Top Posts Tagged with #vampire jasper

Contra bonos mores: (Latin for "against good morals") [Roman and feudal law] refers to actions, agreements, or contracts that violate accepted societal standards of decency or ethics.

Pairing: Vampire Jasper / Fem!reader Talamasca agent

Word count: 4.4k Rating: [E] explicit

Tags: POSSESSIVE soft dom Jasper, telepathy, older man/younger woman, praise kink, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, biting, blood drinking, blood play, scenting, marking, overstimulation, under negotiated kink, the rings and claws stay on(i love them), AFAB-reader this got realll self indulgent realll quick but i truly believe that jasper is for everyone. he's enlightened like that. (AO3)

It sits wrong on your conscience but there is just enough of that sanguine, dangerous thrill to keep you playing along. Good intentions and lies of grandeur though at first you had followed every assignment to the T. Learning as much as you could about the infiltration. Worming your way into easy confidences and good graces. Reporting back every few days when your handlers tugged at your leash.

If they had any inkling you'd been compromised, it's as classified as the rest of their secrets. And yet, you still have to save face.

The lovely London rain sloshes brisk from your hair and ruined clothes. Hours spent wasted in wait of a thoughtfully planned out planted lead that never did show.

Owen no longer even announces your arrival as you burst through the front doors of the Mother House in search of the release you crave. And by god, have you earned it. That damn omniscient tablet and a wolflike nose for risen blood… He’ll know you’re coming anyway, heels clacking down over tile, barely contained cracks of thunder in every step; a sound that still makes you feel pretty damn powerful on the rare occasion you dig them out of your closet for work. Even more so with heat in your gait.

“We had a deal,” you bite, shutting the door of his quarters behind you with a move just shy of a slam. It has already proven capable of withstanding much worse. “New York expects that intel by end of day today, and your man never showed. They're watching me closer than ever now… What the fuck, Jasper?”

The asshole is lounged in decadence, a black clad stain spread across red velvet, entirely unperturbed by your drowned-dog entrance. A single boot kicked up against the coffee table. Knuckles supporting that passive sort of amusement on his lips that he wears like a shield, centuries worth of secrets and blood contained by deceitful lines of dusted rose; razor sharp ambition sheathed in handsome false features of humanity.

You clear your throat and his eyes don't even lift from the screen he's watching. Nothing more than a gnat along the far outer rings of his radar. A shade of scarlet creeps in behind your eyes that is a near match for his choice of interior design.

It's all bait, you know well. A game he seems to enjoy in equal. Playing with his food. Riling you up when your skin already sings and your pulse already thunders. The man carries an enlightened sort of passion beneath that haughty exterior that would make Caravaggio blush. It simply requires a bit of coaxing in turn on occasion. A lash of tongue and tempting pound of flesh dangled out before a predator in slumber.

The power in his mere presence alone is sweet wine addictive, mingling warm with your frustration and already making your cheeks go hot…

“Guess I’ll just let Helen know I'm off the case.”

It's a low blow, but it works.

Steel blue eyes snap up like livewires. Two icy points of charge that send a current burning from the arches of your heels to prickle sharp at the back of your neck. The first layered frost of a winter you are ill dressed for. He leans forward to prop his tablet up on the table before him. Rests back again into the corner to drape an arm long across the cushions. It's the open show of calm that lets you know you are in trouble.

“You are shaking and dripping all over my carpet,” he informs flat, though that white hot undercurrent of disdain never fails to remind of exactly the type of creature you are pressing. “Care to try that again?”

He is all edged cheekbones and curved mouth. Easy confidence and hard eyes; and fuck, does his scrutiny make you feel weak in more than just the knees.

You are never one to yield so easily.

“They’re getting suspicious, you know. I got the whole spiel this morning about wasted resources and dead end leads… and now you’re lying to me too…”

It is just accusing enough to drag down the corner of that lip; a snarl should he decide to drop his teeth. Just wounding enough that he wears his detestation in the lines of his face, so naturally that you almost miss the way he tenses below it. The way his back draws an inch from plush upholstery to lean forward in chase of your ire instead.

“Come here.” The command is sent an octave lower, and at the beckoning curl of clawed fingers you have always been so easily swayed by his coveting; that eldritch sort of power he holds over any space you share, vampirism aside.

Your steps are those of a newborn foal, damp lace and traitorous heels joining force to rob you of that same fire they’d carried you in on. You kick them off toward the door in bold liberation, hopeful for some pretense of stable footing.

“Shame.”

It is his last snide remark, always the last word, before you are being tugged down by the wrist and melting willfully into his lap with all the grace of the day you’ve had. Cinnamon whiskey and black cardamom dance in the small stir of air. Your knees come up to cage his hips and searching hands find a home over the wide sprawl of solid shoulders. Your blouse and pants cling damp and sticky against the backs of your bent legs, the rise of your quickening chest; and if Jasper has any real concerns about sharing in your plight, he does not make them known, instead only drawing you closer, hands full of hips and bastille eyed, until you are ensnared entirely and there is simply nowhere left to go.

Jasper kisses like the rain. He always has. A cleansing tenderness in the early press of lips, a testing build of pressure, deeper, rougher, until you’re buckling and gasping beneath a flood and he is diving lower to swallow your every little sound of surrender. At their calling, the bottom crashes down from the sky and with a matching sort of urgency you are drowning.

Your hands slip up the guiding lines of his neck, anchoring yourself with both fists tangled deep in unruly locks of fine aged sterling. He rolls the rest of your body flush against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, in chase of your waning mouth as you try to gently tug and urge him away just a fraction, just enough for merciful air. Wicked lips warmed by your own body heat reward your effort by trailing open-mouthed bites down your throat instead; soft growls of satisfaction building into full on groans as you curl savage fingers down harder, deeper to press him right where you want him.

There was a purpose for your visit that should have prevented this whole exchange. It is difficult to recall as a devil’s tongue and human canines toy over your carotid.

But oh, that devil’s tongue…

“I. don’t. lie.” Jasper pants each syllable, bedrock deep, into the hollow of your clavicle like the words should carry some sort of foundation. His forehead falls to rest low against your cheek as he catches air he doesn't need and the condemning turn of your thoughts. A stony wall battered down and breached so long ago now that you’re not sure you could keep him out anymore even if you wanted to. “I had every intention of sending him right fucking along to meet up with you. Let me show you why I didn’t...”

You are turned whole bodily around in a way that makes you feel trivial. A squirming mouse long trapped within the lion's jaws. A wild stone’s throw against a cage of welded steel.

You are spread open indecently across his thighs, bare feet dangling to brush against the outside of coiled calves, planted and set to spring. Your back meets the buttons that line his bulk and your eyes freeze on your own reflection staring back at the juxtaposed pair you make.

There are two of you there, in actuality, you realize after a drawn, dizzying moment...

In the top left corner of the screen is your ID photo. The same one every Talamasca agent is made to sit for, before it's promptly stored away in a dusty filing cabinet somewhere for only the highest security eyes to see. A quick updo and a professional grin for the flash.

The other you gapes back, wide eyed and wild from the full-screened front facing camera. Not recording, you verify abso-fucking-lutely to your turbulent stomach’s content, but it’s definitely on…

“You really think that low of me?” Jasper’s mouth moves honey thick near your ear and you watch compulsively as the words are mirrored right back at you, a quarter-second delay, gooseflesh rising across delicate skin at the very thought of how a few pokes of a finger could ruin your entire life. “Oh baby girl, if that had ever been in the cards, I wouldn’t have dealt them out like this, trust me,” he purrs, and it is unmistakably a thinly veiled threat, but it is almost too easy to want to believe in him with the way his hands caress heavy up your thighs, drawing them an inch farther apart. They press up deeper, near painful, into the sloped curves of your ribs. Silver crested fingers spread open wider, covetous over either of your breasts, kneading as if to tear flesh asunder but you are already putting on quite the show of trust, spine arching pretty against his middle and head falling back over his shoulder. Neck wide open and on full display…

“Nu uh,” he corrects, cupping your chin, squeezing cheeks against teeth with a hold that bars no misunderstanding. He forces your eyes back down to the screen in time to watch how your body reacts to his bare minimum. Chest straining taut against the valiantly enduring snaps of your blouse. A growing stain darkening the last bit of dry cotton at the very apex of your thighs.

You roll your hips down for some sort of friction. Any kind of absolution or relief from the hawklike focus of Jasper's eyes. He is hardening steadily against your rear but there is nothing quite right where you need him. Purposeful, beyond a doubt, in its maddening intent. “I believe I owe you some answers first. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me until you saw for yourself. Call me whatever else you like, but a liar?... No.” A sharp nail pops open the top snap of your shirt, repeating the pattern in crawling descent. “He was some new hot shit errand boy from Amsterdam. Didn't know anything we hadn't already figured out anyway. No manners either, truth be told…” Jasper nods forward over your shoulder. “That photo right there was the last fucking straw.”

Your attention is already torn between the well put-together facade of a refined woman he’s gestured to and your current, very real, crumbling state of being. One fake and prim and perfectly constructed. The other coming alive and falling apart into lacey trimmed strips of skin at the tainted, talented hands of a beast of olde… and with the heated way he watches himself work…

“You killed him.”

“Damn right I did.” A breathy chuckle from the base of his throat to the crux of yours, no true humor amongst airy pride. “You know how these new-age agents can be. Disrespectful. Sloppy. The things he said don’t bear repeating and I wouldn’t dare anyway because I'm such a gentleman.” He chooses that moment to cup your cunt with the hand not actively disrobing you. A gasp of shock leaves you torn between the pure relief found in that upturned pressure and the sheer fucking audacity. “But, really, it’s more of a read-the-room kinda thing.”

The heavy pet of that hand. The soft release of your waistband button. The hissing glide of a zipper…

“What a waste. I don’t like gentle men.” An attempt at petulance betrayed almost immediately by the breathiness beneath your masterful undoing.

“Oh and don't I fuckin’ know it,” Jasper noses into the damp locks of your hair, a hound bid unleashed by the warm slick that coats his palm. “He can be found all across Soho if you still care to brave the weather. I'm sure your desperate dogs would appreciate a thrown bone or two.”

Sharp nails skim light over the bare skin beneath your navel and you're helping shimmy your pants down your thighs and off before even fully coming to terms with signing a man's death sentence over nothing more than a half rate, pre-coffee photo shoot. Jasper slides the ruined gusset of your panties aside with the pad of his thick pointer finger and the tablet camera exposes to the light just exactly how it all affects the darkest parts of you. Already sticky and glistening across lust swollen lips. A new level of fucked up you haven't fallen to since signing on the dotted line…

“Self deprecation will get you nowhere in this business,” Jasper whispers, blooming dewy petals open wide before your own eyes, “I could smell it on you from the moment you walked in. All that righteous anger and wounded pride…poor little thing... but look at you now. This is why I have no desire to lie to you. Ever.”

His hands have always been your biggest weakness, those husky, vascular roadmaps lining all the decades of experience and suffering that have somehow led him directly to his cushioned perch beneath you. How that pain has shaped him into a stone pillar of rough callouses and sharp teeth, and yet somehow you've burrowed in and thrive beneath the cold torment of both.

A middle and ring finger dip straight in, ado of naught, and gather your essence to swirl it higher around your swollen bud. That white hot heat mixes in with care, that quarter centimeter of air between his nails and your most sensitive spot, and you are sent back groaning against his shoulder. Hands fist in velvet and the silken hair round the base of his neck.

“Jasper…”

Honed fingertips stir up an even crueler rhythm between your thighs. “Mm, that's more like it. Jasper what?”

And there is not an inch of fight left within your useless bones.

“Jasper please…”

He groans out a wrecked sound into the space behind your ear. Soothes your hair back to fill in the gap. “Fuck, you see how easy that was? How civilized we can be? Now keep your eyes on that fucking screen.”

Those two fingers fill you with an easy glide but a rude stretch that punches the air straight out from your lungs. Your body is a writhing, mewling mess at the intrusion and he only uses the opportunity to fill your mouth with matching technique, old salted earth tinged with iron pressing down, rich and dense, against your tongue. They are curled and worked so expertly deep that both sets of lips are set to drooling down over precious metal in a matter of minutes.

There's no looking away even if he wanted you to, jaw hooked and pussy claimed, and the pleasure that unfurls in your stomach and burns down your thighs has you locked dead-on to the way your muscles tremble for him. A puppet dancing in flames for its master. Strings once cut, now tighter tied…

You are already prepared at the sight of fangs, chin bowed in wait and pressure building, and it's all you can do not to beg around cool flesh for some sort of forced release from your torture. A few more condemning pumps of his hands and lethal teeth are burrowing home in the side of your neck. That delicious mix of pleasure-pain sets your nerves to fraying, too much too fast, too much too fast... He is everywhere and everything and with his growl of primal satiation vibrating through your every vein, you are coming in his arms, savage and painful, spasms of heat and muscle roiling down your spine in blinding waves of saccharine white. You watch your own orgasm milk his fingers as if your body wants nothing more than to drag him in only deeper.

The change in him is visceral when he gets you like this, all facades of softness peeling away beneath the needs of a beast set to bloodlust, pawing and shoving as if he seeks to match you in your frenzy.

Your back meets the cushions hard, head bouncing over the curve of a velvet arm. A boot hits the coffee table in his haste and that cursed tablet drops flat, face down. The loose hems of your blouse fall open around your ribs like waterlogged wings. A swash of silver hair is all you have time to see before he is hooking your leg over the back of the lounge and eating you proper, the immediate overstimulation twitching your core and straining your neck back in an arch of shuttering pleasure.

“Jasper it's too much… s’too much…” he has always been too much, and yet you keep finding yourself right back here, heeling at his side for more...

So your words go unheard, drowned out by your own cries, thick laps of that devilish tongue, and the obscene sounds your spasming cunt makes against his siege. He attacks like he means to devour you whole, that aristocrat’s nose doing the lion’s share while he steadily laves away at the trophy of your lust.

“Christ, I'm not sure which tastes better.”

The claim is guttural, spat between fangs. They sink into the meat of your raised thigh without warning, a downturned thumb the only kindness he'll allow, keeping quick, circling pressure right where you need it. This orgasm strikes like the drop of a brick, gut punching and eye rolling; four fingers spreading wide low across your stomach to keep you grounded from orbit while the onslaught continues, on and on and on.

You tug sharp at his hair, claw desperately at the back of his hand; attacks that would render any human maimed, though he barely flinches at your feeble distractions. “Jasper,” you whine, and he finally, finally relents, unlatching his jaw and lapping lazily at the mingled mess he’s spread across your leg and hip. Across his own glistening mouth. His tongue darts out along them as he straightens to a knee.

“What was that you said earlier about quitting?”

He is all dark snarl and blown out pupils when his eyes meet yours again. A disappointed look down his nose that makes you wonder just exactly what the fuck is wrong with you on an evolutionary level. Why you would willingly bare yourself like this, an open feast in wait of desecration, to a creature cursed forever insatiable. Bloodstained lips and heaving chest... Just shy of foaming at the maw.

For a moment you have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, your mind swimming hazy with endorphins and blood loss. Then it hits you all at once like the punishment it was…

“I said I'd be ‘off the case’, not quitting. Without any progress, they’ll reassign me anyway…”

Cold hands lock around your ankles before you can even get the full explanation out, a short slide and a quick stop down to right where he wants you. You watch unbreathing as his belt buckle clinks open, a quick flick of his hand. It is drawn with measured intent from its snares. Crystalline eyes, and just as hardened, never leave yours as leather is dropped forgotten to the ground and he frees himself from his straining confines. He has never, not once, pushed you beyond your limits and yet the sight still sends your heartrate up every time, hummingbird quick in your chest, equal parts anticipation and that prey-like fear that you've come to find shamefully addicting. Swollen painful and dripping angry, he will surely be your end whether Helen pulls you away or not…

“You're not going anywhere. I'll tear them all to pieces myself if I have to, book be damned. Fruitless information anyway if there's no one left to use it against me.”

He doesn't mean it. He can't. A rage induced hail Mary in the throws of passion. Nothing more. It has always been and will always be about that book…

“Try me,” he growls through scarlet lined teeth and with an anchoring palm against your hip, he is pushing pitilessly inside. Steady thrusts that he's prepared you well enough for, though the sheer spread and depth of him fully seated is always something dangerously close to all you can handle. When he does bottom out, it’s with a great sigh of relief, a quelling sound that brings him down to you, hip to hip, chest to chest, and then you are tasting your own essences from hungry lips. Sugar sweet metallic transgressions. A cocktail that is innately him though vigorously pilfered from your very core.

He fucks into you like he knows you can take it, a pent up frenzy of waning patience and primitive desire, but you can still feel that delicate prod of your mind, a warm coat draped across your shoulders, feeding from your pleasure in every way possible while still ensuring that is all there is left of you. No doubts or unwelcomed pains. No signs of disloyalty. Nothing apart from yes and please and more Jasper, more…

And at your urging he is set free, wild hands and torn open lace. Blunt nails digging in his back. Cool lips drag down your collar bone to bare breast and he plants his fangs deep again atop the rising swell, a singing pain that jolts straight down to where he’s buried deep in your thighs. You watch half lidded as he knicks his own tongue, licks his blood across your wound, and at the unholy communion it feels as if the sun fights to free itself from weary bones. He repeats the ritual at the side of your neck, healing the old and tearing anew and you are robbed of the ability to make any sound beneath the onslaught, the ability to think aside from a single greedy chant; the one on my thigh… leave it, leave it, leave it…

A big hand collars your throat, constricting higher beneath your chin, as if you’ve screamed your demands aloud. He fights for breath against your neck, a possessed homage to humanity, but still a man nonetheless. “Is that what you want, huh baby doll? A little prize to take home to mommy? A reminder of who you really belong to?”

Jasper’s thrusts grow punishing with the claim and at the forceful waves of pleasure renewed, at the yes, yes, yes your mind hums out, you fear you may actually meet your maker. Gasps of air that won't quite satisfy, mewls of terror at the idea of coming again so soon. He is in your mind and ravaging your body down to the smallest platelets that make up your being, more possessive in nature than even the hand round your neck… The marks on your skin... His own blood still burns bright behind your eyes as he inches you whole bodily higher up the upholstery with every forward stroke. You are leaking and staining everywhere you touch and you can only feel psychotically grateful for his affinity toward deep reds.

“I don’t care if we break the goddamn thing, you’re going to come again.”

In your already fucked-out state, you can’t be entirely sure if he means you or the lounge.

Regardless, Jasper plants a boot down to carpet and makes good on his promise, force bruising and fingers dipping low into the pooling gore on your thigh. He rises himself just enough to reach your clit, returns to those tight, masterful circles that have you seeing stars. You are struck from all angles, forced full to bursting, and without warning you do, again, nerves splitting and mouth gaping. He swallows the sounds of your cresting pleasure with smug lips and a soothing tongue, a prideful sweetness to him as contrary as the man himself.

The clenching of your silken walls turns him sloppy, desperate, movements tense and growing woefully urgent with each tight pulse of your dripping heat. In a moment of sheer insanity you draw away, replacing your kiss with a single finger, light against lips swollen in vitriol and dripping crimson. Fangs rear in a hiss at the sudden loss, jaw muscles flexing as if he means to rid you of the extremity. But it is with a steady hand that you ghost your touch across the most complex weapon of nature, chilled and pointed deadly against gossamer flesh. A magnificent thing to bear witness to. And, in being allowed to, you have never felt such power...

“Come to me, Jasper…please.”

He is reduced to throaty groan at your wet-eyed beckoning, disbelief and sparks of awe reflecting back in stony blues; one, two, three more pumps before he is trapping your finger in blunted teeth and going ridged with shuttering force against your hips. Filling every inch of you with molten hot heat, from the pit of your belly to the waves of ecstasy that punch from his mind into the very heart of yours, a splintered mirror of the way he makes you feel every single time he gets his hands on you.

You extract yourself just in time for his impending collapse, a shoulder burrowing into cushion so that you don't take the full brunt of his weight. His refraction time is short, you know all too well, as is his fall. But for now, he is a heavy, boneless bundle where he sprawls out sated across you and it is your favorite way to spend an evening. Regardless of how you got here.

"Hand me my tablet," he says after a while, muffled in luxury and the side of your neck, and instead you continue to card the fingers of your free hand through his hair, holding on to the spell of calm that silences your thoughts and the space around you for as long as he'll allow it... "We had a deal, remember?" You can hear the bastard's smirk in satisfied baritone. "I owe you some information."

Ah yes, the original reason you came. Fuck.

And, until the next time you dampen his doorway, the spell is bitterly broken.