#sdrabble.

[sangrescribe]

“i’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.” | quinn/nathan ✌️

nsfw prompts. 

Nathan’s at the cliff face of longing: he stares it in the mouth as Quinn descends. 

It’s not the first time he’s been eased into a life-altering blowjob. And it’s not like easing–er–cornering (no, that’s too absolving of his guilt) Nathan takes very much effort. At this point, the most that precedes his surrender is a cold glance and a tight pinch at the bridge of his nose. Nathan is exasperated with his own inability to stop wanting. 

Perhaps it’s that life had no rhyme nor reason before now. Perhaps it’s that he was taking one slow march to his grave between the occasional slivers of half-entertainment. That not even a court of law in which chess pieces were the livelihood of guilty and innocent people could sate his urge for more purpose, more spotlight, more anything. 

Of course he’s so resigned to Quinn’s heart-starved chaos. It’s a labyrinth of intimacy that hurts at the center of him, and he can’t stop himself from reaching for more. From kissing him. From letting his back fall against the wall where Quinn takes him into his mouth. 

It’s like that for a while–muffled groans and unsteady breaths–the pace of Nathan’s heart loud enough in his ears to mimic the bang of a gavel that goes on without end. He’s had nightmares like that before, he’s sure. Where he’s not allowed to walk away from a courtroom because he couldn’t win, that his every word found the worst possible contention, and that his ears ring like this was the end of some terrible movie, like he was being punished. 

He punishes himself when he tangles a tight hand in Quinn’s hair, sucks in a tight breath and holds it until his sternum feels wound. 

“Fuck, Quinn… fuck.” When he’s about to fall apart, legs shaking and eyes rolling back, Quinn gathers himself and guides them to the bed. 

“Yeah?” And he makes such a horrible promise: “I’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.” 

Nathan’s hard and leaking when his shoulders hit the mattress, his head halfway to the pillows and watching the ceiling spin. They kiss until their lips are raw and somehow, he holds himself together long enough not to spiral when Quinn starts to makes good on his word. He’s capable of surprising himself in all sorts of ways, evidently. 

The further they go, the faster he feels like he’s rolling. He’s slick and hot and the sight of Quinn’s focus on him now is a sick kind of unbearable. When he blinks, there’s light behind his eyes. Maybe he sees the first time Quinn smiled–sees himself remembering/forgetting that person, sees himself recognizing the one that was always there amidst their game of judiciary pretend. 

Amidst their dance of war and passion and everything that’s become of them. 

What’s become of him, then? And what’s the explosion of feeling that blooms from his groin to his chest? Everything shatters around and inside him. 

“Stop,” He says, shuddering and spending himself all over. “Ugh–my sheets…” They’re such a nice thread count. They cost so much money. This better come out. Who cares? He’s barely thinking. He messes a hand over the apple of Quinn’s cheek, spreads his thighs further apart. “Stop. I think I––” 

“What’s that?” Quinn asks, voice a little labored, but sounding altogether pleased. 

“I–– no, I love you.” 

His eyes train back into focus so quickly once the words come out that his head yanks up. He bends onto his elbows, sitting up a little higher and fighting the urge to cover his face. “Forget it.” He can still feel Quinn inside him, fucking him whole. “Forget it.” He hopes this is one of those dreams where all his teeth fall out.

“Please forget it.” 

It’s not. They don’t. 

[sangrescribe]

‘ how long have you been like this? ’

love ♥ starters

“How long have you been like this?” 

Micah grips the blade he’s driven into the wooden table. 

He can feel the hilt’s pattern etched against the curl of his palm, skin printed grainy against its alien texture. It feels like the sick dizziness that always comes with these slow spells, where he only comes back to himself once it’s too late. 

“How long… have I…” 

It’s a lot like waking from a dream. 

Lian’s seen him butcher himself a few times now. She’s seen him close his hand around the wrong end of a steak knife, seen him rest the heel of his palm against the open stovetop’s blue flame, seen him take the hot wax of a wet candle into his hand. It’s clumsy, painful, searing, very Micah. His resistance belongs to him. 

The rest, he finds, doesn’t. Not really. 

The daze he wakes from always wrests his limbs from his brain. It’s not like it blinds him–he can still see. He can still watch the strange, efficient movements he makes by the wrists, by the sharp turns of his heels when he moves quicker than he’s used to. Doesn’t trip over the door frame’s elevation against the kitchen floor. In the moments his mechanisms take sharp turns and he loses time, Micah realizes the patterns taking hold of him. And sometimes, he’s lucky enough to snap himself out of it. 

Pain usually works. 

He tries to think it through. His mind clogs in bits and pieces, like something stuck circling a drain. It snags like fabric on a splinter of wood, on memories of Lian’s smile under the sun. How long has he been like this? 

The way she laughs when she’s humming in the kitchen. The ease of her hand underneath his. The sharp tang of fruit juice stuck to the cushion of her bottom lip when they kissed in the dead of night. The unnerving tug of his pulse whenever she’s near, pleading for her not to go again. How long has he been like this? 

How long has he been like this? 

It takes a second’s effort not to laugh deliriously into his hand. 

How long has he been losing time, waking himself from a dream where he might hurt her? 

(The first time is a wretched memory, but he sifts through a few months of fog in his skull to find it: Micah, holding a switchblade he didn’t remember he had –– tight against his back, where he hid it from her. Where she came into focus and he lost track of the steps he was taking. Right up until he let it slip against the flesh of his hand and bled against it, waking him from the stupor made from witchcraft and animal grace. 

What had been before that?

He knows now.) 

He’s been trying to kill her ever since he realized he was falling in love. 

Micah’s stomach turns like a meat grinder. His insides churn. 

“… I don’t know. I know that sounds stupid. But everything that’s happened, I still barely know how to feel it out myself. Maybe––” He should go. They should stop this. 

But he doesn’t understand where it comes from, much less why. What’s wrong with him? “I don’t know, Lian. I don’t know. What I feel––what I keep feeling––I’m sorry.” When he gets up, he lets go of his vice grip on the knife and leaves it there. “I’m sorry, Lian.” 

He watches it with horror and disbelief before vanishing into his studio, wishing only that he could lock himself inside. 

[sangrescribe]

“i want you to touch yourself for me.” | luc/renata.

nsfw prompts. 

Vulnerability is utterly alien to Renata. It’s a bad omen, an implausibility, a cruel sense of false hope. Vulnerability is… a gilded cage. 

And jesus, she’s not interested in falling apart for no reason. Especially not over someone who doesn’t know half the things she’s seen and done for the people who make up her blood. But there’s something more to say about Luciana, even if Renata’s viciously unwilling to give voice to the words. 

Maybe it’s the sound of their voice. 

The two of them have had a lot of conversation since the first time they’ve met. And hey, Renata’s used to people talking. She works for a radio station, for crying out loud. OLATE FM is both the bane of her existence and one of the few habits she doesn’t mind having adjusted to. Altogether, seeing Luciana around and getting to know them has been a strange matter of coincidences. It’s not like she sought her out. 

They’re… attractive, yes. To the extent that Renata found herself trying to doodle the shape of their shoulder-frame in the margins of her to-do list. But that’s never sent Renata on a rampage to get to know someone before, and she likes to think she interacts with enough attractive people on a daily basis for that not to take away from her merit. Still, Luciana is attractive enough to make her second-guess the length of each glance she shoots in the other’s direction. Mostly because it seems both stupid to look and stupid to look away. 

In so many words? That’s a new one. And Renata’s not entirely sure how to deal with it. 

So, perhaps, she got a little out of her mind drunk with two of her cousins yesterday. And perhaps she is nursing a terrible hangover, but that doesn’t stop her from asking Luciana out for coffee. Or for going back to their place for a little while after to talk about something work-related. Something they should focus on, right up until the music that’s playing gets a little too easy on her nerves. A little too kind to the worry in her body. A little too inviting to the way she watches Luciana’s hair curling around her ears. 

The way her heart beats at her ribs feels like a complaint. It’s caged, all right. And it’s gilded as all hell when twenty minutes pass and they’re kissing on Luciana’s couch. 

It’s not their first mess, and she has this itching feeling it won’t be their last. Particularly because she’s used to calling all the shots in bed. They make out for a while, their shirts and jackets come off, she wants to rip up this couch and disappear. She wants to… 

kiss Luciana until their lips are a little bruised. 

It’s a difficult, encapsulating feeling. She’s hot all over, trying to swallow the star in her throat that keeps her from saying something that would destroy everything up until now. What are they doing? How far has she come, now that they’ve done this more than once? And what will it mean if they do it again? 

She’s so stupid, and she doesn’t want to go. 

“How do you want me?” Renata says, one hand on Luciana’s shoulder, the other at the inside of her own thigh. 

Luc says I want you to touch yourself for me and Renata’s head almost lolls in disbelief. She goes lightheaded instead. Wishes she’d eaten earlier–she feels light and driven a little out of her head. 

“For you––” She sighs, almost condescendingly. It’s not that literal. “All right.” She bites the edge of her voice back when her hand slips under the leather of her pants and the front lace, tipping her head back and her eyes shut. 

“But kiss me, at least. For me.” Because she’s not certain she can bear making herself come apart in front of someone she’d like to touch her so much instead. 

And they do kiss. Very much, in fact. For which, she supposes she’s blissfully and contentedly appreciative. 

[sangrescribe]

"Wanna dance?" | quinn/nathan ;)

primal fear sentence starters.

Nathan can take a lot with his head down, but this case–this man–it’s come around to too much. 

See, he knows he can take a lot because he’s a lawyer. He went to school to learn to take it. Defendants chewing him out, judges shutting him down, criminals worming their way around laws because of the things he does and doesn’t say. Law school was its own hell and case of its own: he wrote who knows how many papers he didn’t believe in, stuck around for who knows how many office hours with professors who couldn’t put their money where their mouth was. Altogether, he’s not so bad at seeing things through that degrade and upset him. 

But right about now, he’s a candle all out of wax. The last of the cigarette, mouth full of ash. 

Last week, he was grazed with a knife and his hands were bloodied. Today, a man who matches the description of the one who cornered him is missing on the news. He puts two and two together faster than Quinn moves his key through the front door. 

Nathan’s self-loathing crushes him like a thousand inches of heavy snow. He suffocates himself underneath the weight, could go blind and numb under the pressure of what he’s done. Perhaps he’s got no right to work himself up over this any longer: he knows he’s accountable for everything that’s happened. 

Quinn Elliot is a thousand times free to do as he pleases. The city belongs to him, and Nathan is at fault. 

It was his pity, his heartstrings that were tugged. Him and the neuroscientist who caught onto the idea of a violent, second identity that went hand in hand with the horrible hand Quinn had been dealt. Or something along those lines. Years of study and memorization and dry intrigue built on a spotless record–Nathan’s never failed one of his clients, but he’s never failed as spectacularly, on this magnitude, as he has with Quinn. 

And his relentless housemate sidles up next to him like a cat who owns this place. And what can Nathan say? That he doesn’t? That he hasn’t completely dominated the situation? That Nathan didn’t let him get away with murder? That he doesn’t continue to? 

He’s got Frank Sinatra loud on the living room radio, burning a cigarette between two fingers, sunk low into his reclining chair with his tie loosened enough to fall into the open split of his collar. The back of his throat burns with the taste of old smoke: he wants to blaze away, to disappear through the vents and not have to look at himself when Quinn asks if he wants to dance. 

Yes, there were times, I’m sure you know, when I bit off more than I could chewBut through it all when there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out… 

When he looks up at that pretty, unmoved face, his insides spin like a washing machine. It’s always Quinn who turns him on his head. Rends him like a lion might turn his chest to ribbons and mess him up. 

“No.” He says. But he stands up anyway, in his very nice shoes, thank you. “No, I really don’t. I don’t want to dance with you.” He drops his cig in the ash tray and burns his thumb on the edge where he snuffs out the light. He feels immaculately cursed by god for the games he’s played with his law degree. Worse, he knows he deserves it. Worse, he thinks Quinn’s face looks as sweet and as awful as he did when he made Nathan believe he could never really hurt anyone. When he had him thinking his innocence was the only thing worth fighting for in his entire career. 

I faced it all and I stood tall, and did it my way…

The night slows. The air grows heavy around them. “You’re too much, Quinn. I can’t. I can’t–” He speaks slowly, like every word’s a question he’s asking himself. And he takes a few steps, too, starting to walk Quinn into the corner of the room. Quinn’s looking at him like he’s already won this match, and Nathan only riles because he knows… of course, he has. 

He hangs his elbow up to the wall and pins him there, at a loss in terms of proceeding. 

The record shows I took the blows, and did it my way––

He feels fevered when he leans over him, sick with the way he wants to taste him more than he wants Quinn to taste the rust of his mouth. 

“You’re in my head. I know you are.” But there’s a second’s reverence somewhere there, because he couldn’t want anything the way he wants to be looked at the way Quinn’s looking at him now. 

So he lets himself be turned smoothly around, where Quinn presses their chests flush together and shifts his weight, so Nathan’s back moves to the wall. 

“So clever, Nate. Relax, would you? You’re all worked up.” 

He thinks he might just go up in flames. But Quinn yanks his hands and works him into the appropriate form for a waltz, and off they go.

However his legs manage to carry him, even Nathan’s not completely sure. He must’ve been aching with a lonely feeling, because he half-notices it fading away. 

[sangrescribe]

( PLAY ) playing with mine’s hair. | u know 🥺

seduction starters.

Marina’s throat clogs against the heavy weight of her tears. 

They’ve started to dry against her cheeks and throat, ceasing only where she pressed her face into the crook of Gabriel’s neck until it hurt. She moved only so the hard line of his shoulder wouldn’t imprint into her face: only because her hands finally quit their wretched shaking. He thinks Gabriel’s finally begun to still, too. 

They slow down together, like the slow turn of an old record that skips every so often. The same way, every time. It reminds her of his radio show’s ad introduction, where the few notes bunch up and roll over each other before she places the sound of his voice. 

Her panic comes down from its fever pitch. The wet itch and burn of her eyes gets easier to blink past while they breathe against each other in what she can only imagine is a dual processing of everything-that’s-happened between them. And beyond them, she supposes, because what he’s done for Gabriel doesn’t have to be between them. It’s something she did because she had to. 

Because the taut string of her heartsong isn’t going to ease unless she makes her own amends with the imbalance set before them. 

“You know your future means the world to me, don’t you?” Academy snubs and everyday favorite-picking just isn’t the same. What Gabe went through, what her father went through, what she goes through in an attempt to keep her head above water is excruciating. 

Marina is a live wire of love and hate. She feels like the last chord played sharp at the end of a solo. Something about to shatter if not held strong. “Because it seriously does. I’ve seen so many people have their love of music stolen by… you know. The way it all works and the awful people who built it. And you…” His breath shudders while he gathers himself. Marina shifts from her place on the floor beside him to hovering, leaning a kiss into his forehead and brushing some of his hair back. “––have so much heart.” 

It’s so soft. The crown of his head smells just like fresh strawberries. 

She loves his shampoo. Marina remembers the first time he woke up next to him, wondering if she’d left one of her lotion bottles at his bedside. It was his pillow, though. The memory washes over her in tremendous comfort, and her eyes shimmer with tears. 

“Like hell I’m going to let anyone take it away from you.” She settles into his lap, brushing through the strands and playing with the tips at the back of his neck. “What you deserve is to be exactly who you are. No apologies. No obstacles.” Much as Marina would rather Gabriel not see any more of his tears, one breaks a straight line across her the right side of her face. Salts the sweet of his hair. 

It’s selfish, how much he’s cried. This should be about the pain and the fear Gabriel’s enduring, but she can’t help the way her pulse competes with itself in a race to the end of a skittering symphony.

“Please believe me.” He can’t stop, but at the same time… now that he understands what it is to feel like this––how could he return to going without? She’s not sure what she is without this. It’s just not the same to do for herself what she does for someone else. Someone that takes the chained anchor out from the dread of her heart. 

It’s him. Only him. 

[sangrescribe]

“just kiss me, i can’t take this anymore.” | gabriel/marina~

nsfw prompts.

Everything’s been on fire since she fell in love. 

She’s not sure what happens when they touch: if there’s a cool moment’s reprieve, or if she just burns hotter and brighter. 

Marina suspects both, each turn of events circumstantial. As with everything that comes to Gabriel, it depends. 

Because sometimes, she’s a live wire about to frenzy in the middle of a city that’s already too much trouble for her own good–and his are the only hands that can help her come down from the fever pitch. And sometimes, she’s the dry edge of splintered wood and sage that needs a spark; oh, god, it’s like if she doesn’t find that source of heat, she’ll wither and disappear in a breath of ash. But Gabe finds him then, always manages to flick him back from the cold wind and dearth of unknowing. And when they move and press against each other, all of Marina’s sparks turn to aching pressure points of blazing heat. 

It’s mostly the sight of him as he is now, wrists bound to the bedpost (with loose, pretty black ribbons that come from an old attempt to braid her hair), in and out of his shuddering breaths, that could put an end to life as Marina knows it. Body a little twitchy and succumbing to her affectionate ministrations. She’s propped up on her knees at Gabriel’s side, stroking one hand up his side, over his chest, before her head tips low. 

He hushes Gabe with a sharp upturn of her mouth at its hopeful corners, holding his gaze for a moment. His eyes are the sweetest blue. 

He loves him, always, but very much like this, when he lets himself be at her mercy. Mostly because he’s had a long road of rough patches, and he’d rather just look after him. Adore him, and show him that sometimes it’s good just to shut down and trust somebody. Now that she understands the sensations herself, having done the same thing, it’s only fair that they trade this strange little foreign glory. 

Love is revenge. It’s her revolution, too. To show him love is to fight what refused to.

So he grins, intent and cunning, foxlike, when he wets his mouth and lets his free hand snake down past Gabriel’s ribs. 

She wraps her lips around him and lets her tongue twist around the piercing at his chest, toying and teasing. Her head’s light with all the heat in the room, buzzing and rhythmic with the dull reverb of their instruments in her memory. Marina’s hand slips under his waistband without much of a struggle, appreciative of the fact that he’s all hands and Gabe can’t steal any more of his attention by touching her. He palms him and works his tongue in concert, a simultaneous moment’s maddening pleasure when the piercing clicks against her teeth. 

It’s only when she makes a fist around him under his boxers that Gabe jolts a little, further up into his hand. Marina, a little relentless, elects to shift her delicate, however messy mouthing to his chest just beside the sensitive flesh. She leaves a mark. 

“Just kiss me,” He finally says, and Marina pulls her lips back like she’s hit the satisfaction she’s been chasing all this time. “I can’t take this anymore.”

“Oh, okay.” Defeatedly, he slips his hand back up the taut line of his core, because she’s not ever very interested in telling him no. “You win.” And she brushes her nose against his before she kisses him. 

[sangrescribe]

"Don't fuck with me, Levi." | julian/leviii!

primal fear sentence starters.

Vampirism’s a real time-sucker. 

He can think of a few other choice words for the condition, but that’s the first and he’ll stick to it. It’s overwritten his every reflex, impulse, and dream. Slaking the bloodcrave is the single most important thing; Levi does and does not understand how that can be. 

A long time ago, he was engaged to a kind enough woman that his mother had a high opinion of. His worst nightmare was getting caught in a storm while he was on his way somewhere important. How long ago was it, and how much does it matter? What use is it to lament everything he’s lost when there’s nothing and no way to get it back? 

All he has now is red. 

The color soaks the streetlights he’s still adjusting to along the busy city streets, it limns the motel windows and it sticks to the back of his teeth. More than anything, it drowns him the second he places Julian’s scent again. Julian Lockton: his one connection to the life he knew before he had nothing, and the burning rope that took everything from him. Julian, his time of death. Julian, his undoing. 

He mostly follows it because his ears will ring until he doesn’t. There’s no pulse in the cavernous mess of his chest, but he knows the pulse of his need. This one is almost indistinguishable from hunger, and Levi’s only able to place it because his veins could fill with his resentment if it were something to swallow and tide himself over with. But it’s not. Not really. And by the time he’s working a bobby pin into the lock of the room he knows will bring him face to face with the end, the door’s swinging open.

The shadows that eclipse Julian’s face take their usual shape. But there’s always something Levi hasn’t seen before–a depravity to chase, a loss to make up with until their bodies don’t make sense anymore. It’s not humanity. It’s nothing even close. But he’s got so little else to his name now, and Julian bares his throat when he cants his neck like so-what and Levi drives his forearm into it and jerks him into the wall so quickly that his head swims. 

“Don’t fuck with me, Levi.” Julian says, and Levi’s been in and out of his life long enough to recognize the smooth threat there. Levi’s tongue rides his teeth. He sucks a breath in before a laugh curls like smoke in his windpipe. 

“Oh, you love that, don’t you. Don’t you?” The words blur together a little. Sometimes, being this close to him makes Levi feel heavy with poison. He supposes it’s Julian’s poison that made him in the first place; maybe it’s only natural. “Acting like fucking around ain’t your whole gimmick. Like you didn’t set up here knowing I’d show.” 

“I’m gonna kill you.” He shifts his forearm to get a tight grip on Julian’s jaw with the front bend of his hand. Julian’s show of teeth riles him up further, like there’s a few smart-ass things he hasn’t said yet. “I’m gonna kill you for good one of these days.”  

“Better men have tried.” Julian works his jaw a little, watching him like a cat about to fix its meal. 

“And failed, I know. Better ain’t gonna do shit for you, is it?” Their breath is hot, dry ice on each other’s skin. If he could still get goosebumps. He’s about to say something reflexively stupid, something troublesome that won’t win him a second’s dignity like oh, good thing I’m worse, when Julian captures him in a kiss. 

He is worse. He’s kissing him back before he can think. He is so much worse. 

[sangrescribe]

“i could’t stop thinking about you all day.” (ivan & mila!)

nsfw prompts.

The bathwater’s scented with rose petals and lavender oils; they ease the nerves that tense in Mila’s absence. 

There’s a little paint in her hair and across the smooth lines of her fingers, and Ivan’s sure to warm their water so it comes off easily. When they’re close like this, time seems to move slowly. The relative gauge he typically uses to understand the world around him turns on its head. When he’s with her, when she’s with him, when their gazes hold steady, he knows that there’s something cosmically different happening. 

Whether that’s a good or a bad thing is for no one but them to decide. Ivan’s stomach turns with thoughts of destiny and where it’s brought them. He’s had a complex relationship–and recent mistrust–in the notion of fate for a long while now. They’ve chosen each other, and that is a power greater than anything the world could have thought to create. He won’t allow any measure of kismet to speak over their love of each other. 

That’s why he smiles when she rounds the bathtub and sinks into his arms. They are tolerating measures of daily destiny almost always –– today, for example. He would have done anything to go along with her to finish one of her recent canvases, but there were a few photographs he still needed to develop from a dark room. All of the time-sensitive things catching up to them is to be expected, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. 

Any time away from her is. 

Perhaps that’s not the most sensible thing in the world–but he doesn’t define himself as sensible, especially not when so much of her skin is exposed, and her hair is so soft at her shoulders. He loves the shape of it as one hand snakes around her waist, pulling her up to his bare chest while the other lifts to caress her jaw. 

His mind doesn’t parse much other than the way the sunset’s light filters into her eyes. He does, however, notice the pain behind his ribs dissipating. Settling. Or quieting, maybe. Whatever it’s doing, it clears his head (or perhaps it’s just making it easier to forget the rest and focus on her, dizzy as that leaves him). 

Mila says, “I could’t stop thinking about you all day,” and Ivan’s heart is carried away in their unending dance.

He lowers his head and she takes one soundless, tiny step closer to him. Onto her tiptoes, they revel in each other’s weight. The halfway-met sensation of her skin on his. The warmth that blooms like smoke from a hearth. He knows he was meant to live in this world when she touches him. It’s been more this way than it’s ever been, despite everything, in the last several months. And truthfully, Ivan is unspeakably grateful. 

He kisses her before he speaks, because he is selfish. And because the taste of her is something he doesn’t know how ever to go without again. 

“For me–it was the same. It was the same, yeah. I was thinking of what you might think while I was deciding which to bring home. I needed your eyes with me. ” 

He feels her leg shift at his side, and Ivan’s hand grazes her side, drawing lower. She tips her head and he feels her hair trickle back, swept away from the pretty apple of her cheek. 

“Pero te necesito conmigo siempre. So... not exactly new. I know.”

Her smile against his skin is his favorite shape. 

He loves her so much that it almost always hurts. But right now, the hurt he knows when they’re apart is worth the warmth of his helping her out of her underclothes and helping them both into the hot water. 

There is a little laughing, and a lot of kissing, and he maps her body in his mind with each palm.