done-with-the-shit

[done-with-the-shit]

Hi I was just wondering if you could do a reader X shadow milk cookie but we ignore him as a prank. like would he be sad or mad.? Could you add pure vanilla to? If so thank you!!. If not it’s understandable ☺️

Pay back

A/N: I'll make another one with Pure vanilla, I forgot about that part until I had already written this

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The jester talked a lot, it was rare to have a moment of silence around him.  And with his talking he also liked pranks, anything to keep away boredom.Countless times you had been subjected to buckets of water over doors, live snakes in cans, and many more outrageous jokes. It really was overdue that he got a taste of his own medicin.

Hour 1

 You had been wandering about, not having anything of importance to do when the beloved menace decided he hadn’t been given the proper amount of attention today. 

“ HELLO~ it is I, your favorite jester!”

"..."

“HEY! I know you can hear me!! Answer me!!”

Shadow milk tried a few more times to get your attention, quickly catching on that this was some sort of game, and a game two could play, if you were intending to ignore him then they would just have to play along.

With that decision made shadow milk vanished in a puff of smoke. 

Hour 3

You both had managed to completely ignore the others' existence, no talking to each other, no looking at each other, and no cuddles (much to shadow milk’s disappointment). Candy apple was the first to notice, normally shadow milk was all over you, like a clingy cat. 

“Did you two fight? OH! DID YOU BREAK UP?!?!”

“CANDY! You can’t just ask something like that!.....but did you?”

The two were a lot like their master, always looking for something to keep them entertained. But you couldn’t let shadow milk get the satisfaction of winning this unspoken challenge, so you gave them a simple answer.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They looked at you with confusion, but decided it would be better to watch how this would unfold. 

Hour 5

This surely was what hell was like, or at least that was what shadow milk was thinking. They regretted playing along with your tricks, his pride wanted him to stay strong, continue ignoring you until you came begging for his attention. But the rest of him wanted to grovel and pray you will take pity on his poor soul. He had tried everything to make you look his way, to talk to him, acknowledge him. But nothing had made you break.

Hour 5.5

You sat on the edge of your bed sipping some tea Black sapphire had made. On the floor Shadow milk was throwing a tantrum, kicking and screaming like a child. One of the great beast cookies begging you for at the very least a kiss. It almost made you cave, partly because it was cute how much he wanted your attention and partly because you wanted him to shut up.

Suddenly the loud whining completely halted, it became so quiet you had the urge to make sure he was still there, but looking at him would be admitting defeat. So you waited a bit longer before turning to put the cup you were holding on its saucer, using the action as a chance to see what he was up to.

Quickly glazing over to him you were met with a sight that would have scared anyone else half to crumbing. He sat staring at you inky hair floating about, all eyes on you, his face shrouded in shadows. He looked like a cat readying to pounce.

Before you had the chance to fully set the cup down you were tackled onto the bed, shadow milk holding you tightly, not giving you a chance to escape. 

“Pay attention to me”

“...ok-”

As soon as the word left your mouth he was back to his usual cheery self, giggling and playing with your hair.

“Ignore me again and I’ll put spiders in your hair”

[done-with-the-shit]

Okay I gotta get one thing clear: YOUR. ART IS AMAZING..!

As for my idea maybe you can try y/n meeting shadow milk for the first time only that...he's in his beast form (ya know like that beeg form he was in when he was first out of the tree?-)

..basically I'm talking about his giant size sorry if it seems a bit awkward /_\"

Thank you!!! 🥹💖💖💖

I didn't have any full short comic page, so have a few drawings!

Also welcome back everyone! I'll be posting about every 7-ish days, and three photos a time unless it's a mini comic page or something special!

Now enjoy!

[done-with-the-shit]

Milk, Vanilla, and The Witches Pit.

Pairing: Witch!Reader x Shadow Milk Cookie, Witch!Reader x Pure Vanilla Cookie, (past) Witch!Reader x Burning Spice Cookie Word Count: ~2k Rating: Explicit Warnings: Tentacle kink, soft dubcon elements (aphrodisiac influence), magical manipulation, possessive behavior, emotional breakdowns, light worship kink, humiliation (non-cruel), voyeurism, orgasm denial, forced arousal, non-canon worldbuilding (eldritch witch magic, enchanted maze, sacred ritual spaces), power imbalance, Pure Vanilla corruption, oral fixation,, dom!reader dynamic, emotionally compromised cookies, pure vanilla point of view, burning spice kinda mentioned hahaha

part one

COMISSION

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

At first, it was only whispers. Unconfirmed, scattered, and strangely poetic.

A baker passing through the Vanilla Kingdom had spoken of a scent he couldn’t place—berries steeped in lust, he’d said, half-joking, eyes twitching. Another Cookie from the outskirts claimed they saw the stars shift over the southern hills, as if pulled down toward something hungry.

And then there were the dreams.

He’d received three letters in as many days. Each from a healer he trusted. Each confessing the same thing: they woke gasping, wet between the thighs or legs, after visions of a throne carved from mouths. They wrote with trembling hands. They asked if he felt it too.

He hadn’t. Not until today.

Pure Vanilla stood in the study of his sanctum, sunlight curling softly across the glasswork. A low thrum echoed at the base of his skull—magic, old and unclean, threading its way through the air like perfume from a broken bottle.

He pressed his fingers to his Soul Jam.

Something has awakened. Not evil. Not quite. But… wrong. Beautifully, dangerously wrong.

By dusk, he had already departed. No fanfare. No speech. Just a quiet command for the court to carry on and not follow.

The land of Beast Yeast was thick with mist by the time he arrived. And there—where once lay scorched earth and memory—stood a castle that should not be.

It rose like a mirage built from lust and grief: obsidian stone slick with dew, towers shaped like talons, rivers that shimmered red as pomegranate wine.

And something else.

The maze.

It stretched from the castle gates like a serpent’s jaw, rows upon rows of blackened rosebushes twisted into arches and curves. The petals gleamed wet, as if sweating in anticipation. The thorns pulsed.

Pure Vanilla stepped forward slowly, quietly. His robes trailed behind him, a hush in the overgrown silence. The closer he came, the louder the maze breathed.

That’s when he saw him.

Shadow Milk Cookie.

Standing before the mouth of the maze, dressed in ceremonial black and sapphire. He looked... different. Cleaner, almost reverent. His coattails had been brushed and pressed. His crown-jester hat removed, tucked under one arm like a sacred offering. In his arms: boxes. Dozens of them, wrapped with trembling care.

He was checking his reflection in a glinting goblet. Wiping sweat from his upper lip. Adjusting the cuff of his left sleeve. Breathing hard. Like someone preparing for a confession.

Then—

He smiled.

A grin more sincere than any Pure Vanilla had seen.

And then… he bolted.

Straight into the maze.

No theatrics. No backward glance. Just his silhouette swallowed by the red-black roses and the twisting mist.

And Pure Vanilla—heart tight, Soul Jam humming uneasily—followed.

Because the rumors were true.

Because something had returned to Earthbread.

And it had called him. The moment Pure Vanilla stepped past the first arch of thorns, the air shifted. It wasn’t sudden. No sharp burst or slam of magic—just a slow, insidious tilt. Like the floor of the world had been set on a slope and his balance hadn’t caught up. The scent hit first. Not the saccharine rot of rotting fruit, but something deeper. Thicker. Heavier than air had any right to be. A haze that clung to his lungs with every breath, sweet as nectar and just as dangerous. He tried to purify it on instinct, a soft glow emanating from his Soul Jam. But the mist simply curled around the light—mocking, amused—and whispered back.

The roses pulsed as he passed. Not just the petals—the stems, the thorns, the roots. Like they were watching. Like they knew he didn’t belong. Yet nothing reached for him. Not yet.

He walked in silence at first. Left, right, straight. The maze wound in spirals, designed by a hand not meant to obey geometry. Every path looked the same. Red and black. Red and black. But the deeper he went, the warmer it became. Not oppressive heat, but something more bodily. Wet warmth. Breathing warmth. Like the inside of something living.

And then the whispers began.

Not words, not yet. Just sounds. Breaths that weren’t his. Laughter without mouths. Echoes of sighs. A voice he thought he recognized—just at the edge of memory—moaning faintly into the velvet air.

He kept walking.

The gift boxes Shadow Milk had carried appeared along the trail like breadcrumbs. One by one, discarded. A ribbon tangled in a rose. A box crushed by what looked like trembling hands. A silk handkerchief spotted with something viscous and glimmering faintly under the mist. The deeper he went, the more disarray he found. Until finally he heard it—not a whisper, not an echo—but a sound so real and close it stopped his heart mid-beat.

A sob.

Choked and wet. Followed by a moan.

His steps faltered. Not from fear. From confusion. The mist was thicker now. And it did something to him. His thoughts grew slower. His body… warmer. His clothes clung too tightly. His fingers twitched, grasping at the staff he barely remembered drawing. It pulsed faintly in his grasp, the flower ornament blooming without light. The air tasted like sugar and want.

A voice broke through the haze, soft and low, drawn out like a sigh at the end of a prayer.

“You made it…”

He turned. No one. Just the roses breathing.

Another sound. A wet one.

Something was happening up ahead. Something rhythmic. Deliberate.

Pure Vanilla kept moving.

The last arch gave way to open air. Not light. There was no sun here—only the low thrum of magic humming like a heartbeat beneath velvet clouds. The courtyard stretched wide and obscene. Petals littered the slick stone, red and black, glistening with dew. Obsidian statues rose in rings around the center—mouthless angels, weeping roses, serpents wrapped around limbs locked in ecstasy.

And in the center—

A throne made of nothing but silk and sin.

He saw them before they saw him.

Shadow Milk Cookie was on his knees. His arms hung limp at his sides, palms twitching against the stone. His mouth was full—latched to the breast of a stranger, lips slick, tongue greedy. His eyes were rolled back, one of the hidden ones in his hair blinking in delirious rhythm with every suck. His body convulsed slightly as her hand jerked his cock in smooth, precise motions—each one pulling a cry from him that echoed off the rose-drenched walls.

The gifts lay scattered at her feet. Torn ribbons. Crushed boxes. The effort of devotion trampled beneath lust.

She looked down at him with a gaze too calm, too cold. The Witch had not changed. She didn’t have to.

Pure Vanilla did not speak. Could not. The tentacles writhed behind her—some brushing across Shadow Milk’s thighs, others coiling lazily near her lap. The air reeked of sex and magic. It curled in his lungs like incense lit on a grave.

Then her eyes flicked up.

Saw him.

The air did not change.

Shadow Milk whimpered at her chest. She spoke to neither of them.

Not yet.

She simply let it continue.

Her thumb slid over the head of Shadow Milk’s cock just as her nipple left his mouth with a pop. He cried out—high and pretty—and spilled into her hand with a force that knocked his head back. His hips jerked once, twice, his thighs trembling. The orgasm tore through him like prophecy, and she held him steady through every shudder.

Only when he stilled did she finally speak.

“Watching is not a crime.”

Her voice cut through the haze like a slow knife.

Pure Vanilla flinched.

A single tentacle slid toward him across the stone. Unhurried. Confident.

“You came for truth, didn’t you?” she asked, gently brushing Shadow Milk’s hair back. “You always did prefer it clean.”

The tentacle curled around Pure Vanilla’s ankle.

He moved to resist—then didn’t. His fingers trembled.

Another tendril coiled at his waist.

She turned her head slightly—one breast still wet with Shadow Milk’s spit, her fingers stained with seed—and beckoned him with a smile that was not kind.

“Come closer,” she said. “Let me show you what devotion looks like.” The moment the tentacle coiled around his thigh, Pure Vanilla’s breath hitched. He tried to step back. He didn’t. Couldn’t. His limbs felt heavy—clouded—not with fear but with warmth. A dangerous warmth. The kind that started low, between the legs, and spread outward like molasses poured too slow. The aphrodisiac mist wasn’t thick here—it was concentrated. Refined. Meant to soften even the hardest conviction.

He blinked, and the throne felt closer. Another tendril hooked under his arm. Velvet against his wrist. A subtle tug. He didn’t resist.

Not because he wanted this. But because his body had forgotten the word no.

Shadow Milk whimpered beside the Witch’s leg, cheek pressed against her thigh, his spent cock twitching, lips still parted around phantom pleasure. He didn’t even lift his head when Pure Vanilla was dragged across the marble.

“You look tired,” she said sweetly. Her fingers twitched, and more tentacles came.

Pure Vanilla gasped as silk bound his ankles. Not cruelly. Not tightly. Just enough to hold. Enough to part him. His robe bunched at his waist. He could feel the air on his thighs.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

She tilted her head—and then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Another figure. At the edge of the circle.

Slumped forward, mouth gagged by some glowing spell-silk. Body flushed and gleaming with sweat. Muscles trembling with denied release. Crimson marks bloomed along his chest, his arms, his throat—where tentacles had kissed and left their claim.

His eyes were glazed.

He did not look at Pure Vanilla.

He only thrust weakly into the air, hips grinding against nothing, rutting against a pleasure just out of reach. A ruined shell of a warrior. His hair was different. His expression empty.

Pure Vanilla didn’t recognize him.

Not as Burning Spice Cookie.

Not as anyone.

Just another sinner in the altar’s glow.

He turned back to the Witch—

And her hand touched his chest.

Light bloomed from her palm—not burning, not blinding. Inviting.

It bled through the fabric of his robes like oil through lace. His Soul Jam flickered—once, twice—and then dimmed.

She smiled.

“You can leave,” she whispered, voice soft as syrup. “You always could. But you haven’t.”

A tentacle brushed his thigh. He trembled.

Her lips leaned to his ear.

“So let me ask, little light... what are you really here for?”

And then her fingers drifted lower.

The first moan that left Pure Vanilla’s lips wasn’t his.

It slipped from his throat like it belonged to someone else—soft, breathless, humiliated. Her fingers had only grazed the edge of his Soul Jam, and still his cock stirred, twitching against the air, his thighs tensing in shame. The tentacles didn’t restrain him, not tightly. They only held, cradling his body like something precious. Like something offered.

His breath trembled. His vision swam. His crown sat crooked on his head.

“Ohhh…” came a voice. Lazy. Liquid. Mocking.

Shadow Milk stirred from his place beside the Witch, one eye opening beneath his tangled bangs. He looked ruined, dazed, lips still red from suckling. But he grinned through it. Theatrical. Drenched in bliss and spite.

“You’re quite the picture, mmm,” he murmured, voice laced with cracked glee. “Our dear beacon, all fogged up and twitching. Tsk, tsk… Is this what it takes to peel back those holy folds?”

“Quiet,” Pure Vanilla rasped.

But his voice was thin. Barely present.

Shadow Milk only laughed—a low, fractured chuckle that dissolved into a whimper. “Still playing saint, even while your thighs tremble? My, my. You’ve missed quite the show.”

A tentacle slid along Pure Vanilla’s inner thigh. He bit back a gasp, his head tipping back. The mist licked at his lips, syrup-sweet, heady. His cock throbbed now—shamelessly.

The Witch watched.

She didn’t touch him again. Not yet. She let him unravel.

Shadow Milk crawled closer—not with the grace of a predator, but the limp, sensuous drift of someone who had given in. His fingers brushed the edge of Pure Vanilla’s robe, gaze half-lidded.

“You came here for answers,” he whispered. “But I think you just wanted permission.”

“Permission…?”

“To fall.”

He chuckled again. It cracked in the middle.

“Don’t worry. I did too.”

Pure Vanilla’s breath hitched. A tentacle brushed his tip—barely. He gasped, whole body twitching, stars popping behind his eyes.

“I… I won’t,” he hissed, but his hips lifted of their own accord, chasing the contact. “I can’t.”

“You already are,” Shadow Milk said sweetly, resting his cheek against Pure Vanilla’s thigh. “And you look so pretty doing it.”

The Witch leaned forward, her lips just inches from Pure Vanilla’s jaw. Her breath was cool, her eyes deep. Not cruel. Not kind.

Just waiting. He tried to hold it in.

Even with her mouth near his ear, even as the tentacle curled around the base of his cock like a gentle promise, even as Shadow Milk suckled at his throat with lips still wet from the Witch’s breast—he tried.

He did.

But the pleasure didn't beg for entrance. It slid in—sweet and low, like fog under a locked door. Her magic didn't command him. It coaxed. Her fingers didn’t tear at his robes. They simply pressed, so lightly over his Soul Jam that the echo of it ricocheted through his spine like a lover’s sigh.

"You're trembling," she whispered.

“I know…”

"You don't want to leave."

“I… can’t.”

"You never did."

Pure Vanilla’s knees buckled. He would have fallen had the altar not already cradled him, held him in its velvet grasp. His thighs parted without a word. His cock leaked shamelessly against his belly. Every twitch, every breath was a confession.

Shadow Milk kissed his collarbone. “You taste like surrender,” he crooned.

The Witch watched. Silent. Steady.

Then, she moved—just a little. Her hand slid between his legs, not greedy, not fast. The tentacles wrapped around his hips, lifted him just enough to tilt his body forward, exposed and open. Her touch was like fire wrapped in silk.

Even though

He came undone like a vow broken at last.

Cum play

Shadow Milk clung to his side, pressing kisses to his temple, his jaw, his lips. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “So good like this…”

The Witch didn’t speak.

She simply cupped his face.

And he—soft, ruined, light dimmed but not gone—nuzzled into her palm.

He didn’t ask what came next.

He didn’t want to know.

He was no longer a visitor.

He had entered.

And the maze… would never let him leave.

[done-with-the-shit]

Can you write Dom!Reader x Bratty Sub!Shadow milk? (Shadow milk and reader are switch, but Shadow milk that leans dom but can be sub in rare times)

Only good boys get to...

TW(?): Dom!Fem! Reader, handjob only, public sex mention, small bits of blood, biting, orgasm denial, chastity cages, nipple stimulation

A/N: It's short because I don't know how to write sub men. Sorry

You drag Shadow Milk by his ruffled collar into your shared bedroom, pushing him onto the bed. His cocky smile doesn’t falter one bit, not minding how rough you are with him. Why stop his cockiness when just now you got mad? Your anger makes things much more exciting and interesting after all!

“Wipe that smirk off of your damn face, jester.”

Your voice is sharp and dark, coming off as a warning for the blue cookie that lies on the bed. You pin him to it roughly, gripping his jester costume before tearing it off. The material cries under your strength, tearing apart.

“Why should I?”

You growl slightly and bite into his neck, droplets of blood forming at the spot. Shadow Milk whines and arches his back, his hand reaching down to his leaking cock. You scoff and slap his hand away, glaring at him.

“You think you deserve to touch yourself after the stunt you pulled today?”

Shadow Milk tends to do a lot of things to push your buttons, but this time it crossed your line. Attempting to force you into public sex?

The cookie under you huffs and moves his hand to his chest, his brows furrowing slightly as he does so. You ignore his thumbs twisting his nipples, your hand moving down to his cock.

He has been horny for hours by now, the tip of his cock now an angry red color. You tap the slit on the tip of his cock, making him gasp out and close his legs.

“You pervert! Just fuck me already! Use me!”

You try your best to suppress a laugh, roughly opening his legs back up.

“You think you deserve it? Think you deserve my cunt around your cock? Not even close.”

Your voice has a rough tone to it, showing how angered he has made you. You will make him pay.

He pouts when he realizes that you won't fuck him, his hips rutting back against your hand… even though you are barely touching him. When you notice his hips rutting against you, you move your hand away. This is a punishment, not pleasure.

Shadow Milk’s eyes go wide when he no longer feels your fingertips on his cock, his hands shooting to yours.

“If you’re enough of a pervert to touch me, then don’t stop!”

You scoff and slap his hands away, poking his cock. Did he seriously think he deserves your touch? After what he did earlier today? Not a chance.

You sit up on the bed and grab Shadow Milk, placing him on your lap. Shadow Milk curls into himself from shame, feeling more exposed than before. You laugh at his child-like behavior, pressing his hand to his pale stomach. You move your hand up slightly, feeling his ribs through his skin before moving to poke at his nipples slightly.

Shadow Milk gasps and arches his back, his hand moving to his cock. You sigh and decide to let him touch himself. It’s still a punishment if you don’t touch his cock and he has to do it all by himself, right?

“Please, touch me!”

You shake your head and move your other hand to his other nipple, making him sob out from pleasure. His hand speeds up, wet squelches echoing off the walls. Shadow Milk lets out another sob, his brows furrowing as tears begin to fall down his cheeks.

Seems like your punishment is working.

The cookie throws his head back, rutting against his own hand.

“ ‘M close… so close…”

You furrow your brows upon hearing that, seeing how desperate he is. He’s practically humping his hand at this point. His moans become higher pitched and his eyes squeeze shut, a well known indicator that he’s close.

You let go of his chest and move to grab his wrist, moving his hand away from his leaking cock. Shadow Milk sobs and grinds against the air, desperate for release. You coo at him and lick the tears off his cheeks, trying to stifle a laugh. It truly is pathetic seeing one of the most powerful cookies sobbing in your lap.

“You don’t deserve to cum, do you, Shadow Milk?”

Shadow Milk continues shedding tears, but shakes his head. He knows he misbehaved.

“You’re a mean pervert! I deserve to cum no matter what I do!”

There he goes trying to act tough again. But he ends up just looking like a bratty kid trying to get a toy.

You place Shadow Milk on the bed next to you and stand up, giving a warning look. He immediately understands and nods, not daring to touch himself. You go to your shared closet and open the lowest drawer of it, reaching for a black box.

“W-Wait, please don’t! I… I promise I won’t be bratty again! I promise I will never try to do anything in public anymore!”

His pleas fall on deaf ears as you go back to the bed and sit next to him, placing the black box on your thighs. You smile and look at him, the warmth of your smile not reaching your eyes. Shadow Milk hiccups between his sobs, all the brattiness from earlier forgotten. You open the box and take out a chastity cage.

“Now, will you be a good boy and put it on yourself, or will I have to do it?”

Shadow Milk scoots away from you slightly, shaking his head. Well, guess that is one way to answer your question.

You grab Shadow Milk by his ankle and drag him back towards you, ignoring his desperate ramblings between his sobs. He enjoys it, his sobs are just a dumb performance he likes to put on.

You grab the small ring from the box and place it on the base of his cock, hearing him finally stop his sobs, only small hiccups now leaving his mouth. You grab the actual cage next and slowly put it over his cock, making sure to not harm him in the process. Shadow Milk hisses as the cold metal touches him, his hands moving to rub on his nipples once more, trying to distract himself from the cage on his cock.

Lastly you grab a small padlock from the box and move it towards the cage. Only then does Shadow Milk’s voice ring out again, but this time not as bratty and demanding. More so… Whiny and remorseful.

“P-Please, just the cage is enough. We don’t need to put the padlock on…”

Of course we need to put the padlock on! How else is he gonna learn? Plus, what if he tried to take the cage down when you weren’t near? You can’ let that happen.

You click the padlock in place and smile at your handiwork, seeing his red and puffy face still stained by tears.

“Only good boys get to cum.”

[done-with-the-shit]

HII!! i have a request for shadow milk x (fem reader) NSFW headcannons! it can literally be anything 😭😭 youre an amazing writer btw <3

a/n — ugghhhh must write for dumb cookie game… took a crack at writing dom smc for two seconds, judt bc it’s a new fandom so i wanna be accommodating.

warnings — NSFW, dom reader, also dom smc, headcanons

Shadow Milk is probably something of a switch; although he loves to teasingly mock you in bed as he takes control, he also loves letting you take the lead.

disclaimer i don’t write dom!male characters) but as a dom he’d be very rough, and definitely not selfless.

Probably only doing things for his entertainment, teasing you while you submit, and fucking with your head while he fucks with the rest of you.

Lots of condescension, “Oh, is that to much for you?” Followed by sadistic giggles.

As a sub I think he’d be into roughly the same things.

He’s a total brat, begging to be put in his place. He pushes you to your limits in hopes you retaliate with something stronger. Please, give him that attention.

I think he’d secretly have a thing for praise, and being treated gently. Truth be told, (pardon the irony), he’s very lonely. Feeling like you care for him would really leave him breathless.

“Good boy, baby.” or even “Shhh, i’m here, sweet boy.” All of a sudden his eyes would slam shut and he’d let out the sluttiest “Ngh— hah!”

Loud, while topping or bottoming. Either way, he’s unapologetically whining with pleasure.

[done-with-the-shit]

Ayato: Come on, I wasn't that drunk last night

Laito: You were flirting with Yui

Ayato: So what? She's my girlfriend

Laito: You asked if she was single

Kanato: And cried when she said she wasn't

[done-with-the-shit]

Hiii!!! Could you do a punk/riot grrrl bride x Kanato 🗣️🗣️ it could be smut or notI don’t particularly care but I’m really looking for AGNST

Ofcccc

You don’t belong here — and they make sure you know it. The lace and ruffles, the perfect porcelain faces, the quiet tea parties in haunted hallways… they weren’t made for a girl like you. You wear ripped fishnets and chains that jingle like warning bells, your eyeliner sharper than your teeth. You curse like it’s your second language and scream at the boys when they corner you in hallways. They laugh, amused. Mostly. Except Kanato.

He doesn’t laugh.

When you first arrived, he hated you. You were too loud, too alive, too unlike the ghosts he clings to. You reminded him of something he’d buried — something messy and human and real. “YOU’RE RUINING EVERYTHING!!” he screamed once, knocking over a candelabra when you refused to wear the soft pastel nightgown he left on your bed. You spat in his tea and wore leather to dinner instead. But something shifted. It started when you screamed at him during one of his tantrums. Grabbed his wrist. Looked him in the eyes and didn’t flinch. “You don’t get to throw a fit every time someone breathes around you, you little tyrant.” He blinked. Frozen. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not without trembling. Not without fear.

You didn’t fear him.

Not when you slammed the door in his face. Not when you found Teddy in your bed one night and hurled it down the stairs. Not even when he threatened to kill you — eyes glassy, voice shrill. “Do it then,” you said. “Maybe then someone’ll finally shut you up.” That night, he showed up at your door crying. Now, you’re in his room more nights than you aren’t. You sit on the floor, lighting matches and watching them burn down to your fingertips while he mutters lullabies to Teddy. He wraps his arms around your waist like you’re the only thing holding his soul together. And maybe you are. “You smell like fire and blood,” he whispers once, nose buried in your neck. “Like someone who was meant to die but didn’t.” You laugh. “Yeah. I was supposed to overdose at 16, remember?” Your voice is hoarse, sarcastic. He doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he clutches your wrist and kisses it. “I hate you,” he whispers. “You ruin everything. You ruin me.” You let him. You ruin him a little more every day. He paints your lips in his favorite shade of violet. You let him. He curls up in your lap and sobs into your fishnet-covered thighs. You stroke his hair. “You’re so ugly when you cry,” you say. He shakes. “So are you.” You both laugh like you’re already dead. One night, you come home bloody. There’s glass in your arm and bruises on your jaw — you got in a fight outside the mansion gates. You were itching for a reason to bleed. Kanato sees you, and something shatters. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry. He walks up to you and kisses the bruise on your cheekbone with shaking lips. “Don’t hurt yourself without me.” You blink. “What?” He grips your face like he’s about to snap it in two. “If you’re going to fall apart… you, do it with me. I don’t care if it’s ugly. I want to see all of it. Every broken part.” You shove him. “That’s not love. That’s possession.” He smiles. “And you’re pretending you don’t like it?”

You don’t answer.

Because maybe… Just maybe… You do like it.

Maybe letting him pull you apart piece by piece is better than rotting alone. That night, you wear the pastel nightgown. He sits you on his bed like a doll, glassy-eyed and trembling, brushing your hair for an hour straight. “You’re mine now,” he whispers. “No more screaming. No more bleeding. Only me.” You tilt your head and smile. “Only you, then.” And maybe that’s the real horror. You mean it.

[done-with-the-shit]

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Eggman x Human! GN Reader

Prompt: Kidnapped

Note: Y'all I wrote this as a joke, and to feed the Eggman fans briefly, but should I write Eggman for real? cuz I lowkey ate. Sonic is in this but Y/N has a sibling relationship with him and yes they are not underage so don't mistake it as love rivalry please 😭 Eat well @affinitytales 😉

Cw: Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome, human reader (Sorry! don't feel comfortable writing mobian x human), other than that just fluff!

🐸🧚🏼‍♀️🐸

Truth be told, you were more than capable of escaping this flimsy cage, but after seeing your captor, you changed your mind. Hi, your name was Y/N L/N, and it looked like you had Stockholm Syndrome as well as daddy issues, another thing to add to the endless list of issues. Amy will have a ball with this one.

His booming tone broke you out of your increasingly concerning thought trail with a start.

"Ah finally! I have succeeded in capturing at least one of Sonic's friends, well it is the human one but still, success at last!"

Wasssss it bad that that kinda turned you on- yes Y/N, yes it is bad to think that. But you couldn't help it, he was very handsome and so theatrical too, and besides he at least had goals in life; sure they were evil and villainous goals but still, better than most men these days.

You were snapped out of your daydreams yet again by realising you were staring when he spoke up again, less theatrical this time, aw shame.

"Why are you uh ahem... why are you looking at me like that?" He asked, his tone originally awkward, and almost nervous before he cleared his throat and changed his tone to a more commanding, bad move on his part.

"Oh, no reason..." You trailed off, you were completely crazy for being attracted to this guy right? I mean Sonic, one of your closest friends, is always saving the world from him... Butttt maybe a little romantic thoughts wouldn't be too bad, I mean what is he going to do? Lock you up again?

"You know..." You said, cutting him off from one of his rants about capturing you, it was very adorable to see him look so offended.

"May I ask why you choose to kidnap little old me?" You asked, innocently, leaning on the bars of your cage.

Eggman looked taken aback by the question before he answered gruffly.

"Well I uh saw you first so I- why are you asking me this?! Going to pawn all of these answers back to Sonic aren't you?!"

Okay, so he got defensive quickly, but they say the best men are the most guarded right?

You quickly shook your head before answering quickly, not wanting him to be upset with you.

"No, no, I would never, can't I ask questions?" You ask with an innocent gaze.

"Uh... I suppose so, but you better not share any of this with Sonic!" Eggman spoke, very unsure but not uncomfortable with the situation, though he did say your friend's name like a slur. Oh well, you did always like your men older...

You only got about three questions in (Ones that he explained in great detail so it wasn't completely your fault, geez this guy was endearingly lonely), before Sonic came busting in.

"Eggman! Hand them- What the hell?!" Sonic started before he saw you two simply talking, well Eggman was, you were just staring at him with a star-struck expression.

"Sonic?! What are you- Oh right" Eggman said outraged before he remembered that you were indeed technically his prisoner.

You gave Sonic a playful wave as he continued his usual speech.

"Let them go, Egghead!"

"Why should I do that? They have proved themselves to be quite useful" He retaliated back.

"Really?" You asked but before he could answer, if even was going to. Sonic surged forward into a spin-dash and broke the cage within a second effortlessly, scooping you up in his arms in a instant.

"Wha- Hey! My pr- I mean cage!" Eggman yelled.

"Your what?" You said gleefully, giving him a playful wink causing Eggman to falter for a moment. Sonic groaned but took the opportunity and zoomed off.

"Stop them!" Eggman yelled again as robots swarmed after you, but it was too late as you two were long gone.

After a very short amount of time, Sonic dropped you off back at your house, steadying you as you stumbled.

"Was it just me, or was he kinda into me?" You asked almost immediately, tugging your hair in a bashful way.

"Urgh, you are hopeless you know that? I mean Eggman? Really?"

"Oh shut up, you don't even have a girlfriend, probably couldn't get one anyway."

"Uh excuse you, I am the local hero, I could get a girl if I want, I just... don't."

"Whatever you say..."

There was a brief silence before you spoke up again.

"You think he will kidnap me again anytime soon?"

"Y/N!"

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[done-with-the-shit]

Why are they so stupid

[done-with-the-shit]

Soulmates

Emperor Caracalla x Reader

Summary: In which your soulmate is the perfect opposite of you.

Much like Geta, Caracalla loved violence. He enjoyed the games even as a young child. 

He and his brother grew up to be Emperors. 

Ruthless and fierce Emperors.

You were the Princess of a conquered empire. 

Your marriage to Caracalla was supposed to save your people from Rome however your trust was soon betrayed. 

Your parents were killed in the war and you just stood there.

Hearing the news that your people were defeated, parents dead and yet there you stood, in a gold and red dress.

"And now, you are only the Empress of Rome." your husband told you and you looked at him in horror.

But said nothing. 

You uttered not a word of your parents' death. You silently cried in your room.

Days passed but you refused to leave your room.

All you did was sleep and eat.

You mourned the loss of your family.

"The Emperor called for you." one of your servants said.

But you knew better than to keep your husband waiting, so you got dressed and headed to the gardens where you knew he would be waiting.

He always met you in the gardens.

Bringing Dondus along with him, you two often walked in there, surrounded by flowers.

You didn't talk much. He did most of the talking, you just politely smiled at him as he kept on talking.

"I thought you would be happy," he said as soon as he saw you. "Everyone always called you Princess. All the Senators, even the people. I thought by melting your home into Rome, your title would finally be as it was promised, Empress." so he did it for you. In his own weird and twisted way. He murdered or rather got your parents murdered for you.

In his own sick and twisted way.

You must have spent too much time with him because you actually find his action to be sweet.

"I just thought I should mourn them. People might find me heartless if I didn't."

"Never!" he yelled suddenly. "People dare not talk about you in such a matter! My Sweet Wife." you offered him a kind smile as he ran his fingers down your face.

You must have gone mad.

You spent two years with Caracalla as his wife, he must have driven you to insanity.

He always spoke to you with such sweetness, such kindness. You have never felt so happy.

You knew of his illness, Geta warned you about it before. 

"We have a form of medicine. Where I'm from. My uncle was sick with the same sickness, he found a way to treat it." you told them both one day about a year ago. 

That is when Caracalla fell in love with you.

His Empress saved him and healed him with the medicine of her people.

After that, Caracalla noticed many things.

One of such was the fact that everyone seemed to call you Princess.

Why did they call you as such when you were the Empress?

It was a clear disrespect.

It was something he needed to make sure never happens again.

After your parents' death, there was a game held in the Colosseum.

"A tribute to my wife." Caracalla said as he sat down next to you. 

You watched as two Senators walked out.

You immediately recognised them.

Both were ones that questioned your marriage to Caracalla and called you Princess.

Your eyes moved to your husband who was watching you.

He didn't say anything as the fight began.

The Senators never stood a chance. 

You watched and smiled at their deaths. They deserved it, you know they did.

"No one disrespects My Wife." 

A hand grabbed yours and you felt his thumb rub the back of your hand. 

Oh yes, Caracalla drove you to insanity. And you absolutely loved him.

Gladiator II Collection

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @mel-vaz

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[done-with-the-shit]

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x concubine!reader

Summary: After a public tantrum at a senator's gathering, Geta sends Caracalla's most beloved concubine to comfort his mad brother. Tags: hurt/comfort, slightly NSFW, implied/mentioned sex, Caracalla has serious mommy issues, nipple play, breastfeeding :/ (sorry), short fic, Caracalla is obsessed with your big naturals I guess idk AN: I'm not sure if there's any Otessa Moshfegh enjoyers out there, but this lil mini fic is inspired by Lapvona. Caracalla's man-child vibe reminded me of Merek, so naturally I had to write the most strange and off-putting fic to satisfy my weird-girl impulses. Enjoy, freaks!

Hurt by his brother’s callous words, the divine emperor Caracalla had fled the senator’s banquet in a fit of rage. It only takes a single tense glance from Emperor Geta for you to receive his silent command to follow after his mad brother. It does not take long to find him.

Like always, he hides away under a golden table tucked in the far corner of the throne room. His sniveling echoes off the tall marble walls. You slowly approach his curled up form, as if not to startle a wild hare.

“Caracalla. You must come out now.” You call his name softly.

“I will not.” He croaks through his tears, turning his back towards you. With a sigh, you sink to your knees, extending your open arms towards him.

You wait for Caracalla to find his sense. After a few moments, He finally turns to you to reveal his face—pale, rosy, and wet.

“Has brother sent you to scold me? I am no child!” Spite coats his words. You smile at the absurdity. He could order your head on a pike if he so pleased, but prefers for you to indulge his brooding. A god-king with the whims of a spurned child.

“No, I do not seek to scold, little prince. Come now, so that I may hold you.”

And with that, the emperor crawls to you.

He settles into your arms and you cradle his torso, the luxurious fabric of his ornate robes pooling at your lap. His cheek rests atop your bosom like a newborn babe—he weeps like one too.

“It is unjust! Brother always has the last word, yet I am eldest!” Caracalla laments, his tears wet the bodice of your stola.

You use your free hand to smooth tendrils of copper hair away from his damp face. A tantrum of this magnitude was not uncommon for the young emperor, though you often wondered how a man could display such behaviors at the age of twenty and one. Caracalla was distinctly tender, despite his blood lust. His ego was delicate, easily wounded by Geta’s pragmatism and rigid sensibility.

“He wishes to be rid of me, I know it.” He sniffles, his hand reaching to fiddle with the pendant resting at the base of your neck. You smile softly despite growing weary of this routine.

“Don’t be without reason, mea dulcis. You are invaluable to Rome and all her subjects. Geta speaks without tact when he is cross. You must know this too, hmm?”

Caracalla thinks for a moment, brows knitting together in contemplation.

“He is unkind. It should have been him to suffer in the womb, not I.”

You can’t help but laugh at his juvenile description of his brother's malicious cruelty. Frustration flashes across Caracalla’s face as water threatens to brim his eyes again.

“Peace, my lamb. No more tears.” You coo, using a thumb to swipe away at the wetness—but it is too late. Your laughter invited a new wave of angry tears. He buries his face in your breasts, jeweled fingers dragging down the fabric of your stola. His mouth quickly finds your nipple. You hiss, resisting the urge to pull him away from your flesh.

It brings the emperor great comfort to suckle you. Geta had explained Caracalla’s affliction once before.

“Our own mother denied him her breast; she believed him to be cursed. Perhaps he held on to that trangression. He called for a wet nurse until the age of ten and two. My brother has always suffered from madness, you see.”

You had taken prior notice of this habit. After he fucks you like an animal in heat, he often drifts back to your tit, lazily sucking and nibbling until sleep takes him. You thought nothing of it until emperor Geta revealed it’s cause to you.

And though you had no milk to bear, tranquility came over the man as if he had been fed. Eyes closed and breath even, he plays with a tendril of your hair as he rolls your swollen nipple in his hot mouth—lost in bliss. It is odd, but you pity him. With his lips so flush against you and his expression finally at peace, one could forget the madness, the carnage, the rage.

Sometime later, Caracalla regains his composure, standing straight with his shoulders back, returning to a proud and stately posture. He crudely wipes the spit from his chin with the back of his hand.

“You will attend to me in my chambers tonight.” He commands before returning to the festivities.

[done-with-the-shit]

I guess the main difference between emperor Caracalla and emperor Geta fans is

Caracalla fans: I need to fuck this man senseless

Geta fans: I need this man to fuck me senseless

I know there are also a lot or people who like both but I think this is a difference between both of them.

[done-with-the-shit]

|| lumine ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: The gloom of winter follows you like a shadow. Caracalla is determined to ease your pain. (Prompt fill)

Word count: 1.8k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, slight angst with a happy ending, Caracalla adores his wife, reader is referred to as 'wife' and has seasonal depression, no use of Y/N.

(The amount of research I had to do for such a little idea! Please forgive the historical inaccuracies, I had to take a few artistic liberties, but truly I tried.)

Caracalla Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

Every year, it is the same. The sun's ascent grows lower and lower with each passing day, and your joy disappears along with it.

You have no name for what ails you so. There is no medicine, no tincture, no salve for such an affliction. It cannot be cured by the hands of a medicus.

It cannot be cured at all, it seems.

Your winter gloom, Caracalla calls it.

You have become little more than a shadow, a phantom that wanders the long and lonely halls of the Imperial Palace, impatiently awaiting the return of Proserpina, and with her, the reawakening of the earth.

It is not a sadness that envelops you; there is no urge within you to cry. Rather, it is an all-encompassing numbness, a listless feeling that swallows you up and drains the joy from your heart. Pluto, in his godly wrath, has pointed a deathly finger at the earth, and you along with it.

You withdraw into the very depths of yourself, much like your beloved garden, until Apollo returns in all of his glory once more.

With each winter that passes, Caracalla grows more incensed - not with you; he could never view you as anything less than his most adored wife. But it pains him so to see you, the beautiful, vibrant creature that you are, reduced to little more than a husk.

He is determined to ease this affliction of yours.

You sit in your usual spot of an afternoon, bundled up in a blanket by the window, desperately trying to soak up what little light is still left in the sky. Where you are, you have a full view of the garden below, and how it hurts your heart to see it as wretched as it is now. Tall trees, once teeming with tiny green leaves, now stand bare; their branches exposed to the harsh elements. The rose bushes you insist upon taking care of yourself lie barren, and the oleander and irises have fallen asleep once more.

You let out a long sigh, your breath visible in the cold air.

Caracalla stands a little ways behind you, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. How he curses the Gods themselves for the pain they have pressed upon you.

He knows that no matter what he tries, there is no lifting this melancholy from your shoulders. And so, he realises, he must think anew. There must be something that he has missed.

For days on end, he thinks. And thinks. And thinks. Until he is quite certain that he will spiral quickly into the pits of despair if he should think any more.

And then, at last - an idea strikes.

He is so beside himself with glee that it takes everything in his power to keep himself from divulging to you. You are always his first port of call in every matter - from the most fleeting thought to the very depths of his soul, and so keeping a secret from you does not prove an easy task for him.

But he must try.

For you.

In spite of your lethargy, it is difficult not to notice that Caracalla is most certainly up to something. Rarely is he ever as quiet as he is now - even when he sleeps, he is livelier than most. Try as you might, you cannot pry even the tiniest detail from him.

"There is nothing to tell you, carissima," he insists.

It is almost impossible for you to miss the the small shadow of a smile on his face each time you ask.

It is one that you are very well-acquainted with - he knows something.

He is most assuredly hiding something from you.

Even so, he is but a man, and while he is certainly not one for keeping his thoughts locked away from you, you suppose that he is entitled to his secrets, and decide against prying any further.

It is another week or so before this little mystery is at last resolved.

You sit alone in your chambers, the biting wind having caused you to retreat from your usual spot by the window earlier than you would have liked. A roaring fire has been lit in the large ornate hearth, and you have cosied yourself up as close to it as you dare, your hands spread out in front of you to chase the chill from them.

The fire dances and crackles merrily across the wooden logs, and you find yourself growing increasingly mesmerised by it. So much so, in fact, that you do not notice Caracalla in his uncharacteristically quiet approach.

He clears his throat, swiftly making his presence known. You jump in surprise, quickly turning your attention to the offending sound.

"Caracalla," you say, quite breathlessly. "You startled me."

He offers no apology, and instead smiles widely in reply - indeed, he is the very picture of Dolus as he stands before you now. Even you, his beloved, are not spared from his impish tendencies.

You are rather quick to note that he still remains standing. Caracalla is never one for staying far from your side longer than he absolutely must. You notice that his hands are behind his back - a stance more commonly adopted by his brother. Caracalla, by contrast, does not like to keep still.

He is hiding something, of that you are certain.

"Will you sit with me?" you ask, softly patting the space on the blankets that cushion you from the hard floor.

Caracalla looks off to one side, deliberately unable to look you in the eye. His smile has returned, wider now, and you cannot help yourself from smiling in return.

Even in your melancholy, his warmth is contagious.

"I have a gift for you," he replies, finally meeting your gaze.

You tilt your head to one side with a curious expression.

"Oh?" you prompt. "You do look as though you have been up to something."

He laughs then, a beautiful, melodic sound that fills the quiet room with life.

"Perhaps," he replies coyly.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you know from experience that he grows impatient.

"May I see what it is?" you ask.

At your words, Caracalla drops to his knees, childishly shuffling close to you with his hands still hidden behind his back. You laugh softly to yourself.

"How I have missed that sound," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Warmth blooms across your face, and you know that it has little to do with the fire still dancing in the hearth.

"Close your eyes," Caracalla says haughtily, his chin jutting out as he attempts to wield some of his imperial power over you.

You shake your head with a small smile, but do as he commands, closing your eyes in wait.

You feel a light pressure in your lap then, and your hands tentatively begin to wander across whatever it is that has been presented to you. It feels square in shape, with some sort of ribbon tied around it. Already, you can sense Caracalla fidgeting next to you.

"May I open my eyes now?" you ask.

"Yes! Yes, please do," he responds excitedly, his head now resting on your shoulder.

If you are not careful, you will very likely end up with a lapful of him soon. You would certainly not complain, however.

You open your eyes, to find that whatever it is is indeed square, wrapped in a beautiful piece of cloth, and secured tightly with a piece of ribbon tied haphazardly into a bow. Caracalla's doing, of course, you think to yourself as your fingers touch the already unravelling knot.

"Open it," he insists, his arms winding around your waist to help you with the task.

You lightly tap his hands in admonishment, and he withdraws with a huff, his hands coming to rest on your hips instead.

You tug at the tails of the ribbon, and it falls away easily. Caracalla pulls it out of the way, and you gently tug at the fabric covering to reveal a book.

When you open it, your eyes widen.

The book is filled with drawings of flowers of every kind. Lavender, lilies, carnations, to name but a few.

Tears begin to well in your eyes as you carefully turn the pages. Each page is filled with such vivid detail. You take care not to rush through, giving each sketch the time it deserves.

Caracalla seems to think you have been silent for quite enough time now, and he squeezes at your hips impatiently.

"Well?" he prompts. "Do you like it? I made sure to seek out only the very best artists.”

A little breath escapes you, as you try to compose yourself to speak. It is of little use, and you can only nod instead. Your fingertips trace lightly across the pages, reverent in their touch.

"I know how this time of year torments you so," he murmurs. "And it pains me that there is little I can do. I hope that this will ease your sorrow in some small way."

You turn to him then. His bright gaze is fixed so intensely on you. It is no secret how he adores you.

Caracalla can quite often be something of a wild creature, and yet, there are moments, such as now, where you can clearly see the leader that he was born to be.

He is insightful in ways that others often miss, but you have learned to look further than the surface. To the wonderful man that lies beneath.

“Look at the last page,” he says, tapping his finger lightly against your hand.

You turn your attention back to the book, carefully turning to the last page as instructed.

You could not help the smile that spreads across your face even if you wanted to. On the last page, you find another drawing, albeit one that is very different from the others; as if this particular artist is not really an artist at all.

The page is filled with your beloved roses, and though it lacks the skill of the others before it, such love has been poured into every line that you cannot help the quiet sob that escapes you.

“It is perfect,” you manage to whisper, your voice small and trembling. “Thank you.”

Caracalla pulls you closer to him, his arms tight around your waist. You allow him to arrange you as he likes, meeting him with little resistance as you clutch the book tightly to your chest.

The winter gloom will still remain with you until the first blossoms of spring make their arrival once more, but now, in this very moment, as you lay in your beloved husband's arms, you feel as though you are in the midst of the most beautiful summer.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @punkrockmlchael @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[done-with-the-shit]

[slight nsfw] thinking of a yandere! with severe mommy issues.

literally crazy.

you don't even look like his mom! there are nights you wonder how he's even able to project it onto you, not to say that you mind of course. he loves it when you push him to take care of himself, and he always asks you to give him a little peck on the cheek if he's done as you've asked.

it doesn't stop the two of you from getting sexual though. he'll whine against you whilst you, in his words, 'take care of him'. he loves it really, getting to feel like your little baby whilst you shower him with attention. he knows you're not his mom, and he doesn't want you to be, but with the fucked up behaviours of his mother he desires every form of affection that he can get from you.

if it means he has to beg? that's okay? you want him to cry and plead and hump your leg? you didn't need to ask. he'll do anything for his mommy, regardless of if you call it pathetic of him.

only for you. <3

[done-with-the-shit]

CATCHING- feelings for his sneak link!

...At first this was just another way to relax, y'know let out some stress from the akademia..but it seems the cold wanderer has gone soft..gn!reader...credits[kiyoshue] on insta

...the wanderer...

Something isn't right, it doesn't feel right. It's not his first time, you're not taking his virginity or some shit, hell- this isn't even the first time you two fucked. But something about the mood, this fuck session was...off.

Your thrusts were deep and- slow, which- wasn't entirely unusual maybe you're tired? You sometimes go slower when you start- no. Fuck, it was a few hours into your fuck session and the entire time you went so deep!

You went fast when he whined for it you kept at a pace most pleasurable to him. Why? It- it wasn't like he was your boyfriend or some shit. You didn't need to be all sappy and slow, hah, did you lose your touch?

Why're you touching him like- like he's delicate. Soft and- like you- fuck who do you think he is? He's the wanderer he doesn't need to be treated softly, he can handle it. He can fuck. He won't break he can endure it, he- so why does he like it. All soft 'n shit.

"Have y-you gone soft on mhm- me." He finally built up the courage to confront you about your weird..behaviour

Bringing your hand up, you touch his face, his cheek. You didn't slap him even though he flinched as his face tightened in preparation for that. "You're the one, who's gone fkin soft." He's crying. globs of tears flowing down his numb face, fuck. Why's he crying?? You aren't going rough so he has no excuse. Shit. Maybe he has gotten soft on you.

He- he doesn't know what to say- or do- shit. Are you gonna stop? Leave him like this? He's pretty useless if he can't handle you, fuck who would've imagined him, of all people melting into your soft touches crying over some basic decency.

"I- uh mm..hic..I don't-..uh..mm hic-" shit what is he doing? Looking up at you, trying to formulate a sentence as his stream of tears turn into rivers, drool dripping down his lips, as his mouth opens and closes like some damn fish. Looking up at you with his glossed-over eyes, his body seems to pull away from you, trying to curl up into himself.

Since your...arrangement started, there were only two rules, no catching feelings, and- no kissing on the lips, made to protect the first rule. You've wanted to break it many times yet never had the guts to cross that line, yet, here you are. Lips pressed flush against his as he pulls you back into him, closer. This time curling into you rather than himself, arms around your shoulder and back as you break away, shock prevalent in those glazed eyes, and a gling of something else too.

"fuuuck, wanderer. Maybe- hah..maybe I am the one going soft after all."

[done-with-the-shit]

Masterlist for Sub Character x DomReader

Bungou Stray Dogs

///Dazai Osamu///

It's too late..

///Chuuya Nakahara///

Relationship Headcanons

///Nikolai Gogol///

Mykolai bothers you while you're working

Assassination Classroom

///Karma Akabane///

Lots of love

Genshin Impact

///Venti///

Running away from Diluc with Venti

A challenge for dandelion wine

Hazbin Hotel

///Lucifer Morningstar///

Valentine's Day special

Luci and Al both want your attention~

NSFW draft?

///The Radio Demon///

Luci and Al both want your attention~

[done-with-the-shit]

That's so Wattpad coded bro.. why did we write like that!??😭😭

I tried to make a poster, it ended up looking like a fanfic cover you would see on Wattpad...

I imagine something like:

Dream: "y/n I think we should go our separate ways..."

Y/n: "but Dream-"

Dream: "what?" *He said his voice low and dangerous and sexy*

Y/n: "I have to tell you something... I'm pregnant with your baby!"

Dream: "what?!" *He growls and pull them closer kissing them in a sexy and dangerous and sexy and hot and mysterious way*