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aleksatia · 4 months ago

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🏍Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Sylus.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Obsessive love, Verbal sparring, Emotional manipulation, Power imbalance (narratively examined), High sensual tension, Knife imagery, Intimacy (consensual, intense), Jealousy / possessiveness, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Sylus x ex-wife!you Genre: Sharp-edged seduction, culinary metaphors and emotional hunger. Power play, slow unraveling, lust laced with history. Lovers to wreckage to something still burning. Summary: You came for a blind date with a private chef. You got Sylus — the man who once built you a panic room and still remembers your spice preferences by scent. In a kitchen simmering with heat, memory, and unresolved desire, the knives aren’t the only things that cut. What starts with dinner ends in something far messier — a taste of the past that still knows how to ruin you sweetly. Word Count: 5.3K 😱

You didn’t come here for romance.

You came because a targeted ad caught you scrolling at 2AM with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and existential dread in the other. Because the food in the photos looked edible and the men in the photos looked even better.

You came because you were starving. Not just for a decent meal — though God knew your fridge contained exactly one expired yogurt and half a lime — but for the kind of attention that didn’t arrive via notifications or come with a tax form.

The invite said blind date with a private chef. Curated flavors. Curated ambiance. Curated man. It sounded ridiculous.

You clicked anyway.

Filled out the form without thinking — somewhere between insomnia and impulse. Ticked the “no dietary restrictions” box, ignored the optional personality quiz, chose a time slot like you were booking a facial.

And now here you were.

You arrived in a dress you hadn’t worn in a year — the one that whispered sin with every breath, that laced too tightly at the waist but made silence a weapon. Your heels were sharp. So were you.

The kitchen looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s pied-à-terre. All obsidian marble and gold fixtures, veined stone that caught light like a lover’s gaze. One bottle of wine. Open. Breathing.

The thyme was already simmering. So was the question in your throat.

Who the hell was already here?

You didn’t have time to knock — only breathe — before the voice slipped under your skin like a memory.

“Well,” it said, low, warm, amused. “They said come hungry, but I didn’t think you’d show up starving.”

You turned. And there he was.

Sylus.

Of course he was wearing black. Of course the sleeves were rolled. The apron was leather — unnecessary, indulgent, unmistakably him. The knife in his hand glinted, but he wasn’t holding it like a threat. Not yet.

He looked at you like he always did — like he was already inside the next three things you were about to say.

“New shoes?” he asked. “Sound expensive. You finally start taking my advice or just ran out of bad ones?”

Your mouth twitched. You refused to smile.

“I thought they’d match the occasion,” you said coolly. “Should I be flattered or concerned you’ve taken up cosplay as a housewife’s fantasy?”

He chuckled — low, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Careful, kitten,” he said, letting the word linger, soft and edged. “You’re talking to the man holding the knife.”

You moved closer, not because you wanted to, but because your body still remembered what it felt like to be near him. Like standing too close to lightning and pretending the static in your lungs was just the weather.

“I was told there’d be a private chef,” you said, eyeing the cutting board, the herbs, the glint of something rich and red in a copper pan. “Not the King of N109 Zone slumming it in an apron. Just tell me—am I here to eat, or to be served?”

He grinned. Slow. Viciously fond.

“Sweetie, you’re not dinner. You’re dessert. Custom-made. One of one. And I have a very... private sweet tooth”

You hated how easily he said things like that. You hated that part of you still wanted to believe he meant it.

Sylus turned back to the stove like he hadn’t just punched through three layers of self-defense with a compliment.

“Hungry?” he asked, without looking.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He already knew.

The apron was black linen, embroidered discreetly in a thread so dark it only caught the light when he moved — which he did now, slowly, like he had all the time in the world and none of it belonged to you.

He stepped behind you without a sound, and still, your breath caught like it always did around him — on that invisible hook just beneath your ribs.

“Arms up,” Sylus murmured, voice just behind your ear.

You didn’t move.

“Unless you’d rather get that dress dirty,” he added, fingers already brushing your waist. “Though… I’ve never minded you messy.”

You rolled your eyes — slowly, deliberately — but raised your arms. The fabric slipped over your head like something ceremonial. His hands lingered. Just long enough to feel the heat of him. Just long enough to remind you that you used to belong to this touch.

He tied the knot at the back like it was a game of patience. Like he was daring you to shiver.

“You still stretch time like it matters most in the smallest moments,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Still insufferably slow.”

He leaned in, not quite touching. His breath traced the nape of your neck.

“I find haste… unsatisfying,” Sylus said, his voice low and deliberate. “You rush only when you have something to fear. Do you?”

You turned your head just slightly, just enough to let him see the cut of your smirk.

“I came here for dinner, not for psychological foreplay.”

“Kitten,” he said, almost sweet, “in our case, I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”

You didn’t answer. You needed to look at something that wasn’t him. Needed a moment to breathe through the heat still clinging to your skin. Your gaze drifted — to the counters, the low golden light, the wine, the perfectly staged mise en place.

And then you saw it.

The cutting board in front of you held a single, glistening eggplant — deep purple, swollen, glossy like forbidden fruit. Obscene in its simplicity. Ridiculous. Erotic.

Absolutely on purpose.

“You’re kidding,” you said. “What is this, some kind of culinary metaphor?”

“Only if you’re thinking like a poet,” he said. “I prefer precision. We’re making kara-kara masala. Northern blend. Stracciatella to finish.”

You blinked.

“Stracciatella. With masala.”

He shrugged — just a twitch of shoulders behind you.

“Fusion is in fashion.”

“And here I thought mass murder was your aesthetic.”

“Multifaceted,” he said, plucking a sprig of burnt orange coriander from a tray. “You never liked simple men.”

Your hand started to move toward the eggplant — slowly, half on instinct.

“Go on,” he said, not looking up. “Take it in both hands. Start working it gently. The size might feel... familiar.”

You froze mid-reach. One eyebrow lifted, sharp and unimpressed.

He smirked — just a flicker.

You picked it up anyway. Deliberately. Fingers curling around the smooth, cool skin. You started to massage it with a bit too much force, more intent than technique — not because you didn’t know better, but because you wanted him to notice.

And he did.

His gaze drifted sideways, jaw tightening just slightly.

“Careful… you keep handling it like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

You didn’t look at him — just kept working the eggplant, hands slow but deliberate, your fingers tightening ever so slightly.

“Maybe I should’ve practiced on something tougher. Something with... less give. Like your ego. Or whatever alloy you keep your balls in.”

He laughed. Quiet, deep, genuine. The kind of laugh that started in his chest and slid under your skin.

A second later, you felt him behind you — his presence more physical than his touch. You barely registered the space between your bodies closing before his voice curved warm at your neck.

“Here,” he murmured. “Let me show you how to handle it.”

Then — his hands.

Warm. Large. Wrapping around yours, commanding without pressure. His thumbs settled just behind your knuckles, guiding your rhythm with that maddening patience he wore like cologne.

The eggplant turned beneath your fingers like silk on wet marble.

“You want to soften it, not break it,” he whispered, lips almost against your ear. “Press. Rotate. Coax.”

Your throat went dry.

“I’m not making love to it, Sylus.”

“Pity,” he said. “You’re very good with your hands.”

You could feel your pulse in your teeth.

He adjusted your grip again, moving your palms against the vegetable with maddening care.

“See?” he murmured. “It responds better when you take your time.”

You inhaled. Regret. Lust. Something older than both.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“I prefer irresistible.”

He let go just then, too suddenly, and you almost swayed without the brace of him.

But you didn’t turn. Not yet.

Not while your hands still remembered the weight of his.

Behind you, the sound of a flame ticking higher. A pan shifting. Steel over heat. You exhaled through your nose, slowly — and realized you’d been holding that breath since he touched you.

“Still so still,” he murmured behind you. Not mocking. Not quite. “I used to love how you froze when you didn’t know what you wanted more — to kiss me or slap me.”

You turned now. Not quickly — like a tide reversing.

He was slicing the chili. Long, delicate strokes. The knife moved like part of him — silent, certain. His forearms flexed under the rolled sleeves. There was oil on his thumb, catching the low light.

“I always knew what I wanted,” you said. “I just didn’t always want you knowing it.”

He looked up. That look — that look — like he was reading the margins of your thoughts.

“Sweetie,” he said, and the word landed warm and sharp, “I knew anyway.”

He moved toward you again, casual in a way that felt staged. Like choreography he’d written hours ago. Like this scene had already happened in his head.

You didn’t back away. But your pulse did something interesting in your throat.

He held the half-sliced pepper between two fingers and raised it.

“Bite,” he said.

You arched a brow.

“Do I look like I take orders in the kitchen?”

He smiled — slow, indulgent, the way you imagine sinners smile just before the gates close.

“No,” he said. “You look like someone who bites first, regrets later.”

You took it anyway. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the heat bloom.

Sharp. Clean. Electric. Like a warning. Like him.

You blinked against the rush, tongue burning. He watched every flicker of expression on your face like it was a language only he could speak.

“I missed that look,” he said softly.

“What look?”

“The one right before you pretend it didn’t affect you.”

You stepped around him this time, reaching for the wooden pestle. The crushed spices waited — golden, coarse, slightly smoking.

He didn’t stop you. Just turned with you, keeping close, orbiting.

“You really planned this,” you said, voice low now. Less sharp. More dangerous. “This isn’t some booking fluke.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t believe in accidents.”

You pressed the pestle down — slowly. The crunch of coriander and clove under your weight sounded too much like breaking something delicate.

“So why?” you asked. Quiet. Not for drama. Just because you finally had space for the question.

Why here. Why now. Why this.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. Just reached forward — and covered your hand again.

Guided the pressure. Slower. Deeper.

“Because,” he said at last, “I missed watching your hands destroy beautiful things.”

You didn’t pull your hand away. Not at first.

The pestle moved in slow circles under both your palms, spices groaning softly beneath the weight. The smell rose hotter now — deeper, more bitter — cumin surrendering to pressure, coriander cracking, cardamom bleeding out into air that was already too full of memory.

His hands didn’t press. They suggested. But that was always worse.

You turned your wrist, just enough to break the rhythm, just enough to make it yours again. And then you pulled your fingers from under his — deliberately — like slipping silk through a closing door.

“You’re still doing it,” you said, not looking at him.

A pause. Then, lightly — amused, unhurried: “Doing what, kitten?”

You shook your head, pressing down on the mixture harder than you needed to. The pestle slipped slightly; cumin dust flared.

“Controlling things. Guiding. Correcting. Even now. Even with… this.”

A gesture at the bowl, the kitchen, the heat-laced air. At both of you.

Sylus leaned one hip against the marble, arms loose, one finger idly tracing the rim of a copper spice tin.

“I wouldn’t call it control,” he said. “I’d call it… insurance.”

You laughed once — dry.

“Against what?”

“Against disaster,” he said. “Which, in your case, starts with putting cinnamon in curry.”

You turned, this time fully. Crossed your arms, the pestle still warm in your fingers.

“That was once.”

“And your risotto never forgave you.”

“You never let me try again.”

He looked at you. Not sharply. Just… fully. Like he was trying to see something under the words.

“You never asked.”

Silence swelled. Heavy. Smoky.

Then he pushed off the counter and moved back to the stove. The oil was shimmering now in the pan — time for the spices. He tilted the bowl toward you, nodding.

“You pour,” he said. “You’ve earned that much trust.”

You did. Slowly. Watching the crushed spices hit the oil like secrets — sudden, loud, blooming with heat and color.

The scent rose immediately — rich, toasted, complex. A taste of something you didn’t yet understand.

“You always did this,” you said softly, almost without meaning to. “Knew exactly where I’d trip. And stepped in before I even noticed the floor shifting.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stirred, slow and precise, the spoon carving lazy circles in gold and flame.

Then, not looking at you: “You think I was trying to control you.”

Wry smile. The kind that hurt more than it should’ve.

“I was trying to be the steady thing. So you'd never have to wonder if someone had your back.”

You didn’t expect that.

Didn’t expect the way it sat inside your chest — bitter, like fenugreek. Bright, like ginger. Sharp enough to make you swallow twice.

He turned to face you again, this time holding a spoon toward your mouth — the first taste. A small one. The kind meant to test, not feed.

You met his eyes. Then leaned in.

The flavor hit the back of your throat like memory — rich, warm, almost sweet. And then… that creeping burn. Slow. Claiming.

You held it a second too long before swallowing.

He tasted after you, the way he always did — like he wanted to know exactly what touched your mouth. Then said, lightly:

“It needs more acid.”

You tilted your head.

“So did we.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp — it was soft. A stillness you didn’t quite trust.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you, eyes unreadable in that way that always made you furious. The way he could feel everything and still reveal nothing.

“I gave you everything,” he said quietly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just… honest.

You nodded. Once.

“You did.”

He turned away then — not to leave, just to move. To have something to do with his hands. He reached for the mortar again, brushing spice dust from its rim with unnecessary care.

“I would’ve torn the world apart for you,” he said. “You know that.”

And god, you did. That was the problem.

You stepped forward, but didn’t close the space. Just enough to feel the warmth of the stove between you.

“You always gave me the world, Sylus. But sometimes I needed you to give me something smaller.”

He looked over. Brows slightly drawn.

“Smaller?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Like… a Tuesday. A morning. An hour when you weren’t a god, or a ghost, or halfway to a war.”

His eyes darkened — not angry. Just quiet.

“And you think a vineyard, a moonlit opera, a private island… that was me running away?”

“It was love. I know that. But sometimes it felt like you loved me the way men love symbols — not people.”

You let out a breath, slow. Bitter at the edges.

“I didn’t need a palace and a crown. I just needed someone who’d sit with me on the floor.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

Only said, barely above the hum of the stove:

“I didn’t think you'd stay for the floor.”

You met his eyes again.

“I would’ve,” you whispered. “If you'd ever joined me there.”

He turned away without a word, grabbed a knife — something heavier than before — and dropped two ripe mangoes onto the cutting board with a dull, final thud.

“Slice them,” he said, not looking at you. “Thin. Clean. No waste.”

You stared at his back.

He didn’t stop moving. “Or is that too luxurious a task for someone trying to live simply?”

You stepped forward, grabbed the smaller blade — your fingers curling around the handle tighter than necessary. The mango skin was soft, too yielding, and the first cut slipped slightly.

Behind you, he began chopping green chili with mechanical force. Each strike of the knife hit the board like punctuation marks in a fight he hadn’t yet started.

At first, you thought it was your words that hit a nerve — the dig about extravagance, the suggestion that his love had always been too much.

But no. This wasn’t pride. This was something quieter. Sharper. It wasn’t what you’d said that bothered him.

It was that you were here… but not for him.

You kept your eyes on the fruit, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“You’re jealous,” you said before you could stop yourself. “That I agreed to a blind date.”

His knife didn’t pause. “I’m pissed you thought I wouldn’t know.”

You laughed — one sharp breath through your nose. “Of course you knew. You always know. The algorithm, the wine, the fake-ass bio with ‘seasonal melancholy’ in the personality field. What was it this time — surveillance drones? A wiretap? My fucking grocery receipts?”

“I didn’t need to spy,” he snapped. “You’re not subtle, kitten.”

You spun to face him, knife in hand, juice on your wrist.

“No. I’m not. Not anymore. I left you. A year ago. And I’m still cutting fruit under your shadow.”

He stared at you. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. You pressed.

“That’s what you want, right? Doesn’t matter where I go or who I let in. You’ll always be there. Uninvited. Unavoidable.”

“I don’t give a damn who you let in,” he said, finally, voice low and cold. “But I care what you let close. I care what lives near my heart. And that’s still you. Whether you like it or not.”

Your knife slipped.

A gasp caught in your throat — not from pain, but from the sting. Quick. Bright. A thin line of red welled up along the pad of your finger.

Before you could pull back, he was already there. He didn’t hesitate. He took your wrist like it belonged to him — like it always had — and brought your hand to his mouth.

You didn’t breathe.

He closed his lips around your fingertip and sucked, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

The kitchen noise faded. Even the burning oil went quiet. You could feel the press of his tongue, the warmth of his mouth, the soft scrape of his teeth just beneath restraint.

When he let go, your finger was clean. His mouth wasn’t.

Still watching you, he dragged the back of his wrist across his lower lip, catching a smear of blood and mango juice.

“You’re still bleeding,” he said.

“Barely.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“I always preferred you this way,” he murmured. “Slightly bruised. Still standing.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. He looked at you like you were a problem he couldn’t stop solving.

Your voice came low, tight.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“What, kitten?” He tilted his head. “Caring?”

“Following. Knowing. Controlling.” You threw the knife down on the board. It clanged.

He didn’t flinch. “You think I follow you? You think I watch you like some bored king with a telescope? No. I remember you. That’s worse.”

You swallowed. The silence between you thickened. Then he spoke again — softer this time, but not gentler.

“I rebuilt a vineyard because you smiled at a bottle once. I rerouted cargo ships to get you your favorite fucking soap. I learned your cycle before you tracked it yourself.”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“You think I did all that because I wanted control?”

You didn’t answer.

“I did it,” he said, almost quietly, “because when you smiled — really smiled — it felt like the world shut the fuck up for a second.”

You looked away. Because the worst part was, you remembered those seconds. Too clearly.

He turned back to the stove, threw in the chilies. The oil hissed like it took offense.

“I learned how to breathe around your moods,” he said, almost conversational. “Knew when you were quiet because you were thinking, and when you were quiet because I fucked up. I memorized the way your voice changed when you were lying — not to me, to yourself.”

His hand moved with clean precision, scraping the pan, adding turmeric and something red and earthy.

“I built an entire panic room underneath our bedroom in case someone ever came for you in your sleep. There’s a pulse sensor in the floors, kitten. I tracked your nightmares.”

You gripped the edge of the counter.

He glanced over his shoulder, knife flashing in his hand.

“You think I didn’t know you hated the spotlight? That’s why I stopped inviting you to those parties. Not because I wanted you hidden. Because I wanted you comfortable.”

The knife came down. Fast. Rhythmic. Final.

“So if all that wasn’t enough,” he said, voice low now, “if knowing your scent from a room away, if burning half the galaxy to keep your name out of a single report — wasn’t enough—”

He turned. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared.

“Then the only thing that makes sense is this — you never loved me.”

Your throat locked.

“What?” you whispered.

His face was unreadable. Not blank — closed.

“That’s the only explanation that fits.” He shrugged. “You loved me, I gave everything, and you still left. So either I was never enough… or you never did.”

Your lips parted. No sound came out at first. Then:

“Sylus, no…” A breath. “You’re wrong.”

He didn’t blink.

“You think I didn’t love you because I didn’t build you a panic room?” you asked softly, almost laughing from the sheer ache of it. “I didn’t have warships or vineyards, Sylus. I had quiet.”

He said nothing.

“I used to go into your closet when you were gone,” you said. “Because it smelled like you. I organized your shirts by the days you wore them most — not by color, by habit.”

You stepped forward. Still soft. Still shaking.

“I kept the bathroom stocked with the toothpaste you liked even though I hated it. I had your old watch cleaned when you forgot it in the study. I rewired the coffee machine after it shorted because I knew you’d never replace it — and I didn’t want you to start your day annoyed. And I adjusted the lighting presets in the bedroom when you were gone — so it wouldn’t be too harsh when you came back late.”

He was still. Completely.

You exhaled, long and thin.

“I didn’t have grand gestures. But I was always there. Folding myself in between your thunder. Whispering in the wake of your fireworks.”

Your voice cracked, barely.

“But your love was so big, so loud, so everything… I started to feel like mine didn’t matter. Like anything I gave would just vanish under the weight of you. Like I wasn’t enough to be seen next to what you were offering.”

A long silence.

And then he moved.

Not walked. Moved. Like gravity finally snapped.

He crossed the space between you in two strides and grabbed your face in both hands, not roughly — but with so much force it felt like claiming. He kissed you — no, devoured you. Mouth to mouth, heat to heat, as if the only way he could convince you mattered was to crush that thought out of your body.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere — in your hair, on your waist, gripping your jaw like you were the first real thing he’d touched in months. And he kissed you like he didn’t care about dinner, or timing, or sense.

He kissed you like apology, like memory, like prayer.

When he finally pulled back — barely — his voice was raw against your mouth.

“Don’t you ever say you weren’t enough.”

Your fingers dug into his shirt.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t. I said I forgot how to believe I was.”

He rested his forehead against yours. Breathing hard.

“Then let me remind you.”

And he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he wasn’t just claiming your mouth, but giving you back every piece of yourself he ever touched.

His kiss didn’t end — it just shifted. Became something else. Slower, darker, hungrier. His fingers slid down your spine, then wrapped around the back of your thigh with unapologetic intent. You felt the moment his hand hit the edge of your garter — the tension in his grip told you he hadn’t expected it.

He broke the kiss. Just barely.

His voice was rough silk.

“You wear lace.” A pause. “That’s not confidence. That’s theater.”

You didn’t blink. Just smirked.

“You should worry if I came without anything under the dress,” you murmured. “Like that time in the restaurant. Third floor. Behind the velvet curtain.”

His nostrils flared. That single second of stillness was the only warning you got before he grabbed your hips and lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

The marble was cold under your thighs. His palms weren’t.

He stepped between your knees, eyes drinking you in — the slow climb of his gaze from your heels (stilettos, patent black, weapon-grade) up the line of your stockings, where lace met skin with quiet defiance.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Who,” he said, low and deadly, “were you planning to show this to?”

You looked straight at him. Let him see the fire behind your lashes.

“No one,” you said. “It was for me.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer:

“Say stop.”

Instead, you pulled him down to kiss you — the kind that said mine, not maybe. His mouth crashed into yours, teeth catching your lower lip, tongue already tasting salt, sweat, sweetened spice. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers pushing the lace aside with terrifying focus.

You gasped into him. He didn’t flinch.

You felt the low growl in his chest before you heard it. His restraint was crumbling — not from impatience, but from how close it all still lived under his skin.

His breath hitched as your hips rolled against his palm.

Then his hand withdrew — slow, steady — trailing heat across your skin like he didn’t want to take it with him.

He lowered himself without a word, the shift of his weight between your thighs smooth, practiced, inevitable. His hands slid along the backs of your knees, drawing them wider with quiet command.

And then — his mouth.

First one kiss. Then another. Lower. Slower.

The inside of your thigh. The softest skin. The most dangerous intention.

“Sweetie,” he whispered roughly, “I swear to every god I don’t believe in — if you don’t stop me, I’m going to eat you alive and burn dinner.”

Your head fell back, neck exposed, a sound catching in your throat that didn’t quite become a word.

“You promised,” you murmured. “I wasn’t the main course. I’m dessert, remember?”

He bit your thigh, not hard — just a warning.

“Dessert sits and waits.”

And with that, he stepped back. Just enough to drag breath into his lungs. Just enough to return to the pan on the stove.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm. “Table service isn’t over yet.”

You stayed. Legs dangling, pulse raging. The air smelled like roasted garlic and want.

He stirred the pan like he hadn’t just had his hand — and tongue — inside you. And then — like nothing had happened — he said:

“You still can’t slice mango properly. You butchered it.”

You scoffed. “Maybe I was emotionally compromised.”

He tossed a pinch of something into the oil, not looking. “You’re always emotionally compromised. It’s your charm.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the wine. Poured it slowly, precisely — like it mattered how the evening tasted.

Pouring with one hand, you slipped off the counter with the other and walked to him — slow, swaying. You held the glass near his mouth.

He didn’t pause what he was doing.

“Is this peace offering or seduction?” he asked, still stirring.

You held the rim to his lips.

“Does it matter?” you whispered.

He drank. Not greedily — just enough to taste.

You set your own glass down, reached for the small bowl of marinated olives you’d prepped earlier without thinking, and picked the darkest one between your fingers. Lifted it toward his mouth.

He opened — slow, lazy — and took it between his teeth. Except he didn’t let go of your fingers.

His tongue flicked, catching your skin. You felt it everywhere.

And still, his other hand kept moving — folding spice into oil, steering the heat, finishing the dish.

Multitasking, you thought. Always had a talent for it.

He chewed. Swallowed.

“You poisoned that, didn’t you?” he asked calmly.

“Only mildly,” you said.

He grinned. “Just enough to keep me wanting more.”

And you laughed.

The first real laugh in months. Loud, open, relaxed. The kind that cracked the shell you hadn’t realized you were still wearing.

He didn’t look at you. Just smiled to himself and said:

“There she is.”

He moved fast once the sauce hit its final note — pan tilted, plated with one elegant sweep, a curl of steam rising from the masala like incense. The stracciatella followed in precise dollops, melting just at the edges. Garnish. A single edible flower, because of course he’d have those stocked.

Two plates. Two glasses. A table already half-set as if this were always meant to happen.

You didn’t have to speak. You moved together — perfectly synchronized without effort. He reached for silverware as you lit the candle. You folded the napkin just as he smoothed the tablecloth. He pulled out the chair, and your body followed like it had never learned to do anything else.

He sat opposite you, hands resting calmly on the table. And then, after a breath, he reached across and took your hand in both of his.

Not possessive. Not pulling. Just… holding.

His thumbs moved slowly over your knuckles, and he looked at you with something rawer than before. Something stripped of bravado, of games, of control.

“If I learn to love you less,” he said quietly, “or softer… will you stay?”

You blinked. The words weren’t what you expected — not from him.

You gave a slow smile. Tilted your head, voice dry but gentle.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever asked,” you said. “Instead of just taking what you decided was already yours.”

His mouth twitched. But he didn’t deny it.

You reached up, free hand brushing across his cheek — the clean line of it, smooth and freshly shaven, like he’d known you’d end up here. Your fingers paused at his jaw. Traced down.

“I don’t want you to love me less,” you said. “I don’t want you to be quieter. Or smaller. Or someone else.”

His eyes closed briefly under your touch. Just for a moment.

“I only want,” you whispered, “that if I ever get lost inside it again… you’ll help me find my way back.”

He opened his eyes.

And the look he gave you — it wasn’t fiery. It wasn’t possessive. It was whole.

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the inside of your wrist — slow, like reverence. Like ritual.

“Deal,” he said simply.

And then he passed you a fork, as if the world hadn’t just realigned.

You took it, fingers brushing his, and laughed softly.

He raised his glass.

“To second chances,” he said.

You touched your rim to his.

“To not needing them,” you replied.

And together, you ate — the table between you finally quiet, finally shared.

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athenalvss · 11 days ago

Text

FUCK OR DIE ( bruce wayne! )

summary: You were sent as part of the Justice League's female squad to confront Poison Ivy on a mission that needed to be fast and controlled, but Ivy never gives up without playing her last card.

pairing: Bruce wayne x fem!reader

tw: pollen sexual, smut.

open request - Bruce masterlist

The mission didn't seem complicated. Poison Ivy had reappeared in the Amazon region, cultivating a network of mutated flora with the potential to unleash ecological chaos on a global scale. Therefore, the League didn't hesitate to send a team made up of its most resilient female members.

You, Hawkgirl, Zatanna and Wonder Woman.

The idea was simple: enter, neutralize, contain.

They advanced through the vegetation, the silence broken only by the creaking of branches and the distant buzzing of insects. And that's when you saw her. Poison Ivy sat on a throne of living vines, her back straight and her legs crossed with a brazenness as elegant as it was menacing. Her skin was a shade greener than usual, glistening, and dewy like a freshly opened flower. Her hair fell like a cascade of fire over her shoulders, and she smiled as if she already knew what was coming.

"What an honor to have my most... stalwart visitors," he said in a honeyed voice. "The best the League has to offer. What a compliment."

The ground shook beneath her feet. Zatanna conjured an energy shield as Hawkgirl took flight. You braced yourself to attack, muscles tense, waiting for Diana's command.

"Ivy. Surrender now, and we will not harm your… creation" Wonder Woman said in a firm voice.

But Pamela Isley just laughed, and that laugh was a signal. "Hurt her? Oh, darling, you're already inside her."

And then it exploded.

A gigantic flower, hidden among the trees, opened with a wet roar, releasing a dense cloud of pink pollen. It spread like a silent storm. The scent was intoxicating: sweet, musky, laden with a suffocating perfume, it spread through the air like an invisible embrace, like a perfume designed to seep between skin and bones.

A sudden heat surged through your body like lightning. Your palms were sweating inside your gloves. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, and the suit felt suffocating, as if your own skin were alive and burning you from the inside out.

"Don't breathe!" Diana shouted, covering herself.

Too late.

Zatanna managed to conjure a barrier to dissipate the cloud, and together neutralized Ivy, who didn't put up much of a fight. She was smiling even when she was restrained by the golden lasso, as if she knew something you didn't.

The return trip was a torment.

The pollen was no longer in the air, but you felt it pulsing in your blood, as if every cell in your body was thrumming with an alien, instinctive need, impossible to ignore. You gritted your teeth, clenched your fists, trying not to let anyone notice how hard it was to stay still.

When you all arrived at the Batcave, Alfred greeted them with his usual British serenity, and directed them to the medical wing of the complex.

Bruce had his back to you, reviewing information on a holographic screen. With his suit on, his face uncovered, he radiated that absolute control that had so fascinated you and now tortured you.

As soon as you saw him, your body reacted. Your pulse raced, heat returned like a wave. Had he been exercising so hard? The suit made his back so broad, his arms looked harder and more toned, he looked so good when he flexed them, you couldn't stop watching him, imagining him, you imagined him on top of you, holding you with those strong hands, his deep voice saying the dirtiest things he could possibly think of. You forced yourself to look away.

Bruce turned when he heard several footsteps in the cave, his eyes stopped on you for just a second, as if looking for a wound or a scratch as he always did, but this time you continued walking, avoiding looking at him.

"What happened?" he asked seriously.

Diana was the first to respond, always with her unwavering composure. "Poison Ivy modified her biochemistry, using a plant with highly concentrated pheromone properties. We believe it was designed to affect the limbic system."

Zatanna added, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. "A targeted explosion just when we thought we had her neutralized."

The muscles in his jaw tightened. Bruce had always been protective, sometimes too much so, and while you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, his way of showing affection often came down to the need to make sure you were okay. He didn't like the idea of you having to go through this even though it wasn't life threatening.

"The effects aren't instantaneous," Wonder Woman added. "J'onn believes it metabolizes slowly, that the intensity builds up in the body... like desire incubating."

Bruce finally spoke, in that low, firm tone he used when something truly mattered to him. “And how do you reverse it?”

Diana shook her head. “There’s no antidote. The body has to expel it on its own, like a toxin… or you can… well… there’s only one quick way to get it out of your system.”

Bruce blinked barely, saying nothing.

Zatanna twisted her lips. "We're leaving. Have a good night."

He took a couple of steps toward you. “Are you okay, honey?” he asked, but this time his voice lowered.

Your breathing became slightly agitated. “Everything’s... okay” you whispered, but it didn’t sound convincing, neither to you nor to him.

Bruce leaned closer. You could smell him. That damn scent of leather, of technology, of something purely his that drove you crazy even on the best of days. In that moment, it was delicious torture. You wanted him to go away and stop torturing you. You knew it wasn't his fault, but he made you feel so many things it made you dizzy.

"Does anything hurt?" he asked gently. His fingers brushed your arm, so faintly it felt electric.

You closed your eyes, trying to forget everything you were feeling. Bruce took another step closer, his presence enveloping you completely. He didn't touch you. But he was so close that you felt his warmth, the faint scent of his skin, that mix of leather, night, and something purely Bruce. That mixture that normally made you feel safe and now only fueled the fire Ivy had left inside you.

Your lips parted. Your heart was beating so hard you felt like it was going to burst through your chest. The tension between you wasn't new but this was different, it made you palpitate

He raised a hand, slowly, as he always did when he didn't want to overwhelm you. His fingers brushed your cheek, and that light touch was enough to unleash a storm. You closed your eyes, as if with that you could control it, but the truth was you didn't want to control it anymore.

"Bruce…"

"I'm here." His voice was a whisper, raspier and deeper than usual. "Tell me what you need..."

You opened your eyes. You looked at him. And then, finally, you let go of control. “You, Bruce…”

Bruce did not hesitate.

His lips found yours with a perfect blend of restraint and need. He kissed you like someone who'd held back for too long, like someone who finally allowed themselves to give in. Your hands clutched at his neck, his chest, his back. His body was solid, warm, real. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent. The desire burning inside you now had a destination; you needed to feel it in the most carnal way.

He took you by the waist and walked back, continuing to kiss you, leading you through the hidden passageway that connected to his chambers. The silence in the cave was absolute, save for your labored breathing, the hurried rustling of fabric, and the trembling of your lips as his fingers slid down your back.

The air in the room was thick, laden with barely contained desire.

Bruce closed the door behind him with one hand, without taking his lips off yours, while his other hand explored your waist with controlled urgency, you felt his heavy hand run all over your burning body, burning with the need to feel him completely inside you, you needed him in the most visceral and animal way possible.

When he laid you down on the dark sheets, he studied you for a second. He was breathing heavily, his gaze dark and devouring, watching your chest rise with each breath, your shoulders tense, your abdomen trembling with desire, just like your legs.

His index finger trailed down the center of your chest, slow, torturously smooth, following the path to your navel. Your back arched at the touch, seeking him, begging for more, but he stopped just before reaching where you needed him.

“Bruce… please,” you begged, your voice breaking, trembling.

A tiny smile played on his lips. "Please what?"

You closed your eyes, clasped your legs together, almost trembling. “Don’t do this,” you whispered, unbalanced, vulnerable in a way you both hated and loved.

"I want to hear you say it." His lips were so close to your ear that the air tingled your skin. "I want to know how much you need me."

You bit your lip hard. Your hips moved, instinctive, desperate. "I need it, you. Please... don't make me wait any longer, my pussy hurts."

He let out a heavy exhalation, as if he too were struggling with his own limits. His hands slowly opened your thighs, worshipping every inch of your muscular legs, that warrior goddess body he'd admired so many times in the field… and now offering itself completely to him, overcome by desire.

You could feel his warm breath against your soaked, needy cunt. You needed him to touch you, to make you cum and fill you completely. You needed anything to soothe your swollen, needy clit. Bruce buried his face completely in you, devouring every inch of you, his tongue running over your hole while his nose bumped against your little bud, his hands massaging your ass, holding you close with no chance of moving away even an inch.

"Leave them open, come on, don't try it, I want to try everything" Bruce said while holding my legs.

"Please, Bruce..." your voice trembled, broken, completely out of your control. You couldn't think anymore, you just felt, you felt all the heat in your body building up, sending you into spasms.

Your legs, once firm, felt heavy. Your fingers tightened on the sheets as if they could anchor you. Your entire body throbbed in a single place. The center of that unbearable heat that made you beg like never before. "God... it's burning," you whispered, your eyes closed and your forehead beaded with sweat. "I can't take it anymore, I need you to do it now, please make me come."

"Cum, cum for me, princess, cum in my mouth, come on my love" he murmured, sucking your clit and his tongue fucking you until you were stupid.

When you came the first time, it was something you'd never felt before, never felt anything like it before, almost leaving you on the verge of forgetting your words. The pleasure washed through your body like a hot wave, slow and devastating, making every muscle slack... but not satisfying you. leaving you foolish but not satisfying, you wanted more, needed Bruce to stay there between your legs.

Pleasure washed through your body like a hot wave, slow and devastating, making every muscle slacken... but not satisfying. It wasn't enough. It couldn't be enough. The pollen still burned in your blood, still there, churning in your chest, your belly, demanding more.

Bruce didn't move. He was still there, between your legs, looking down at you as if he had you exactly where he wanted you. His mouth wet, his breathing labored, his gaze dark, voracious.

"It's not enough, is it?" he murmured, and that damn voice of his made you moan again, even before he touched you again.

You shook your head, unable to stop yourself. Your hips moved, your hands searching for his head, his neck, anything that would bring you closer to the edge again. You needed him there. Inside. Present. Dominating you.

“Bruce, don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking, still shaking inside. “Stay. Please… stay there.”

He didn't respond with words. Only with actions, then he took one of your legs to leave you even more exposed to him if that was possible, and with his fingers he began to quickly torture your swollen clit making you writhe in bed, you didn't even have the strength to grab the sheets with your weak fingers, without strength in your body, Bruce Wayne was fucking your pussy in the most brutal way you could ever feel, Bruce Wayne was ruining you with just his fingers.

You felt completely vulnerable. Exposed. Consumed.

Bruce was still fully clothed. Steady. Unperturbed. Watching you from above as you crumbled beneath his gaze. As if watching your body writhe with need was the only stimulation he needed.

Your body reacted on its own. You gasped, you arched, you called out to him, your voice cracking, your eyes brimming with tears. And he... he held you there, on that agonizing threshold between surrender and ecstasy, never letting you fall completely.

"Look at you..." he murmured in a deep voice. "You don't know how beautiful you look. Give me one more and I promise I'll stick my cock in you and fill you to the brim."

Your breath caught.

He made you forget the time, the place, everything that wasn't his hands on you, his breathing, his low voice telling you that you were doing well, that you were his, that you should hold on just a little longer.

You were lost.

The world spun out of focus. Only he was real. Only his body, his weight, his husky voice, which now also cracked. You felt him on edge, yet still controlled, strong. His every movement was measured. Every gesture, a surge of restrained pleasure.

And when you finally gave it your all, when your body arched and shook involuntarily, when you let out that last pent-up scream deep inside you, still hoping to feel his cock inside your soaking pussy, and he kept his word. And he did it in a way that left you breathless, powerless, and without thought.

He pulled down his pants with a slam along with his underwear, letting his fully hard cock hit his lower abdomen, revealing how its tip spit out a little bit of cum, like a promise that it would soon fill you completely.

He leaned over you, his hand firm on your thigh, parting you once more, as if he couldn't wait any longer but still enjoyed taking his time. His body touched yours, skin against skin, warm, vibrant.

His voice was a low growl, straight into your ear, thick with desire and control. "Beg, beg for my cock, baby."

#dc masterlist #dc x reader #bruce wayne x reader #imagine bruce wayne #batman x reader #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne x fem!reader #smut #bruce wayne imagine #batman smut

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jjjjisun · 4 months ago

Text

Sunday Morning

NJZ Danielle X AESPA Karina X Male OC | 1945 words

TW: Incest

—

Buy me a Ko-Fi.

Book commissions here.

—

Author's note: Happy Karina and Danielle day!

—

A violent storm had descended upon the night, the thunder growling like a waking beast and lightning carving veins of light into the ink-black sky. The old mansion rattled, its timbers creaking as if alive, and the rain lashed against the windows with the fervor of a jilted lover. In the expansive master bedroom, dominated by a large four-poster bed, a naked man lay awake, his heart pounding in sync with the storm's rhythm.

Karina, his daughter, was the first to sneak in, her petite body hugging the shadows. Her eyes, fierce and bold, met his in the darkness. She was a wild thing, untamed and free, her dark hair cascading down her back, the sheet clutched loosely in her hand. "Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the storm's fury.

He shook his head, pulling the sheet higher up his chest, a futile attempt at modesty. "You?" he replied, his voice hoarse with sleep and something else he dared not name.

She smirked, tossing her hair back. "Never could sleep through a storm. Not without…" she paused, her eyes glinting wickedly, "company."

Before he could respond, Danielle, his other daughter, padded in, her lithe form accentuated by the faint glow of the lightning. She was the yin to Karina's yang, her fair hair contrasting with her sister's darkness. "What are you two doing?" she asked, her eyes flicking between the two.

"Just talking about the storm," Karina said, her smirk growing wider. "Wasn't it you who used to love stormy nights?"

Danielle's cheeks flushed, but her eyes burned with a familiar challenge. She dropped her sheet, standing before them nude and unafraid. "I still do," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. And then, with a playful laugh, she lunged, aiming for Karina, the sheet they had both been clinging to forgotten.

The room filled with laughter, and soon, they were a tangle of limbs, their bodies sliding and pressing against each other, their tickling fingers exploring familiar terrain. The storm outside seemed to mimic their play, the rain intensifying, the thunder rumbling like their own laughter.

He watched, frozen, as their playfulness turned sensuous. Their touches lingered, their eyes locked, their breaths hitching in sync. He felt a familiar stirring, a response he couldn't suppress or control. He was their father, but they were his weakness, his downfall. He knew he should stop them and reclaim his self-control, but he was rooted to the spot, his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out the storm.

Karina looked up, her eyes meeting his, her fingers dancing on Danielle's hip. "Join us, Dad," she purred, her voice sultry, inviting. "The storm doesn't seem so frightening with us together, does it?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between them, the thunder outside escaping without a peep in the face of the tsunami of want crashing through him. He knew he shouldn't cross this line, but in that moment, bathed in the storm's light, he couldn't find the strength to resist. He let the sheet fall, revealing his arousal, and surrendered to the storm within.

The thunder's grumble had softened to a murmur, and the rain was now a rhythmic patter against the windowpanes as the storm reached a gentle crescendo. The room's illumination oscillated with the passing Lightning, caressing the three figures in the large bed. The tension was thick and palpable, holding them in a suspended state of anticipation.

Karina's hand, previously dancing on Danielle's hip, now slid down, her fingers parting Danielle's thighs with tender authority. Danielle's breath hitched, her lips parting on a soft gasp. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip, and her eyes flicked from Karina's fingers to her father's face. "Dad," she whispered, "tell me you want this as much as we do."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked with Danielle's. He could feel his arousal throbbing in response to their Touch, their words. He was teetering on the edge of a precipice, one he had never dared to approach before. But the sight of them, their bodies flushed, their breaths coming in short pants, their eyes filled with hunger and want, was his undoing. "I do," he admitted, his voice raw and honest. "God help me, I do."

Karina's fingers found Danielle's center, stroking, exploring. Danielle's hips moved in rhythm with her sister's touch, her moans filling the room. His gaze flicked between them, his pulse pounding in his ears. He reached out, his fingers tangling in Karina's hair, pulling her in for a kiss. Their lips met, their tongues sliding against each other, igniting a fire that raged through his veins.

Danielle's fingers wrapped around his cock, her touch tentative yet sure. He groaned into Karina's mouth, his hips moving in sync with her sister's touch. He felt freefalling, his body alive with sensations he had long suppressed. He broke the kiss, his gaze finding Danielle's. "Come here," he growled, pulling her to him.

She straddled him, her warmth pressing against him. He captured her mouth, his hands roaming her body, relearning the curves he had tried so hard to forget. He hears. Karina's soft laughter, and then her touch was there, her fingers joining Danielle's in stroking him, her lips tracing patterns on his chest.

Danielle reached between them, positioning him at her entrance. She slid down, a slow, torturous inch at a time, her eyes locked with his. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, his breath coming in short gasps. When she had taken all of him, she began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, sensuous rhythm.

Karina's hands were on Danielle's breasts, her fingers pinching and rolling the nipples. Danielle's breath hitched, her movements becoming more frantic. He felt Karina's touch on him, her fingers stroking the base of his cock where it disappeared inside Danielle. His grip on Danielle's hips tightened, his thrusts meeting her movements.

Danielle leaned back, her hands settling on Karina's shoulders. Karina's lips found Danielle's nipple, her tongue flicking against the hardened peak. Danielle's moans filled the room, her head thrown back, her hair cascading down her back. He could feel her tightening around him, her body tensing in preparation for release.

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed in counterpoint to her movements, his touch firm and steady. Danielle's body bowed, her release pulsing through her, her inner muscles-clenching around him.

He couldn't hold back any longer. With a groan, he came, his body shuddering with the force of his release. Danielle collapsed against him, her body spent, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Karina's hands stroked his chest, her touch gentle and soothing.

As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Danielle lifted her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Dad," she whispered, "I don't just want you to fuck us. I want you to breed us."

Karina nodded, her fingers twining with Danielle's. "We want to carry your child, Dad."

He stared at them, his mind racing. He had crossed this line, which he knew he couldn't uncross. But at that moment, looking at them, their bodies flushed, their eyes filled with love and desire, he knew he didn't want to. He took their hands, his fingers intertwining with theirs. "Then let's ride out the storm together," he said, his voice filled with determination. And with that, he sealed their fates, binding them together in a way that was primal, intense, and undeniably erotic.

The first light of dawn broke through the storm clouds, casting a soft glow over the three spent bodies entwined in the bed. The room was filled with the symphony of their breaths, slowly evening out, and the faint patter of rain against the windows. He was the first to stir, his fingers tracing patterns on their arms as he lay between them.

"Morning," Karina mumbled, her voice still heavy with sleep. She nuzzled into his chest, her hand moving to cover his.

Danielle stirred as well, her fingers finding his waist. "Morning, Dad," she said, her voice soft and content. She rubbed her face against his shoulder, a small smile on her lips.

He looked down at them, his heart swelling with mixed emotions. He cupped their faces, his thumbs stroking their cheeks. "Are you both sure about this?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "About what we did, what we want?"

Karina's breakfast pushes up, her breasts pressed against his chest. "Oh, we're sure," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Aren't we, Dani?"

Danielle nodded, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Very sure," she confirmed. "I think it's time we made it official." She rolled on top of him, her hands pushing his thighs apart. She bent down, her breath hot on his cock as she took him into her mouth.

He groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair. She sucked him, her tongue swirling around the head, her hand pumping the base. He felt himself hardening, his body responding to her touch. He looked down at her, her fair hair cascading around his lap, and then caught Karina's gaze, her dark eyes filled with hunger as she watched them.

Karina joined in, her hands stroking his chest, her fingers pinching his nipples. He moaned, his hips bucking slightly. Karina switched her sister on sucking his manhood and took him deeper, her throat convulsing around him. He felt the pressure building, his balls tightening.

"Stop," he gasped, pushing Karina away. She sat back, her lips glistening, her eyes hungry. "I want to come inside you," he said, his voice raw. He reached for her, pulling her up. She straddled him, positioning herself over his cock.

But she didn't lower herself onto him. Instead, she leaned back, her hands on Dani’s thighs. "We have other plans for that, Dad," she said, her voice teasing. She looked at her sister, a silent conversation passing between them. Danielle nodded, a seductive smile on her lips.

Karina got on her knees, her massive breasts swaying. "Noona Karina wants you to come inside her too, Dad," she said, her fingers playing with her nipples. "But first, she wants to show you how much she's enjoyed your attention." Karina pushed her monster breasts together, a valley of soft, pale flesh between them.

He groaned, his gaze locked on the sight. Danielle took his cock, positioning it between her sister's breasts. Karina began to move, her hips rolling, her tits on either side of his cock, sliding up and down. He watched, mesmerized, as his daughter used her sister's breasts to pleasure him.

He reached out, his fingers finding Danielle’s clit. She moaned, her movements becoming more frantic. He felt his release building, his balls tightening. Danielle's body tensed, her orgasm ripping through her.

"Come on my tits, Dad," Karina whispered, her eyes locked with his. "Mark me. Make me yours."

He groaned, his body tensing as he came between Karina’s breasts. Danielle collapsed against Karina, their bodies sticky with sweat and his release. They all looked down, a sense of satisfaction filling the room.

Karina laughed, her fingers wiping his cum off her skin. "Looks like we've made a mess, sis," she said, turning to Dani. She grinned, her hand joining hers in cleaning their skin.

As they got up to clean off properly, he watched them, a sense of peace washing over him. He still had his worries and doubts, but at that moment, looking at them, their bodies glistening, their smiles soft, he knew he wouldn't trade this for anything. He was ready to face whatever came next and cross whatever lines they needed to.

#njz smut #aespa smut #gg smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #njz #karina #smut #kpop #aespa karina #girl group smut #danielle #njz danielle #karina smut #danielle smut #aespa

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yandere-daydreams · 10 months ago

Text

Screening: Dracula (1931).

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader (HxH).

Runtime: 1.8k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Obsessive Behavior, Threats of Physical Violence, Slight Gore, and Mentions of Death.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You could feel his eyes burning into you from the other side of the abruptly-too-short table, the chill of the marble slab where it threatened to press into your midriff, but you did your best to ignore both. The table had already been set by the time you were called down to the dining room, a small army of silver platters arranged neatly in the space between you and him. You hadn’t eaten since the night before, but you weren’t hungry. Even if you had been, it was hard to imagine forcing yourself to choke down anything aside from your own anxiety. You were tempted to try your luck with the generously poured glass of wine to your left, but to drink it, you’d have to reach for it, and to reach for it, you’d have to lift your hands from where they were balled in your lap and you couldn’t do that because your hands wouldn’t stop fucking shak—

“Is the meal not to your tastes, dear?”

“It’s perfect,” you responded immediately, beaming. You grabbed the wine glass before you could hesitate, drinking as much as you could stand to. Chrollo’s ever-present grin had taken on a contented lull by the time you set it down. “Remind me to thank the chef before I leave. That is, if I ever actually manage to catch him.” And then, with a forced laugh, “That is, if this storm ever lets up long enough for me to get out of here.”

As if on cue, thunder clapped outside, followed shortly by a bolt of lightning bright enough to cast the dimly light dining room in a vibrant silver haze. You shrunk into your seat, but Chrollo’s dark eyes only seemed to brighten. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t run into a member of my staff, yet. It’s been… how long? Four days?” Six. Come midnight, you’d be celebrating your week-long anniversary. “I hope you don’t think I’m keeping anyone away from you deliberately. Not that I’d mind keeping you to myself.”

It took everything you had to smile rather than cringe, to laugh rather than bury your face in your hands and scream. A day ago, you would’ve found your host’s nonchalance charming, but it was hard to find someone charming when the thought of meeting his eyes made you feel physically sick. It was hard to believe you’d been so thankful when you first turned-up on the doorstep of his dark, empty countryside mansion, when you realized you wouldn’t be at the mercy of an ancient, self-isolating millionaire but a man around you own age who, as far as you could tell, was as flustered to see you as you were to need his help. You explained that your car broke down about half a mile down the road, and he invited you to spend the night before calling for help at a more reasonable hour. The typhoon had rolled in not long before sunrise, and, well…

Again, thunder crashed and rain pelted the mansion from all directions. This time, you flinched into your seat before you could stop yourself.

It was your own fault, honestly. It’s not like there weren’t signs that something was wrong. Chrollo was charming, but he was off-putting, too. He seemed to treat the concept of personal space as more of a suggestion as a rule, whether that meant seeking you out in the tightest corner of the mansion’s sprawling library just to share a sofa truly meant for, at most, one person or letting himself into your room at night as if he couldn’t tell the difference between two in the afternoon and two in the morning. He claimed to have a full staff, and yet, you’d never run into any maids, butlers or cooks – never saw anyone who wasn’t Chrollo. His clothes always seemed to be either strange or ill-fitting, like he was wearing items from someone else’s closet, and more damningly, he didn’t seem at all suspicious of you, the stranger he’d allowed to stay in his home for nearly a week, now. No offense was particularly jarring, but it should’ve added up. You should’ve noticed sooner.

The only thing you could do, you figured, was bid your time and sneak out in the early hours of the morning. The landlines were down and you didn’t have cell reception, but the next house couldn’t be that far away, and you doubted Chrollo would follow you into the storm. Or, you hoped he wouldn’t, at least. You couldn’t really do much more than that.

“So,” Chrollo went on, and you made a point of nodding and smiling like he’d just said the smartest thing you’d ever heard, “When did you find the bodies?”

Immediately, your expression fell. A second later, you noticed that your hands had stopped shaking, but only because you’d lost the ability to move entirely.

When you finally regained the will to speak, it was all you could do to spit out something pathetically noncommittal. “...I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“Don’t be shy. I promise, I’m not mad, just curious.” He paused, letting his eyes bore into you. “You left the door unlocked.”

Ah.

The basement door, to be more specific. Calling what you’d found ‘bodies’ might’ve been a little generous, too. What little had been left of each corpse was already so badly deteriorated that it would’ve been impossible to tell which detached hand might’ve belonged to what disembodied torso. That was probably your fault, too. If you’d known to be wary of Chrollo, you would’ve known better than to follow him into the one place he’d asked you not to go, the one place he seemed to always disappear to when he wasn’t breathing down your neck.

“This morning,” you admitted. “I was bored and looking for you. Honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing that it took me this long to realize you were a…”

You trailed off, but Chrollo was more than happy to finish in your stead. “A member of the Phantom Troupe?”

This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from buckling – your mouth falling open as you stared at him, wide-eyed. “Oh my god,” And then, after burying your face in your hands, “I thought you were a fucking vampire, you goth prick.”

That was enough to earn an airy chuckle from Chrollo, any condescension hidden well underneath wry amusement. While you tried to recover, he went on. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you that I don’t actually live here. In truth, I only arrived a few hours before you did – long enough to dispose of the residents and staff, even if getting rid of their remains has been an…” For once, his eyes shifted away from you, skirting to the left. “An ongoing process.”

With a shallow sigh, he pushed himself to his feet rounding the table and falling into the chair closest to you. Dinner, if he’d ever had any interest in it at all, was thoroughly forgotten as he propped an arm on the edge and rested his chin on his knuckles. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not being more upfront. In a line of work like mine, it’s so rare to find an opportunity to play house.”

So, he was a thief. No, it was more than that – he was a world-class thief, with worse crimes under his belt than a handful of homicides and the wrongful imprisonment of one confused civilian. God. This was bad. You should’ve left earlier – as soon as you found the bodies. You should’ve never gotten out of your car at all.

Slowly, you straightened your back, keeping your arms crossed as you glared half-heartedly. “Are you going to let me leave?”

He hummed, drumming his fingers against his jaw. “Now, why would I go and do something like that?”

Your heart sank in your chest. “You’re going to kill me, then?”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.” It was uncanny, how little his demeanor changed prior and post to his confession. If anything, he seemed even more smug – like he was basking in your apparent terror. “As if I could be so wasteful. Besides, I was under the impression that you’ve been enjoying out time together.”

“And I was under the impression that you weren’t a serial killer!” You threw up your hands, agitation quickly overshadowing the worst of your nerves. “Things can change!”

“I suppose they can.” He was so frustratingly calm. If the memory of his dissected victims wasn’t burnt so deeply into your mind, you would’ve rolled your eyes. “And eventually, things will. You don’t think I plan to keep you trapped in this estate forever, do you?”

Rather than dwell on the implication, you moved on swiftly. “If you’re not going to hurt me, you can’t stop me from leaving. The storm can’t be more dangerous than spending another night with you.”

Somehow, his smile only seemed to grow that much wider. “Did you know that the majority of deaths related to natural disasters are from delayed attempts to evacuate? There are all sorts of threats – flooding, debris, sinkholes…” He brightened with each listed hazard, and you tried (and failed) not to picture yourself drowning in muddy rainwater. “Oh, and sickness, of course. Spend enough time in the rain and it won’t matter if you eventually find shelter – you’ll die of pneumonia in a matter of weeks.”

“You don’t know—”

“And, for the record, I said I wasn’t planning to kill you. You never asked about anything else.” He let out a dry chuckle. “I’m sorry, but I sure you understand. It’d just be irresponsible to promise that I’ll never have to, say, dislocate your ankle to stop you from making a very brash, very unadvisable decision.”

“Like calling the cops.”

“Like trying to go outside in a very bad, very easily deadly storm,” he clarified. “You can contact anyone you’d like, but please, try to be considerate. I’m going to run out of room in the basement eventually.”

This time, when you melted into your seat, it wasn’t out of reflex or anxiety, but in a deliberate effort to put that much more distance between him and you. “I… I don’t want to get hurt, and I don’t want to die,” you admitted, taking longer than it should’ve to say something so glaringly obvious. “Tell me what I have to do to make that not happen.”

Yet another clap of thunder. This time, the lightning didn’t so much as tint his soulless eyes. “Straight to the point, as always. I like that about you.”

For the first time, he seemed to hesitate – a pink haze spreading over his pale cheeks as he reached out and laid his hand, almost gingerly, over yours. His trepidation was short-lived, though, only lasting up until the second you tried to pull away and he had an excuse to intertwine his fingers with yours, his grip tight enough to bruise.

“Why don’t we get to bed, darling?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #hunter x hunter #hxh #hunter x hunter x reader #hxh x reader #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo lucilfer

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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 3 months ago

Text

☆ murmurs in red silk , ft. mydeimos.

❤︎︎ tws : nsfw / smut, fingering, tit play, overstimulation, multiple of rounds, creampie (vaginal), chocking, slight breeding, mydei is gentle at the first, reader is implied to be smaller than mydei, slightly tough petting, light biting and size kink. mdni (18+ only)

❤︎︎ synopsis : Mydei gently overwhelms his beloved with tender dominance, worshiping your body while reminding you that you belong entirely to him.

His cloak fanned around you like a sea of crimson, heavy and warm beneath your back, soft where it pooled around your hips. Mydei loomed above you with one knee between your thighs, golden eyes burning low and heavy as they traced every inch of your trembling body. His long, wild hair framed his face, the red tips glinting like firelight.

You were breathless—half-naked and aching as his gauntlet braced beside your head, caging you in without even touching. You could feel the heat of him, the sheer mass of his body, And he hadn’t even done anything yet.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmured, voice dipping into a reverent growl. “So pretty like this… all needy and open for me.”

His free hand trailed up your thigh—bare and shaking—until his fingers slipped between your folds. You gasped at the contact, instinctively bucking, but Mydei just tut-tutted quietly, pressing his palm down to still your hips.

“Mm-mm. You take what I give you, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Not a second before.”

His fingers moved again, spreading your slick with slow, steady swirls. Two fingers parted your pussy, rubbing slow circles into your clit until your back arched and your breath hitched. You were already soaked, dripping for him, aching to be filled. And Mydei knew it. He always knew.

“You’re dripping already,” he chuckled low in his throat. “My pretty girl’s pussy knows who it belongs to, huh?”

You whined, breathless. “Y-Yes, Mydei…”

That earned you a moan—deep, soft, feral. “Say it again.”

“Yours… m’pussy’s yours…”

He bit your neck gently at that, his voice roughening. “That’s right. All mine.”

His fingers curled inside you without warning—two thick digits sinking deep, spreading your walls wide. You moaned loud and shameless, hips grinding down, desperate for more. But he didn’t move faster. No, Mydei kept that same devastating pace, curling just right, pressing to the spot that made your thighs quake.

You clawed at his robe. “Please… want it…”

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he cooed, tongue flicking over the bite he’d left on your neck. “Use your words. Tell your prince.”

“Want your cock,” you whimpered. “Wanna be full…”

His cock—hard and leaking—pressed hot and heavy against your thigh through the fabric of his robe. You could feel the size of him, the weight, the way he was throbbing for you. His breath hitched when your hips rocked up to grind against him.

“Gods, you’re gonna break me, aren’t you?” he muttered, almost to himself. “You want this cock so bad, pretty baby… but you’re so small. You gonna be able to take it?”

You nodded frantically, legs wide, eyes pleading.

He finally tugged his robe aside, freeing his cock. Thick, flushed red at the tip, veins running along the shaft like molten lightning. He stroked it once, watching you stare with wide, desperate eyes.

Then he lined himself up—one hand gripping your thigh, the other guiding his cock to your entrance. You could feel the stretch before he even pushed in.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered. “Nice n’ slow…”

The head of his cock slid in and your mouth fell open in a silent cry. Mydei moaned low in his throat, forehead pressed to yours as he sank deeper—inch by inch—into your quivering pussy. The stretch was unbearable and perfect all at once, your walls fluttering around him as he filled you, inch by heavy inch.

“Fuck… look at how you take me,” he growled, hips rocking forward. “So tight, baby. So fucking good.”

When he bottomed out, your legs shook around his waist, your pussy gripping him so tightly he could barely move. He stayed like that, buried deep, breathing ragged against your cheek.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s what it means to be mine.”

Then he moved—slow, deep strokes, hips rolling with maddening control. His cock dragged perfectly against your walls, the blunt head nudging your sweet spot every time he thrust. You clung to him, gasping, helpless under his weight, drunk on the stretch and the praise and the heat of him.

“Mydei,” you whined. “Gonna—gonna cum…”

“Cum for me,” he growled. “Cream on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You shattered around him with a cry, walls clenching, legs trembling. But he didn’t stop—kept thrusting through it, fucking you slow and deep while you sobbed his name like a mantra.

“My good girl,” he purred. “My perfect little thing…”

He came with a low, broken moan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside you. You felt every twitch, every throb of his cock as it filled you, warmth flooding your insides in thick waves.

And still, he stayed inside you—one big hand stroking your hair as your body quaked under him, the other rubbing soft circles over your tummy where he’d just filled you.

“You did so good for me,” he whispered against your temple. “So beautiful… so fucking perfect.”

His cock was still buried inside you.

Thick. Warm. Twitching gently in your soaked, fluttering cunt like it belonged there—because it did. Because everything in your body knew it now, from the way your hips twitched upward trying to keep him inside, to the way your cunt clenched instinctively with every little shift of his hips.

Mydei wasn’t moving, not yet. He was just watching you.

His eyes roamed your face, drinking in the tears still caught in your lashes, the dazed part of your brain still catching up to what just happened—how he’d fucked you full and slow, stretched you open so wide and deep you were trembling under him like a fevered thing.

“You look ruined already,” he murmured, voice soft but rough with pride. His hand curled gently under your chin, tilting your head back so your eyes met his. “You gonna fall apart again for me, sweetheart? You want my cock again?”

Your legs gave a weak twitch around his waist, thighs trembling as the wet squelch of your overstimulated pussy tightened around his length. You whimpered. You nodded.

“Please… again, Mydei… want more…”

He chuckled, all low and dangerous in your ear, before he thrust.

You gasped—body jolting as the force of it sent his cum squelching back out around his cock. The slick mess of his first release coated your thighs, smeared on the red silk beneath you. You felt wet everywhere—between your legs, under your back, dripping from your twitching little hole every time he pulled back even a few inches.

“You want more, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping with affection and hunger all at once. “You gonna beg for it, baby? Let me fuck that dumb little pussy full again?”

“Yes—yes, please, Mydei—” your voice cracked, your body already rocking helplessly with the slow rhythm of his hips as he started fucking you again—no warning, no mercy, just that slow, grinding stretch as his cock slid deep inside all over again.

Every thrust hit deeper this time.

Wetter. Filthier. Every time his hips met yours, it was like you could feel the shape of him pressing against your womb—too big, too thick, too much and still so perfect. His fingers wrapped around your throat, thumb stroking your jaw as he pinned you gently there—not choking, just holding. Claiming.

“My good girl,” he panted. “So tight—fuck—you’re squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”

He leaned down, licking into your mouth, tongue messy and deep while your cunt spasmed around his cock again. You whined into the kiss, clinging to his shoulders, overwhelmed and greedy and so full. His free hand slid under your thigh, lifting it high, bending you open further so he could fuck even deeper.

“Mydei,” you cried, shaking. “Too much—‘s too big—can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, biting your lower lip. “You’re taking it. You’re doing so good for me, baby. My sweet little hole’s just made for this cock, isn’t it?”

His hips snapped forward—hard.

You screamed.

Your pussy clenched, gushing around him as you came again, body jerking under his hold. Mydei hissed, cock throbbing deep as your walls milked him, fucked out and needy and still begging for more without saying a word.

“Fuck, you love this,” he moaned, voice thick with hunger. “You love when I fuck you full, don’t you? You wanna be stuffed—wanna drip with my cum—”

“Y-Yes! Please—wanna feel it again, wanna feel you fill me—”

That was all it took.

Mydei slammed forward with a growl, burying himself to the hilt as he came again—hot and thick, shooting deep inside your messy cunt, cock pulsing hard against your walls. You felt it all. Every spurt, every twitch. It overflowed immediately, leaking out around the base of his cock and smearing down your ass and thighs in warm, wet streaks.

But he didn’t pull out.

His cock stayed inside you, heavy and twitching as you spasmed underneath him, your brain too foggy to think, to speak, just little mewling noises pouring from your throat as your fingers weakly tugged at his robe.

“Shhh…” Mydei whispered, brushing hair from your face. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You did so good for me.”

You whimpered, legs still twitching around his hips.

“Still full,” you mumbled. “Still leaking…”

He smiled softly, leaning down to kiss your flushed cheeks, your nose, your lips. “That’s right. Gotta keep it in there. Let it soak.”

You blinked up at him, hazy and dumb from how full your pussy still was, how warm and claimed, you felt with his cock still stuffed inside you.

“Stay?” you whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, cradling your head and kissing your temple. “Gonna stay inside you just like this. Keep my girl nice and full…”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

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overangel · 3 months ago

Text

ₛₜₐₜₑ ₒf dᵣₑₐₘᵢₙg

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected reader story.

act 1

Everyone has something they wish they could do over. There's probably something at the tip of your tongue, or nestled in the back of your mind that you'd give anything to change. What if you got a second chance? Nothing is as it seems and this is only the beginning. Do it right this time. ❥ TW: su!c!de and su!c!de attempts, death of a parent, depression & anxiety, semi-descriptive death.

Torrential rains poured as the crashing waves destroyed your entire world in a single Tuesday morning. Lightning backlit charcoal clouds and struck down everything that had the audacity to stand.

Anything that wasn't nailed to the ground and half of everything that had been were ripped away and sent spiraling wherever the wild winds willed them.

Some neighborhoods were completely submerged and you had lost track of where you were when all hell broke lose. Were you at home hidden away praying that the storm would pass you by, or had you been one of the many who tried to leave town on foot when traffic stood still?

You quickly realized the specifics didn't matter when nothing would ever be the same. It was as if your sixteen years of life, every pivotal and precious moment, meant nothing at all.

It should’ve been a normal storm, nothing to halt traffic and close the schools over, so how could it come to this? How could the recently erected dam that represented your humble town's industrial resurrection dissolve like a child's sandcastle?

How could pedestrians be dragged away by the surging storms that would leave many families broken and many more caskets empty?

How could it all happen so fast?

So many questions swirled on, but you were the only constant. As the waves crashed around you and licked at the soles of your mother’s feet, you held on tight, your iron grip crushing her fingers as you felt her own grip going slack.

Something in your right wrist popped, causing your hand to twist painfully to one side, but your strength didn’t wane. You wouldn’t let go even if your hand was ripped from its socket.

Your left hand was being lacerated as you could only grab a fist full of barbed wire before the gale winds sent you and your mother tumbling over the edge of a bridge.

A line of barbed wire fell over your head and wrapped tightly around your neck, shredding skin with each tug. You were the marionette and the wire that tore your flesh were the strings.

Who was the puppet master?

Millions of ice cold needles rained from the heavens, and the winds whipped dirt in your face. A particularly sharp rock that could’ve fit in the palm of your hand clipped the corner of your left eye and blood raised down your cheek, but despite it all, nothing could distract you.

Your gaze was straight and true as you stared down at your mother and into her flat eyes. You knew you had lost her, but couldn't bring yourself to let go.

You found out how thin the skin on your neck was as the wire tore in deep and now, instead of blood gushing from your wounds, it seemed to pour inwards and you started to feel suffocated. The rapid waves and tempestuous winds dragged you forward as the water levels began to rise even more.

Your mother was half submerged and the hale stopped hurting so much, and the burning turned to a pleasant tingling sensation that gave way to numbness. As the barbed wire around your left wrist peeled your skin like a grape, and the wire around your neck was flirting with decapitating you, you stared down into the face of the woman who brought you into this world and had never stopped

fighting for you.

This was the photo that had taken the world, for a lack of better words, by storm.

This single screenshot from a drone’s live feed was captured at just the right moment and something in your eyes resonated with the common person. Amidst a tragedy, was a child who loved so much, even more than her body could handle as the blood gushing from your wounds and your abnormally twisted wrist made clear.

But what really got people talking was that Bruce Wayne's only biological daughter was nearly killed when his own dam collapsed.

❥

It should’ve been a 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪 story, but fairytales just weren’t in the cards for you. You never stood a chance when you were a mark on his name from the moment you were found. Your reveal was like a personal attack on his carefully cultivated reputation, but you didn't have a say in the matter as you would be in a coma for months following the storm.

While you were fighting for your life, your father in blood only, was already building up a bias against you over the 'scandal.' The media was out for blood and wanted Bruce Wayne’s head on a pike for being a “deadbeat dad” and you couldn't do anything to dispel the bad blood before it congealed into something you couldn’t scrub away.

Your relationship with your father was in tatters and you had never met him a day in your life.

Maybe that’s how it all began? Maybe it was social media and the news that set the tone for your relationships with your “family.”

Maybe that’s why Bruce always looked like he was holding back bile when he caught a glimpse of you. Maybe that’s why Dick’s smile was always too tight and so quickly dropped before he even turned away from you completely (maybe he didn't care if you saw).

Maybe that’s why your injuries went ignored. Maybe that’s why no one noticed when your weight dropped too low or increased exponentially with each traumatic event.

Maybe that’s why no one noticed your broken arm or that it was from a suicide attempt when your half brother took everything too far.

Maybe that’s why no one noticed you buying a gun and bringing it into the manor.

How old were you? An adult, somewhere in your twenties? You had nearly failed high school and college wasn’t even an option for you. The specters and demons that haunted Wayne Manor had sunken their talons into your flesh like the barbed wire did all those years ago and tightened a noose around your neck the moment you stepped foot onto that land.

You weren't allowed to thrive. You weren't allowed to be anything more than what they needed you to be and that was barely alive.

The inhabitants, both of this world and the next, had haunted you for years and they were going to make you into another ghost who haunted this place.

That was the only time you had entered the Batcave since “coming home” as Bruce Wayne’s only biological daughter. They had thought you were ignorant to their double lives but you had known and kept the secret close to your heart. As if it was a mutually shared promise.

A one sided pact that made you feel like you were part of the family if only a little in the most desperately pǝʇsıʍʇ way.

Your presence was cloaked in shadow, and your steps were as silent as the grave. They were all there, and the sight made you hesitate.

A burning lump in your throat of a barely contained sob tried to tear through when you had sworn you were done crying over them. Guess that was another lie you told yourself.

Every “family” member was present like it was the most natural thing in the world. Each personality was so distinct but meshed perfectly in ways that they never could with anyone else.

You could never mesh. You tried. You cut off so many pieces of yourself—no one could say you didn't try!

Did it matter in the end? Are you happy with who you became? Of who you killed to get here?

Being on the outside looking in for the final time was a sobering experience.

Any doubt in your mind evaporated. This was the right thing to do. All of the actors were on stage and the light illuminated the cozy scene of familial trust that can only be born from adversity and shared suffering.

It was your turn to exit stage left.

You would never see the ending of their play.

Cassandra noticed you first, because of course she would, but she didn’t move. She only stared you down with unblinking eyes, eyes like black pearls that you had once found so pretty, but were too intimidated to meet in all these years.

You had only looked into her eyes once, maybe during the first week you since you had arrived at this God forsaken place, and you immediately burst into tears like an idiot. Her eyes broke your heart then. It would be the first of many times where someone looked at you, and you could tell they didn't see a human being.

You just wanted to say 'bye.' You didn't hope they'd break down and cry over you, you just wanted to let them know you were leaving now.

“What are–” Dick had fixed his mouth to say when he finally saw you after his eyes followed Cassandra's line of sight, but it was too late.

No batarang could fly fast enough to knock the gun from your hand, but no one moved a muscle, too transfixed by the weapon clenched in your scarred hand.

Your grip was just as tight and cocksure as all those years ago when you held on for your and your mother's lives.

You didn't break eye contact with your father as a sad smile pulled at your lips. Something in your eyes scared him, a most primal fear he hadn't felt since he was a child–the feeling of terror a screeching bat used to inspire.

This was the most non-negative attention they had ever given you and it would be now of all times. You laughed a humorless, watery laugh at the realization as you raised the gun to your head and seven pounds of pressure made all the pain go away.

Brain matter splattered against the wall, and blood spurted onto Damian’s face. Your only blood sibling had gotten back the Wayne blood he found you so undeserving of and the “wench's blood” he disparaged you for.

That phrase had killed you when it was spat out so many years ago and the grave had been paved over in cement when no one defended your late mother.

He can have all the Wayne blood he wants now.

The blast was followed by Alfred bursting through the batcave’s entrance and sprinting down the steps. His eyes were wide and terrified, "No, no, no!" Something was beginning to crack, "How could you?" Was he talking to you or to them?

A roar tore from his throat unlike anything anyone had ever heard from him. There was a certain vocal range that Alfred Pennyworth had never exceeded in his tenure as personal butler and pseudo parental figure to Bruce Wayne and his growing brood; So, no one knew this sound was even possible. It wasn't that of a distraught man, but of a wounded beast and a broken heart.

The scream that ripped from the man's throat was a guttural howl that chilled them all to the bone.

He dropped to his knees and pulled your lifeless body against his chest. He cradled you as if you were a small child as he carefully tried to hold your head together in his trembling hands. Delirium clouded his eyes, a madness that made him feel if he found all of the pieces he could put you back together again.

“Please, no…” Hair and scalp fell in chunks and your shattered skull came apart in his hands. “My dear girl…”

He had always known the outside world was too much for you. Keeping you near him was the safest place for you in a world that didn’t understand how precious you were.

You would have to face people who didn’t appreciate you the way they should in your own home, but that was a small price to pay to keep you safe.

That’s what he had thought.

The last bit of color drained away from this seemingly immortal man as your body drained of blood. You had taken the last of his colors along with his heart and he would never be the same.

His heart, his health, and a piece of his mind would be taken away with you.

“What did they do to you..?”

Jason’s mask was affixed firmly to his face when it happened, and his expression was a mystery except for a strangled gurgle emitting from the mouthpiece.

Like a death rattle.

He too dropped to his knees. “No.” Your blood soaked into his jeans as the mountain of a man had fallen to his hands.

Contrary to what everyone thought, you had passions and goals. There was so much good you wanted to do for others in ways that didn’t involve running around in a cape. Why didn't you? Why didn't you believe in yourself?

"If I had another chance, I'd do it right this time. If I had just one more chance."

Before your soul could be devoured by the hallowed halls of the manor forever, the flame you had once smothered ɪɢɴɪᴛᴇᴅ.

In a personal room, in an exclusive hospital away from prying eyes, a comatose Y/n L/n cried a single tear as her condition stabilized.

#yandere batfam #neglected reader #yandere imagines #yandere dc

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sweetstrawberryys · 2 months ago

Note

Strawberries, please write Soap with quiet and shy reader. Maybe she’s depressed? 🫣 Kinda checked out and unenthusiastic about anything. Here comes fireball Johnny! 😉😘

“You Don’t Have to Smile For Me”

Summary: You're the new Analyst who got transferred after a horrible gruesome operation. You stooped talking or feeling anything. But that doesn't stop Johnny to fight tooth and nail to bring his girl back from the light.

Rating: Angsty with a happy ending. TW: Depression, emotional numbness, implied past trauma, comfort, slow-burn affection, Johnny being a sunshine pitbull.

Masterlist

---

The first time Soap meets you, you don’t say much.

Not in the shy, cute way people expect when they say a girl is “quiet.”

No bashful smile. No tucked chin or hidden glances.

You just… don’t say anything. Barely blink. You exist like wallpaper—flat, muted, unnoticed unless someone’s really looking.

Johnny? He looks.

---

You’re sitting on the corner of a folding bench at base, back straight, hands limp in your lap. You don’t scroll your phone. Don’t fiddle or doodle or talk. You’re not really doing anything. And that’s what catches his eye.

It’s unnatural, he thinks, how still you are. Like someone pressed pause and forgot to unpause you.

“What’s her name?” he whispers to Gaz at the vending machine, subtly nodding toward you.

Gaz follows his gaze. “New analyst. She got reassigned here after the Germany op.” He pauses. “Be nice. Heard it was messy.”

Messy. The word hangs.

Soap watches you blink slowly, eyes heavy-lidded like sleep doesn’t stick to you anymore. You don’t flinch when loud boots pass by or when someone slams a locker nearby.

You’re not skittish.

You’re not scared.

You’re just… gone.

---

It starts with stupid things. Johnny’s good at stupid things.

“Y’ever think energy drinks are just trauma in a can?” he says, holding up a neon pink can and making a dramatic gagging noise. “This one tastes like electric regret.”

You don’t laugh.

But your brow twitches. Barely. A ghost of an expression.

That’s all he needs.

Next day he brings a different flavor and gives you a full, tragic review:

“This one’s called Blue Lightning Deathstrike. I’m not saying I’ve licked a car battery before, but—”

Your lip almost curls. He sees it. Marks the victory down in his mental scoreboard with a gold star and a celebratory bag of chips.

You’re quiet. Withdrawn. Checked-out in a way that makes his chest tighten if he thinks too long on it. But Johnny MacTavish is not the kind of man who gives up.

You didn’t flinch when everything fell apart, sure.

But maybe you forgot how to feel.

So he makes it his job to remind you.

---

Some days, you don’t answer when he talks to you. You just give him these slow, tired glances like his words have to fight their way through fog just to reach you.

But he keeps talking anyway.

He tells you about the time he cut his mohawk crooked and had to pretend it was “a style choice” on a recon op.

Or how Ghost once fell asleep in a beanbag chair with his mask on sideways.

Or how he tried yoga once and ended up spraining his ego.

“You don’t have to talk,” he says one day, crouching next to your bench. “But you don’t have to be alone either, bonnie.”

Your throat works like maybe you’ll say something.

But you don’t.

Still. You don’t walk away.

He counts that as progress too.

---

The day you speak, it’s raining.

You’re both stuck under the little overhang near the barracks, him bouncing on his heels, you sitting silently with your knees pulled to your chest.

He’s rambling, as always. Voice warm. Scottish lilt soft, melodic. Like laughter under a quilt.

“Y’know, it’s weird how rain makes people feel clean,” he says. “When I was a kid, I thought maybe the sky cried for us when we couldn’t do it ourselves.”

You finally speak.

“…That’s stupid.”

Your voice is hoarse from disuse. Blunt. Barely above a whisper. But it slices through the quiet like lightning.

Johnny grins. Wide. Unbothered. “Aye, probably is.”

You stare at him, eyebrows drawn. “Why are you always talking to me?”

He shrugs. “’Cause you remind me of a cat. All quiet and bitey and half-feral. But I like cats.”

You blink. Your mouth twitches again. That almost-smile. Almost.

“You’re annoying,” you murmur.

“Consistently,” he agrees cheerfully.

And—for the first time in weeks—you smile.

---

He starts showing up at your door after that.

“Walk with me,” he says one morning, nudging a takeout cup of coffee into your hands. “We’ll go somewhere ugly and talk shit about it.”

Or:

“You look like you need to punch something. Want me to find Ghost and tell him you called him ‘Mr. Bean in a balaclava’?”

Or even:

“I’m not saying you should run away with me to open a flower shop in the Scottish Highlands, but I’ve got a business plan and I’m very persuasive.”

You never say yes. Not with words.

But your feet move. You show up. You follow. Every time.

---

The thing about Johnny is—he doesn’t try to fix you.

He doesn’t tell you to “cheer up.”

Doesn’t ask what’s wrong or push for answers.

He just stays.

He’s loud and warm and always within reach. A safe, solid kind of chaos. The fire that makes you want to come in from the cold.

You don’t know when the numbness starts to fade.

Only that one day you feel it again—the sharp pang of something. Like waking up with pins and needles after being still too long.

You cry. Not hard. Just a few tears sliding down your cheeks like they don’t know what they’re doing.

Johnny catches them with his thumbs, kneeling in front of you with eyes soft as rain.

“There she is,” he whispers, forehead brushing yours. “There’s my girl.”

You hiccup a laugh-sob. “I’m not yours.”

He leans in, gentle, unrushed. “You will be.”

And somehow, in the wreckage of your silence, in the weight of everything you’ve buried, you believe him.

Because if anyone could burn through your dark.

It’s Johnny MacTavish.

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thatone-girly · 3 months ago

Text

Girl!Dad Adonis…

tw! || mentions of stillbirth

From the moment you announced you were pregnant, everyone and their mothers claimed your child would be a fighter. Even when it was found out that she was a girl, it was said by everyone that she’d be a fighter just like her daddy.

You absolutely hated it.

Seeing the devastating effects boxing had on your husband, you didn’t want your child to even think about stepping into a ring. Hell, you barely wanted her to know her father was a boxer.

But even if you hated to admit it, your baby was a fighter.

She was a fighter from the moment she was born.

When she came into the world in silence, there was an immediate panic. You panicked, Adonis panicked, Both of your mothers panicked, everyone panicked. You constantly asking, “Why isn’t she crying?”, while crying yourself and getting no response from doctors only enhanced the chaos in the room.

Adonis, panicking himself while trying his best to console you quickly grew angry at the lack of answers. His already short fuse burned out quicker than normal as he bunched the shirt of the male nurse in his palm and yanked him toward his own angered frame asking, “What the fuck is goin’ on? You don’t hear my wife askin’ questions? Huh? Why my baby ain’t cryin’?”

You were too busy in distress to calm Adonis down as you normally would, so his mother took that task instead while your mother stepped in to take Adonis’ place consoling you.

Then finally, after the longest 45 seconds of your lives, your baby girl cried. It was the greatest sound ever heard.

The second he heard his baby cry, Adonis was wrapped around her little finger, and it only got worse when he was finally able to hold her nearly an hour after she was born.

He had always joked that she was gonna be the ultimate daddy’s girl, but you were 1000 percent sure now more than ever that revelation would come true. Especially after her birth scare.

You knew you were in from some trouble when her nonstop cries halted the moment she was placed in his arms. You could just tell he’d be a sucker for her when you saw the stream of tears fall from his eyes just by looking at her. And when you guys were finally able to go home, it was mommy who?

Adonis spoiled that girl rotten.

She was always in his arms, and when she wasn’t, she’d cry her little eyes out until she was cradled in his hold again.

You barely lifted a finger during the newborn stage.

When she needed to be fed and you were too tired to breastfeed, Adonis was quicker than lightning warming up her bottles. When she needed her diaper changed, he was on it faster than you could say diaper. Oh, and don’t let you try to get up in the middle of the night when she cried. That was the quickest way to get went off on.

“Lay down, woman. I got it.”, he would say.

It was no use trying to argue with him on the matter, and you weren’t complaining about getting rest, so you’d listen and lay back down.

Nothing changed as she got older. As she grew, so did their bond as father and daughter. His finger was her favorite teething ring when her first tooth began to come in. When she took her first steps, she was walking to him. Do I even have to tell you what her first word was?

He was her absolute favorite playmate, and she’d always go as far as she wanted with it because the word ‘no’ wasn’t even in his vocabulary when it came to her. She wanted him to wear a frog onesie? He was wearing a frog onesie. She wanted him to be the butler for her tea party? He was gonna drape that cloth around his arm and be her butler. She wanted him to be a ballerina? He was gonna put that damn tutu on and be a ballerina.

Him refusing to tell her no didn’t just stop at their play dates. She knew very early on that when mommy said no, daddy would say yes with no hesitation, they just couldn’t let you find out. When she wanted sweets before dinner and you said no, all she had to do was give Adonis those puppy dog eyes and as soon as you turned your back, he’d slip her a piece of candy. You say no to ice cream after bed time? Adonis is slipping out of bed as soon as soon as you fall asleep to sneak his baby girl a bowl of ice cream.

The two were inseparable. You thought you would be a mess on her first day of school? Adonis put you to shame. He held himself together on the way to drop her off, but on the way back home, he was a mess. You would’ve thought she was never coming home the way he was acting.

That whole day, he watched the clock like a hawk waiting for it to strike 2 o’clock. When it finally did, Adonis basically dragged you out of the house to go and get his baby. He nearly cried again when he saw her walking out of the school smiling from ear to ear while conversing with the little curly head boy to the left of her. You had to remind him many times that the little boy was just a kid and he and your daughter were only friends since they’d just met that day, but Adonis wasn’t trying to hear any of that.

“Hell nah. Who is that lil’ nigga?”, he stressed.

Yet, all of that was set aside when she saw her father for the first time in hours. She’d forgotten all about her new friend and ran straight to her daddy.

You rolled your eyes, but inside, your heart softened.

Because as much as you hated the idea of your daughter ever stepping into a ring like her father, you had to admit—she really was a fighter.

Just not the kind everyone expected.

She fought with love. With her daddy’s heart wrapped around her tiny little finger, and a spirit strong enough to tame the fiercest man you knew.

And in her own way, that made her the toughest Creed of them all.

#-thatonegirly #michael b jordan #creed #creed ii #creed iii #adonis creed #adonis creed x black!reader #ryan coogler

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horny-marbles · 3 months ago

Text

Thunderstruck (Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader)

CW: angst with no comfort, yearning, explicit mentions of cannibalism, death. seriously, big tw for being cannibalized.

word count 3.6k

The storm rolled in like a sickness, low and humming, gravid with thunder, thick with the stench of ozone and rotting leaves. He felt it before it came, days before, like a pressure building behind his temples. The forest went still. Birds vanished. Even the wind held its breath. And when it hit, it hit all at once, sheets of rain so heavy it drowned the world, lightning splitting the sky like bone under blade, and the sound. God, the fucking sound.

To you, it was weather. A nuisance. Maybe something to watch from your porch, barefoot and alone, ash flicked from a cigarette with your mouth parted in thought.

To him, it was pain.

Eyeless Jack, they called him. A name like a warning. But in moments like this, when the storm screamed through the trees and every raindrop was a hammer on his skull, there was nothing monstrous in him - only a creature driven half mad by sensation, caught between instinct and what was left of a man.

He found your house the way animals find water. Not by sight, not even by smell - but by some pull. Something quiet and still nestled at the forest’s edge, distant enough that the trees thinned and the fields stretched out wide and yellow under a bruised sky. One window lit. The shape of you moving inside - soft, unaware.

That night, he stumbled through the woods like an injured thing, soaked to the bone, shaking with a rage that wasn’t his. The noise, sharp and layered, the shriek of wind, the squelch of mud, the echo of thunder like teeth grinding - it burrowed deep. He couldn’t outpace it. Couldn’t drown it. It clawed at his nerves until he was twitching, growling under his breath, digging claws into bark and wishing, for the thousandth time, that he could feel the peace of death instead of this.

He watched for a long time. Too long. Let the rain soak him, let the cold dig into what little patience he had left. You were nothing like the others - those he stalked, those he fed on. There was something wrong in your stillness. Something familiar.

So he knocked.

Once.

A soft rap. Not meant to scare. Just… be heard.

He saw you startle. Saw the way your eyes widened, hand jerking back from the curtain like it burned you. Fear. A healthy reaction. You didn’t open the door. Not at first. But you looked. You met him, through glass and shadow, and you didn’t run.

And when you finally cracked that door open, metal bat heavy in your arms and voice tight with suspicion, he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, rain dripping from his hood, tar diluted by the water trailing down the neck of his hoodie, and said nothing.

He didn’t need to. You let him in. You let him in.

The first time, it was survival.

The second time, you cursed under your breath but unlatched the door anyway.

The third, you asked if the thunder really bothered him that much. He didn’t answer, but he stayed a little longer.

It didn’t storm much after that.

By the fifth, you were already making tea when he knocked. Even if he always refused it.

Oh, the skies still wept now and then, sure - gentle drizzles that barely whispered against the windows, the kind of rain that came and went like a sigh—but the thunder stayed away. It was as if the sky had tired itself out, or maybe just lost interest. Maybe it was all a sign that once the clouds pulled back, Jack should have as well.

But he kept coming.

He never knocked loud. Never said a word. Just stood there, dripping and wordless, and waited. Sometimes you heard him before you saw him - boots slapping in puddles, the softest hum of breath muffled behind his mask. And every time, you opened the door without a word. It wasn’t ritual anymore. It was instinct.

He never touched you. Never got too close. But he’d sit in the same spots, crouched by the fireplace or half-curled in your beat down chairs like some feral dog with too much pride to rest easy - and he’d observe. Not in a hungry way. Not even curious. Just… present.

And you started talking.

Little things at first. Weather. Work. Whatever lonely scraps you could toss into the silence to fill it. He never replied. But you knew he was listening. You could feel it in the room, that sort of electric weight. The way he angled his head. The way he didn’t leave.

And maybe it was pathetic. Maybe it was reckless. But you started waiting for him.

The moment the sky turned gray, your breath caught. The moment wind picked up, your pulse tripped. You’d curse yourself, call yourself every brand of fool, but you still left the porch light on. Still left the kettle full. Still found yourself cleaning up before dusk, brushing your hair back like it mattered.

He wasn’t beautiful. He wasn’t even human. But he saw you. Without the gift of seeing, he knew you better than most. Better than any.

And somewhere between the fifth visit and the tenth, he started sitting a little closer.

He still never spoke. But he stayed longer. Sometimes past dawn, tucked in the far corner like he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to see the sky turn. And sometimes, when you slept, he watched you with something close to reverence. Not lust. Not appetite. Just an eerie, aching kind of silence that only the damned know. A silence shaped like want.

He hadn’t known comfort in years. Hadn’t known softness. You were neither safe nor foolish, but you were kind, and that was worse. That was a knife to the ribs.

Because you didn’t know what he was. Not really.

So one night, he didn’t come.

You hadn’t seen him feed. Hadn’t smelled blood baked into his claws, hadn’t heard the sounds he made in the dark when the hunger clawed up his throat. You saw him as a man - not the monster, not the rot under the mask. And that illusion was dangerous. Dangerous for you.

No knock. No shadow at the tree line. No rain, even.

You waited, pacing. Told yourself you weren’t, but you did. Told yourself you didn’t care, but you did. Every creak outside made your heart punch the back of your teeth. Every gust of wind made you hope.

But he never came back.

And the ache started slow. Like a bruise. Like something you could ignore if you stayed busy enough, kept the lights on, didn’t let yourself think. But it bloomed, as all wounds do. Grew teeth. You caught yourself setting two mugs out anyway. You flinched every time a shadow passed your window. You slept with the porch light on. For months.

And worst of all- you missed him.

Not just the shape of him, the physical presence. You missed the weight of him in your house. The comfort in that silence. The strange, awful calm that came from knowing someone else saw you and didn’t flinch.

And you hated yourself for it.

He was never yours. He was never anything. Just a feral thing seeking shelter. A ghost with a body. You were stupid to believe otherwise. Stupid to feel something.

But it didn’t stop you from aching. From longing in the quiet. From waking up in the middle of the night, sure that you’d heard a knock that never came.

You told yourself it was better this way.

Jack told himself the same.

He was in the woods again. Alone. Claws bloodied from something he didn’t want to think too hard of, crouched under blackened trees with wind howling like a dirge through dead leaves. He’d left because he had to. Because you didn’t deserve the kind of ruin he brought with him. He was not a man. He was hunger in a mask. A myth with meat. He was wrong.

And he’d stayed too long. Let the silence get too comfortable. Let you matter.

And now, it burned.

He'd curl in on himself as the sky turned again- gray, bloated, distant thunder pressing against the far horizon - and he wouldn't move.

Wouldn't knock. For years.

It had been years.

The ache dulled over time - not gone, just buried under new weight, packed down like wet soil. It was easier now. You didn’t check the window anymore. Didn’t linger by the door when the clouds rolled in. Your mind stopped rolling back like a broken record to the thought of the warmth a creature so cold could exude without even trying.

And maybe that was healing. Maybe that was love.

They were good to you, the one who came after. Soft where the last had been silent, warm where the other had been hollow. They laughed. They touched. They made space in their life for you, and you took it without guilt. Without shame. Because that chapter had ended, hadn’t it?

It rained that night, when your partner had kept you company for the hundredth time; but you didn’t flinch at the sound of it. You just watched them pull on their coat, kiss your temple, and slip out the door with a joke about driving safe in the wet. You shut the door behind them. Locked it.

The storm had muscle to it - fat thunderheads rolling in from the horizon like bruises, a downpour that hit the roof in rhythmic sheets. You lit a candle. Sat down. Let your mind drift.

Knock.

Your spine went rigid.

Not a bang. Not a pounding. Just a soft, deliberate knock. Three taps. Measured. Familiar.

Your heart stopped, then restarted in a panic.

You didn’t want to move. Every part of you screamed no. But your body knew better. Knew the rhythm. Knew the echo of it in your marrow. So you stood. One step. Another. Closer to the window with every breath tightening in your throat.

And there he was.

Shadowed by the rain, taller than you remember, broader, ruined. Not monstrous, no - still eerily still, still masked, but broken in a way you’d never seen before. He was hunched. Shaking. Bloodied at the edges like he’d been peeled open and barely stitched back together.

And it felt like the sky caved in. Like something ancient in you split. Not fresh pain - older, deeper. A scar ripped back open to reveal a wound that never really healed. Like time folded in on itself and all the years you spent forgetting never happened at all.

You opened the door.

Of course you did.

You were older now, smarter, not lonely in the way you were, but none of that fucking mattered. Because his name was still carved under your ribs in places love hadn’t touched.

He stepped inside like he didn’t want to. Like he hoped the rain would swallow him whole before you answered. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stood in the entryway with his head bowed, dripping, trembling, barely upright.

Then, “I didn’t want to come here.”

His voice was gravel, like it had been dragged over a road. Like it hadn’t been used in years. It cracked in the middle, low and foreign and heartbreakingly familiar.

“I hoped you wouldn’t open the door.”

You didn’t ask why. Not yet. You just stood there, watching him fall apart at the edges.

“I can’t... hunt right now. I-”

His breath hitched. Not dramatic. Not for show. Just a quiet little fracture.

“I’m starving.”

You swallowed. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just... I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your chest ached. Burned. Because this was so much worse than silence. Worse than the years of wondering, of aching, of trying to patch yourself up with someone else’s love. Because here he was, back, broken, bleeding, and you were still soft for him in places you thought were dead, in spots where the placeholder couldn't reach.

He was still hunger. Still horror. Still a thing that should’ve never had a place in your life. But he came back because he had no one else. And you let him in. You let him in. Because you never stopped being the fool who would.

He stood in your doorway, trembling, and you couldn’t tell if he was going to collapse or kill.

And outside, the rain came harder. The wind howled. The storm had found its teeth again.

And you... You stood still in its center, with a monster at your threshold and love cooling like ash in your hands, when you should’ve screamed.

When you should’ve fought. Should’ve begged. Should’ve called someone, anyone. But your phone stayed facedown on the counter. The front door stayed locked. And your mouth stayed shut.

You just turned, and started walking where your gut carried you.

Each step down the hallway felt like a toll. Your legs were rubber. Chest tight. Breaths shallow, high in your throat. It felt like you were floating outside yourself - watching someone else shuffle toward the end of the world, watched a body you used to call yours surrender without a word.

You didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. You could feel him behind you.

Not looming, no. Not hunting. He followed like a shadow that ached to detach itself. You heard the weight of his steps. The pause when you hesitated. The sick hush in the house, where even the storm seemed to stutter. He was shaking. Barely held together.

And still - still - it hurt more knowing he was here because he had no other choice, than it did to know he was going to kill you.

Your bedroom door creaked open like it knew what was coming.

You walked in. Climbed onto the mattress like it was a pyre. The sheets still warm from earlier, from love that tasted clean. And still, you laid back and opened yourself to death like a prayer.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You turned your face into the pillow, tucked it close like a secret, like a shield, and let your body go slack.

And he didn’t move.

He stood at the foot of your bed like he was staring at a crime scene. Like he was watching the shape of something holy unmake itself. You didn’t say take me. You didn’t have to.

He shook. Not with hunger. Not with desperation. With something deeper, something worse. Like grief. Like fury. Like he wanted to rip the meat off his own bones before he touched yours.

And still, he climbed onto the bed, pulled by his own instincts, his own curse.

Cautious. Slow. As if you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

He hovered over you, not touching. Breathing hard, a tremor in every exhale. He was shaking so violently now you could feel it in the mattress. Could feel the war he waged inside himself as he knelt at your altar. Famished. Dying. Mourning.

“I didn’t think-” he rasped, voice ruined, wet and breaking. “I didn’t think you’d just...”

He trailed off, because what was there to say?

He didn’t think you’d let him. Didn’t think you’d give your last breath to his lungs. Didn’t think you’d protect him even now - face buried, muffling the sounds he knew would come, sounds he knew would alert anyone in a 5 mile radius. The screams. The sobs. The end.

He reached out with hands that had carved countless bodies. Stained things. Steady, usually. Surgical. But they shook when they hovered over your spine. When he placed them, finally, onto your back - barely a touch. Barely there at all.

You flinched.

A breath caught in his throat. Not hunger, not lust. Not even instinct.

Grief. Rage. Self-hatred deep enough to drown in.

His mask was inches from your shoulder. The tar from its sockets dripped to your shirt like black blood, spreading like a plague into the cotton, tainting. He shook so hard it looked like seizures. Like his own body was rejecting the choice he was trying to make.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”

But still, no explanation. No why, because he knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

You sobbed. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a sound like a child makes when no one’s there to hear. And he almost - almost - pulled away.

But he didn’t. He was starving. He's been starving. And the thing he hated most was that you were still warm beneath his hands, and that he was too fucking weak to stop.

And you shook. Not just because of the fear - not just because you knew what came next. Not just because you were preparing to die.

You were already crying - quiet, gutted, shaking into the pillow like it could hide your shame, your grief, your fear - but the second his hands met your skin, something broke open deep and wide. Your shirt had ridden up on your back when you lay in your coffin like it wanted to give him room, like your body was betraying you too, baring the spine like an offering. A silent go on then.

But because this was the first time he had ever touched you.

The first time.

After all the nights. After all the storms. After all the quiet, after all the longing - he had never laid a hand on you.

Not until he came back to kill you.

The sob that dragged from your lungs sounded like something feral. Like a thing birthed in a place too old and deep to name. Like your soul cracked along the middle.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He took his mask off with trembling hands.

You didn’t see it, couldn't even if you wanted to, eyes blurred with tears soaking into the pillows - but you heard the shuffle of plastic being set down next to you, the breath he sucked in like a man about to drown.

And then, claws. A promise veiled by regret. They found your spine slow, reverent, wracked by tremors. Like he was still hoping the storm would reach through the windows and drag him out, or that maybe - maybe - you would change your mind. Tell him to stop. Tell him to go fuck himself.

You didn’t.

You stayed still.

And so he began.

The first puncture made you convulse, every nerve in your back lighting up with fire, with horror, with the kind of pain that doesn’t even feel real at first. The claws sank in, slow, hesitant, dragging heat and pressure and punishment down through your muscles, through fascia, through tissue that spasmed helplessly under his hands.

Then, he ripped. All of him, through you.

The scream that tore out of you was not a sound meant for the living. It was a godless thing. A wail fit for war. Fit for birth or death or something between. It didn’t sound human - it sounded like metal screaming. Like the sky splitting open. Like Hell remembering you by name.

Pain poured through your body like liquid metal. Fire licking your ribs, lightning clawing up your spine, agony blooming like red poppies behind your eyes. You bit the pillow, choked on it, muffled yourself because you still, still couldn’t bear to give him away. Still tried to protect him.

But your screams came anyway. Ripping your throat raw, because he had hit bone. And still he kept going.

Tearing muscle from sinew. Peeling you open like a fruit. You were ribbons. Strings. Wet sound and raw breath. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore - it was so much more than that. It was everything. It was teeth and nails and molten grief and centuries of guilt all poured into your back as he pulled you apart.

And all the while, he fucking sobbed.

Above you, over you, shaking so hard the flaps of flesh opening you up to death were recoiling. Retching around the meat he stuffed into his mouth like he couldn't survive this one last betrayal. Like he tasted you, like he tasted every storm, every silence, every stupid, aching kindness you ever showed him in every fiber he devoured.

He cried harder than you did.

Tearless howls of torment, breath a mess of spit and blood and sorrow. He gagged. He growled. He choked and chewed and begged some invisible thing to stop this. He hated it. Hated you for letting him. Hated himself for needing you. For coming back. For feeling.

You were dying. Your body was light. Gone. Pain turning to fog at the edges. Your limbs went numb. Your breath thinned. Your wails became groans. Croaks. Soft, pathetic little animal sounds.

The thunder mourned with you.

It roared like God had died too. Like the sky had slit its own throat in grief. Outside, the rain sobbed down the windows as if it could cover the wet squelch of meat and teeth, the slow suck of blood in sheets, the snap of ribs peeling away. The storm swallowed everything.

And still he fed.

Not fast. Not wild. But slow. Controlled. Sick. Like a priest taking communion he didn’t believe in anymore.

And in the end...

You died not knowing why he ever returned, time and time again.

Not knowing why he ever left.

Not knowing why, after all that time, he came back just to end you.

You died still not knowing if he ever felt anything at all.

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punk-in-docs · 7 months ago

Text

A song of broken skin and fated lovers: part V

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 7.1k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V —

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! There’s some description of wounds and if you squint some dub con. Proceed daintily loves-

It seemed your dreams were the only place you could reliably escape too. The only plain you’d find any peace.

You picture the hill before your home. Every night away from home you dreamt you’d be walking up it. Feeling the dappled shade of olive trees curling above on your skin. Passing along your back in freckles. Dotted light, spots of shade interspersed.

Your soft skirt swishing around bare calves. The creak of your sandals meeting the dusty road. The one that kinks and bends and shows you that endless glimpse of searing ocean waiting just beyond. Aegean water. Sage fields. Boundless heavens.

You remember these fields. You played in them as a child. The ones that thrash with soft grasses. Ruffled by salty sea air. You can hear your sisters laughter brushing along to you like sweet blossom petals garnished on the wind. Sweet and calming. Crushed honeycomb and milk.

A sound as familiar and as comforting to you as their calls and voices that make the shape of your name.

Every night in your dreams you walk up this hill.

Every night you come home.

You can see them - your sisters - on the winding ribbon of the road ahead. Running out the front door of the house. Tullia with her dress flying behind her. Ever decorous eldest. Calling to Diana, with her hair falling in waves and telling her younger sister that ladies don’t run. Diana isn’t listening she’s too joyous. Too forthright to pay attention.

And Ceres. Sweet little Ceres sprints for your arms. Gap toothed grin. Clutching her cloth doll. Skirts held past her knees, she runs for you.

You can see mother in her dark plum linen stola. Gold jewellery on her neck and dangling from her ears. She lingers in the shade of the the hallway. Her dark wavy hair shot through with a fierce bolt of silver - lightning struck - at her temples. Radiant. As she watched from the door with a smile at their graceless display.

Her smile wide and brilliant, you always thought so, exactly as you remember it, as crows feet sit by her eyes. Emboldened and etched deep with her mirth. Hers is a face that has seen years of sun and sea spray. Made serene as placid waters by it. She is tanned and weathered elegantly by decades of watching sunshine bouncing like rows of diamonds off the sea. Salt and sea foam as hemmed in her blood as it is in yours.

You run to them - crying and wailing - feet slapping the dirt and dust, and you’re aching, legs burning, lungs aflame and you won’t stop. Calling their names til your throat is as dry as the dust below your feet.

Then the sun is too bright. It’s too far and you can’t see them. They can’t hear you. Swallowed from your grasp.

There’s just blinding light engulfing them just out of reach of your scraping fingertips. It’s like brushing grains of sand. It tumbles away before it grows into actuality. Your fingers brush empty air as your whole being lurches and mourns.

You jolt awake, body clammy and sheened in sweat. Eyes snapping open as you jerk upwards in the cover of fine smooth sheets. You feel your hair slip over your naked shoulders. Jewels and gold still around your neck. Sunshine blares harshly at your crusted eyes.

Aches and pains come swimming back to you in sharp degrees. Bruises on your neck and your hips. Fading to ugly yellow black already. Bite marks ring your collarbones and the meat of your shoulders.

Out the window you can hear a bustling city. The clamour of crowds. Hot sun baked dirt and filth. Bells peeling from temples. Servants scurrying in the courtyards below and beyond. Horses baying in the streets.

You smear sleep from your eyes, twisting over in the huge slab of a bed to see the sheets behind you are still filled.

Geta slumbers on golden pillows under the same sheets as you. On his back with bis face turned to the sun. Arm slung over his belly. The thin sheets stick to the climes and outlines of his body. His stomach. Thighs. Hips. The heavy bulge between his legs.

His expression seems almost gentle in his rest. Pillowy lips and dark lashes kissing onto his cheeks. Kohl still smeared on his eyes from yesterday. Naked same as you, save for golden decorations, jewelled rings…

A wedding ring. Matching bands. That’s the weight that comes crashing down on you so fiercely.

Acid bile claws it way up your throat when you shift your legs. Finding the edge of the bed with a breathy sigh. The stickiness between your legs and dried around your cunt doesn’t bear thinking about. You screw your eyes shut so as not to think about it.

Stirring silk. Rustles from behind you.

“Where do you think you’re going wife?” Comes a sleepy drawl across the pillows and sheets. Slithering across to you. Husky from his slumber.

You swallow and twist your head over your shoulder. Hair matted and twined close from sleep. Bite marks wedged deep in your back and neck throb as you move.

His eyes are lidded heavy but their burning gaze rests on you. Branding like a hot knife. White hot from the fire. You’re beginning to think that gaze of his always will.

“I’m not used to having my bed filled in the mornings. The kind of company I’m used to promptly leaves after the pleasuring is done.” He explains. Inflection of lust in his tone. He smirks with it. Wide and filthy.

Now he has a little plaything to trap into his bed whenever he feels like it. An ornament he can use and decorate his already gilded arm, and bring out to inspire envy in all peoples of Rome.

You pause where you sit on the bed. Caught.

“I wanted to fetch some water.” You grovel. Voice scraping raw. Throat feeling full of sharp rocks when you speak.

His eyes harden. Laychromose, but deepening with his anger. The way he slips into intimidation if he doesn’t immediately get what he wants. The way he snaps his fingers and has this world uncurl and offer itself up to his desires. That too must apply to you. Your role now was obedience in all things.

Bend and break and mould yourself for your husband, little nymph.

“You may… when your emperor is finished with you.” He plays and toys with your emotions at his whims. Eyes intently gazing at you. His words come with a bladed meaning.

“Come here-“ He orders. Voice softer but the command cuts straight to your spine. Arrowhead sharp. Studs deep.

You curl back into the bed. Back stiff. Trying not to wince at the cuts which burn and tear at your skin. You feel the pull and tug of barely closed wounds. His teeth had drawn blood. You feel the congealing wound at your back shift. The scab lifting. A bead of blood rolls over down your shoulder blade.

He notices. Shifts on his side behind you. Curls a hand to the hill of your hip. Catches that drip of blood with his lips. Savours it. Sea foam flavour of you bedded on his tongue.

The warm stinging path of his tongue on your back takes your mind back to what happened in these sheets hours previous.

How he’d pushed your thighs, widened your legs, opened the bowl of your pelvis and drunk from you. Showed you the various ways a man can please his lover with tongue, lips and hungry teeth.

He’d done it til you shivered and begged. Tried to writhe away. He meanly tugged you back where you belonged, bullied you, recaptured in the cradle of his hands, and did it again. Smirked when you asked for clemency.

“I warned you I was without mercy, Salacia.” He’d leered. His smirking lips and sharp teeth shining with you as he smeared his warm nose against your thigh. Slaked in the taste of you from chin to cheek. Makeup running under his Umbrian eyes. Panting like a beast to your skin and because of the scent he finds synonymous with you. Lemons and salt.

He hovers behind you now. Hands sliding for your waist. Chin on your shoulder. Breath tainted copper. Pressing his lips to bruises and tender spots. You were right. He had to achieve to sting of pain in order to feel something.

He dips his mouth to your neck again. Lapping and nursing a new bruise near an already painful one. Layering pain on pain.

His hand slips lower for your thigh. Warm stones in each of his fingers foreign and hard as he slips his hand between the soft of your legs again.

He’d moaned when you’d grabbed his hair or left nail marks in his large arms and shoulders. He liked that he could draw an emotion out of you. Even if it was overstimulation or desire. He’ll match and meet you in either. As he so wishes.

He’s pleased to find you tacky with the remnants of him from the previous evening. “A fine fruitful offering for your beautiful cunt my wife.” He purrs. Fingers delving deeper to your sex. Rings nearly an unwelcome sensation. “In time mayhaps the gods will bless us.”

Hallowed Saint. Hallowed fate. Bestowed by the gods, he says.

You’d say it was more akin to downfall. Curses and ill fate. Tantalus and his fruit. Medusa and her coiled snakes. Actaeons fateful stag.

He noses onto your jawbone. Fascinated by the scent of you still. Smothered all over these sheets. It grew stronger the longer he was near you. In his sleep it smothered his mind, his every second. Lemons, salt, and you-

He loses himself, mouthing to your neck and into the wild nest of your hair. He inhaled you. Drank the essence of you like a starving peasant. Hungry greedy hands.

“What is about that scent of yours that drives me wild? What is it?” He seeks. Almost angry in his demands.

“Lemon oil. For my hair.” You explain weakly as he plucks and grabs at you.

Descending into lustful madness. He catches the ripe berry of your clit with his rings and it makes you gasp. Bucking back to his chest. He likes that. When a little of your feral reaction to his touch makes you buck and lose your usually placid control. The man is taunting the seas and welcoming in a storm.

“Use it. Always.” He ordered huskily, Huffing as your hair sticks to his lips. Melding with the salt of ocean that he now understands beats through your skin and veins.

He would order ten thousand lemon trees to be bought here just for your use.So he can kiss your shoulders and your skin and always find it brimming with the bright note of that yellow fruit.

A small surrendering of your body as you arch back to him. Having pleased him brings something forth in you: something that eases. His pleasure allows you to relax the stiffness of your spine. Lower your guard.

He tugs your hair out the path of his lips. Delights in the evidence he found of his teeth all over your neck. His claim was skin deep. And he soon hoped it would be even deeper.

You are tugged back to the bed so his hands can wander all over you again. Your back curled to his chest as he lays you on your side. His hand sliding for your thigh to widen you open for him. Behind your hips you feel the hard length of him. He guides himself to you and your breath gets punched out of you as he pushes inside.

He pushes your leg open further to move to you deeper. He delights in finding evidence of your restless wedding night squelching deep inside your cunt. Throws his head back and groans with it.

He moulds his body to yours. Tacky skin. Warm cotton sheets kicked down the bed. Ringed metal and sharp jewels on every finger gripping the fat of your leg tight until he’s sure he’d left marks. Holding you open so he can plunge inside.

Your hand finds his where he crushed one breast in a grip so tight it makes tears spring to your eyes. Melding with the pleasure you cannot deny coming forth as he moves his hips to you so fiercely, your skin smacks where you meet.

Despite the sting of pain from being so overused, to way his fingers reach down to knowingly pinch and caress your clit where you’re spread open around him, makes wordless cries come out your throat. You clutch into the sheets and grit your teeth. His breath muggy hot against your neck. His hair a mess. Golden and fiery. Like stomped down wheat stalks at sunset. A lazy Bacchusian god.

“Let your husband hear you.” He encourages. Your moans and sweet as rare wine. Inbetween sucking and biting your neck. Asking for your sounds of ecstasy like he deserves them. A holy offering that praises him and washes away all sin.

“I don’t think you are goddess of the sea my love. With a cunt this sweet and tight? I think you must be a fertility goddess instead.” He proposes into your ear through harsh chuffs for breath.

“So tight. So fucking Intoxicating” he huffs. Cupping your tits and still moving to you as harshly and deep as he’s able.

He makes sure your breath cannot come as you steal his. A warm sweaty palm on your chin twists your head back to his. He anoints your lips with a messy kiss that echoes with the ghost of last nights wine and the tang of salt from between your legs. His tongue licks over your teeth. He drags every part of you up for devouring.

A commotion over by the door takes your mortified eyes over.

You see Aeliana and some of her maids coming in. When they see you both naked in the bed with Geta thrusting into you like a madman, you watch her eyes blow wide with shame. Head bowing. Arms laden with todays gown for you to wear. She halts the girls by her side.

Geta doesn’t even spare them a look. They are below his divine notice. He manages to lever his mouth off yours for a mere few seconds, to bark his orders and send them scurrying.

“Get out.” He shrieks. Voice ringing through you with the harshness of the sudden shout.

You twist your head into the sweat slicked pillow. Ashamed that they’d even just glimpsed you being used so.

His spit drying on your chin. His hand possessively cupping your cunt again as he fucked you so deeply, something tender within your pelvis had you nearly wailing.

His mouth goes to your neck again. His pace growing faster and faster. Sloppier. Noises of your sex only increasing. His hold on you is so intense it’s an ache. His fingers trailing through your curls and your folds to find that spot that will surrender you entirely to him.

He rears up behind you. Skin glued with heat to yours. He grabs you close as if you’ll fade under his fingertips like smoke. Hips hammering as he reached his pleasure. Yours came snapping down on him not long after.

That telltale tip and then the surge of ecstasy that broke through you. Cunt snapping down right around his cock as you came in shudders. Pulsing through you as his spend burst deep into you. Exactly where he wanted it. Wave after wave of pleasure. You let it take you. Little else you could do. Your strength to fight had turned stone cold.

You laid against him in cooling sheets. Listening to his chasing breath behind you. Feeling the wet and heat between your legs twofold. His sweat drips onto your back. Smeared as he laps at your neck. Fresh bruises and teeth indents are more raw than before.

You can barely notice. You’re more taken with the way your pussy squishes as he pulls free. The hot rush of his spend.

Hot breath comes over your ear again. You shudder and you’re not entirely sure it’s of pleasure. His lips kiss to your jaw and cheek. All this sweat and sex soaked skin. and still he finds lemons in your taste when he kisses you.

“Shall I have the maid fetch you water?” He seeks.

“I shall do it.” You shrink down with sex flushed cheeks. Pushing away from the bed with a wince. Hair draping down your back as you take a smooth sheet from the bed with you. Padding to the side. Hips swaying under the cotton. Your pelvis and thighs feel tender and aching - low and bone deep like sun burn - as you move to the amphora and goblets you’d used last night.

He sits on his elbows to watch you. Uncovered, cock laying soft against his thigh. His thighs and groin sticky-wet with evidence of your joining. Unabashed as to his naked state.

His eyes are hungry and you certainly give him a feast to watch. Clad in sunshine from the great maw of the window. Skin littered with violent red and purple marks in odes to his ownership of you. The smeared blood from bites at your back that he’d licked away.

You stand at the side. Laying your hands flat to the table where the jug stood. You found you didn’t reach for it right away. You looked at the very unfamiliar sight of the wedding band in your finger. The gold surrounded by the two dog heads fighting over the sapphire. A helpless jewel caught in between rabid teeth. How fitting.

Your shaking hands pour clear water into a cup and you drink it all quickly. The taste of metal and sleep fading from your tongue.

Bare feet padding the floor come behind you. The rustle of a fine robe. The red and gold one. He’s barely bothered to tie it closed around his chest.

“I must go and ready for the day. Loathe as I am to depart your blissful company.” He says. His hand slipping round the back of your neck. Bringing you in. Tasting the new wetness on your tongue as he kisses you. You muffle a moan to his lips as he possesses you in a kiss again. Squeak a little as he pulls away.

You don’t know what else there is to say.

Enjoy your gilded cage, little nymph. It’s all you’ll know from now on.

“Wear jewels and something pretty. I’ll come find you later. Wife.” He promises with a salacious smirk. Eyes you up and down like he wants to tear that sheet off and bend you over the lectus here and now. Smack the fat of your ass and claim you again.

A dark smile aimed your way. A thumb on your chin to bring you in for one more lippy kiss. And he’s off - stalking toward the doors. A lascivious look shot your way as he turns away.

You say nothing. You feel nothing. Nothing except for empty hollow rage that shakes through you. Pounds at the bony trap your ribs. Enough for you to shiver even in the warm morning air.

You feel scraped through. Brittle like fraying rope. He’s taken you from your home. Exiled your father. Forced shame upon your family. Killed your brother. Pushed his twisted lust upon you, and now expects you to react as if it’s dressed up in love.

You floated into his life like a midsummer’s night breeze. And he found you breathtaking, enchanting. Now he had you he wanted to cup you close. Seal you to his skin with his nose buried in the crown of your head whilst crowing mine mine mine.

He was in two minds of what to do with you. Cherish you, love you, pour crimson rose petals before your steps. On the other hand, he only knew violence when it came to love and to lust. He wanted to break you apart piece-by-piece like dry clay. Tear at you like those tigers in the coliseum and see what’s left.

He’s never known what to do with his things when it comes to love. Maybe he didn’t even know it at all. Only knew how to demand and take. Never to please or to give. He’s never had too.

And now he expects mightily. For you to sit pretty and wear jewels, rings, gold, and fine stolas. Support his every shrieked command. You must learn to sew your mouth shut and keep your opinions tamed back behind that same silent closure of thread.

An Empresses role was silence. How your soul quakes with that new pain.

The huge doors rattle again. The exit of the Emperor meant the maids were safe to come tend you.

Aeliana walks towards you. You raise your eyes to hers. Wet and wide. Tears on the quivering brink of your lashes.

She is unable to hide the noticeable switch of shock in her expression, when she sees the wounds you’d been saddled with. Teeth marks and bruises. Like you’re a slab of meat and not a cherished spouse.

She cannot fathom how you have more cuts for her to soothe balm on after your wedding night.

“Let’s get you to the baths, Empress.” She soothes. Opens her arm. Encouraged you to follow. She tries a bolstering smile but you both know it’s fragile. Her husky voice is the only kind thing you fear you’ll ever hear in this rotten place.

You nod. Swallow. Stand tall and let her manoeuvre you.

You can allow some tears to slip free when you’re in the water. Then you must banish your feelings. The maids must strap finery and silks onto your body again and truss you up in this farce. You steel every last splitting nerve whilst you can. Tamp them down. Gather the ragged ends up and soothe them. Clutch tight.

Naked, you wade down the steps and sink under the surface of the huge bath.

You’re tempted to not come up for air again. The water lulling you in its cradling warmth like an old familiar companion. As if a siren that you let drag you down. Plunge headlong into waves and succumb.

Unlike Odysseus, you don’t have the strength to fight its pull.

The bite on your shoulder turns the water clouded and rusty.

One salient thought gives you solace as the world around you grows numbs to your ears.

Atleast he drank deeply from the lies you’d fed.

Many sun and moons had set since your wedding night. Time marches its onward parade in the beautifully rotten imperial palace.

Geta and Caracalla were summoned to a Imperial Consul with the senators. To discuss the matters of their particular wish to expand the Roman empire to Persia and India. And possibly beyond that. They held Rome and all her starving subjects in a gold fisted vice. Refused to relent like a bratty child clutching a beloved toy. One that they would rather break to splinters in their grasp than see it enjoyed by someone else.

That was not the way of the gods, after all. It was their damn birthright.

They both slouch in their sloping marble carved chairs, in front of the rows of Senators, as the magistrate drones through the Verba fecit. Then they would read the protocols to address problems within the city.

Geta is not attempting to look amused or even mildly interested.

He slurps at a golden goblet of dark wine. A scowl like rolling thunder on his face. Dark eyes smouldering at any old senator who dares contest his gaze. Garbed in gold with rings on every finger. His black and gold silken robes folded in his lap, spilling to the ground.

Caracalla appears more interested in feeding grapes to Dondus. His manic grin shining. Gold tooth glittering in the half dim as he laughs. His creatures chirps and shrieks accompany the low drone of the voices rolling around the great marble room. Bounding off the pillars and echoing back.

Geta ground his jaw tight as he flickered a look to the side and caught sight of the very thing that had begun to vex him from the second he stepped into these chambers. Set far back behind him. Amongst the senators seats.

Your cushioned lectus remained vacant.

He grips his wine goblet too tight. fingers strangling the stem. His attention was brought back to the room as Senator Thraex cleared his throat. Summoning back his attention.

“… I would also like to wish you joy on your recent union. Caesar…. You have bestowed a fine and fair Empress onto Rome and her peoples…”

Geta narrows his eyes at the man. Coaxing out the rest sharply. Or else.

“Yet I cannot help but notice It has been four moons now since the Empress graced us with her presence here at counsel…. I do wonder if all is well. As Rome does deserve the full compliments of its masters here to guide us.”

Geta ground his teeth around an answer. The room throbs in the heady silence as he glares. Punctuated only by the monkeys chitters and the shuffling of Senators gazing at each other in arch amusement as to the meaning of the levied comment.

“The Empress is occupied elsewhere at present. I should hope you are not suggesting me and my brother are lacking in our duties in any way. Senator.” He replies curtly. Eyes thunder heavy and dragging over the dry old man. Umbrian danger.

“Of course not. Sire.” Thraex replied. Seeming unimpressed with the answer. “If you’ll permit me I should like to discuss the issue within the city of what is to be done of taxes within the Porta Capena quarter…”

Geta sunk into his cup again as the Senators droned on. His mood plunged below foul. Jaw tight. He turned to look at the lectus again. Venom in his blood at your absence.

When counsel finished. He stormed from his seat without another word. Robes sweeping the ground as he raced from the room. Sandals meeting the floor like slaps. Rage evident in his stride. He summons the nearest Praetoria. Who promptly comes to his side.

“Where is the Empress?” He snarls. A snake in coil about to strike. Bad enough he had to suffer the thinly veiled barbs of Senators asking why you were absent. Even worse was that you made him look a fool without even being here. They were casting foul allusions as to your marriage.

The guard hesitates before giving an answer. “She has left the Palace, Caesar.” He answers.

Geta’s anger comes sharp and packed in poison. A hiss. He asks so curtly it echoes to the ceiling. “And precisely where has she gone?”

At first, the noise and bustle of Rome was repugnant to you. Rancid and dirt and heat. Too much noise and not enough air.

Made putrid by stale sweat en masse bodies, horse manure, and smoke from fires mingling with roasting meat or oily charred fish from street vendors.

There was always shouting, someone selling wine, someone selling exotic wares, and bartering filling the air. Music bleeding from some side alley. Jugglers and slight of hands weaving through the crowds of servants and nobles and peasants, ready to part people from their coin.

You watch and just listen to it all from where you’re seated. A palla folded around your head and neck to block the otherwise fierce sun, also to obscure your features, give you shade wherein to hide your golden jewellery and rich dress.

Though you doubt anyone in this riotous city knows or even cares who you are. To a glance? You are just another rich merchants wife. Or noble woman. Unseen. Unremarkable. You do admire Rome for that small mercy atleast. To make you invisible in a crowd of thousands.

You’re seated at the edge of the fountain. The marble lip cold under your dress. Your hand dangling down into the clean waters. Trailing your fingertips through the cool of it. Water shimmers off the blue stones and pearls of your rings. If you squint, they are treasures cast on the shore. You can imagine you see specs of sand. Golden shells. Milky pearls waiting to be picked - tucked cosily in cream oyster shells.

You try to pretend. You fail.

Your personal praetorian guard lingers not far away. Varro. A perpetual huge shadow to you since your wedding.

Geta told you the morning after that you were to have him watch over you at all times. The man has been hulking after your every footstep since. It’s cloying, but nowhere as much as that palace is.

Varro boasts a huge figure and not one to be easily missed in a crowd. A warriors build. A scowl that could curdle milk. He’s solid. Brawny thick chest, stocky as a barrel, thighs thick as tree trunks, large arms and immense shoulders even without his plates of armour.

He had a proud chiselled face, dark hazel eyes and a prominent nose that had been broken before. Evidence of a pinking scar bumping at the bridge of it. Also a small nick dissecting his lower lip. His life had known pain. You can tell. Typical soldiers life. A body cut from the cloth of war. From polishing armour, baying for unease, and stepping to commands.

It’s hewn in the way he carries himself in crowds. Darting eyes and not feeling at ease, or any kind of sane, unless he can see all four clear corners around himself - and you. And convinced danger lurks behind every brick corner and down every side street. Huge hand permanently slung over the pommel of his sword. A warning.

He stands a little way across from you now. Looming proud as an old oak in the shade of a building and a market stall slung with rich cloth for sale. Shirking the sun and scowling at everyone. Basalt black hair falls like long thorns over, down his brow. Down the nape of his neck and collar, beaded in sweat.

Children scarper around him. Street urchins that clamour like flies on rot at his appearance. He gives no inch and tells them to move along with a curt nod. Steel stiff spine standing to attention. A merchant tries to sell him a cup of wine - red or white - they are silenced by his frown. He won’t touch a drop whilst on duty. Truth be told, You don’t think he knows how to be off duty. He’s not capable.

He’s an austere reminder of your station. Almost literally, in his dark black plate armour and wisteria purple cape swinging from his wide shoulders. A storm cloud eternally perched on the horizon of your day. His words come few and far between. You don’t think you’ve heard him string two full sentences together once. Except possibly in daggered warning;

You draw too much attention. Empress. It is bound to invite trouble.

You wanted to scoff at that irony.

You? In your hooded palla, draw attention?

When it is he, the man who guards you - like a grizzled dog - who is a thick immovable column of uniform widely recognised as imperial praetoria, wherever you turn in these streets? Unfathomable.

I am going to temple to pray. You may either escort me. Or explain to my husband why I have gone into the capital, alone.

His answer was a gruff glare. Acceptance and frustration entwined.

You have caused him to furrow his dark brows at you several times with a “Yes, Empress.” That came dragged through a displeased drone. A hound showing you his teeth before the jaws snap. Having to escort you into the city each day was laying contrary to his regulations to not have you in harms way.

You insisted. He obeyed. With little choice in the matter.

Every day you came here. One corner of the beating, shouting heart of Rome. You went to the Temple of Vesta and you prayed. And you went to a public fountain and let real life ebb in upon you once again. To find some peace away from the rabid emperors, who blaze at the palace with all the ferocity of fiery twin suns. They encompass all. Left little room for anything else. All life revolved around them. You float off in distant orbit.

You wave your fingers through the cool water. Tethered to one small piece of home again. Cool tides that brought you comfort. Reminded you of the sun soaked shores of home. Sunlight fracturing in diamonds off clear blue waters.

Feeling the sun beat down now on your neck through layers of cloth. You cast your eyes over the monuments to Neptune sat in this ornamental fountain. Sea gods and goddesses and creatures of sea foam. The other side where you are, women are washing clothes, or chatting over baskets fetched from market. You can smell perfumed oils, dried flower petals, and the sweet plump of ripe fruits tucked safe in the shade of their baskets.

How wild it is that until four weeks ago, that too had been your life. You didn’t sleep on silken sheets, get trussed in gold, and have servants poised so you never had to even lift a finger.

You knew comforts - of course. You had fine clothes and didn’t have to toil the fields. But you weren’t beyond spinning cloth or running errands. Helping clean and tidy your home. Fetching food or helping prepare meals. Coming home from market in the small town with oiled fish, scorpion fish, or boar, fresh chestnuts or olives. Dried meats sometimes too.

You thought of the olive trees lining the road to town. Huge and ancient. Offering branches that white doves often sat in - cooing away their calls. You thought of buying chestnuts for Ceres because she adored them so. Goats cheese for your mother that she liked with honey. Bunches and bunches of aniseed to make into Canistrelli biscuits for father.

The happy creak of your basket on your arm. Feeling the sun tangle in your hair as you shaded your eyes, felt the sea kissed breeze caress along your arms and back as if an embrace of a lover.

All those things you’d lost in one fell swoop. A life that had been snatched from you without your even getting a chance to bid it goodbye. Just like your brother. Your father.

And here you were now. Hiding away in the crowds. So lonely you felt its sting like the deepest shrapnel. A wound never closing. Always being prodded some more by the dire aspects of your circumstances. Anything to not be trapped in your gilded cage. Being reminded daily that your one use in that foul place, lay solely between your legs.

Two small girls come stumbling to an ungraceful stop, laughing, breathless and slowing from a run. They come right to your side to fill some amphorae with water. Dunking the clay jug into the clear water and letting it fill.

They each have dark hair and dark eyes. One must be close to Ceres’ age of six, toddling, milk teeth smile, youthful weight clinging to her cheeks, the other slightly older. Longer hair and a fuller smile. They have flowers pinched from a stall stuffed in their rusty coloured linen apron pockets. Some bay laurels and cornflowers.

You smile warmly at them. They smile back, unabashed. Joy seeping out of them. That brand of innocent fearlessness that grasps the young.

Turning your head you hear the clank of armour, feet shifting fast on dirt. Varro steps towards you with his scowl and his hand already on his sword.

You reprimand him silently. Gaze packed in ice. Jaw set. Mouth flicking to a grim line. You calmly hold up your hand and motion for him to step back. He’d scare the poor things.

You feel a gentle tug on your dress where it splays at your shoulders. Turning back, you see the younger one has her small hand on your dress.

You gently return your hand to your side. Seeing what she wanted your attention for. They both looked at Varro with much wide eyed curiosity. Only very rich ladies could afford a soldier. Only those of very high status. You fear he’s just betrayed your standing.

“Pardon me…” She utters. Her unsure voice carefully picking over the words. As if she was still learning larger words and their uses.

“Yes?” You smile. Touched by her boldness. Treating her with gentility.

“Are you the Empress?” She seeks. Forming words slowly. A curious tilt of her head.

You see no reason to lie.

You can feel Varros eyes burning a glare into your back. Harsher. More furious than the sun. Don’t.

“I am.” You respond.

They smile as if excited. Sharing a look. Both each producing a small laurel sprig from their stuffed pockets. They each step forwards and present the small branches out to you. A gift. You lay your hand flat and accept them both. Curling your fingers around branch stems.

“Gods blessings be upon you, Empress.” They speak in clunky unison.

You take the branches with reverence. Feeling the smooth leaves. The verdant and subtle scent coming from them.

“Pray tell me. What are your names?” You enquire.

The eldest speaks first. “Amata, Empress.”

The youngest follows suit. “Junia, Empress.” She tells you proudly.

You reach for your purse. Stowed safely within your dress folds away from the hands of beggars. You pluck out two coins and place them in their small hands. Junias hand reminds you if a small pudgy starfish. Curling round a silver shell.

“Blessings be upon you both. Amata. Junia. For your kindness…” You beam to them both.

They shimmer with mirth. Taking their jugs and scampering away through the crowds like nymphs.

Varro appears at your shoulder like an omen. “Empress.” He says your name lowly. Chiding you with his tone alone for revealing yourself to them.

“Surely two little girls holding flowers in their pockets, pose no danger to me.” You reply archly. Watching across the crowds where they’d disappeared.

“I only seek to resupply you of my one duty.”

“I don’t need reminding.” You tell him. Not unkindly. But he can hear the way you might be tempted to let the words be sharpened to little blades off your back teeth.

He’ll say this for you; you don’t have sharp teeth or poisonous tongue like every other noble in that palace. You are made different to their spoilt ways. Something sleeker and softer. All foam whipped off waves. You can sting and lash if required - you simply choose not too.

You hear bells toll for midday from the temple beyond. Clanging off the golden stone of every building around you. You fancy you can see the ripple of the sound sending waves to burst across the fountains surface.

Varro is giving you that stern look that urges you to be heading back. Before you’re started to be noticed. Before you become a perfidious gap in your Emperors day, when he isn’t vying for blood, gold or war. That or applying himself ruthlessly to the detriment of this great city, crushing his own people in the same way his favourite wine is made. Squeezing every drop til dry.

You hate to return. But you fear what wrath will come if you don’t. The thought of slipping away into these crowds and dipping into another form of life mocks you. Cowardice curbs your actions.

With some of the meagre coin in your pocket, you could try and make for the coast, possibly. You could disguise yourself as a merchants wife, or a servant. Anything to slip the golden net you’ve been landed in.

You wonder how far you’d make it, running away like a common ruffian, before the stomping hooves of a Roman battalion would be on your heels. Snatching you back here to be humiliated at Geta’s own insistence. The punishment he’d dole on you doesn’t bear thinking about. You were property after all.

You watch men and women weave in and out of the crowds, wishing you had half their luck as to put your back to this palace and peel away. Your mind wanders over that idea. A faint ember that dies to a curling puff of smoke. Snuffed out.

It doesn’t bear thinking about-

You take your offered laurel branches and stand. Varro takes up his guard. Eyes flicking all around. Searching for those corners he requires. For that split second of danger he can cleave his sword onto treasonous limbs for your protection.

You make your way back through crowds. Varro cutting a swathe for you. You keep your head down and remain quiet. Mind vacant as you move through the paved streets.

A flash of a body pushing past you takes your attention down a side alley. One arched with fabric awnings thrown over merchants stalls.

The flash of white turned out to be a senators robe. The vivid plum purple bordering white. You bat away the bitter thought of once recognising it as your fathers noble robes.

You catch sight of three people, stood on a street corner. One of them you don’t recognise but you know him to be a Senator. The two people he’s stood conversing with does make you stop in your tracks.

General Acacious and Lady Lucilla.

They are conversing deeply. Attention not given to you where you stand on the other side of the street. Shade cloaks them all. A moment out the sun. A place they hope guards them in obscurity. Talking with each other in hushed tones. Marcus and Lucilla wear hoods so as to hide their fine features from any obvious recognition.

The crowd trickles on around you. Water carving on around a large rock in the way.

Lady Lucilla raises her eyes. They flash to you in an instant. Dazzling green. A sun dappled meadow holding you in sight.

Her face falls as she halts her words. Lips parting. The General and the Senator both turn to follow her gaze. Finding you, caught static, at the other end of it. You recognise a prickle of panic when you see it.

You turn your head. Eyes snapping away as you hold your skirts and continue on.

Your guard says nothing. Though you know he saw what you just did. It’s not his place. He forgets all he sees or hears - all that doesn’t pose risk to you.

Maybe you weren’t the only person in Rome to wish the Palace walls didn’t have treasonous eyes and ears. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps Varro was right;

There is danger round these street corners in Rome.

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

#punkwrites #joseph quinn #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #gladiator #gladiator 2 #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x female reader #emperor geta x oc #ancient rome #newlyweds #newlyweds who despise each other #smutty #morning after smut

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hp-hcs · 9 months ago

Text

• smut (?) • like a record, baby [soulmate au]—poly! simp! mattheo riddle x poly! simp! harry potter x poly! gn! reader

hey sorry i fell off the face of the planet for like two and a half months i fell back into my old hyperfixation and started a new blog just for that and lowkey forgot abt this one and kinda fell out of the fandom lmfao anywhore—

inspired by that one Dead or Alive song

tws: sort of smut? it’s mostly implied and also like two sentences and also doesn’t involve the reader whatsoever?, lowkey bottom mattheo tbh, blink-and-you-miss-it reference to potential harry self harm :(, so fucking ooc omg

not edited if you see any mistakes shhh no you didn’t

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

If I, I get to know your name / Well, if I could trace your private number, baby

Mattheo huffed, resigned. It was official; he’d finally have to talk to Scarboy.

Eight years.

Eight years of avoiding the damn boy. Eight years of ignoring the sudden sharp pains that would slice across his forehead, right where Potter’s famous scar was. Eight years of waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares that weren’t his own.

His fingers reached down on instinct to mindlessly trace the prominent soulmarks etched into his wrist. His fingertips skated over the sprawling lightning bolt mark that twisted its way up his arm, its branching lines crossing over part of his faded Dark Mark.

His fingers then marched their way across his scarred skin to the other soulmark. It was an odd black circle with a smaller red circle inside, and an even smaller circle in the center. Thin white lines following the curve of the circular shape were intermittently drawn on the black part, giving it a ridge-like visual texture.

He had no fucking clue what it was supposed to be. Neither did his mother, the one time he’d worked up the nerve to ask her about it.

Potter might, a little voice in his head whispered. He was raised by Mudbloods. If it’s a Muggle symbol, he might know what it is.

Fuck. He really would have to get over himself and talk to Scarboy.

~~~

I, I got to be your friend now, baby

“It’s a vinyl.”

Mattheo paused. “What?”

“The mark. It’s a vinyl.” Harry pushed his glasses up his nose where they’d started to slip down. “It’s an old-fashioned way Muggles used to play music.”

“Music? Is it an instrument?” Mattheo asked, his eyes lingering for just a second too long on Harry’s slender fingers. Potter had taken the news of being Mattheo’s soulmate surprisingly well. He’d just shrugged and nodded, saying he already knew.

Mattheo looks between his and Harry’s exposed forearms. His skin itches to pull his sleeve down, to cover up the shameful mark of his father burned into his flesh for eternity. Harry’s arm is also scarred, but in a much different way. Both bear the same circular soulmark—the vinyl, as Potter had called it—although their other soulmarks differed. Mattheo’s was the obvious lightning bolt, while Harry’s was a cigarette, puffing out a cloud of smoke that formed the shape of a snake.

And I would like to move in just a little bit closer

“Sort of,” Harry answered his original question, doing his best to explain as his fingers tracing the identical vinyl soulmark on his own wrist. “It’s just a plastic disk. When you put it on a record player, it spins, and a little needle follows the grooves. It plays whatever music was recorded onto it.”

“Uh huh,” Mattheo hummed in acknowledgment a half-second too late, too busy focusing on Harry’s fingers. Had they always looked that good?

Harry smirked and reached over, lacing their hands together. Mattheo’s skin promptly heated up about ten degrees and the skin under his soulmark sizzled with a pleasant buzz before radiating a soft silver glow.

That’s it. They were together; now, until forever.

~~~

Mattheo’s legs shook, his teeth digging into his lower lip hard enough to bleed. “A-ah~ P-Potter—”

“Nuh uh.” The man in question, currently hidden underneath a library table, pulled off. “That’s not my name, and you know it.”

“Harry!”

“That’s it. Good boy.”

~~~

All I know is that to me / You look like you're lots of fun

They refused to call it the Yule Ball this year. After all, the war was over, there was no reason to continue separating Muggleborns and Purebloods with something as silly as a school dance.

So, much to the horror of many a Pureblood parent, Hogwarts was hosting Prom this year.

Open up your lovin' arms / Watch out, here I come

Harry was having a blast. Admin had insisted on only playing Muggle music at Prom, and it had been a wonderfully painful mix of *Nsync, Outkast, and Ricky Martin.

“You have to dance with me,” Harry demanded, pulling Mattheo out onto the dance floor by his arm.

Mattheo stumbled, still not used to the odd formal attire Muggles wore. (A tuxedo, Harry had informed him it was called.) Although he’d never say it aloud, he preferred the tux over his usual dress robes. So much easier to move around in; why were dress robes ever on the table as an option?

~~~

You spin me right ‘round, baby, right ‘round / Like a record, baby, right ‘round, ‘round, ‘round

You spin around in a circle with Hermione, both of you doing your best to teach Pansy Parkinson—Hermione’s soulmate—how to dance anything other than ballroom-style.

All three of you were laughing like mad, spinning around and around until you all got dizzy.

All three of you tried to stumble off the dance floor and back to the table you’d called dibs on earlier in the night. As you’re stumbling back, dizzy, you bump into a pair of men.

Suddenly, your outfit feels a lot stuffier than it did before. You feel hot all over.

One of the men grabs your bicep to try to steady you. His hands are slick with sweat. The other also looks rather warm, his face flushed. All three of you stare at each other as a bright silver glow emanating from three people’s wrists suddenly cuts through the dimmed lights of the dance floor.

I want your love.

#harry potter #hp #fuck jkr #x reader #x male reader #hp x male reader #x gender neutral reader #male reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x male reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter x male reader #harry potter x mattheo riddle #Spotify

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acapelladitty · 17 days ago

Text

physical evidence

Summary - Once again captured by Leland Coyle, he decides to leave you with more than just the memory of your little encounter as he marks you in his own special way.

Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Ko-Fi

(tw for: non con, forced oral m!receiving, come marking, assault, threats of violence, deepthroating, choking)

Coyle's grip on your scalp is merciless as he fucks himself into your throat without any care for your safety or need for oxygen. Eyes puffy and bloodshot from his earlier assault, the burn of his touch is actually a welcomed distraction from the bile which threatens to break free of your throat as he buries his cock deep and pulls at your skull until your nose has no choice but to bury itself in his pubic hair.

The pain is almost overwhelming, every part of your body screaming out in discomfort from the residual ache of his fists and heavy boots – the boots in particular having scraped some of the skin from your legs where the tread only skimmed the flesh. Nose still bleeding and eyes feeling more swollen with every blink, you were in such a sorry state that you couldn’t even attempt to fight back against the vicious use of your mouth.

"No. Good. Fucking. Criminal. Bitch." Punctuating each word with a harsh slam of his hips, Coyle pins your kneeling body against the wall with the sheer strength of him – the back of your head bouncing off the wall with enough pressure to force stars to flash dangerously in your vision as you fought to stay conscious, too afraid of what liberties he may take otherwise. "Next time, you fucking drop to your knees and respect the badge the first time I ask. You make me work for it and I’ll take it back in spades."

If anything, you really had learned your lesson. Too slow to his demands, the beating he had delivered to your sobbing frame had made you painfully compliant as your twitching muscles were still struggling to recover from the added assault of his stun baton; the white-hot pain of the electrodes making your limbs rigid in unnatural ways as you screamed your apologies and promises to be good.

Coyle stops for a moment, his groin flush against your face as you gaze up at him with tear-filled eyes as he blocks your throat with his cock.

"Now you’re gonna open wide and take it all, honey."

The panic lasts only another moment as Coyle pulls his cock free of your throat long enough to allow the words to sink in and you realise what his plans are as he finally reaches his climax. The heat of his release is shocking, ropes of his come splashing across your opened mouth and chin as he fisted his cock in his gloved hand and grunted like a wild animal.

Along with the blood and the tears which already coated your abused skin, it was just another humiliation and the salty taste of him against your tongue reignited the urge to gag as you dutifully kept your mouth open until he was completely finished, afraid of messing up again.

Satisfied and panting, with his wilting cock still hanging free of his uniform, Coyle switches tactics with impressive speed as he instead drops a hand to wrap around your neck and pull you forcefully from the floor to your feet. His thick fingers constrict your windpipe immediately, sparking a fresh, shattering fear which makes your limbs lash out in a vain attempt to throw him off.

"Disrespect the badge again with even a little assault and I'll open up that ass with this baton so I can fry your insides while I fuck you. You'll squeeze me like a fucking vice as you ride the lightning and I'll love every second."

With gargantuan effort, you manage to lower your hands and his grip on your throat lessens slightly.

"Now, here's the deal, honey." Coyle growls, blowing a heavy plume of smoke into your face as he exhales his latest cigarette draw and forces you to choke and splutter on it. "I'm gonna cut you loose and walk my ass on over to that escape shuttle you think you’re getting out of and wait. You arrive still wearing all those gifts I sprayed all over that pretty mouth, and I'll be nice and let you go. I see a single drop missing and I'll rip you something new to fuck instead. You hear?"

Clawing at his fingers as they tighten around your throat once more, you try to agree, try to nod, try to do anything that will get him to let up as your legs kick out hopelessly at his shins.

He enjoys your open terror for a moment, his dark shades reflecting your own come-stained and beaten expression as you are forced to stare at and accept your own weakness. But he does relent, dropping you back to the floor as you collapse like a broken doll, wheezing and taking in great gasps of air into your burning lungs.

"Hell, give me a decent repeat performance at the shuttle and I might even slip ya a little something to help fix up that other mess I made of your face." Dropping to one knee with a grunt, his gloved thumb presses harshly into the developing bruises which will eventually completely blacken your right eye. A movement which pulls a keening whine from your throat as the pain flares and makes you wince. "Or, maybe not.” Coyle continues. “I kinda like seeing the leftovers of our little spat, it reminds me of my first wife. Just a little bit of sweet god-fearing nostalgia."

Coyle pulls his hand away and you breathe a pained sigh of relief as he stands to his feet and swings his stun baton in a casual arc, the blue sparks illuminating the space for an instant. Turning on his heel, he calls to you from over his shoulder as he disappears into the corridor leading to the nearby holding cells.

"Hop along now, honey. And remember, touch what I've given you and then I suppose I'll have to give you something even harder to forget."

Face still aching from its earlier abuse and uncomfortably sticky due to the splotches of come which decorate your mouth and lower chin, you can't help the grimace which screws up your features - the small gesture sparking fresh pain across the battered features. Your throat feels raw, a faint coppery taste speaking the unseen damage which his forceful fucking had caused.

Too afraid to go against Coyle's demands, you leave his mess where it is as you shakily rise to your feet and limp off towards the objective which still awaited your attention.

#obsessed with him 😩#leland coyle #outlast #leland coyle x reader #outlast trials #the outlast trials #coyle x reader

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reveryfics · 4 months ago

Text

Physical

Frank Castle "The Punisher" x Male Reader

Summary: Frank insists on teaching you to defend yourself.

A/N: Three posts in one day as I try to motivate myself to finish all the requests (7). Barking for this man.

TW: Blood - Fighting - Slightly suggestive

The downpour was relentless, each fat drop hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the makeshift gym like a tiny, furious fist. Thunder cracked overhead, a guttural roar that seemed to vibrate through the very concrete beneath your worn sneakers. Jagged streaks of lightning split the bruised twilight visible through the open doorway, momentarily illuminating the swirling dust motes dancing in the humid air. The sharp, clean scent of rain mingled with a heavier, cloying sweetness – the metallic tang of dried blood that clung to your split knuckles and the coarse, sweat-darkened leather of the heavy bag swaying gently before you.

Your breath hitched in your chest, ragged and uneven, each inhale a shallow burn. Sweat plastered your thin t-shirt to your back, a cold, clammy film against your skin. It dripped from your forehead, stinging your eyes and matting the hair at your temples. Every muscle screamed in protest, a dull, throbbing ache that spoke of the relentless assault you’d just unleashed on the unyielding canvas.

Frank stood a few feet away, leaning against a rust-streaked support beam, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the dim light. His gaze was intense, unwavering, boring into you with an almost palpable weight. Every twitch of your muscle, every flicker of exhaustion in your eyes seemed to be silently cataloged, scrutinized. Occasionally, his voice, a low rumble that could suddenly explode into a booming command, sliced through the rhythmic drumming of the rain. A constant mantra, pushing you beyond the limits you thought you possessed.

"Harder!" Frank’s voice boomed, echoing in the confined space. His weight shifted against the beam, the metal groaning softly. He pushed himself off, his large frame moving with surprising agility as he closed the distance. He settled directly behind you, his body heat radiating off him in a palpable wave. His hot breath ghosted across the exposed nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the lingering chill of the rain.

"You're soft!" Frank’s voice was a low growl, right in your ear. "Look at you, barely tapping the damn thing. What happens when someone comes at you for real? Are you going to politely ask them to stop while you catch your breath?" His words were like jabs, sharp and precise, aimed not at your body but at the fragile edges of your resolve. "They won't wait. They'll see the weakness, the hesitation, and they'll exploit it. A swift kick to the groin, a knee to the gut when you're doubled over, a broken nose blinding you before they finish the job. You think they care about your pretty face?"

His words burrowed under your skin, insidious whispers amplifying the doubts that already gnawed at you. The endless nights in this stifling gym, the countless times your knuckles had split and bled, the dull ache of bruises blooming across your ribs – it all felt futile in the face of his relentless criticism. You were drowning in the echo chamber of your own exhaustion and self-doubt, the rhythmic thud of the bag a distant, muffled sound.

A raw fury, hot and sudden, ignited in your chest. You snarled, a guttural sound escaping your throat, and unleashed a brutal right hook. The force behind it was born not just of muscle, but of weeks of frustration, of the burning desire to prove him wrong. The worn leather of the punching bag groaned under the impact, the already weakened seams finally giving way with a sharp rip. A cascade of sand and shredded fabric rained down, a small cloud momentarily obscuring your vision.

You stumbled back a step, your chest heaving, and finally looked down at your hands. Your knuckles were a mangled mess. The delicate scabs from previous sessions had been ripped open, the raw skin beneath weeping crimson droplets that mingled with the sweat and grime. Each inhale was a searing lance of pain in your lungs, as if they were filled with hot coals. You gasped for air, the metallic taste of blood now more pronounced in your mouth.

Frank watched you, his expression unreadable. There was no satisfaction, no softening in his gaze. It was the same assessing look, the same silent judgment that seemed to perpetually find you lacking. He stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips, a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing on the corner of his lips. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, the movement surprisingly casual amidst the charged atmosphere. Then, he pointed a thick finger at you. "Not bad. Finally showed some teeth."

You wiped a hand across your sweaty brow, leaving a streak of grime. You reached for your water bottle, the plastic cool against your burning skin, and took a long, slow sip. "I get you want me to protect myself," you muttered, your voice still thick with exertion, "but is all of this really necessary?" You subconsciously followed Frank as he turned and walked towards the worn boxing ring in the far corner of the gym, the canvas stained and patched.

Frank shrugged out of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, the movement revealing the thick cords of muscle in his back and shoulders. He tossed it carelessly onto a nearby bench. You hesitated for a moment before pulling your own shirt over your head, the cool air raising goosebumps on your clammy skin. Once inside the ring, the slightly springier surface felt oddly unsteady beneath your feet. Frank’s gaze flickered over the faint, pale scars that crisscrossed your torso before locking onto your eyes.

"I won't always be there," he said, his voice losing some of its harshness, becoming almost gruff. "Just like I wasn't there that night." A shadow flickered across his features, a hint of something you couldn't quite decipher. He sighed, stepping into a loose fighting stance, his weight balanced, his hands held low. You mirrored his position. "But you need to be ready. I know what you're capable of. Sometimes… sometimes the only way I know how to get it out of you is to push."

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words while your eyes tracked his every subtle shift. You understood his concern, the underlying fear that fueled his relentless training. "I understand," you said quietly, "but I don't exactly plan on putting myself in situations where I need to fight."

"Life doesn't care about your plans," Frank retorted, his voice hardening again. And with that, he lunged.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and exertion. Frank didn't hold back, his powerful punches and swift kicks aimed with precision. But you had spent countless hours sparring with him, each session a brutal lesson etched into your muscle memory. You had practically memorized the subtle tells in his stance, the slight shift of his weight that telegraphed his attacks. You weaved and ducked, countering his jabs with sharp blocks and returning with quick strikes of your own. A few of his blows still connected – a jarring thud against your ribs that stole your breath, a stinging slap against your cheek.

You watched as Frank telegraphed a right hook, the slight tensing of his shoulder a familiar sign. You swiftly countered, deflecting the punch and simultaneously sweeping your leg low. His balance was momentarily compromised, and he landed on the worn canvas with a muffled thud, the air rushing from his lungs. In an instant, you were on top of him, straddling his chest, your knees pinning his arms to the mat.

A triumphant smirk stretched across your face, the coppery taste of blood finally registering on your tongue – a trickle from a split lip you hadn’t even noticed in the heat of the exchange. "Getting predictable, old man," you purred, a cocky edge to your voice that felt surprisingly good.

Frank only grunted, his eyes narrowed. With a sudden surge of strength, he bucked, his hips lifting you momentarily. He used the momentum to roll, reversing your positions with practiced ease. Now, your bare chest was pressed against the rough canvas, his weight heavy as he straddled your waist. He pinned both your wrists above your head with one powerful hand, his other resting possessively on your bare hip. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "You get predictable when you think you've already won."

His lips trailed down the sensitive curve of your spine, each fleeting touch sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. You let out a soft hum, the tension in your muscles momentarily easing. He traced a path back up, pressing warm kisses across your shoulders and the sensitive skin of your neck before finally turning your head with a gentle hand. His lips met yours, a bruising kiss that ignored the metallic tang of blood.

Just as the kiss threatened to deepen, to ignite a different kind of heat, you pulled away, pushing against his chest. You scrambled to your feet, putting a few feet of distance between you. Frank’s gaze softened, a hint of something vulnerable flickering in his eyes as he watched you. He let his guard down, taking a step towards you, his arms reaching out as if to pull you close.

A knowing smirk played on your lips. You saw the opening, the momentary lapse in his focus. With a swift, fluid movement, you lunged forward, using his own momentum against him. You twisted, hooking your leg behind his and pulling him off balance. He landed on the mat with a surprised grunt, his chest hitting the canvas with a thud. Before he could react, you were on top of him again, twisting his arm behind his back until a low groan escaped his lips. "I win," you purred, your voice laced with a newfound confidence. "Perhaps next session you'll do better."

#frank castle #frank castle x male reader #the punisher #the punisher x male reader #marvel the punisher #marvel x male reader #marvel frank castle #mlm #fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #xmalereader #marvel #we use pretty for men on this blog

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