my name is bj / bug (they/he/it), & i’m a horror fan + illustrator + aspiring warlock + etc. for more on yours truly, check here!
what i write:
horror & slasher imagines / headcanons!
i like to do unconventional horror characters alongside the mainstream slashers, for example: the babadook, the cryptkeeper, and beetlejuice, amongst others 💚
i'll do nsfw / sfw / gore, basically anything within reason. all the bad stuff goes without saying (hopefully)
you can assume all reader-insert posts are gender neutral unless the request states otherwise.
for more: rules + character lineup
i also take commissions for longform fanfics, which includes oneshots. i typically charge 15 USD per 1000 words! (this would be me making 15 an hour, so really the basest i can go).
if your request is worded as a longer story / oneshot idea, it will be treated as a headcanon / imagines bullet list.
you can find more samples of my writing on my other general fic-writing blog, @nymphosynth, and on ao3!
Um hello, are you still writing requests? Is it okay if I could request the babadook relationship headcanons with a female s/o? Please and thank you!
i thought i'd never get a babadook ask 😭 here you go my friend <3
the babadook doesn't do traditional 'love', not in the way humans are used to seeing it. it scratches gently at the edges of your heart until you let it in, a presence you fear and find oddly comforting.
it speaks in riddles, its voice like the rustle of leaves in the dead of night. you always forget what it's said by morning, and the fact that it can communicate in your language to begin with.
'dates' are unconventional. it's mostly... visiting its holding place. assuming you've tamed your babadook by now (please, do this first), you likely have a spot in the house that it likes to hideaway within. preferably an attic or basement, maybe a closet if you're in an apartment. you just... spend time with it. unafraid, vulnerable, smoothing it back down into a manageable monster. this is how you show it it's worthy of love and attention.
the babadook is fiercely protective. it's aggressive in a lot of ways, really, which turn out best when you're on its good side. sometimes, when you're having nightmares, you recall the story changing after seeing it appear in the scene somewhere... the dreams usually change, then, into something bearable.
its idea of affection is peculiar but sincere. it rearranges the bookshelves in your home just slightly, ensuring your favorite stories always seem to find you at the right time.
it doesn't say i love you outright, but you know the two of you have a healthy bond when life has functionality, and it rewards you in small ways. you hear it in the way its shadow stretches to cover you when you're cold, or how it leaves a cup of tea steaming on the windowsill, just the way you like it.
while its presence is unsettling at times, its deep growls and guttural noises have taken on a lullaby-like cadence over your time with it, and its dark shape at the foot of the bed feels more like a guard dog nowadays than a hint at something ominous about to occur.
it can give you flowers, but don't expect a bouquet. in fact, should you express a desire for such a gift, expect a chunk of them to be missing from your front yard. you may find a trail of dirt leading up the dining table, where a few of them will sit waiting for you to find them, roots and all.
when disagreements arise, its tantrums are theatrical. thunder rolls, shadows writhe in the corners of your vision, but it always returns with an awkward apology (most often a scratched drawing of you done with whatever it could find around the house).
🌙
thank you for reading!! 💌
you can find my other writing here on ao3!
Okay but consider Jason having a s/o who’s kinda insecure. For all her past relationships she’s had to wear makeup and look presentable at all times, but Jason couldn’t care less that she’s “unpresentable.” s/o is like “Jason, no, don’t kiss me yet I have morning breath” or “why do you want to cuddle? I’m not even wearing makeup” and a whopper being “I can go out looking like this” but he thinks she’s beautiful no matter what
thank you for this request! i miss writing jason stuff, so this is gonna be healing. i’ll use the example statements you gave me as prompts if that’s ok!
✦ jason / insecure fem!reader ✦ —
you woke up first, because you always did. not out of discipline, just out of habit. out of old panic that always said check yourself, before someone else does. your mouth tasted sour from sleep. your hair was doing whatever it wanted. your face felt soft in the worst way, and was most definitely decorated with an imprint from your pillow.
he was still there. not looming, just present. you could tell when he was awake because the air in the room got just a bit colder in some weird otherwordly way that probably had a supernatural cause you could barely begin to understand.
you jolted when he made to move towards you. “jason, no.” you're voice was already apologetic. “don’t kiss me yet. i have morning breath.”
he leaned in anyway. you turned your head at the last second, because it was automatic. your palm came up over your mouth. you hated yourself for it in real time, could feel the old training in your bones. smile right. look right. earn it.
he caught your wrist, gentle in the only way he really could be. he held it down, not forcing you flat, not pinning you in warning. he simply removed the barrier between you, like it was an unnecessary object on a counter. then, he pressed his mask just so on your lips, in a faux kiss, protecting your dignity and making you blush in the same movement.
you pulled back and laughed, because what else was there to do when he was so cute? “you’re not even gonna pretend to care?”
he did that small head tilt that always looked like he was trying to understand a rule nobody bothered to explain. his hand stayed on your cheek. he wasn't disgusted, not even amused (not that you really thought he had many ways he could show it). he was just there, steady as ever, acting like this was normal. you were the only one acting like you were on trial. you slid out of bed and tried to keep it casual. “i’m just gonna brush my teeth.”
he followed you to the little sink. not right on top of you, just close enough that you could feel him behind you. and then literally see him behind you, there in the mirror. you spit, rinsed, wiped your mouth, checked your face like you were checking a bruise.
you reached for your makeup bag next, because you always reached for it next. the bag was half-open already, knowing its job well. jason hesitantly placed a hand on your side, his other following the movement, slowly wrapping around your middle as he laid his chin on the top of your head. a proper hug. your fingers hovered over the zipper.
“why d'you want to cuddle?” you asked, too fast, too loud. “i’m not even wearing makeup.”
he pulled back slowly, stared at you. he looked at the makeup bag, then back at you, like he was trying to find the connection and coming up empty. in a moment, he had you pulled you back against him, and tucked his face into the side of your neck like he was done with the topic.
you stiffened, but relaxed into him so he wouldn't mistake your worry for fear of him. he was the last thing you feared, right now. no, your own psyche was doing more damage than he'd ever tried to do to you... so, you owed it to him to explain yourself.
“in my last relationships, i had to look presentable all the time. like, all the time.” you made a vague gesture at your face, as if that clarified anything. “even to go to the store.”
he didn’t react to the history part. he reacted to the fact you were tense. his hand moved slow up your side, thumb pressing once, a non-verbal check-in. he wanted you quiet. not silent, quiet. there is a difference.
you looked down at yourself. bare legs, oversized shirt, the ugly socks you wore because the floor was cold. you could hear your own voice turn mean the way it always did when you felt exposed. “i can’t go anywhere looking like this.”
he turned his head toward the door, back to you, then toward the door again. it was so simple it almost made you mad. out there was the porch, the treeline, the lake. nothing with opinions. certainly nothing with a dress code. you were acting like you’d said i can’t go out without armor, and he was acting his answer was then don't bring armor. bring me.
you opened the door then, just to prove something to yourself, and the air hit your face clean and cold. no noise, no strangers, no bright store lights that made you feel like you’d forgotten your lines. just damp moss, pine rot, and the fog on the lake sitting thick and murky like it always had.
you stepped out in the state you were in. unbrushed hair, bare face, sleep still stuck to you. you waited for the world to punish you. and... it didn’t. it just existed. much like you.
jason came up behind you and wrapped his arms back around your waist. he didn’t fuss, or try to turn you toward the light so he could 'see you better' like anyone in your past who wanted to inspect the effort (or lack thereof) you'd put in. he held you like you were already correct.
“this is so stupid..." you laughed humorlessly, because you needed to say something mean before you felt too vulnerable. “i don’t know why i’m like this.”
he pressed his mask to your temple, once. then again, like a correction. not to you, but to the lie you’d been taught. he didn’t need you polished. he didn’t need you arranged. he needed you here, breathing, warm, in his space.
you still made a half move toward the makeup bag when you went back inside. he intercepted it without drama. just set it aside. he took your hands in his, instead, large enough to swallows yours within them.
later, when you finally did put on mascara out of pure muscle memory, he watched you do it the way he watched anything human you insisted on doing. patient, a little curious, not too invested. you caught your reflection and then caught his in the mirror. you turned and spoke to him, nice and soft. “so... you really don’t care.”
he didn’t nod, didn’t try to reassure you with words. he just leaned in, this time lifting the mask just slightly, and kissed you skin to skin. you hummed into the touch, his lips cool and damp, smelling like the forest. ah... of course you didn't need to fear this from him. you loved him just as he was, with all it's wild complexities and plethora of things you could never understand. so... yeah. maybe it was high time you gave yourself the same grace.
thanks for reading! 💌
you can find more of my writing at @nymphosynth, or here on ao3!
emil fouchon / pik van cleaf / reader || throw you to the hounds⬩➤
commission for @nshtn, in order to torture a mutual friend :)
[✦ AO3 link] NSFW. gender neutral reader. afab implied. dom / sub, boss / employee, degradation, rough, blood... the works. see further tags on ao3.
1989. A new year. Your second year, actually, in this city. The trend ‘til now had been to complete a season per country, sometimes across two cities if it’d made for particularly smooth hunting ground. The one constant you could rely on in this job was the travel. The transience. Which is why this extension made you nervous.
Italy was beautiful, naturally. But it pretended as much as any other place. Pretended to be gentle, a swooning romantic destination, rose petals and red wine. It gave you pale stone stained the color of bread, balconies with lacy ironwork, rivers sliding beneath bridges lazily. Even the characteristic cold dead of the north Italian winter moved with manners here, like it was taught to send word before it arrived. You had learned, in the years you’d worked for this team, that manners didn’t equal mercy. They were simply… a language. One Mr. Fouchon happened to be fluent in.
The apartment sat above a narrow street that smelled of espresso and car exhaust and old mortar. In the afternoons, the curtains were pulled to a comfortable angle. Light came in thin honeyed rays, washing the floor tiles in waves. Somewhere below, a Vespa coughed and sped away. The bell of the Basilica rang out into the frigid air, trying always to outlast everything else in the city. It had managed as much for six centuries.
You stood at the edge of the sitting room with your jacket folded over your arm. Not because you were uncertain what to do with it, really. It was just that holding something gave your hands purpose, kept your fingers from picking at your cuticles nervously. The sitting room was staged to look like a place people lived, as usual. There was a bowl of fruit on the table, brightly deliberate. A decanter sitting beside it caught the light and separated it into colored fragments on the wood. On the far wall, an ornately framed print of a renaissance Madonna watched with serene sternness. The Christ Child in her arms looked on, impassive. You averted your eyes.
Fouchon was in a chair near the window, one ankle resting on his knee. A cigarette hung between his index and middle finger. It was some French brand he preferred, well-rolled, ash holding impressively. He wore linen like it’d been invented for him, you thought. He looked like a man on holiday (if you didn’t already know better what his holidays consisted of).
Pik occupied the black leather sofa near the center of the room. He wasn’t much of a lounger, you’d come to learn. He sat, spine straight, long forearm stretched across the back while his other arm cradled a recent copy of L'Arena. He’d taken his shoes off at the door without being asked. You remembered the gesture being so casual it felt like discipline in its purest form. In the soft light, he looked younger than he did when he was outside. Indoors, the angles of him found flattering shadows. His gaze found you then, and stayed there, unblinking.
Fouchon watched your posture. Pik watched your throat.
“Come here.” The older of the two spoke first. His tone to you sounded like a deliberate choice. In the way a locked door offered a handle, of course. Deceptively unbothered. Decoration, to hide the denial of other options that involved not complying.
You went. Your steps were quiet. You’d trained them that way years before you’d met either man. It pleased Fouchon when you moved like a fixture of the environment, and he fancied the paradox of asking for something that came before he even finished his order. When you stopped in front of him he reached for your wrist. He turned your hand palm-up, eyes scanning for something unseen. The movement reminded you of when he inspected his equipment. A strong thumb traced the inside of your wrist once, slow enough to communicate that it was intentional.
“You were late last night.” He looked up from your wrist.
Your jaw tightened. “I was being watched.”
His eyes didn’t change, but the draw on his cigarette paused, signalling a thoughtful moment. He liked when your truth arrived neatly. You’d learned not to be fussy.
“And you corrected it.” He raised his right brow.
In your first year, this type of conversation had made your brow bead. Now, your pulse only raised by a hair. Noticeable to him, but no longer the obnoxious display of fear that had dominated you long before he had.
“Yes.”
He let your wrist go and leaned back, regarding you with the attention he gave any other possession. “Good.”
You were aware of Pik listening without appearing to. It was one of the qualities that made him so dangerous, in your opinion. He didn’t perform alertness. He simply had it, always on the prowl for what may provide munition.
Fouchon gestured to the small table with the fruit and the decanter. “Drink something. Sit, if you’re capable.”
He knew you were capable. He enjoyed the insult anyway, exhaling a pale cloud of smoke through a grin. You poured yourself water. Your fingers didn’t shake, the way you’d expected them to. The glass was cold enough to sting. Condensation pooled around your thumb. You sat in the chair opposite them, the one that placed you in line between Fouchon and Pik in a perfect triangle.
The first time you’d understood your place in their hierarchy, you’d thought it would feel humiliating. Humiliation was messy, demanded emotion. This was far cleaner. You were a tool they kept close because you were useful for the business, because your loyalties could be purchased, because you were discreet… and because you had a temperament that could be shaped.
Fouchon had shaped you deliberately.
He’d been careful about it, too. Careful in the way people were with expensive weapons. He gave warnings, taught you his rules. He told you, more than once, what would happen if you disobeyed. You’d slipped up only once, since then. He made cruelty into ritual, ritual into certainty. Knowing the limits meant you could breathe inside them, at the very least.
Pik, though… he didn’t bother with ritual. Pik didn’t raise his voice to make you understand. He didn’t offer explanations. When he was displeased, he simply acted. Correction from him came like a bullet through a silencer. You feared Fouchon because he wanted you to. You feared Pik because it would be stupid not to.
And yet, here you still were.
You looked at Fouchon and felt that familiar gravity. He was the axis you orbited. The one who decided whether you were rewarded, punished, touched, ignored. Your dynamic with him had been established early, and it had lasted this long simply because it suited him. That was always the reason anything lasted. You’d thought, once, that his dominance was merely an extension of control. And, well… it was. But it was also about attention. Fouchon liked to be watched. He liked to be obeyed. He liked to see you anticipate him, because anticipation made you an attractive mirror. It reflected him back to himself in a flattering light.
Across from him, Pik watched, measuring the distance between what you were and what you could so quickly be made into. The air shifted when he spoke, in English that carried the faint music of his home country.
“Verona is complacent.” He commented idly, flipping a page of the paper. “It makes people stupid.”
Fouchon smiled without warmth. “It makes tourists stupid. We’re not tourists.”
Pik’s gaze flicked to him. “You take that personally?”
“I take everything personally.” Fouchon said, as if that were a point of pride.
Pik’s mouth tightened, not quite a smile. It was the closest he came, often, save for moments when he and Fouchon were alone (in those rare moments you could only glance at through cracked doors and car windows).
Fouchon leaned forward slightly. “Our friend did good work yesterday.”
Pik didn’t look at you when he answered. “Good work is expected.”
Your throat tightened anyway. You held your glass a little closer to your body, like it could do anything to protect the shuddering inside your ribs.
Fouchon’s voice softened into something a little more intimate. “Be nice, Pik. You’ll frighten them.”
The sharpshooter looked at you then, direct, unemotional. “They should be frightened.”
Fouchon laughed under his breath, pleased rather than offended. He loved Pik’s bluntness the way some men loved dangerous dogs. He never pretended to tame him, only enjoyed being near him. You watched them and felt the peculiar ache of understanding. The shape of their couplehood was peculiar, distinct. It wasn’t tender, no… not in a way that would make sense to people who believed love was always some quaint soft thing. This companionship was built from alike appetites and shared history. Out of blood that didn’t need to be explained. They moved around each other with the confidence of men who’d decided their boundaries long ago.
Fouchon stood, grace of a swan, to settle once more on the sofa. He let his hand drift toward Pik openly, fingers brushing his knee once, absent-minded. Pik didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look down. The contact was small, but it rearranged the room. It reminded you who belonged to whom (and who, by extension, belonged where).
Fouchon’s attention returned to you. “Tell me…” He cocked his head, looking down his sharp nose at you. “Do you fear him?”
He didn’t mean it as a joke. He always asked his questions like a man tasting wine. He wanted the answer to test its texture. You could’ve lied. You understood the advantage of lies. But in this arrangement, around these people, honesty was often safer. Fouchon punished dishonesty more often than weakness.
“Yes.”
Pik’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t seem offended… if anything, he looked mildly satisfied.
Fouchon’s brows lifted in quiet delight. “More than you fear me?”
You breathed in through your nose. You inhaled the acrid spice of French tobacco. It provided some sense of grounding for your naked truth. “You warn me.”
Fouchon’s smile widened, pleased at the compliment hidden inside your fear. “And he does not.”
“No.” You swallowed. “He doesn’t.”
Pik replied cooly, a grin in his voice. “Warnings are indulgent.”
Fouchon turned his head to look at him. “Warnings are civilized.”
Pik’s gaze held his, unwavering. “Civilization is a costume.”
For a moment, they stared at each other. The silence between them wasn’t empty, however. It was full of a great many things you weren’t meant to know and could certainly not survive knowing. You sat very still, aware that you were witnessing something private without permission.
Then Fouchon exhaled and the moment broke. He looked to you, deciding in that very instant what you could be used for next.
“You’ve been in our employ long enough.” He pursed his lips. “You understand my expectations.”
You nodded. What else could you do?
“And Pik’s.” He added, sounding amused. “Even if he refuses to explain them.”
Your pulse ticked. You didn’t look at the taller man, because you didn’t want to invite his attention; and because not looking felt, strangely, like some kind of respect.
Fouchon’s tone shifted. “There are benefits to being kept close. But being close also means… obligations.”
You knew what he meant. You’d known before he said it. He’d trained you to hear the hinge in his sentences and understand which doors they opened. Fouchon rose from his chair and came around the table. He stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him. He was always running hot. His fingers settled at the back of your neck. He leaned down, his mouth near your ear.
“You want to be useful.”
“Yes.” Oh, you hated how quickly the word came. You hated it, and you wanted it.
His hand tightened slightly, a pulse of approval. “Then you will be.”
He straightened. You felt his presence pull away and the air cooled by degrees. Across the room, Pik looked on with that same impersonal interest, like this display of compliance was simply evidence of a mechanism functioning. Fouchon circled back toward the sofa. He sat on the arm beside Pik without an ounce of hesitation, lacking any and all reservation about the younger man. The ease of it made your stomach twist.
“Pik…” He began casually, eyes never leaving yours. “Our retainer has been loyal. Competent. Discreet.”
Pik’s eyes sharpened on you. “They are adequate.”
The word should’ve felt dismissive, but coming from him, it was almost close to praise.
Fouchon’s mouth curved. “Adequate.” He repeated, savoring it. “Do you understand what it means to belong in a hierarchy?”
“Yes.”
“And do you understand…” He continued. “...if you answer to me, so will you to Pik?”
Your throat felt dry. You swallowed once, bobbing on dry spit. “Yes.”
Pik’s gaze narrowed slightly. Interest, perhaps. Calculation, more likely.
Fouchon reached out and placed his hand on Pik’s thigh again, a small, proprietary gesture. “Pik has been patient.” The word patient sounded like a private joke. “He’s watched you. He has opinions.”
Pik’s jaw flexed once. He didn’t deny it. You felt, with startling clarity, that the room had shifted to a new configuration. The furniture hadn’t moved, but… the rules had. You could still breathe. You could still refuse. You could… but you understood, in your bones, what refusal would cost. You looked at Pik then, finally, because you’d maxed out the effort it took to pretend he wasn’t there.
His face was unreadable. The mocking cruelty you feared still sat there behind it, palpable. Still, there were no warnings in his eyes, no theatrical promise of what he might do. There was only assessment and the faint impression of something darker.
He spoke at last, voice steady. “You fear me.”
Ah. He wanted you to repeat it, then. Confirm it to him directly.
“Yes.”
“And yet you sit easily in front of me.”
Easily wasn’t the word you would use, exactly. Hmm… you could have replied because Fouchon told me to. It was true, but it was also incomplete. You sat there because you’d already accepted what kind of world you were in. You’d chosen this proximity over safety, because some part of you wanted to test the edge of this blade you’d been warned about.
Fouchon watched you with bright interest, waiting.
You decided to answer honestly. It was the only thing here that belonged to you. “Because he wants me to.” You inclined your head slightly toward Fouchon. “And because I’m curious what you want.”
Something subtle passed through Pik’s expression. Not softness, never that. Recognition, then. He’d just found the correct lever.
Fouchon laughed softly, delighted. “Oh.” He grinned, putting his cigarette out in the side table’s glass ashtray. “That’s a good answer.”
He leaned back, satisfied, and let silence stretch until it felt much like silk pulled taut. Down from the balcony, through the double doors, a burst of laughter rose and fell. You let go of the breath you’d been holding. Pik’s eyes hadn’t risen from you for even a moment.
“Stand.” He ordered, and there were no warnings in it at all, only expectation.
Fouchon watched as you obeyed immediately. His smile was fond, though not for you. He enjoyed seeing Pik’s effect on others. To see Pik enjoy what he would never give him. This was enrichment.
Your legs felt steady enough, but inside, something uncoiled. Something in your mouth tasted metallic and you tried swallowing to dissipate it. Pik's eyes tracked the motion. You imagined he was taking notes on you as much as he did any other target.
Fouchon remained on the arm of the sofa, hand resting on Pik's shoulder with casual ownership. He nodded once, a small approval, a key turning in a lock. "Go on, then. Show them what patience looks like when it ends."
Pik rose without haste, his height unfolding in one great shadow lengthened by the afternoon light. He didn't touch you at first. He simply stepped close enough that you could smell him. Clean sweat, faint leather, something starker underneath. His hand closed around your upper arm. It was surprisingly exact, not firm or rough in the way you’d braced yourself for. "Come." He gestured to the doorway that led to the hall, voice clipped with his accented cadence.
You let him lead you from the sitting room, down the narrow hallway where the air grew slightly cooler, parquet tiles underfoot echoing softly. The master bedroom door was ajar. Like it’d been waiting. Or staged, you morbidly thought. Had they planned this? Pik pushed it open with his free hand, revealing a space that mirrored the rest of the apartment. Orchestrated elegance, heavy curtains drawn against the Italian sun, a bed vast and unrumpled as an empty canvas.
Behind you, Fouchon's footsteps paused. You glanced back, just once, and saw him detour to the coatroom near the entryway. He returned from its depths, withdrawing the Contender rifle. Sleek and single-shot, promising precision in all things. Your stomach tightened at the sight, a wary flicker running through you like ice water. Why now? Was this a punishment? You knew better than to ask. Fouchon didn't explain his rituals, he simply performed them, and you were part of the audience. Or rather, a parishioner at the altar.
Pik pulled you inside, releasing your arm only when the three of you crossed the threshold. Fouchon lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame with the rifle dangling at his side, patient as a lion in tall grass. Pik turned to you, his expression blank but for the faint curve at his mouth's edge. He reached into the drawer of the marble bedside table, movements efficient, seeming almost bored. What he withdrew was of leather make. Supple, black, shaped into a muzzle with a bite gag at the center and a handle looping from the back like a shorthanded leash. Your breath caught as he held it up, the scent of it hitting you first, oiled and worn. The texture of it held traces of use. Had this ever been in Pik's mouth? The thought flickered through you, strange and dangerously exciting. Imagining him on his knees, Fouchon's hand pulling at him, forcing submission from the unyielding. It sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low despite the tension.
Pik stepped closer, long slender fingers tilting your chin up with clinical detachment. "Open."
You did so, jaw parting as he fitted the gag between your teeth, leather pressing firm against your tongue, muffling any protest before it formed. He buckled it at the back of your neck, tight enough to control but not choke. The handle dangled, waiting to be filled by a fist. His eyes met yours as he adjusted the strap to you, dark and assessing.
"A test.” He met your eyes. "Loyalty isn't words. It's this."
You nodded, the motion restricted, a hum building in your throat. Fouchon watched from the doorway approvingly as he drew another cigarette from their case and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The flame danced briefly, casting his face in sharp relief.
Pik's brows furrowed slightly, tilting his head.
"Does this turn you on?” He asked, mockingly soft. You gulped, startled at his directness. He grinned. “Do you want to show me... for him?" The words dripped with derision, like the mere idea of it amused him. The hired gun, reduced to a toy.
Heat flushed through you, undeniable. You were of course affected by this. Had been since the moment your strange position in Fouchon’s circulation had developed. You nodded again, emphatic despite the muzzle, and despite the very present fear you had for the taller man. Pik's brows raised, surprise flickering before it twisted into a wicked smile. It was the first real crack in his composure you were allowed to see. "Well.” He whistled. "Eager. I like it."
He moved at once, swift and sure, pulling you against his chest. Your back pressed to the solid heat of him, his arm banding across your waist. The other hand drew his knife from its sheath at his belt. He held it to your throat, cool metal kissing skin. It didn’t press, not yet, but stayed close enough to still any errant twitch. "Be good.” He whispered against your ear. "Hands at your sides."
You listened, pressed your palms flat against your thighs as he pulled you backwards to the bed. You let him lead you against the sheets, pull you up with him to the mahogany headboard. He freed a hand to slide under your shirt, pushing it up slowly, exposing skin to the air. His fingers traced your chest, teasing, pinching lightly at the sensitive flesh there until you arched involuntarily. This earned you the first taste of his blade, which nicked you just slightly with the movement. He chuckled. “Easy now.”
He kept eye contact with Fouchon over your shoulder, a silent communion, and angled your head with a tug on the muzzle's handle, forcing you to meet the man’s gaze as well. His eyes smoldered, pleased. Pik's hand dipped lower, unfastening your pants with deft fingers, slipping inside to find you already slick. He teased there, circling, pressing just enough to draw a whimper from behind the gag.
"So wet.” He breathed out a laugh against your cheek, demeaning, voice laced with faux surprise. "Pathetic. Whimpering already, like a dog in heat."
The sound escaped you again, muffled, and he chuckled low, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your back. Fouchon smirked from the doorway, exhaling smoke in a lazy plume. Finally he sauntered over, carrying all the poise of a satisfied housecat. In one smooth motion, he ground out his cigarette on your bare chest. It seared, alighting your sensitized nerves, and you gasped against the agitation. You bit down hard on the gag, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, fighting the urge to jerk away as the knife at your throat held you pinned.
Fouchon knelt on the bed before you, movements so soft in comparison to Pik that you almost wept with relief. He took one of your hands, guiding it to the front of his pants. You felt him hard through the tailored fabric, throbbing under your palm, but he didn't ask you to free him. No, not now. He hadn’t played with you yet. Instead, he set the Contender beside you on the sheets, a heavy presence, then tugged your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, baring you completely. His fingers replaced Pik's, two sliding in deep, teasing strokes exchanged for an expert rhythm.
"Look at you." He purred, words rolling off his tongue. "So eager, so ready. Like you were made for this. Spreading for us, un pêche mûre." He glanced up at Pik and hummed. "Don't you think, Pik?”
The man behind you leaned back slightly, pulling the muzzle's handle to arch your neck further, knife shifting to press its tip against your nape. Just enough pressure to prickle. "They do.” He agreed, voice sounding notably huskier. "But watch how they fall apart. It's almost art."
You were undone, heat building, whimpers turning to moans behind the leather. Then Fouchon picked up the Contender again, and your senses snapped alert, body tensing like a wire pulled taut.
Pik noticed, of course. Would’ve even if he’d been ten feet across the room. "Afraid, are we?" He teased, breath hot against your skin. "Good. Fear makes you tighter."
Fouchon dragged the barrel across you slowly, the chill making you shudder. He pressed the tip in just slightly, invading, and you twitched, legs instinctively tightening. Pik tutted, pressing the knife a fraction closer. "Open." He ordered, voice flat.
You relented instantly, spreading once more, and Fouchon pushed the Contender in further. Oh. Oh. So that was the idea. He was going to fuck you with it. Cool metal slid up inside you, not fully, but deep enough that you started seeing white lights in your eyes. You knocked your head back involuntarily as the barrel crown kissed your cervix. It drew a near yell from you into the gag, but you didn’t dare to cry, unwilling to give Pik the satisfaction of tasting your tears. You felt him harden against the base of your spine, cock twitching against your back. Had Fouchon ever done this to him? The thought flashed, forbidden, as your body climbed. Fouchon kept your eyes in his as he worked the weapon inside of you, jaw set, focused entirely on the theatre of this. He used it like it was his own flesh. You’d always suspected as much. The man could use it with no scope. Of course he knew the limits of it as well as he knew his own skin.
The orgasm hit you suddenly, coming over you in one long and convulsing shudder, your head twitching sideways. The knife pierced the thin skin at your nape accidentally, a shallow cut drawing warm blood down your neck. Pik pulled you by the muzzle, exposing the wound, and lapped at it roughly, tongue hot and possessive, tasting the contents of you. It was more embarrassing than being exposed like this, more vulnerable than being gagged and fucked for an audience. Pik drank the very essence of you inside of him. You could feel how pleased it made him, this particular type of ownership. It was evident in the increasingly undeniable poking sensation at your back.
Fouchon removed the Contender, slick now, and snapped his fingers. You could scarcely adjust to the loss. Pik moved instantly, setting his beloved blade aside, still shining with your blood. In a moment, you were flipped onto your hands and knees. He leaned against the headboard once more, undoing the muzzle with quick fingers. Your jaw ached as it came free, but he gave you no time to ease it, unzipping his pants and guiding your mouth to his throbbing cock.
"Open." Simple as.
You took him in, thick length sliding past your lips, filling your mouth with the taste of him. A moan vibrated up from your throat, muffled around him, as behind you Fouchon's belt clicked open. It was almost Pavlovian, how the familiar sound reawakened your arousal. A deliberate sound that cut through the haze of heat and sweat. His hands settled firm on your hips, fingers digging, possessive and sure. He entered you in one thrust, no preamble, the stretch burning sweet as he buried himself in earnest. His rhythm was relentless, each snap of his hips pushing you deeper onto Pik, turning you into the conduit between them. You were turned merely into a vessel for their shared hunger. Pik's long fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your movements with professional precision. His breath came in low, controlled rasps.
"Look at them, Emil.” Your ears perked at the use of Fouchon’s given name. It sounded beautiful in Pik’s throat. His voice was clipped and rough, eyes locked over your head on the other man. "So willing, splitting open for us." His thumb traced your stretched lips in a sardonic sort of tenderness. "But it's you I want, my liefie… your heat around them makes me ache."
Fouchon chuckled low in his chest, falling down through you as he thrust harder, his pace syncing with Pik's subtle pulls.
"Mon cœur.” He purred back, leaning forward to brush a kiss against Pik's knuckles where they gripped you tight. "You always know how to make it sweeter.” He sighed, angling his movements just so, making your legs quiver weakly. Your mouth nearly lifted from Pik at the sensation, but his grip was firm, steadying.
“Mm, see that? Feel how they flinch? Just for us, Pik. Perfect little performer, letting us take what's ours." His hand slid up your back, possessive, before reaching to cup Pik's jaw briefly, a flash of endearment amid the rawness. “How close are you, chéri?”
Pik's eyes darkened, flashing that wicked smile as he pulled free from your mouth, leaving you gasping, drool slicking your chin. He shifted smoothly, efficient as ever, sliding down to position himself beneath you while Fouchon held you steady.
He guided himself to your front, pressing in against Fouchon’s girth, the dual stretch stinging and making you shudder helplessly. A cry escaped your abused throat as they claimed you fully, bodies locked in rhythm. They moved as one, expertly, like they’d done this a thousand times before. Fouchon's thrusts from behind drove Pik further into you.
"Si beau." The older man groaned, his mouth close to your ear with words intended for the one below you. You felt oddly embarrassed, feeling privy to these things they showed no one but each other. You supposed it was part of the practice, though… letting you know who you were, between them. An ornament for a love greater than you could fully understand. "You feel so good like this… your fire burns me."
Pik arched up, meeting each motion, his fingers digging into your thighs. "Liefste…" His voice strained with pleasure. "...jy's my alles. Fuck them harder… let me feel you in them."
The praise flowed openly between them, laced with long-held possession. You were the bridge, the sticky sweetness binding their appetites. Your body trembled as they built towards their own release. Pik's hand found Fouchon's on your shoulder, intertwining briefly, and the naked act of it made your heart squeeze.
They came, shuddering groans mixing, spilling hot and deep inside you. The rush wasn’t unlike the sensation of blood on your neck from mere minutes prior. Both acts, you thought foggily, marked you as theirs. Pik eased out first, slow, deliberate, savoring the feeling of the other man taut inside of you. He shifted to sit against the headboard again, pulling you with him so you slumped half across his chest, legs still tangled with Fouchon's. The older man lingered a moment longer, hips flush to yours, his mouth brushing the nape of your neck where the small cut from Pik's blade had crusted over.
“Well done.” His voice was gravelly, lazy with satisfaction as he finally withdrew. He reached across you to trace lazy fingers against Pik's damp forehead. "Look what we've made of them.”
Pik's laugh was brighter than you’d ever heard. He reached up to tilt Fouchon's chin for a brief, hard kiss over your shoulder. "You always know how to finish it properly, boss.”
Whether from the absolute overstimulation or the minor blood loss you’d sustained, you felt yourself drift between the two men, awareness waning. Outside, the Basilica’s tower tolled the late hour, a distant knell to your fevered brain. In the hush that followed, Pik's voice came once more, barely a whisper against Fouchon's ear but loud enough for you to make out as your mind faded.
As a long time follower, I just wanted to check in and make you that you’re doing okay. You haven’t been doing much writing lately, and I just wanted you to know that we would all love for you to come back. That being said, if you’re on a break then I most certainly understand that. You’re a very talented writer, and I hope that nothing in your life is getting you down!
Thanks for giving us all of your great headcanons in the past!
i've indeed been on a big hiatus!! i've moved towns, started a new job, adopted a dog, had to re-learn living alone... it's been tough. but i've been writing more than ever recently, most often on my other writing acc (@nymphosynth)!! and on ao3 ofc hehe.
i'm looking to clear out my drafts here and get them posted soon when i have time — life is basically all art and writing for me these days, thankfully, lol
hey ghouls!! popping in to inform you i have a new writing blog for general fanfic / fixation writing, over here at ✦ @nymphosynth ✦ !! i take requests there as well — i'll continue doing that here, too, just kept mainly to slashers / horror content :)
ANYHOOT if you're into the alien franchise, that's my main squeeze lately! and anything and everything to do with lance henriksen, lol. good thing he's big on horror to begin with <3
as always feel free to keep tabs on my ao3 as well, i just finished some crazy work for near dark 1987 if that gang is up any alleys ❤
omg just realized you're into near dark. man of taste... please... anything jesse related... i need to twist his rat tail around my arm like a leash
we are so freak4freak. me and my friends want to chew that thing to bits (him in general. but also yes the rat tail. designated dog toy). hmmm... okay, i have a little something i wrote for him recently. guess this is as good a time as ever to share!!
🩸✸ jesse hooker / reader || graveyard shift ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
AO3 link
NSFW, very explicit sorry, afab!reader, longform. note: diamondback and jesse are together in everything i write for them, they're just open! very selective however for obvious reasons.
The ON AIR light was the only thing in the building that looked (or felt) awake that night.
Everything else in the truck plaza had that washed-out, 3 AM quality… overhead lights buzzed in the convenience store, gas pumps ticked lazy numbers over for late night visitors, the diner sign sat half burned out. Out here on the edge of nowhere, it felt like the whole world had been put on mute, except for you and the yellowing little booth with its stack of worn out 8-tracks.
"You're tuned to KRVN, the only voice between you and falling asleep at the wheel." You quipped into the mic, feet kicked up on the console. Your voice came back to you through the monitors, honeyed and tired. "Next up, we’ve got a request from –" You squinted at the note you’d chicken scratched after your last call-in an hour ago. "– somebody calling themselves Diamondback. Y’all really gotta stop givin’ me fake names."
You cued the song, leant back, and listened to the opening guitar riff of 'I Want You (She's So Heavy)' by The Beatles roll out to whatever lonely bastards were still awake out there. Through the glass, the parking lot was a scatter of dormant headlights and chrome, rigs crouched like sleeping animals in the sodium-orange dark.
That's when the lights flickered. This in itself was nothing unusual. Only then, the monitors crackled, the track hiccuped, and for a second the sign died… plunging the booth into absolute black. You swore, already reaching for the backup switch –
– and when the power stuttered back, he was just… there.
A man in the doorway, all dust and leather and the kind of smile you only saw on old movie posters. Coat dirty, knuckles raw, eyes catching the glow of the equipment like they’ve got their own reflective light. It was wolfish and downright paralyzing.
He glanced at the mic, then at you, and his smile went slow.
"Been listenin' to you talk all night." He drawled. "Figured I'd come see if the rest of you’s as interestin' as that voice."
He didn’t come in so much as arrive, like the night opened its mouth and set him down in your doorway. Up close, he was prettier than he had any right to be for someone with dried blood on his knuckles, clearly unshowered, hair mussed and clothes covered in dirt off the road. Shadows contoured across his features like an old photograph, his mouth curved like he knew a hundred different ways to use it.
Your hand was still on the backup switch. His gaze ticked from your fingers to the mic.
"You mind?" He nodded his head towards the soundboard, and reached before you answered, easing the fader down with one knuckle. You eyed the claw at the end of his finger, on each of them, and voice dead to the monitors. The live rec sign threw its red square against his cheek like some wicked spotlight.
"H-Hey man, you can’t be back here." You stuttered, purely out of muscle memory. The words came out too soft to be strict.
"Sugar." He breathed out something like a laugh, and it’s not the word so much as what he did with it; turned it patient, amused, a little hungry. "I been back everywhere there is."
He stepped forward and the booth seemed to get smaller around him. Leather, dust, the distinct smell of rain off truck hoods, and beneath it something older… earth after dark, pennies on the tongue. It set the tiny hairs along your arms standing up.
"You've, uh… been listening?" You surmised, because it was safer than asking what are you.
"All night." He cocked his head, studying you like you’re some kind of prey animal he’s triangulating. "Got a way of makin' a man feel like he ain't the only thing awake for a hundred miles."
He was close then. Close enough for you to see the faint starburst of an old scar on his right temple. Close enough you could put your palm on his chest and feel whether anything beats in there. You don’t. Because you aren’t totally insane.
Instead, you reached past him to right your headphones where they’d slid half-off the console. He watched the move like a cat tracking a string, then plucked the coil of the cord between thumb and forefinger. Twisted once. Twice. The rubber drew a lazy figure eight before he let it drop, smiling like he’d already thought of three uses for it that’d make you blush.
"Lock the door?" He suggested. No urgency. Just a courteous apocalypse coming for your nerves.
You did as he instructed. The latch clicked like a gun being made safe, not dangerous. He seemed pleased by your choice to obey yourself.
"Mm. Real good." He grinned. Then, gentler: "If I get this wrong, you tell me."
"Uh huh." You nodded dumbly. Although you couldn't really fathom why you were playing into this bizarre scenario… there was something in those eyes that twisted your guts into a fervent coil of what if. Stranger things had certainly occurred in this radio station. In the studio. The closet. The bathroom in the diner. You shuddered. Much sexier things were occurring now.
He moved like he was in tune with the rhythms of the earth, all suave and swagger. A hand came up and didn’t touch – just hovered at your jaw, testing the air, the shiver of your skin. When he did finally (blessedly) make contact, it was with the backs of his fingers first. Courtly. The chill of him was real, yes, but the pressure was careful enough to make heat bloom where he tracked along your cheekbone. He was playing.
"You ain't scared." He squinted teasingly.
"Should I be?"
"With me?" His mouth crooks. "Depends how you feel about bad ideas carried out real polite."
He eased you back a step, then another, until the backs of your thighs met the studio chair. He nudged it with his knee; the wheels squealed and you sat, graceless, breath catching on a half-laugh and somehow that’s the part that embarrassed you. His grin flashed, pleased you're human enough to fumble.
"Relax." He shushed. "I ain't here to ruin you. Just… borrow your evening."
He took the spare set of headphones off their hook and settled them over your ears like a crown, careful not to catch your hair. The pads sealed, cut the room into a soft, private hush. He tapped the mic again, making sure it was mute, then leant in, and his voice filled the cups. Low, intimate, like he was inside your head.
"Now…" It purled, the slow-river drawl somehow closer for being recorded by nothing. "I'm gonna touch you. You pull away, I stop. You say stop, I stop faster."
There's a strange purity to the rules said in that voice, under that light. You nod. He waits. You find your voice. "Yessir."
His palm slid to the column of your throat, not closing, not even pressing, just there, a nice cool weight. You felt your pulse jump against him, and his eyes flared with a look you’d seen in a hundred truckers on their last cup of coffee and never like this. Not hunger exactly, but attention. The kind that made you feel like the only thing on his frequency.
"Damn, you look good in here." He chuckled. His thumb stroked a line up to where your jaw ached from talking all night. "Say something for me."
"What do you – ahh– want me to say?" And the pant that left you made you feel so, so weak.
"That." He quirked an angled brow, delighted. "Say that again."
He brought you forward by the headphone band (just a light tug) and kissed you like he intended to demonstrate another purpose for the privacy of a studio booth. His mouth was cooler than yours and somehow sweeter; there was the faintest taste of copper, the flavor of ichor, bitterness of a recent cigarette. He was unhurried, amused when you chased him, pleased when you stopped chasing and let him come to you. One hand braced the chair arm, the other cupped your nape, and for a man who walked in with blood on his knuckles he was so goddamn gentle you could cry.
When he finally deepened it, it was a slow undoing. Your knees parted. The poor old chair creaked. He hummed a pleased, almost ancient sound against your tongue, like you’d confirmed a suspicion he had about how living people feel under the hands. The cord draped your wrist; he wound it once, not to bind, only to remind you where you were.
He drew back just long enough to look you over. "Keep makin' that sweet little noise and I’m liable to skip the call-in line."
"Hah… don't worry…" You sounded breathless and bolder than you felt. "I'm takin' private calls."
His smile went bright and dangerous, then tender at the edges. "Oh, I like you."
The next kiss is more of a request. He let you set the depth, at first. When your hands found his coat lapels and tugged, he went willingly, weight braced on his thighs so he didn’t crush you. Real leather squeaked against goretex. The booth smelled like warm electronics and everything about this stranger, scent of the night outside cooled on metal. Every time you made a sound he answered with one of his own – low, affirmative, a little laugh, a prayer.
"Teeth?" He asked against your mouth, and your answer was a twitch of your pulse under his palm.
You tipped your chin in offering. He didn't pounce. He took. Slow enough that the nerves had time to sing one by one. His mouth found the place where your jaw met your throat. Breath ghosted, then lips. Then the gentlest, testing graze of teeth that weren’t as sharp as your fear imagined but carried history all the same. When you burnt instead of flinched, he groaned like a man forgiven.
"Say yes." He whispered.
"Yes." You meant it. Before he even begged for it.
A press, a little deeper. Bright, brief, more covenant than wound. Heat haloed out from the point of puncture, and you knew then all at once what this was. Something had found you tonight. Something old, from another plane entirely. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. His tongue sealed the skin with something you wanted to imagine as an act of reverence. The world narrowed to that red light, pressure, the sound of your breath in your own ears. The rush of it was amplified by the headphones. His voice filled the same space telling you how good you tasted, how patience is a virtue he doesn't always claim but he's claimin' it now, for you.
You didn’t realize you were shaking until he smoothed a hand down your arm and the tremor rode his palm. He looked almost startled by the tenderness of the act, then covered it with a lopsided smile.
"There you are." He said softly. "Knew you'd sound pretty when that voice cracked."
"I'm –" You swallowed. "I'm okay."
"I know." He leant in, nipped the corner of your mouth; you felt him smile against you. "I ain't here to scare you. I'm here 'cause you asked for company every time you sent that voice out into the dark." He lifted that brow again. "Figured I'd oblige."
The chair drifted a few inches on its wheels; he toed it back in place, steadying you with a hand at your hip. The touch was nothing and then everything. Your mouth found his again of its own accord. The kiss went messier, both of you laughing into it when your headphones knocked askew and the cord tugged your hair. You felt delirious and entirely surreal.
He fixed them for you, careful as ever. "You got a song cued?"
You nodded at the stack. He plucked a disc without looking, read the track list like someone who can read a lot of languages he never bothered to speak, and slid it in. With one hand on the fader and the other still on you, he brought the volume up. Guitar bloomed soft. 'Sex Type Thing', Stone Temple Pilots. The live light burned steady, red as a gash.
"Tell 'em you're takin' five." He tipped his head.
You hit the talkback, pushed the button that routed you not to the county but to the little local area around the studio, a small failsafe but a reliable one.
"KRVN going to a music block." You didn't recognize your own voice, sounding like wrecked velvet. "If you're out there on the road, keep her steady. We'll be right here."
His eyes lit with something pleased and possessive. He turned the mic off again.
"Now." He sighed. It rattled faintly in his hollow chest. "Let me show you what we do with dead time."
He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He took his time like he had centuries to burn. You supposed he did. His mouth found yours first, slow and filthy, tongue sliding in deep, tasting you while his hands worked your jeans open with the calm certainty of someone who already owned what he was unwrapping. Cool fingers slipped under denim and cotton, pushing everything down just far enough.
"You good, darlin'?" His lips brushed the shell of your ear.
You answered by dragging his mouth to yours and moaning straight into it. That earned you a dark chuckle and the flick of a switch. For a moment your heart stopped, thinking he’d turned the feed back on. The ON AIR light stayed blazing behind his head, a halow of red light, but the line stayed dead. You could hear the empty static through your headphones. Hmm… a private show with a public sign. Wicked old bastard.
He sank to his knees with deliberate grace, the old floor creaking once under his weight. Cold hands settled on your knees and pushed them wider, slow enough that you felt every inch of exposure, every second of cool studio air kissing the wet heat between your legs through the denim. His palms slid up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, thumbs brushing so close to where you ached that you whined, low and impatient.
He only smiled, sharp and slow, and hooked his fingers under the hem of your shirt. Fabric dragged upward, catching on your ribs, over your head, gone. He didn't bother with the buttons, a few loose already from heavy petting. Then he went lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, popping the button, dragging the zipper down tooth by tooth. You lifted your hips to help him peel everything away: jeans, underwear, until you were naked from the waist down and trembling in the swivel chair. Everything glowed red, skin a mirror against the rec light.
He hummed, satisfied, and spread you open with his thumbs. The first touch of his tongue was a shock. It was cold, but not unpleasant, dragging from your entrance all the way up to your most sensitive spot in one long, possessive lick. Your hips snapped off the seat. He pinned them back down with one clawed hand splayed over your stomach, the other gripping the base of the chair for leverage.
The second lick was slower, parting you, tasting every slick inch of you like he was memorizing the flavor. You felt the low growl before you heard it, a vibration that rolled straight through you and made your toes curl against his shoulders. Your hands flew to his hair on instinct, fingers sinking into the thick mass, and you’re extremely pleased to find a nice ready-made handle there in the form of a braid.
He let you pull.
You yanked him closer, thighs clamping around his ears, and he took the invitation with filthy enthusiasm. Tongue flattening, circling, flicking, then sealing his mouth over you and sucking hard enough that sparks shot behind your eyes. Every time you got close, hips rolling helplessly, he eased off: soft, teasing little flicks that kept you balanced on a knife’s edge of almost.
"Jesus —" It came out cracked, desperate.
"Mm mm." He hummed comically, to say that man's not here right now.
It didn't keep you from begging someone, something, though. It was too much. You were getting worked like a puppet.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, lips still brushing you, breath icy against swollen, dripping flesh. "Not yet, sweetheart. Wanna feel you shake a little longer."
Then he dove back in, two fingers sliding deep without warning, curling, scissoring, stretching you open while his tongue worked against you in tight, merciless circles. You hissed at the sudden intrusion, expecting those nails of his to scrape, but… he was surprisingly dexterous. He clearly did this often, or had excellent muscle memory. The wet sounds his movements made were obscene in the quiet booth, louder than your own ragged breathing echoing inside the headphones.
Your thighs started to tremble in earnest. You couldn’t stop the roll of your hips anymore, fucking yourself on his fingers, his mouth, chasing the pressure that kept building and building until it felt like your spine would snap.
He crooked his fingers hard, sucked your clit between his teeth with the barest graze of canine, and growled. "Now."
The orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. Your back arched so violently the chair lurched backward, wheels squealing across the floor, banging into the console. You heard yourself cry out (a curse, total nonsense, maybe both), and felt the hot pulse of it crash over you again and again while he kept licking, gentler now, drawing it out until your legs were jelly and the only thing holding you upright was his grip and the fist you still had twisted in his braid.
When the aftershocks finally ebbed, he pressed one last infuriatingly sweet kiss to your throbbing clit, then rested his cheek against your thigh, looking up at you with eyes gone molten gold.
"Good?" He asked like it was something like the weather, voice rough, lips shiny with you. You managed a shaky laugh and tugged the braid in answer. He rose slowly, licked the shine from his lower lip like he was reluctant to lose even a drop, then curled his fingers under your chin and tipped your face up.
"My turn to sit." He lilted, voice gravel-rough. "C'mere."
When you rose on shaky legs, he dropped into the swivel chair with lazy confidence, thighs falling open, belt already undone from earlier fumbling. The worn fabric was promptly shoved down just far enough to free him. Thick, flushed, curving up against his stomach like it had been waiting a near century for this exact moment. A bead pearled at the tip; he swiped it away with his thumb and painted it across your bottom lip in one smooth stroke.
You tasted salt and something you couldn’t quite place. Different than the human tastes you’d experienced before. It wasn't unwelcome, just another detail about him that snagged the list of evidence in your head that this was no ordinary individual you were exchanging friendlies with.
He caught your hips, tugged you forward until you were straddling his lap, knees sinking into the worn material on either side of him. The chair creaked, wheels rolling an inch before settling. Cool hands slid down to cup the swell of your backside, spreading you open, guiding you until the head of his cock nudged your entrance, sliding through the mess he’d made of you.
"Take what you want." His voice moved against your throat, teeth grazing the bite mark he’d left earlier. "Slow or fast, darlin'. Just know I'm gonna remember every second of how tight you feel right now."
You sank down in one deliberate glide. The stretch burned sweet; he was colder than anything human, but the drag of every inch lit you up from the inside. When your hips met his, you both exhaled sounds that belonged on a banned frequency. Thank fuck for the fader.
The chair squealed as you rolled forward, taking him deeper. His head fell back against the headrest, braid spilling over one shoulder, throat working on a silent groan. You braced your hands on his chest, felt the stillness under bone and muscle, and started to move.
Slow at first, savoring the way he filled you, the way his grip tightened every time you clenched around him.
He let you set the rhythm for exactly three strokes. Then his hands clamped hard on your waist and he snapped his hips up, driving into you so deep the chair lurched backward and slammed into the console. Papers fluttered to the floor; a coffee mug rattled.
"Again." He growled.
You gave it to him harder, faster, thighs burning, sweat cooling instantly wherever your skin met his. Each downward thrust forced a broken sound from your throat, each upward snap of his hips punched the air from your lungs. The red rec light flickered like it might burn out from the sheer filth happening under it.
"Tell me." His mouth brushed against the frantic jump of your pulse. "Tell me how deep I am right now." Each word vibrated straight through your skin, low and filthy, daring you to answer while he held you impaled and trembling on every cold inch of him.
You barely managed a reply of so fucking deep on a sob and he rewarded you with a punishing thrust that sent white lights swimming up behind your corneas. Somewhere in the haze you felt his thumb find your clit, circling in tight, ruthless strokes, matching the rhythm of your hips.
The second orgasm coiled fast and brutal. You came crashing down around his cock, inner muscles fluttering hard enough that his breath hitched (an honest-to-Christ hitch) from a man who didn’t need air.
He followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling something shockingly hot inside you with a guttural sound, beast of hunger finally satiated. His arms locked around your waist like iron bands, holding you down, keeping you full while the aftershocks rolled through both of you.
The chair rolled to a stop against the far wall. Outside, on the station feedback, another song faded into static. Inside, he pressed his forehead to yours, voice wrecked. His arms locked around your waist like he was afraid the sunrise might try to steal you early. For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of your breathing and the soft click of the next track failing to cue up (dead air, real dead air this time).
Slowly, carefully, he eased you back, taking a good long look at you. His eyes were still reflecting that faint predatory light, but the edges of his eyes had softened.
"Jesse Hooker. 'Case you were wonderin' who just wrecked you so thorough." The corner of his mouth crooked (old-fashioned, dangerous, and entirely too pleased with himself). "Been a while since anything tasted that sweet at three in the morning."
The automated playlist finally caught itself; a slow, lonely guitar riff of a song you hadn’t queued leaked through the monitors. 'Stranger', Spence Bare.
The clock on the wall clicked over to dark thirty, LED digits nearly invisible against the other lighting. Outside the booth window the sky had gone from black to bruised violet, the first warning of a dawn that would be here sooner than either of you wanted.
Jesse's arms loosened, just enough for you to feel the shift. He didn't speak right away. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of sentimentality that felt obscene coming from something that had just ruined you twice over.
"Time to go, darlin'.'"
You felt him slip free of your body (slow, considered, like he hated leaving the warmth). Cool air rushed between your thighs, making you shiver. He steadied you when your knees tried to fold, hands gentle on your hips while you found your footing on legs that still felt like radio static.
He stood, tucked himself away, buckled his belt with a soft metallic clink that sounded too final in the quiet. You watched him move and tried to memorize the way the red light painted the sharp line of his jaw.
Jesse picked your shirt up off the floor, shook it out, and held it for you like some old-world gentleman. You slid your arms in; he turned you by the shoulders and did the buttons himself, starting from the bottom, knuckles brushing skin with every slow pass. When he reached the top he didn’t let go of the fabric. Just held you there, thumbs stroking the hollows beneath your collarbones.
"Lock the door behind me." He sounded grave as the tomb, suddenly. "And don't open it again 'til the sun's high enough to burn."
His gaze flicked to the bite on your neck. Something possessive and soft flickered across his face.
"I'll know if you don't."
He leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth that tasted like goodbye and gunpowder and the traitorous little hope in your chest that this wouldn't be the last time. Then he stepped back, braid sliding over his shoulder like a dark rope.
The booth door opened without a sound. Cold night air rolled in, carrying diesel and desert dust. Jesse paused on the threshold, cutting a devilish silhouette against the backdrop.
"Play somethin' slow for me tomorrow night." He said without turning, but you could hear a smirk there. "I'll be listenin'."
And then he was gone, just the soft scuff of boots on dirt, the front door of the station clicking shut, and the sudden, aching silence of a room that still smelled like sex and smoke and him.
The ON AIR light blinked off at 5 sharp, automatic, merciless. You sat back in the wrecked chair, thighs still trembling, and watched the horizon turn gold. Somewhere out there, something otherworldly was walking straight into the dark before it could burn him, carrying the taste of you on his tongue. You smiled, sore and wrecked and already warding your thoughts from lingering wants and wishful thinking.
Spence Bare crooned out at you over the air. Stranger, no more. If you were lucky.
thank you for reading!! 💌 i’m actively taking requests!!
Ooh I have an idea! Chop-top and the reader sharing music together!! maybe just a few bullet points? (i plan to commission you for a full story once i get paid <3)
ohoho, please let me know if you're still interested in that comm!! especially if it's chop top related >:] for now, here's your prompt:
sharing music with chop top 📻💕
it's a lonely night at the station, save for chop top pestering the living shit out of you. "c'mon, let me put a song on! you need to expand your musical horizons, babe!"
you curl an eyebrow. ok, time to show him just how wide your repertoire extends... you press a battered cassette into his hand, the plastic shell already clouded with thumb grease, and his grin turns manic.
he holds it up to the light, squinting, like a scientist inspecting a microscope slide. it's an original copy of the cramps' wet nightmare.
"psychobilly? hell yeah!" his fingers twitch giddily as he none too gently jams it into the tapedeck.
he doesn't simply listen to the track like anyone else might. nothing with chop top was ever so… clean-cut. he devours the sensory input of it, banging his body in time with the shrill guitar riffs. frankly, it wouldn't surprise you if he suddenly decided to slip the tape in his mouth and chew, returning hungry for the next noise you'll toss his way.
when the track ends, he leans close. "got any more?" so, you suggest something deeper, darker, a little more sedated but no less gritty.
you slip a type o negative tape into the deck, and the bassline drips thickly across the speaker feedback. he nods so hard his whole frame rattles, muttering to himself emphatically. "yeah, yeah, that's coffin music, baby!"
you share your favorite cure album next, and charlotte sometimes pours out in trembling waves, rob smith's wail curling around the walls. your companion taps his fingernails like scalpels on steel, half in trance, half in something like seizure. you hadn't expected him to quite catch on to this one, but he's surprisingly into it...
you decide to take a chance then, and show him frank zappa. why the fuck not? only, of course, he already knows his music. you put on hot rats and he lurches into a dance that looks more like he's being electrocuted, squealing with the saxophone until his throat frays (more than it was before, anyway).
thanks for reading! 💌
you can find more of my writing here on ao3!
Hi there! Was just wondering if you'd be open to doing a match-up exchange with me? Ofc no pressure! (not sure if they're even open, my apologies if they aren't)
hello! i haven't had time to visit this blog much in the past year, my apologies :'( i would still love to do an exchange with you, if you're interested!
r u able to do smth fluffy & affectionate with (bill skarsgaard version) pennywise? 👀👉👈 maybe exchanging i love yous for the first time / penny realizing he loves them, or smth sappy like that.
either way have a good one, love ur blog!
i am VERY able to do this for you :•D 💌✨
pennywise 🎪 / reader, first feelings 💭
pennywise watches you, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light, not with hunger but with something deeper, something alien to him but strangely welcome. “You,” he says, his voice a low ripple, “are far too precious for this world.” he’s never said anything like it before, and it lingers in the air like a secret he’s only now learning how to keep.
the first time you brush a hand against his face, his skin doesn’t ripple or twist. instead, he leans into it, his sharp teeth hidden behind a hesitant smile. it feels wrong to him, this gentleness, but also like it has always been waiting beneath his monstrous edges, just for you.
pennywise realizes he loves you the way he realizes most things — suddenly and overwhelmingly. one moment he’s watching you laugh, a sound as bright and fleeting as a firefly, and the next he’s aching with the knowledge that he never wants it to stop. “I don’t want to eat you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s… new.”
“I love you,” he says one day, almost angrily, as though the words have betrayed him by surfacing at all; as if you’ve tricked him somehow. his claws flex but don’t lash out, his instincts warring with the strange warmth he feels as he sees your smile in response.
you tell him you love him, and it’s not what he expects. it’s not whispered in fear or forced through trembling lips. it’s soft, steady, and real. pennywise feels his form flicker for a moment, as though he might dissolve entirely under the weight of something so pure.
he cups your face with his hands, careful not to let his claws press too hard, and stares into your eyes like he’s searching for something. “Say it again,” he demands, but there’s no malice, only need. when you do, his grin is sharp and wide, but his eyes are almost human.
his affection is strange and startling. he wraps you in his arms, his body shifting around you in a way that should feel wrong but instead feels like the safest place in the world. “Mine,” he whispers, his voice a growl, but there’s no threat, only a promise.
pennywise doesn’t understand softness, not really, but he tries for you. his sharp edges dull just slightly when you’re near, his predatory instincts pulling back just enough to let you see the flicker of something tender beneath.
the first time you kiss him, his entire body tenses, his teeth glinting in surprise. but then he leans into it, his lips cold but pressing firmly against yours. when you pull away, he looks at you with something akin to awe, like you’ve just rewritten a rule of his existence.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” he admits one night, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. he traces a claw down your arm, careful not to hurt, and looks at you with an intensity that feels like being pulled into the deadlights. “But I know I don’t want to lose it.”
there’s a hunger in him that’s never gone, but when he’s with you, it shifts. it’s not about devouring anymore — it’s about holding, keeping, cherishing. for the first time in his long, twisted existence, pennywise feels full, and it terrifies him as much as it fills him with wonder.
herbert west with a trans bf imagines pwease i luv dis cranky little man
finally getting to this prompt, sorry dami. anyways wow we love two trans guys in love!!! ;•)
herbert west 🦠 / trans bf 💭
herbert would view your mind as a puzzle box full of intricate gears, each click and turn revealing a new layer of brilliance. he wouldn’t love passively — his affection would be sharp, dissecting, but never cruel, as if every word shared was a piece of vital data he was privileged to collect.
he would have no patience for societal conventions, dismissing the opinions of those who failed to see your true self with the same disdain he reserved for outdated medical theories. in herbert’s world, truth and science reigned supreme, and he would hold your identity as immutable fact, unworthy of debate.
in his ever-vigilant scientific brilliance, he might offer to synthesize your hormones for you, to save you the cost of the pharmacist. however, you remain dubious, as herbert is known to mix up his compounds sometimes...
in the stillness of late-night experiments, herbert would pause to offer you a cup of coffee or adjust your coat when the cold crept in. it wouldn’t be grand romance, but in these tiny, meticulous gestures, his devotion would become undeniable.
conversations would often veer into the macabre, herbert’s enthusiasm for experimental biology blending seamlessly with your curiosity for the bizarre. together, you'd explore the line between life and death, your discussions an interplay of morbid fascination and intellectual intimacy.
herbert’s hands, more accustomed to scalpels and syringes, would find an unexpected gentleness in brushing a stray lock of hair from your face or tracing the edges of a scar. he would marvel at the humanity he worked so tirelessly to understand yet often overlooked in himself.
he would lend you the kind of loyalty reserved for his work — unyielding, absolute, and often overwhelming. to herbert, you would be as essential as the formulas that kept him awake at night, a constant amidst his chaotic obsessions.
his awkwardness with emotions would be balanced by his frankness. herbert wouldn’t offer flowery words but instead deliver a precise truth: "you make me better at being human, and i don’t know if i’ll ever deserve that."
when you spoke of your struggles, herbert would listen with an intensity usually reserved for groundbreaking discoveries. though not always eloquent in his reassurances, his support would be unwavering, offered in the unspoken language of companionship.
herbert would insist on your presence during experiments, not out of necessity but because he trusts you implicitly. you’d become a team, each respecting the other’s mind, your shared purpose a quiet testament to your bond.
beneath herbert’s clinical exterior, his feelings would simmer — a love that didn’t shout or demand but was constant, undeniable, and fiercely protective. in a life surrounded by death, you would be his proof that life, in all its imperfections, is still worth fighting for.
welllll i’m currently recovering from acute sinusitis :’) but i’m on break from work and enjoying time off with my rats & gf 💚 i’m also writing and drawing! but yes… mostly just resting a lot lol 🪦
Would you ever write for mark Hoffman,Vincent Sinclair,Charles Lee ray or movie and series hannible?
oh yes!! i’m not super familiar with mark / saw characters or chucky in general, but that doesn’t stop me from writing them :) as for vincent, he’s on my character list and i def want to write more for him!
my personal fave hannibal is hopkins hannibal from the movies 💌💌💌 but i love nbc hannibal / mads, so i’ll gladly write either of them! hannibal as a general character is on my character list :)
Hi! do you do male readers? if so, can I please request headcanons for Brahms with a male reader that has an attractive killer alter ego?
(Reader is basically Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde lol)
A short, scrawny, and shy nerd by day, a tall, muscular, and confident sadistic heartthrob by night.
When the mean grocery dude tries to lay a finger on Reader while the sun goes down, both him and Brahms are in for some real fun!
Despite how intimidating Hyde!Reader is, he's still quite gentle with Brahms.
(feel free to delete this ask if you're uncomfortable with writing this)
you can assume all the reader requests i write are neutral / can be interpreted any way, unless stated otherwise! i'll note here: this sounds like a oneshot idea or veering on oc x slasher, which i consider commission territory, so i'll just be doing a loose imagine/headcanon list for this. if you'd like a fuller concept written, particularly regarding the grocery store plot, please consider paying me! thank you! <3
brahms heelshire 🪞 x hyde!reader 💭
brahms has always known that faces are merely masks. he wears his own porcelain one daily. when he meets this hyde-like personality, the darker shadow that slips from your soul, he doesn't flinch. he gazes at you with a tilt of his head, in a way peering at his own reflection in the blackened glass of his being.
you, for all your dark intensity in these moments, speak in a way brahms understands. it isn't the words that matter but the energy beneath them. brahms doesn't fear you. instead, he sees kinship, another creature who treads the borderlands between terror and tenderness.
when this personality surfaces, brahms feels no need to hide (no pun intended). in fact, he grows more trusting, knowing your strength could shield him from the world’s prying eyes. and yet, brahms feels an odd protectiveness — after all, monsters, no matter how gentle, deserve care too.
your intimidating demeanor doesn't scare brahms; it fascinates him. he’ll often creep closer, studying the sharpness of your movements, the precision of your words, and the way they soften in his presence. your gentleness toward him feels like a secret he's been let in on, and he hoards it greedily.
on nights when your composed self rests and the other emerges, brahms feels most at peace. he shares his nighttime rituals with you, wordlessly expecting your compliance. together, you walk the house's dim corridors, brahms clutching his doll-self tightly as your imposing shadow falls across the walls. brahms insists on precise adherence: food must be left on the plate at exactly 7:00 PM, the phonograph's needle placed gently on a haunting lullaby before bed. when the doll is tucked into its small, immaculate bed, your strong hands, though intimidating, move with reverence to straighten the blanket brahms has fussed over.
when you join in, brahms feels a rare, strange comfort. for all your sharpness and strength, you treat the rituals as sacred, understanding that brahms's rules are not to be broken. if a step is missed, brahms's tantrum bubbles to the surface, but you, with surprising patience, redirect his frustration, whispering, “It's fixed now, little one.” your voice is steady, grounding him, and the rituals continue as if nothing had gone awry.
brahms takes to playing hide-and-seek with you at night specifically, not out of fear but out of fascination. he leaves trails for you to follow, footsteps in dust and whispers in the walls, and waits, almost breathless, for your imposing form to loom nearby. when you finally find him, you never scold. you only smile, something wicked and warm, and brahms basks in it.
brahms whispers his fears to the darker you, things too delicate for daylight. he doesn't know if you keep these secrets out of loyalty or your own inscrutable reasoning, but he trusts you. you listen, your piercing gaze softening, and offer cryptic reassurances: "Monsters like us don't scare each other, little one."
brahms knows that your gentleness is reserved for him alone. he's seen the strength you wield, how the world can bend to your will. and yet, he's never afraid. he knows he's the exception, the quiet in the eye of your storm, and he cherishes the precarious balance you share.
