your hand from his grasp, it’s only so you can cup his chin, let your fingers tenderly graze his pale, damp skin. “If I were to lay myself upon you now,” you all but whisper, leaning down so your breath ghosts his mouth, “when I’m done with you, it will be your corpse I dismount.”
His lips part, letting past a trembling breath. Before he can protest as his face shows he means to, you stand back to your full height. “Sunrise is but an hour away,” you say sternly. “Not nearly enough for me to feed elsewhere and enjoy you properly. I shall join you in bed tomorrow night.”
Your tone leaves no room for argument, and you don’t wait for an answer. In the last glimpse you catch of him as you leave, Thomas breathes out a curse, eyes lowering to the straining bulge at his crotch as if it were an open wound.
If you remain much longer, it might be.
“Eat well yourself,” you order without looking back. “You’ll need your strength.”
***
Only after Thomas has returned to his bed do you return to your coffin, mildly but far from fully satisfied. The animals you had drained in this last hour before dawn were poor substitutes for the blood that beckons you from your lover’s veins.
Lover.
The meaning of the word had been all but lost to you before him. And though ‘love’ is a part of it, you doubt you are capable of such a feeling. What you feel for Thomas is nothing but a new, strange kind of appetite. You want his heart in your teeth, but not for so long it stops beating. You want to make him last. Perhaps… forever. If he were to offer himself willingly. For the first time, you feel you would not mind sharing some of your power with what you know to be called a ‘familiar’.
But any such thoughts must wait. The sky was already infused with a rosy hue when you retreated to the comforting darkness of your resting place, and soon enough your consciousness will awaken to yet another night, the hours of daylight passed as if in a blink of your immortal eye.
Thomas, on the other hand, has a long day ahead of him. The sleep he seeks, unlike you, will not claim him. You can feel as much even without reaching out to his mind with your power.
Which you are unable to refrain from doing, if only for the last few moments of the night. Eyes closed, you let your darkness stretch out, slithering along the stone walls of the castle, corridor after corridor and room after room, as though you are yourself making your way to the chamber where Thomas lies in bed. Soon enough, the darkness before your eyes is replaced with the image of him, skin glistening with perspiration, brow pinched in discomfort. A sight you have admired for many nights before. Only, it’s not a sense of inexplicable dread which plagues him now, but rather the torment of unfulfilled desire.
He tries to fight it, truly. Forcing his eyes to remain shut, his body to lie still. But the desire remains, a constant, maddening companion. Ever so often, his hips give a gentle roll, as if the softest friction against his trousers would bring him any modicum of relief. You may not have explicitly forbidden it, but he knew better than to relieve himself after you left him.
At the very least, he has managed to resist the temptation until now. With a sigh which spells defeat, he opens his eyes, taking in the softly lit sky. He can’t see that the sun itself has yet to emerge over the horizon, thinks himself already out of your reach for the following day. He only hesitates for a few moments before he reaches down, and the guilt in his gaze dissipates into a moan as he finally grants himself the pressure for which his cock has been aching. He palms it firmly, hips bucking into his own hand, before reaching inside his trousers and grasping his length fully. Perhaps you will not mind, you feel him think. He will confess it to you, yes. Beg for forgiveness if he must. Part of him hopes he’ll have to, his cock throbbing even more intensely at the thought, his rhythm quickening—
His wrist is snatched away by an unseen hand—by a shadow—and pinned to the pillow beside his head, right along with his other hand as well. He gasps in fright, then the loss of the blissful friction pulls a whine from his throat. Your voice is a disembodied hiss, crawling through his mind like a serpent.
“You asked to be taken. So this,” his chest heaves as your shadowy grip engulfs his swollen length, the feeling nothing short of devastatingly real, “is no longer yours to do with as you please. I alone shall grant your pleasure, and only when I see fit. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” he breathes out. “Yes.”
The latter is a wanton moan rather than a promise. He is all but thrusting into the air now, into your unseen touch, his head thrown back, his neck beautifully exposed. You wonder if he has the faintest idea how utterly devourable he makes himself for you.
“If you touch yourself,” your voice purrs in his ear, “I will know.”
Perhaps he won’t need to, at least for a while. If you keep stroking him this way, even from afar, even just for a few moments more, he may yet find the relief he so direly needs. He is close, you can tell, and you almost—almost—want to feel him reach it.
“Oh, my dear Thomas,” you caress his name with your tongue. “I fear I shall never have enough of you.”
Even without him gasping out the words as he writhes against the sheets, you know he feels the same. It’s not enough. You are selfish by nature, ravenous, vindictive. You want his desire to eat away at his veins as cruelly as yours has stripped you of your power over yourself, denting your ancient pride.
When he is on the precipice, ready to reach his peak, it’s gone. Your voice, your touch—melted away the moment that the sun is no longer obscured by the earth. Thomas has never resented its warmth as he does now. His heart may as well have dropped into his cock, the way it throbs with each pump of his blood, desperately unsatisfied, and what’s worse is he knows you intended it this way. That you revel in his torment.
Friend. Dearest mutual. Lovely follower. Random passer-by. I know we haven't shared a fandom in 5 years. I know we never talk. I know we may only barely recognize each other's icons, if that. I just want you to know...
