mistyyyy

[mistyyyy]

hi :) could u plz write a twilight fic jasper x reader <3

What are you doing to me.

Jasper Hale x Black!Male reader

Religious trauma, slight internal homophobia, angst, MLM, vampirism, no slur usage, sexual tension, Jasper struggling with internal battle, mental picturing of gore and murder of high school students, car crash body gore, gay, reader “dies”

Part One (1/2)

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You’re new here. Forks High is smaller than any school back home, and the rain feels like it’s always just waiting to soak through your skin. It was constant, humid yet cold all at once. The basketball court beneath your feet is familiar, a patch of ground where you can forget everything else for a little while. But even that comfort is thin, frayed by the weight of your mother’s prayers, her warnings about sin and salvation echoing in your head.

“You know I want some grand babies after you graduated college.” “Baby why aren’t you dating, I’m sure someone at church got the hots for you.” “Imma hook you up with that Jasmine girl, she’s a good child of god.”

Ugh, it was exhausting. Why couldn’t you just play basketball and do what you wanted? It wasn’t always about her.

Raised by a strong woman in the South, you learned early how much love could hurt. Her faith was ironclad, but so was her fear, fear that her only son might stray from the path she’d set, fear that the world would take him and twist him into something she couldn’t recognize. She never said it outright, but you knew the silence carried the weight of homophobia, a shadow you couldn’t outrun no matter how fast you dribbled down the court.

It was free time in PE. Your team was practicing free throws, and others were walking around the gym and talking to their friends. You didn’t have friends. Yes, you had the team, but they weren’t considered friends yet. You were doing your own thing, using the free hoop and practicing free throws. That’s probably why you didn’t notice him.

Jasper Hale watches you from the benches, his expression unreadable. “Asthma” Is the reason he sat out, the other students think it’s that Cullen charm that gave them favoritism. The scent you carry…it was more than hunger, more than the primal call of blood he felt. It claws at him, fierce and unrelenting, stirring something buried deep beneath decades of control and old, harsh memories. It leaves his throat hot like flames, it leaves his mouth sopping with venom, and eyes dark like coal. A Confederate soldier turned vampire, he never imagined he’d be fighting these urges for a boy like you someone so alive, so painfully human and so full of resentment and sadness.

He felt you.

He studied you in that not-so-careful gaze, that gaze that Rosalie would roll her eyes at because he wasn’t being subtle in the slightest. He swallowed thickly as he forced himself to hold his breath, the mere scent of your sweat was overbearing, the pulse of your heart beat dominating the sounds of people and sneakers squeaking around him. You were dangerous.

Each day, he battles the pull, the violent want that his body screams for but his mind refuses to accept. And then there’s the unfamiliar ache in his chest, confusing and unwelcome.

Jasper wasn’t sure what scared him more…the hunger or the unfamiliar swell of feelings he’d never faced. He remembered Maria’s cold command, the countless newborns he’d trained to kill without question. Sometimes he wonders how long it would take. Maybe five minutes in total. His black eyes scan the gym in a careful primal way. Something he was ashamed to admit but he always did. Kill him, him, her… then her…those three right there and those five there, that wouldn’t take more than 10 seconds for their necks to be broken. Then that’ll leave you. Confused from the sudden quietness, but before you could see your classmates' head turned the other way…you’d be dead. And he’d take his time doing it. Savoring the flavor of your essence, the first taste of blood in 65 years. He swallowed thickly, before standing up to excuse himself to the locker room.

He couldn’t do that… you were…different. And so was he. What would Carlisle think? He thought to himself. Rosalie would kill him herself.

You didn’t see him depart, he was invisible. Exactly how it was meant to be.

You remember the first time he caught you off guard. It had been a long Sunday the day before. You were exhausted, and all you wanted to do was zone out during this free bell before heading to your next class.

Just outside the library, when your hands slipped, and coffee threatened to spill onto your new hoodie. His reflex was sharp; he caught the cup before it hit the ground.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice rough with fatigue and something else, something unspoken.

He nodded, eyes searching yours for a moment longer than polite before he turned away. You felt it too, the strange weight behind his dark gaze, like a question with no answer. You shrugged it off then before pushing the library doors open. Dude was weird. That’s what they were saying about the Cullens anyway. The weird siblings who looked pretty and isolated themselves. You wished you could say you forgot that interaction as soon as it happened. But that weird nagging guilt you felt…

You want to understand what’s stirring inside you, this pull toward Jasper that feels both terrifying and inevitable. Your mother’s words echo again, warning you away from this path, but your heart isn’t listening. You didn’t want to call it a crush, a deep disgust and anger filling you from even going that far… but you also weren’t blind, you saw the way he looked at you, the way he looked, smooth face, messy blond ringlets, dark eyes that looked black. He was…never mind.

The whistle blew, cutting through the thrum of sneakers on polished wood.

“Hit the showers! You all stink!” Mr. Rowly barked, you breathed out amusingly and some laughed.

You slung your duffel over your shoulder, sweat cooling against your skin, and made your way toward the locker room. Jasper was already there, somehow always ahead of everyone, already changed, leaning against the far wall with that unreadable expression. You tried not to stare.

Jasper, on the other hand, didn’t have the luxury of pretending.

He’d heard you coming before you even stepped inside, the slow, tired rhythm of your heartbeat, the faint shift of fabric against damp skin. He kept his eyes forward at first, willing himself into the calm he’d mastered over decades. But calm was a thin thread now, fraying fast.

You stripped your jersey, pulling the clingy fabric over your head in one smooth motion. The scent hit him first, salt, heat, deodorant, and something that set his throat ablaze. His mouth flooded instantly, jaw tightening as he forced the venom back. And then his gaze betrayed him.

You weren’t looking his way, focused instead on unlacing your sneakers, fingers moving quickly and carelessly. Every motion was too human; unguarded, alive, warm. Jasper’s eyes lingered on the slope of your shoulders, the way the light caught the sheen of sweat along your back before you turned toward the showers.

He told himself it was just the blood. Just hunger. That’s all.

And then you pulled your shorts down along with your boxers.

The air seemed to shift, his breath (what little he took) caught somewhere in his throat. His mind scrambled, trying to reconcile the sharp, instinctive pull toward your pulse with the sudden, equally sharp awareness of your body in a way he hadn’t let himself feel in… God, over a century.

You didn’t notice the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, or how he pressed his back against the lockers like distance might help.

No. He wasn’t that man anymore. He wasn’t the boy who’d stolen glances in barracks, burying those feelings under discipline and bloodshed. He was supposed to be stone. Unmoved. Untouched.

And yet.

The sound of water hitting tile filled the space, and Jasper found himself imagining��not hunting this time, but something softer, stranger, and far more dangerous.

He forced his gaze away, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He tried to listen to the conversations around them, for the hint of the bell even though it didn’t come for another 20 minutes. Maybe it was easier when all he wanted was your blood. Hunger, he could control. This… he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The steam curls around you, warm and heavy, drowning out the rest of the locker room noise. You take your time, letting the water beat down on sore muscles. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know he’s still out there, leaning against the lockers like he always does, untouchable.

You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself he’s just another weird Cullen. But when you step back out, towel slung low around your waist, you catch the briefest flicker of movement, his eyes snapping away from you like you’d caught him mid-thought.

You ignore it. Mostly. Tried not to dwell on it, everyone glances sometimes.

Jasper’s fingers twitch at his sides as you pass. He tells himself he’s not following you with his eyes. He tells himself the water still clinging to your skin isn’t worth noticing.

But you smell like rain and warmth and life, and it’s too much.

So he speaks.

“Good game yesterday.”

The words are flat, almost awkward. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s said to you before.

You blink, halfway into pulling your hoodie over your head.

“…Thanks?”

It’s clumsy. You’re not used to him talking, and he doesn’t exactly make it easy.

You shove your things into your bag after swiping on some deodorant, but you catch him watching you again…subtle, but not subtle enough. The weight of it sits heavy in your stomach.

After that, it’s small things.

Jasper holds the door when your hands are full. You offer him a spare pen in history when his pen mysteriously “runs out” of ink. One day, when the vending machine eats your dollar, a bottle of Gatorade lands on the counter beside you without a word from him.

He never lingers long, but each interaction stretches just a second too long, enough for you to notice the way his gaze dips, like he’s cataloging you in pieces. It freaks you out in ways that’s not…normal. Were you creeped out that he watched you or were you flustered that he watched you…

By the second week, you find yourself sitting near him at lunch, not with him, but close enough. The Cullens keep to themselves, but Jasper doesn’t look away when you slide into the seat behind him.

You can’t explain it, but it’s easier to breathe there. Maybe because he doesn’t fill the silence with pointless questions.

Jasper notices the shift.

You’re not avoiding him anymore. And that’s…dangerous. You shouldn’t be close, not when he’s so hungry for you all the time. But he couldn’t be Edward, he couldn’t pretend to be mean and angst when all he wanted to do was be near…that’s it. That’s all he wanted to do, just.be.near.

He feels your emotions from across the room—frustration from math homework, the flicker of amusement when the science teacher mispronounces a word, the low hum of exhaustion you carry every day like an extra layer of clothing.

And sometimes… something else.

Not quite trust. Not yet. But curiosity. Interest.

It makes his throat ache worse than the hunger ever did. It makes him want to take advantage, just so he could be close…enough.

It becomes a pattern. Little nods in the hallway. Your eyes caught his during warmups in PE. The quiet, almost comfortable awareness that no matter where you are in the room, he knows exactly where you are.

You start to wonder what it would be like if he actually talked to you like a normal person. You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all.

But some part of you already knows that’s a lie.

You don’t even notice when it happens—when sitting behind him in history turns into sitting beside him. At first, it’s because every other seat is taken. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. But then you keep sitting beside him, even if your usual seat is empty. Over and over again. He doesn’t tell you to stop though, but little do you know you’ve died about 16 times in his head. But even with those dark stupid thoughts and the ache in his throat. He liked your presents, and he was gathering that you enjoyed his as well.

It’s weird. He’s quiet, yeah, but it’s not the kind of quiet that makes you uncomfortable. It’s… steady. Maybe it’s because he’s ironically the best conversation you’ve had since being there.

Sometimes you catch him glancing at the notes you’re taking, the neat loops of your handwriting. Once, you hear the faintest “huh” under his breath when you mutter an answer before the teacher says it out loud.

He’s close enough to feel the edges of your emotions now, even when you’re trying to hide them. The muted irritation when the class drags. The low hum of self-consciousness when someone makes a joke about the basketball team’s “new guy.”

But then there are flashes—moments when you look at him and something electric pushes against his control. Curiosity. A reluctant… warmth. It makes his chest ache in ways he hasn’t felt since before the war, before Maria, before he’d stopped letting himself feel anything human. When he was just a 19-year-old kid going into war(a questionable decision on his part), to get that taste of freedom and earn pride.

The week after that, you catch him waiting for you outside the gym.

“Need a ride?” he asks, casual like he has never said more than four words to you at once.

You raise an eyebrow. “You even got a car?” Of course he did, his dad was a surgeon. Yet you were still impressed.

His lips twitch something close to a smile. “Better than the humid bus.”

It’s stupid, but you say yes. You didn’t know it but this was the end of your yellow bus years.

He drives *too smoothly, like someone who’s never actually learned how to be in a rush. Not that you were in a rush, he can take all the time he wants, you didn’t want to go home to the nagging. The car smells faintly like leather and something sharp you can’t place.

The conversation is light at first, he asks about basketball practice, the weather, and you bring up the fact that you’ve already gone through two pairs of sneakers because of the constant damp, basically throwing away summer's earnings. But most importantly, you notice he listens. Really listens.

You tell yourself it’s just because you don’t have many people to talk to here.

Jasper doesn’t dare tell you that the car ride is torture.

Every inhale is fire, but not breathing would draw attention. So he takes shallow breaths, keeping his hands steady on the wheel, forcing himself to focus on your voice instead of the pounding in your veins.

And he likes your voice. More than he should. It keeps him… safe. Not exactly calm, but careful.

Over the next few weeks, you start to expect him. You start to subconsciously mold him into your schedule. On sunny days you knew he wouldn’t pick you up so you rode the bus or caught a ride from one of your teammates (you were getting close to them). On extreme weather days, you could guarantee he’d be there waiting for you after practice.

Sometimes he’s leaning against the wall outside class, other times he’s in the parking lot when you leave the gym. You don’t know what you’re doing, letting this happen, letting him in even a little.

But it feels good. Dangerous, but good.

For the most part, you just enjoyed having someone there, a new friend.

It clicks one late afternoon. A genuine conversation, nothing fancy, but something a little more intimate for some reason. More intimate than the car rides, even if they’re others there.

You’re shooting hoops alone after practice, the gym mostly empty, when he steps onto the court. No invitation, just moving into your space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes he was too perfect, his walk straight and confident, his back almost too aligned for a teenager. But you never brought it up. Wasn’t important, you kept saying.

“You play?” you ask, bouncing the ball toward him.

He catches it like he’s done it a hundred times before, spinning it in his hands. “Not like you.”

He sinks the shot anyway.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess you’re full of surprises.”

He doesn’t say it, but so are you. And maybe it was because he’s choosing to bond with you through your hobbies, he’s getting to know you outside of dry weather conversations and weekend catch-ups. He knows you love ball, and he wants to play with you. It was…friendly on the outside view, two teens messing around, but deep down you knew that wasn’t the case. He was learning you. And fast.

This is where it starts to feel less like you’re avoiding something and more like you’re walking toward it.

It’s weird how quickly “seeing Jasper around” becomes “spending most of your free time with him.”

You don’t even talk about anything groundbreaking; half the time it’s music, food, dumb observations about people in the hallway—but it’s easy. He doesn’t push, doesn’t try to fix you or pry, just… exists with you.

He’s been to a couple of your basketball games now. You don’t know how he can sit so still for that long without getting restless, but you notice him in the stands every time, pale hair catching the gym lights. Watching you and only you. It felt like he didn’t care much about the game, not when his eyes rarely left you.

Jasper on the other hand doesn’t understand why he keeps. Showing. Up.

Every time, it’s a war with himself—how close can he stand without tipping over the edge? How much of your emotions can he let himself feel before it becomes too much?

But he’s addicted in more ways than one now. Not just to your scent, but to the flicker of life you bring into his otherwise stagnant existence. You don’t look at him with fear. You don’t know you should. You don’t know the things that go through his brain every time he sees you on that court sweatin', or just humming a song on the radio as he drives you home. You don’t know… You don’t know just how much danger you’re in just being around him. Maybe he should be glad you don’t… maybe he should be worried as well.

When the weekend comes—like usual the two of you don’t hang out. I guess the two of you weren’t exactly out of school friends just yet, and you were okay with that. You had to be okay with that. So instead, you get invited to a party. A house party. And like the kept in child you are… you say yes. It stings to lie to your momma, but it’s getting easier these days—maybe too easy. The closer graduation gets, the more you feel like your words can slide right past her without catching. Still, you weren’t expecting her to say yes so quickly. No suspicious squint. No drawn-out questions.

“Be back before eleven,” she warns, eyeing you like she can see every possible sin waiting for you outside.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, already planning to push it just a little.

You do tell her it’s some quiet movie night or bonfire. You don’t tell her it’s at your basketball captain’s place, where the parents are conveniently “away for the weekend.” You don’t tell her the music will be loud enough to rattle your ribcage and that the smell of cheap beer and weed will cling to your clothes like wet smoke.

When you get there, the air is thick with heat, perfume, and bad decisions. The bass shakes the floor under your feet. People you barely talk to are pressed together in doorways, dancing in the cramped kitchen, spilling out onto the back porch. You get handed a red cup before you even cross the threshold.

And for the first time in weeks…you let yourself breathe.

No sermons. No lectures. No constant, tight coil in your stomach every time Jasper’s eyes catch yours in the hallway. Just music, laughter, the slow burn of liquor sliding down your throat, and that sweet, dangerous taste of autonomy.

It’s messy and loud and a little too bright. But you feel… light.

Something was…off..

Jasper’s at home when it hits him.

That wrong feeling.

Your emotions—usually steady, maybe a little guarded—are muddled, erratic. Sluggish in a way that makes his jaw clench. You’re drunk. High, maybe. Out of everyone in that town—yours was the strongest, he could pick you out easily amongst the small thousands that lived in Forks.

And you’re far from home.

The moment he’s sure, he’s moving. Out the door, steps soundless on the porch, air sharp and damp against his skin. His siblings’ questions hang unanswered in the living room. There’s no time to explain—not when your presence in his head is flickering like a dying lightbulb.

He’s already half feral by the time he hits the road, tracking the faint scent of beer and smoke clinging to your skin even from blocks away.

By 10:30, you’re stumbling along the side of the road, hoodie zipped up against the damp night air. You’re buzzing, warm, not really caring where your feet take you as long as it’s vaguely toward home. The blacktop glistens under the streetlamps, puddles stretching like warped mirrors. Your sneakers scrape along the edge, your gait uneven. But you’re smiling. A dumb little, lopsided thing.. You felt happy. And free. You just hoped your momma was upstairs in her room getting ready for bed, or better yet already asleep. You didn’t want her seeing you like this, smelling like smoke and teenage sweat. She’d probably blow your high trying to pray away the sins you just committed that night.

The road is quiet except for the faint hum of a distant engine and the sounds of your feet dragging across the street. You squint, trying to place it.

Then—white.

Blinding headlights.

A horn, sharp enough to cut through the haze.

You freeze, just for a second.

And a second is all it took.

He didn’t remember deciding to move.

The night was slick and cold, the kind of early spring chill that clung to the ground and carried scents for miles. Your trail was easy to pick up—beer, weed, sweat, the faint tang of liquor sweating out through your pores. And underneath it all, that unmistakable thread of you.

He followed it without thinking, weaving between shadows and lamplight. He could picture you perfectly and he wasn’t a mind reader: hoodie zipped up and body flushed from the heat of too many bodies pressed together. That smile you got when you felt free—careless—just reckless enough to scare him. That same goofy smile you had on court

It made his jaw tighten.

He was moving faster now, too fast for human eyes, but not so fast he’d overshoot. Every second counted. He could already feel your emotions shifting again, something like contentment, hazy and unguarded, wrapped around the steady thump of your heartbeat.

Then, somewhere up ahead, another sound threaded through the night.

An engine.

Low at first, muted by distance. But getting closer. Too close.

His muscles locked for a fraction of a second. He could hear the rubber whisper of tires against wet asphalt. He could finally see the empty stretch of road meters away through the thick trees, could see you walking along the narrow shoulder without watching behind you.

He pushed harder. The trees blurred.

The hum became a growl, then a roar.

Through the darkness, the car’s headlights bloomed, twin suns tearing through the mist. They caught you in their path, and in that slice of a moment when his feet finally hit that gravel off road…Jasper saw everything: the way you turned your head toward the light, the slack, confused squint of your eyes, the way your feet faltered on the edge of the road.

Your pulse spiked. He felt it like a gunshot.

The horn blared—high, metallic, slicing through the damp night air—and for the briefest, most dangerous second, you froze.

He was close enough now to see the white gleam of your teeth in the reflection, your dumb, drunken little smile fading into a startled O. Close enough to see the shadow of the car’s grille rushing toward you.

He wasn’t fast enough.

He didn’t have time to process it.

The sound of a balloon, maybe the sound of a shotgun gun or the sound of fleshy solid slamming into a 3-ton 2005 Tahoe. He couldn’t save you, it was like life shifted into slow motion and before he knew it you were a solid 20 feet in the air already. He smelt the blood before you even reached the ground, you didn’t make any noise as your abdomen and lower half morphed into something broken and limp. And then you hit the ground.

He felt like he had no choice but to pause, to collect himself even as he watched you bleed out. He was breathing heavy but not from exhaustion. But hunger.

The scent of your blood floods him, and for a heartbeat, he almost loses the fight. This close, with you bleeding out, it would be so easy—

No.

The truck was already gone, the sounds of yelling and cursing in the car fading as they got further away.

Their scent was already memorized.

He drops to his knees beside you, hands hovering, useless, because no matter how much he wants to keep you breathing, there’s only one way to do it. He swallows thickly. Eyes flickering from your neck already slick with blood and sweat, then back to your flittering eyes.

The scent was suffocating, thick in the air, clinging to his skin, every fiber of his being screaming at him to give in. His throat burned, his instincts roared, but the man gasping in front of him wasn’t prey. He was his. You were his.

“Stay with me,” Jasper’s voice cracked, low and rough, almost like he could will life back into you. “You’re alright—just hold on.”

The male’s breathing rattled, a wet, gargled sound that made Jasper’s gut twist. You eyes half-lidded, glassy and bloody where the whites should be—kept trying to focus on Jasper, as if clinging to him alone could anchor him to the world. “Jas—” His voice broke, the word lost in a cough that painted his lips crimson.

Jasper’s hands worked frantically, pressing torn fabric into the wound, but it was useless. The damage went deeper—too deep. Your brown skin was paling from shock, your heartbeat fluttering, faint, like a candle about to go out. Jasper could feel it fading.

“No, no, no…” Jasper’s accent thickened, his voice slipping into something rawer, more human than he’d sounded in decades. “Don’t you dare.” He tried to shift him, to get a better angle, but the movement drew another sharp cry from the man’s throat. Then your eyes rolled back from the pain. Jasper froze, guilt and panic battling in his chest as he saw just how damaged you were, bleeding from your head, nose, mouth, and your stomach was gushing open, already bloated with blood trying to escape faster.

His mind scrambled for a different solution. A way—any way—to keep you alive without crossing the line he knew he couldn’t uncross. He could bite your wrist. He could change you. He could damn you. But the thought of it…of stealing the life you still had… it fucked with the part of Jasper that couldn’t lose you like this.

Your eyelids fluttered again, breath stuttering. “Mng…c-…cold...”

Jasper cupped the side of his face with a bloodied hand, ignoring the way his own throat burned hotter with every second. “I know… I know. Just… look at me, alright? Stay with me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if making it softer could keep the truth at bay. “I’ve got you. I swear, I’ve got you.”

But his hands kept slipping on the blood, the warmth already fading under his touch, and Jasper knew…deep down, that time was running out faster than he could hold it together.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…”

.

Part two (Coming soon)

[mistyyyy]

Jasper Hale

(Mlm) What are you doing to me Part 1 2 has smut)

[mistyyyy]

Just recently fellow in love with your COD content. May I ask for plus size soft/gentle dom reader with Kyle? The thought of kindly making him love on himself is sending meeeee. (Feel free to ignore if you’re uncomfortable with this request)

⚠️Body issues (Gaz is a little insecure), hand job, mirror play, cute smut, plus sized black reader, little dom-sub dynamic, ownership play.⚠️

You catch him in the mirror before he catches himself.

Shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips—he’s frowning. Studying the scars on his chest, the stretch of his arms, the slope of his stomach like he’s cataloguing flaws instead of history. You lean on the doorframe, warm and slow, watching his eyes drag over himself with that quiet self-loathing he never quite says aloud.

“You’re staring again,” he mutters, not turning.

“I always stare,” you murmur, stepping in. “Can’t help it when the view’s this good.”

He scoffs, a puff of disbelief. But you come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist and press your soft, solid frame into his back—grounding. His breath hitches. He always does that when you hold him like this. Like it surprises him every time that someone wants to touch him gently.

Your palms spread across his stomach, thumbs brushing just under his ribs. God you loved this stomach. Then your hands went to his arms, squeezing the muscles, trailing the veins. “What is it today?” you ask quietly. “Chest? Arms? Or just… everything?”

His silence is answer enough.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “You don’t see it, but I do. All of it. The strength. The softness. The way you hold tension like it’s duty. The way you look at everyone else with such care…and then turn on yourself like you don’t deserve the same.”

He shivers. Not from cold. Everywhere is hot.

“I love this body,” you go on, voice dipped in honey. “Every part. Not just because it looks good when it’s pressed up against mine—which it does—but because it’s yours. And you are mine.”

He turns his head, cheek brushing yours, and his voice is hoarse, smooth like chocolate. “You really believe that?”

You smile, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I know it…don’t you love my body?”

He looked at your reflection like you were crazy- how dare you ask that question?? “Without question.”

You gave him a small smile, and hummed. You already knew his answer, he wasn’t shy about it, worshipped you every time he was home.. “I’m gonna ask you that same question again. But I’m asking you this time… do you like your body?”

This time- he did hesitate. There were days, days like this where he did feel…inadequate.

“Sure.” The answer was dry. Too dry. And you squinted your eyes at him, causing him to breathe out a laugh. “We can’t have that…I bet I can get a better answer than that…”

Then you kiss the spot just behind his jaw—the one that always makes him soften-and he turns in your arms so fast, like he needs you to prove it now, needs to feel how much you mean it.

Your hand slides to the back of his neck, firm but not rough. “Slow down,” you murmur, guiding him to turn back around to face the foggy mirror. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

And he nods, gaze heavy, breath stuttering. Because when you speak like that—sweet and sure and worshipful—he believes you. And you need him to believe you.

You peered over his shoulder, full breasts pressing against his hot back, the drips of water from his back seeping into your bralette.

He was already staring at you through the glass, hand’s already on the towel, dick half hard and you could see it tenting under the white cotton. “Cmon, handsome…” you urged him, manicured nails trailing his sides, he shuttered, fingers letting go of the towel, and it falls over y’all’s feet.

His chest was heaving at this point, the tattoo of his grandmothers name on his heart looked like it expanded as he took in air. It was silly, every time he doubted his self, his mind, his physical- you were always right there with him- for him. And he believed you every time. Right now he did feel handsome, his fiancée’s fingers all over his abdomen, making him feel like he was made out of glass.

“Stunnin’ sweetheart… I hate it when you think of yourself less than… do you know why I hate it?” You whispered into his ear, your teeth barely grazing the shell of his ear while your hand reaches to his mouth, and he licked, the drool on his tongue wetting your pointer, middle and ring.

“Because I’m yours…”

“Because you’re mine…” you echoed to him, hand wrapping around his cock and he couldn’t help but whimper at the temperature difference. His dark eyes watched your every move, trying not to fuck into your fist. “good boy…” fuck.

He inhaled sharply, “Mmng…” he whimpered, his hips poking out just a little as his back leaned into your chest, your slightly cold hand stroking him slowly, softly. “You’re calling yourself imperfect, but you’re the greatest thing I’ve laid my eyes on, love…you’re perfect, inside and out. Not a mistake on your body… so I can’t have you saying you’re not perfect, because then you’ll just be insulting me…right?..” your thumb presses against the slit of his dick, slick covering your thumb.

“Yes-yes, right…” he licked his plump lips, his nails biting into his palm before his hands reached back to hold you- his large palms cupping your ass. “Mhm… now look at how perfect you are… your scars, your body…” he was getting louder now as he followed your orders, eyes following the light brown scars scattered around his abdomen. But it was so hard, it was so hard especially when you stroked him like that, focusing on his slicked tip.

“I…I can hardly focus…Christ …”

“Having trouble focusing you say…?” This question had an undertone to it, and he felt your lips on his ear shift into a smile. He was so blissed out by your hand, he just nodded, his eyes watching the way your fingers moved around his inches.

“Then you do it…cmon.” Your voice was still soft as you demanded him, his eyes fluttering up to look at yours, he wanted to tell you no- to beg for you to keep going, but his hand had already let go of your ass and grabbed his dick. He always listened to you- he just couldn’t help it, it was apart of him at this point.

Oh he was focused now, cock heavy and hot in his palm as he watched your hands crawl around his chest, your thumbs brushing his hard nipples. “Oooh, love…” came from his mouth breathlessly, his senses hyper aware of everything right now, the humidity in the air, how hot you feel against his back, the sweat moving down his hairline as he watched you watch him. “Just like that…go on.”

He only moves faster, your encouragement like honey to his tea in the mornings, so sweet and delicious. His precum was lube at this point, squelching noises echoing in the bathroom along side his breathy moans. He was never too loud, always on the verge of long breathy moans and quiet grunts when the two of you made love. One day, you’ll change that.

For right now, you’ll hold him as he approaches his orgasm, you’ll watch him as he breathes heavily against your body, and jerks in your arms as his cum squirts onto the counter, and drips down his calloused fingers. “Good boy…”

“M-mng, thank- thank you… love you…”

You kissed his damp shoulder, now damp with sweat and not water. “I love you too, my love…how do you look now, hm?” You whispered softly, hands still trailing his body.

“I’m fuckin hot.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter, and he joined you.

[mistyyyy]

i can’t stop thinking about forced feminization with art. he’s so pretty i can’t take it. like…. god. imagine calling his cock a pussy while you fuck him. (not with a strap, no. we are not in that kind of scene.) it’s just you between his legs, (which is already dangling off the bed) and you are sinking him deep inside of you by rolling your hips slow like you’re the one fucking him.

and you are not riding either. you’re not bouncing. not that kind of topping. you’re not letting him have anything that makes him control anything. it’s just you. you’re thrusting him inside you. and you’re looking down at him like he belongs there… beneath you.

he’s already leaking, of course, he’s so close already. already twitching inside you, whimpering like he doesn’t know how to handle the way it feels. like it’s too much. like it’s not supposed to feel that good.

and you tell him while looking down at his fucked out face, “you’ve got the puffiest pussy, baby. don’t you?”

it’s not a yes or no. it’s not even a question.

and he’s already nodding, eyes wide and glassy, like he needs you to believe it, like he needs it to be true. and you make him say it. you tell him to say it.

and of course he does. god, of course. he gasps it out between moans like it’s breaking him, all breathless and shaky. “I- I’ve got- a-ah... a fluffy- a p-puffy pussy…”

you can barely take it. he’s so shy about it, but it’s like something he’s been waiting to say his whole fucking life.

you keep going, soft but mean. “what kind of girl are you, baby?”

and he looks up at you like he’s about to cry. so red, so shy and embarrassed already.

“i’m… i’m your good girl…”

and yeah. he is. he fucking is.

[mistyyyy]

🤍To this post-I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF!!! For my new Slut Him Out series. Aka, SHO, as in SHO ISSSS

🩶Manipulation, gaslighting, stalking, dark!Ghost, black reader (of course), femdom, age gap, late 30s ghost, mid- late 20s reader, small text.

🖤reposting bc lack of interaction.

He's obsessed with you but crippled by fear of rejection/ abandonment because of his trauma.

▫️ You? You play him like a violin. You know you've got him - and you never let him forget it.

▫️ He flinches at affection but craves it like oxygen.

▫️"big scary man reduced to a submissive mess"

energy.

Simon Riley was not a man who rattled easily.

No - most days, he was the shadow in the corner of your eye.

The chill crawling down the back of your neck. The reaper who never needed to raise his voice to command a room. A tiger sizing up a lion.

You were different. You made the reaper stumble. You made this lion frightened.

He watched you like a starving man circling prey he knew.

He watched you like a starving man circling prey he knew would tear him apart. Not from a distance of bravery, no — it was pitiful, the way he hovered at the edges of your space, eyes dark and flickering with want and fear in equal measure.

You felt him before you saw him most days, that oppressive weight of his gaze pressing into your spine. He thought he was subtle. He wasn't.

You caught him staring after training, chest heaving under his gear, tension coiled tight like a spring that would never dare snap.

"See somethin' you like, Ghost?" you drawled, not bothering to mask the amusement in your voice.

He froze.

Like a deer in headlights. No, not a deer — a predator who'd found himself at the mercy of something bigger, something meaner.

His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you and recoil all at once.

"I—"

His voice cracked, caught in his throat like it didn't know if it belonged to him.

“No,” he rasped. A lie. The biggest one he'd ever told.

You stepped closer, slow, deliberate. Close enough to see the way his breath stuttered behind the mask. Close enough to feel the trembling threads of control slipping through his fingers.

"You follow me like a ghost in the dark," you murmured, gaze raking over him like you owned him. "But you're not hunting, are you, Simon?" You let the name linger, soft but sharp. You saw the way he jolted at the sound of it. "You're the one being hunted."

He shuddered.

Pathetic. Beautiful. Yours for the taking.

Then, you gave him a smile before slapping the side of his waist in a playful manner. Something no one else would do.

"I'm jokin! I'll see you around, lieutenant."

He blinks, confused on what the hell just happened, and watched you collect your things. Then you just left.

Bloody hell.

[mistyyyy]

Omg hiiii!

Uhhhh this is my first time requesting anything so sorry if I’m coming off too direct but idk any other way to do this. ✌️✌️

Can I request a pegging fic w/ Aizawa, where you’ve folded him in half are holding his legs down while his hands are bound. I’ve found little to no fics with a sub!aizawa, nonetheless fics that really hit the nail on the head for this mans character 😩😩😩.

Like- he’s trying not to give you a reaction.. but those strokes you’re giving him 🤭.

My boys having a really really tough time, twitching and shaking involuntarily. Biting his lip to try and muffle the sounds while he squirms for some sort of leverage but he can’t do anything because you’ve folded this man like paper. He’s trying to fight against the leather cuffs but to no avail. He would be wondering why tf he let you do this to him but he can’t think of anything other than you ramming that dildo up his ass- SORRY IM GONNA STOP NOW ✋✋✋ WHEWWWWWWWWWW

Resist.

Heyy….yall 👀 *clears throat.*

CW: Condescending reader, soft dom reader, pegging, bottom Aizawa, sub Aizawa, slight feminization, slight mean reader, forced edging, restraining

Words: 940

"Come on now baby you can take this dick..." You breathed out, warm breath fanning into his blushed ear as your strap slammed in and out of his hole. His moans were whiny and guttural, his breath and body strained as you forced his thighs against stomach. "M-mngh- fuck you..." he cursed out, pretty eyes squeezed shut as he tried to get a hold of reality, trying to ignore how good you made him felt. He was so stubborn, not wanting to fully submit even if you had him folded like this

You couldn't help but to grin down at him, the grip on his hairy thighs tightening. You found it amusing that he was suffering, that he was trying so hard not to enjoy the way you thrusted into him, the tip of your strap repeatedly thrusting into his prostate. "Cmon baby don't be like that... shit, you're dripping like a girl." You chuckled eyes peering down towards his throbbing red tip, pre cum drooling down to his toned belly, sliding down his angry shaft.

Your words only added more embarrassment to his situation, sun freckled skin flushing red, arms flexing behind his back as he wanted to so badly touch you, to place his hands underneath your ass to help you fuck him. His body twitched and arched, his lips red and swollen as he pulled them into his mouth to keep his nasty sounds at bay.

It didn't work of course. Not when you were fucking him like this, not when your nails dug into his muscles to hold his thighs in place, his ass and your hips angled just right. "Mmnhg-mmsofuckinclose," he whines, voice fast, throat raspy and raw from his muffled groans and grunts-rambles falling from his swollen lips, repeating how close he was to releasing.

Then you did something unexpected, a sharp gasp leaving his mouth-he almost choked and cough. Your hand left his thigh to grip onto the base of his dick, your grip tight, holding onto him like a vise. "Don't fucking cum yet, don't you dare... not until you admit it," you spoke, your hips slowing, letting him chase the orgasm he couldn't quite grasp.

This was fucking torture for the man, his face scrunching up from the uncomfortable feeling of his balls and stomach tightening from the edge, from how tight you were holding him. Why why whyyy did he let you do this? Why did he agree to let you play with him like this- why... his thoughts soon turned into mush though as he desperately wanted that high, to feel that fuzzy feeling in his brain when he came.

“P-please..” he gritted out, hoping if he begged you for release he wouldn’t have to admit how good it felt, how much he enjoyed being folded and manhandled like this. Little did he know this was more pathetic than him just admitting how good it felt.

You didn’t let him get a pass. As much as you loved to hear his rough pleases and begs to cum- you didn’t let him. So with a corrective slap on his thigh, your hips continued to move relentlessly, your hand fisting his cock tightly, not giving him a chance to forget his place. “Come on baby, you know what I want to hear. Tell me how good I make you feel, tell me how good your wife is fucking you,”

Your tone was cocky and condescending, a smirk on your face as you listened to his pained whines and whimpering, watching as his stomach caved in, his plump pecks vibrating with every thrust you gave him. He couldn’t even speak coherently anymore, his deep voice replaced with something more feminine and rough as he tried to explain how good you made him felt. “I-oh god-I- I can’t, please- you make me-“ he swallowed thickly, his voice a gasp as you kept hitting that spot, his balls throbbing and red as you restricted his base, “feelsogood,” he continued, eyes barely opened as they stared up at yours.

You felt a pang of satisfaction once he finally gave you what you wanted, a low hum leaving your throat. You could feel the way he throbbed and pulsated in your palm, his body reacting to your noises, your voice, your movements. When you finally released his shaft his mind couldn’t even keep up with the way his body reacted, how fast his orgasm came, how hot and twitchy his body felt as a white heat filled his body.

You watch as his heavy load squirted and shot onto his stomach, his chest, how it lazily dripped down his red cock until it dropped near his navel. “Mm~ good job baby… you look so good like this.” You praised your husband, your sloppy thrusting slowly down into a lazily hump as you let him ride through his orgasm.

His tanned lined body stained red, his abdomen covered in his sweat and arousal, black hair sprawled on y’all’s mattress like a dark halo. He huffed out air as he slowly caught his breath, his body felt like jello and his thighs twitched against his body as he felt your gently thumbs draw circles on the inside of his muscles. “Fuck… where’d you learn that…” he asked, voice raspy and tired as his eyes came to a close.

You chuckled, a cocky grin on your face as you continued to stare down at his fucked state. “Twitter.”

[mistyyyy]

Challenger

Tashi Duncan

Tashi ‘Donaldson’ Duncan

Art ‘Ice’ Donaldson

ED- blurb

Patrick ‘Fire’ Zweig

Taller than him SFW-blurb

Taller than him NSFW-blurb

Stay the night. Mxm

[mistyyyy]

COD Masterlist

John price

D!ck size- headcanon

Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Hunter hunted

Tall reader- blurb.

Slut him out series

Hunter hunted (Ghost)

[mistyyyy]

Officially only taking thirsts on my page.

I am very thankful for all the requests I’ve gotten, but sheesh are they a lot to write 😭. I wanted to try something different!

I’ll reply to your thirsts (yes I reply to anonymous ones as well) and reply with a reaction, or for a razzle dazzle, I’ll respond with a short blurb, who knows, if I’m feeling extra spicy I’ll make it a full story 😗

My fandoms;

Twilight

Avatar (Blue aliens lol)

Anime (check the anime list on my page)

[mistyyyy]

Idk if requests are open but if so can you make a Na’vi x black reader where they’re curious about her hair and skin (I would like if the reader had 4c hair or just tighter curls) Ty <3

“And… what do you call these in your world?”

You and Neteyam sat in a grassy field his tall frame covering the sun from your eyes so you wouldn’t be frying in the pandora sun. His blue fingers carefully reached up to your face, his thumb rubbing against the edge of your mask before going over to your auburn colored locs, your hair dye well grown out and your roots dark.

He of course recognizes this hairstyle, his father having it and other Navi sporting it as well around the clan. But he wasn’t used to seeing the style on another species, especially on someone as breathtaking as his human girlfriend. You smiled softly at his question watching as his yellow eyes eyed your hair curiously, his thumb and pointer playing with the little curl on the bottom of your loc.

“What do you call these?” You challenged his question his eyes looking away from your hair to your pretty eyes. He smiled slightly, matching yours as he looked over your face. “We don’t have a name for our styles… we just…do.” You raised your brow at his wording, but you understood what he was putting down. “What was it before?” He continued to speak, fingers raising up to trace the neat square parts on your scalp. You couldn’t help but to laugh at the feeling, jerking your head back and gripping his wrist. “It was curly, and big and fluffy… like uhh…”

You looked around, seeing how you’d compare your curly hair to. There wasn’t sheep on pandora, particularly nothing with hair or similar texture like yours. In the distance there was a plant, a pretty plant that had fluffy leaves- almost feather like as it formed into a neat dome- kinda like an Afro. “Like that plant over there…” you nodded your head over to the tree like plant. It wasn’t curly or coily- but you’re pretty sure he had an idea.

“Mom has a photo book back on base… maybe I can show you some pictures of me when I was little… to give you a better image.” You chuckled as he still looked over at the plant, imagining your pretty long locs turning into a fluff like ball on the top of your head.

He just nodded at the idea, needing to see the proof for it to make sense in his head. He’s only seen pin straight hair all of his, maybe a wave or two when the Navi unbraid their hair, but it never held a curl, falling back straight as soon as they bathed or if it was extra humid. “Okay…” he says unsurely, yet there was still a smile on his face as he pained a picture in his head. His reaction made you smile, the both of you just looking at each other.

“Okay?” You repeated your hand playing with the beading hanging from your wrist, a bracelet he made while courting you. It was times like these where you wished you could read his mind, to see what he was thinking as he looked into your eyes, the way his tail flickered and his ears twitched.

“Okay,” he said again, firmer this time, as if convincing himself more than you. His gaze softened, and the small flick of his tail settled into a gentle sway behind him. “I would like to see that,” he added, curiosity and something warmer sparking behind his golden eyes.

You bit back a grin, feeling your cheeks warm beneath the edge of your mask. “I’ll show you,” you promised. “Promise,” you echoed softly, running your thumb over the smooth beads of the bracelet on your wrist.

His eyes flicked down to your hand, watching you trace the small tokens of his affection, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. Something deeper than curiosity about hair or culture. It felt like he was seeing you—not just the human girl with the strange mask and stranger hair, but you. All the small pieces, all the roots and branches that made you who you were.

The air between you felt heavier, charged with the quiet tension that always seemed to linger when you two were alone. Not uncomfortable, never that—but full, brimming with the weight of things left unsaid. An innocent curiosity blossoming between teens of different species.

“You are always teaching me new things,” Neteyam murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. He ran his thumb over one of your locs again, more slowly this time, as though committing the texture and shape to memory. “About your world, about… you.”

You smiled, the kind of smile that reached your eyes and crinkled them at the corners. “And you’re a fast learner.”

His answering grin was wide and a little mischievous, and it made your heart skip in your chest. “Only because I have a good teacher.”

A breeze passed through the field, making the leaves of the plant you’d pointed to sway and tremble like a thousand tiny dancers. For a heartbeat, you imagined your old hair like that, wild and free before you’d started locking it. Neteyam must’ve imagined it too, because his eyes drifted toward the plant again, then back to you with renewed wonder.

“You would have been just as beautiful then,” he said, almost to himself.

The words caught you off guard, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers froze on the bracelet, and you felt the soft hitch in your chest at his honesty.

“You think so?” you asked quietly, your voice almost timid in shyness.

He tilted his head, looking at you as if the answer was obvious. “I know so.”

And before you could stop yourself, before logic and reason and all the fears that came with loving someone not of your world could creep in, you leaned in—just slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Neteyam’s ears flicked forward, attentive, and his smile faded into something softer. His hand lingered at your cheek, a question unspoken in his touch.

“ Show me everything,” he whispered, a vow as much as a plea.

And in that moment, under the bright Pandora sun and the quiet witness of the swaying fields, you knew you would.

You would show him everything.

[mistyyyy]

Blah blah blah, super tall female black reader being recruited in the task 141

Blah blah blah Simon being 6’4 he’s never seen a woman as tall as you, you’re 6’3, strong, and you don’t fuck around.

He likes that.

You don’t pay him any mind other than the fact that he’s your lieutenant, you follow his orders but he can tell you weren’t feeling it.

You was just there to get promoted to make bank and retire with a decent pension. Real.

Blah blah blah you somehow end up hook lining him and now he spends his free time following you around the base silently like a big ass shadow.

You never confirmed you were in a relationship. But you knew.

Boom, it’s time to go home after a good mission.

He follows you home, his place back in Manchester was sad and empty so he was gonna spend his time underneath you as much as you’d let him.

Now you’re pegging him???

[mistyyyy]

[mistyyyy]

Love breeding kink, hate the fucking pregnancy trope.

^^^

My face when the mc ends up pregnant instead of just enjoying being filled up like a glaze donut.

[mistyyyy]

It’s definitely thick. Maybe not too long- balancing on just above average or maybe average so maybe 6 inches. Uncut, thick as fuck, curly brown bush with some grey, big nuts ready to fill up ya girls iud. When soft it’s probably only an inch difference compared to when hard. Mhm mhm.

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022)

[mistyyyy]

is this a safe space? bc i kind of wanna talk about how i get a lot of recommended reader fics but then i see a visual like this and immediately get turned off.

and like this conversation about centering certain beauty standards with readers isn't new. it's been happening since forever. but i've noticed some uptick once i started looking for stuff in challengers.

the centering of whiteness with fanfiction in general is an issue that me and other non-white people had discussed at length for years. and part of me just wants to say that we should strive to be more inclusive. like there should be no reason for specifying non-white readers, especially black ones, and for us to have our own separate category because some writers can't fathom that non-white readers exist. hell, even in terms of body weight, ability, hair or no hair, GENDER.

i'm not innocent either. it's an easy trap to fall into if you're writing something x reader and you're using yourself as a stand in for the reader. and i'm not here to criticize or shame. i just wanna propose being more inclusive. and that starts with using less images of faceless white girls from pinterest.

maybe it's selfish of me to ask this. but i've been reading fanfiction on the internet for over 10 years. and i can definitely say as a non-white girl, fanfiction did contribute to my insecurities as a non-white person, in feeling insecure in my appearance. nothing has changed it seems.

[mistyyyy]

i’m so fine wtf

[mistyyyy]

Please please please send cod and challenger asks I’m feigning to write my submissive boys and sexy Tashi.