Shotgun of the Turks

Who doesn’t love a shotgun-toting blonde?

[Hunter]: They tend to gape their jaws and use their upper fangs to pierce through your eyes. Lower fangs cup and puncture right at the brainstem.

[Hunter]: Messy but quick.

[Hunter]: Now if they have your throat, they do clamp on like rotts, but they don't lock their jaw. Go for their eyes and ears if you have to.

inspired  by  devotedecay’s  non - sexual  acts  of  dominance  meme  ! send  in  one  of  these  for  my  muse’s  reaction  to  … (  add  ❝  reverse  ❞   if  you’d  like  to  see  how  my  muse  would  preform  the  action  !  )

[ shower ]   your muse joining mine in the shower.

[ choke ]   your muse choking mine.

[ kiss + soft ]   your muse pulling mine into a tender kiss.

[ kiss + rough ]   your muse pulling mine into a rough kiss.

[ pin ]   your muse pinning mine down.

[ wrists ]   your muse roughly grabbing mine by the wrists.

[ push ]   your muse pushing mine into bed.

[ rip + clothing ]   your muse tearing a piece of clothing off my muse.

[ spank ]   your muse spanking mine.

[ pull ]   your muse pulling my muses hair.

[ talk ]   your muse talking dirty to mine.

[ eyes ]   your muse making mine look them in the eyes during.

[ down ]   your muse pulling mine down by their collar / clothes.

[ knees ]   your muse telling mine to get on their knees.

[ hips ]   your muse pulling mine in close by the hips.

[ denial ]   your muse putting mine through orgasm denial.

[ many ]   your muse making mine orgasm over and over.

[ tied ]   your muse tying my muse down.

[ lazy ]   your muse lazily beginning to touch mine.

[ love ]   your muse telling mine they love them during.

[ dominance ]   your muse taking the lead and dominating mine.

[ submission ]   your muse letting mine take the lead and submitting to them.

[ humiliation ]   your muse humiliating mine, re: name-calling and verbal abuse.

[ pain ]   your muse hurting mine in bed, whether intentionally or not.

[ knife ]   your muse using a knife in bed, whether for threat or actually cutting mine.

[ hidden ]   your muse having sex with mine somewhere semi-public.

[ public ]   your muse having sex with mine in public, whee other people watch.

[ adore ]   your muse being near reverent with mine in bed.

[ dress ]   your muse having mine dress up in lingerie.

[ eat ]   your muse eating mine out.

[ sleep ]   your muse touching / beginning to have sex with mine while they’re asleep.

[ gag ]   your muse gagging mine, or or making them be quiet.

[ blindfold ]   your muse blindfolding mine.

[ praise ]   your muse praising mine in bed.

[ good ]   your muse calling mine a good boy / girl.

[ want ]   your muse telling mine they want them.

[ snarl ]   your muse growling and / or baring their teeth at mine during sex.

[ mark ]   your muse purposefully marking mine up with bruises, hickies, ect.

kiss  prompts  for  starters  and/or  drabbles.  feel  free  to  make  changes  as  you  see  fit.  enjoy  !  <3

hand  kiss.

cheek  kiss.

neck  kiss.

back  kiss.

forehead  kiss.

ear  kiss.

nose  kiss.

shy  kiss.

happy  kiss.

surprise  kiss.

angry  kiss.

crying  kiss.

rough  kiss

soft  kiss.

quick  kiss.

platonic  kiss.

jealous  kiss.

first  kiss.

last  kiss.

clumsy  kiss.

uninterested  kiss.

blown  kiss.

awkward  kiss.

drunk  kiss.

bloody  kiss.

sensual  kiss.

dying  kiss.

secret  kiss.

teasing  kiss.

against  the  wall  kiss.

alleyway  kiss.

rain  kiss.

before  bed  kiss.

goodbye  kiss.

‘i’m  sorry’  kiss.

‘i  missed  you’  kiss.

‘good  morning’  kiss.

The restaurant was converted from a building that was once an older style of housing- The type meant for poor people with run down, paper covered windows fluttering in the breeze and creaky steps. That evening, the windows were flung wide open, hinges squeaking not from airflow (which didn’t exist at all) but under the tension of old rot and humidity. Place looked like a dump, but it was sheltered, protected from the elements, and far cleaner than some of the alleyways Jae-hyo had the misfortune of camping out in during their wayward youth. Small luxuries like not waking up to the sinus-burning, acrid stench of urine were things that most normal, well-off people rarely- if ever- considered.

Waterfalls of chintzy beaded curtains tinkled in each doorway while a rather impressive (for the surroundings, anyway) aquarium cast an eerie blueish glow over the tables of chairs filled with a veritable gauntlet of old people- all lounging around and fanning themselves as they clipped their toenails and played mah jong.

The Commis was hacking away at a none too small pile of. Well, by the looks of it- Some kind of meat. That in itself wasn’t out of the realm of normal, but the irritated bob and bounce of a lit cigarette between their lips spoke otherwise.

“Jian dresses like a fat walrus covered in shit and I make more gil a week than he sees in an entire year. I don’t care what he offered you, you made a deal with me,” they enunciate with a few extra hard slams of the enormous cleaver in their hand into the juicy, oozing pile of what was starting to look less like a flesh brunoise and more like bloodied paste.

“Trying to stir up trouble now’ll just land you in jail. It’s not a good place. The food’s terrible and if I’m the one saying that, you know it’s bad.”

The chime of bells strung all over the backs of the double doors of the entryway made them turn their head, a dark brow arching when Freyja walked in with a disgustingly smug expression. That meant something was going down and as much as their suspicions disliked that, their ears were practically burning for some new gossip. Or work, whichever came first.

“Yeah, you do that! Fucking chump,” Yoon growled in parting, near chucking the PHS out the kitchen window.

A cracked porcelain plate laden with snowy pillows of flour-dusted dumplings was slid across the pass to the other agent.

Regulations and lawlessness. Order and chaos.

And the Turks are the blades that slide between. Midnight razors, bogeymen, dogsbodies, whatever the job, wherever the mark.

Freyja ascends into the ramshackle structure, and she must part the clacking beaded curtains and duck her head to pass the entryway. No paranoid pause marks her scan from table to table, face to face, as if searching for a vacant spot to sit rather than assessing the potential for threats or changes from the last time she visited. She moves as though she belongs here - as though she exerts a right to exist in this space - and proceeds with the comfortable confidence of a regular who spies their favorite stool.

Something of a smug smirk does narrow her eyes on Yoon as she perches on the squeaky seat, hooking her heel against the bottom rung for stability.

"Aw, I'd rather not spill it, that'd be a waste."

Up she plucks a dumpling, popping it into her mouth with a sound of thanks, a squint and a shift as she reaches into an interior jacket pocket.

A little flourish of wrists and wiggling fingers, and she produces a slim metal flask. Nondescript as containers go, its surface is simple brushed silver, and with a rattle-click she unscrews the top, wafting it under her nose for a sniff. Lambanog. Distilled. Contraband.

Sweet-sour, a touch floral, a touch fruity-nutty. It certainly suits.

She offers the flask out with an arched brow, a gamine grin, a tilt of head.