#like multiple nightmares in a row

[gemallass]

I have said it before and I am saying it again: Ford should get to be a bit of a crybaby when regressed, as a threat 👏

He can unlearn the shame of crying better (speculation/hc since he's a man in his 60s--or late 50s if you want--that grew up in the 60s with a toxic father figure. I don't have a single doubt that Filbrick would've taught his children that. One way or another, even) when he's feeling small.

Plus, rather than supressing his fears, anxieties and etc he could just, let it out. It would be good for him, me thinks.

Yeah obviously it doesn't mean he would have a 180º change in attitude once he's done, and, hell, I think he would still try to supress it even when he's regressed and such, but I think the key difference is that he would struggle more to do so at that moment, and so he would end up in a puddle of his own tears.

And then later the shame comes since "boys don't cry", "men don't cry" and blah blah blah, but ya know, baby steps.

Or if he's with someone else he gets a nice hug and pets while he lets all the stress out.

He gets to be vulnerable, and soft, and to be the protected, as a threat.

[peskellence]

i'm sure he's fine he'll walk it—nvm.

[vampirebutterflies]

hate dreams that r like. “well i WAS over that until you brought it up again!!!!” and now it’s just gonna like haunt u for the rest of the day and possibly up to a week

[lookwhatyoumademelou]

.

[xpiester333x]

Apparently, if I fall asleep listening to ASMR I will be plagued with nightmares. If I fall asleep listening to horror let's plays or haunted ambient soundscapes though, I will sleep like a cat.

[darkbluekies]

Edmund coming home to a darling who keeps having "nightmares" but one day he sees a bruise and finds out the maids have been hurting her, causing her to cry

"Name"

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: Edmund realises that the maids have been bullying you behind his back ... and he's furious.

Warnings: bruises, bullying, threats of harm and murder, jealousy, darling feels responsible/guilty for their deaths, guilt, mention of murder, possessiveness

Word count: 1.8k

He’s had to work night multiple weeks in a row, leaving you alone in the bed chamber for hours before he joins you, often in the transition between night and the cold hours of the morning. It had been fine in the beginning. Dare you admit you even found it a bit therapeutic? Being alone for once, without him, where else he’s breathing down your neck like some kind of puppy. 

But then it had shifted. The maids who usually patrolled the corridors started sneaking in when it was clear that Edmund wouldn’t come. At first they talked to you about mindless things that seemed harmless, but you could feel something in the air. That feeling, the one where you know the second you part ways, they’ll start talking. Laughing. Mocking. They always asked you about your background, made comments about your clothes and jewelry. Never any direct critiques, but not any compliments either. A grey zone that made your stomach uneasy.

The talking didn’t last long. In a matter of a few days, it shifted. Evolved to something worse. Darker. They have started to mock you to your face when no one else hears, and hit you when you cry. You don’t dare say anything back, just take it … knowing very well what will happen with them if Edmund gets to hear you shout. So every night you bite your lips shut and take it. 

A part of you screams that you should tell Edmund. Let them die, let them see you’re not someone one can mess with and get away with … if only if it wasn’t for the fact that they will die. Edmund’s not a half-assed guy. His love is never a “I would kill for you”-mantra. He has, and will undoubtedly, kill for you again. Over and over. He’d kill anyone you point at, if you wanted to. And oh, how it makes you feel dirty. You’re not the one pulling the trigger or swinging the sword, but you’re the commander. The reason why. In some capacity, you would be a murderer. 

It doesn’t matter how much you hate these women. Death—murder—is never a justified punishment. Not for jealousy. They deserve to be removed and possibly punished, but not killed. Never killed. Their deaths will wreck the lives of innocents who have nothing to do with their behaviour. And you will be blamed. 

You look down at your arms. The darkness hides the marks, but you feel them like bleeding, salt infected wounds. Edmund hasn't noticed. When he comes to bed it's dark enough to hide them. In daylight they're hidden under your extravagant dresses, thanks to Edmund's modesty rules. 

Maybe you want him to notice. Maybe you want a reason to tell, to get comforted and reassured that their words aren't true. To have someone on your side. Maybe you want him to never find them. 

You sob, pulling the covers closer to your body. They've left for the night. You should lay down and try to sleep, or at least pretend to. But you're unable to. Your body refuses to move from its sitting position. If you lay down and they come back you're powerless. Three against one. One laying down. Easy to overpower.

You're not sure what you're most scared of them doing to you. Cut your hair to the scalp? Touch your features and make you unrecognizable? Too ugly to be attractive to him? They've threatened it one time— “what if we just decide to break your nose? Your jaw? Who'll love you then, your majesty? You'll be thrown to the slums, like everyone else. You're not untouchable just because he finds you pretty. That ‘prettiness’ can easily be taken from you.”

Or are you more afraid of them killing you? They've gotten worse over the days. A quick slippery slope down to madness wouldn't be impossible. They could easily pin you down and slit your throat, stab you.

You’re too in your own head to hear the door opening. 

“You’re still awake?” 

Edmund’s voice rips you out of your thoughts. You gasp, breath getting caught in your throat. Your hands are about to move up to your cheeks to wipe your tears, but you know he’ll catch that. Instead you turn your head away slightly, hoping the darkness will hide the tears streaks. His footsteps seem to echo behind him. 

“My jewel, you’re supposed to be asleep by now”, Edmund says and you feel the bed shift as he sits down. “Having trouble sleeping?”

You nod without looking at him. It has the opposite effect you wish for. 

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” 

His fingers touch your cheek, turning your head to him. You’re unable to stop it. You meet his eyes, those ice blue ones that seem to glow in the dark, and feel yourself crumble under his gaze. Your eyes fill, once again, with new tears. Edmund’s jaw clenches and he quickly moves closer. 

“What is it?” he asks, voice tight. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You shake your head, lowering your chin. Edmund’s eyes start to wander, desperately looking for clues. His eyes stop at a particularly dark spot on your shoulder, just below the neck line of the flowy night gown. His fingertips touch it gently, as if trying to see if it’s real, and you flinch away before you can react. 

“Y/N …”, Edmund breathes out. “What the hell? Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

When you don’t answer, he shifts closer. Close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin as he brings a small, electrical lamp close enough to see the bruise clearer. There’s only a word leaving his throat, but it is enough. “Name.”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“It won’t solve it.”

“It will. It’ll stop them from hurting what’s mine. Give me the name.”

You turn your head down, looking at your hands trembling in your lap. 

“It’s not ‘the’ name—”

“There’s more?” His voice has a sharper edge. “Okay then, give me their names.”

“I don’t want blood on my hands.”

“There won’t be any blood on your hands. Only mine. No one else is allowed to touch you. Nothing else, is allowed to. And if you don’t tell me who gave you these ugly marks I will hunt them down, and I’m sure a few innocent will be struck that way. Give me the cowards names. Do you think a king will let his queen be hurt by unworthy?”

You don’t answer. The sobs come back, rippling through you. You’re on the edge now, so close to ending someone’s life. You have the gun in your hand and all you need is to pull the trigger … or put it down. But if you put it down, he’ll pick it up and shoot without hesitation. As long as you hold the gun … nothing happens.  

“Gosh, these marks makes me nauseous”, Edmund gags as he holds your arm in his hands. He has pulled up the sleeve to get a good look at them. “So brutal.”

“Please don’t look.”

“Tell me their names. My pretty jewel, tell me their names. Please, Y/N. Tell me who did it.”

You shake your head again, sobbing. Edmund sighs heavily. 

“Can you at least tell me how long it’s been going on?” he asks, and you can hear the frustration in his voice, even if half of it is pure worry. 

“Since you started working night”, you mumble, hiccuping through sobs. 

“Since I started work— … you have to be kidding me?”

You shake your head. Edmund bites back a scream and looks around, as if trying to find something to ground himself on.

“So, people have been coming in here when you’re alone and hurt you?” he asks, voice shaking. “And you’ve been silent about it? It’s been two weeks. Why haven’t you said anything?!”

“Because I’m scared, Edmund …”

His eyes immediately soften. Not to a gentle one, but one that isn’t piercing. He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Y/N, darling”, he says with his trembling voice. “I’m the king. I am the highest power in this kingdom, yeah? You are my wife, correct? You are the safest person in this country. But I can’t help you if you refuse to tell me when someone is hurting you.”

“You will kill them.”

“Damn right I will. That’s what happens when people think they can touch what’s mine. Touching you is a war crime and I will not let them get away with it.”

He cups your wet cheek, turning you to him. 

“Who hurt my pretty girl?” he whispers sorrowfully. 

Your finger trembles on the imaginary trigger. And, before you can register it, you press. 

His face lights up—not in a happy way, but relief. He’s about to fly up form the bed, but you grab his arm. 

“No, no, Edmund please!” you plead, voice breaking with sobs. “Don’t leave me!”

“I will get those bitches for this”, he tells you, his voice now a venomous deadly calm. “I will snap their necks myself.”

“No … no please, don’t go.”

You hug his arm, pleading over and over again. Edmund seems torn between revenge and protection, but in the end he gives in and climbs back into the bed, pulling you flush against him. 

“Fine”, he gives in, squeezing your trembling form. “I will let them have their final night … but tomorrow they’ll get what they deserve. For now I’ll take care of my beautiful queen.”

He kisses the top of your head. 

“I will never let those creatures near you again", he promises, showering your face in kisses. Too soft for his usual behaviour. “They don’t deserve to touch you. Only I am. I am the only one worthy enough to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you. To be near you. To see you. Tell me what they did to you.”

So you do. His grip on you tightens for everything you tell him, but his lips never leave your skin. They burn. 

“I’ll enjoy tomorrow morning”, he decides, moving even closer to you, snuggling. “I’ll kill them slowly—well, if you can snap someone’s neck slow—and enjoy every bit of it.”

He holds you close, running his fingers through your hair. You feel his cold, golden rings against your scalp. Your face is tucked beneath his chin, against the warmth of his neck. It’s as if he wants to pull you into him, become one with him. As if you’re only safe if you’re beneath his skin. 

“You’re so soft in my arms”, he whispers. “Really soft. Only mine.”

He hums and rests his cheek against your hair, falling asleep. But you? You won’t sleep for a long time. Relieved that you no longe have to carry it yourself … guilty that you’ve pulled the trigger. But you wouldn’t have won anyway. He always does. He always gets what he wants in the end … and this time, it’s to protect you. 

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

tell me again that you hate me

a/n: i kinda just poured all of the filth ever into this one fic... you're welcome.

summary: “you know, I could help you. Pop that little cherry for you,” he shrugged as if he didn’t seem out of his mind for what he was brashly uttering, “you desperately need it, that fucking stick up your ass makes you such a bitch to be around. But no one is gonna wanna bang you, I mean, maybe you could be kinda hot if you weren’t such a fucking loser, if you didn’t dress like a fucking pogue, but I don’t think anyone would commit social suicide like that. So, I’ll take care of it. Fix that problem for the good of everyone else.” 

warnings: bully!stepbro!rafe cameron x virgin!reader, smut, dark content, dubcon/noncon, enemies to lovers, rafe is in college while reader is still in high school (everyone is over 18), blackmail, alcohol consumption, allusion to drug use, drunk driving, hidden cameras, panty stealing, references to somno, possessiveness, kissing, loss of virginity, size kink, belly bulge, pain kink, dirty talk, impact play, oral, pussyjob, just the tip, squirting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cumplay, no aftercare and not really any foreplay, public sex, rafe is mean and pervy and dark but it's all fun because it's just a silly fantasy

word count: 5153

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Your life had turned into a living nightmare.

You thought that when your high school bully graduated, you’d finally get rid of him. But little did you know what the future held in store, just who your own mother would decide to marry and what particular family you’d be forced to fuse with. 

Rafe Cameron had been the bane of your existence for years. Sure, when you’d first met him, you admittedly had a bit of a crush on him, but that was until he noticed you and truly showed you the notorious bully that he was. And now that he, the very person who had turned your teenage years into literal hell, had become your stepbrother, you couldn’t wait to get out of there, move halfway across the globe just to never see his face again. 

It also didn’t help matters that you got situated in the room right next to his, even had to share a Jack and Jill bathroom with him. 

Now what you didn’t know was how Rafe’s feelings truly were towards you. How he only started bullying you because you made him feel some type of way that no other chick did, but you came from the wrong side of the island, so getting those feelings out in the form of cruelty only seemed natural to a guy such as him. You had no idea that it was actually you whom he thought about every time he jerked off on the other side of that incredibly thin wall you shared, or even that his wicked fascination with you only seemed to grow now that you were a part of the family. 

The impatient knocks were no use, so swiftly you swung the door to Rafe’s bedroom open. He was nowhere in sight, but before you could turn around to search for him in another place, the light that his computer monitor blared out into the space caught your eye.

Your vision however grew wide as soon as you saw the taboo tab that was open. It was porn, but not just any porn. The open page was littered with rows and rows of graphic videos that all fell under the stepsister search he had typed in. 

Frozen in your stance, you wanted to sprint out of there, though at the same time, some part of you wanted to inch closer and snoop further. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” a voice blared from behind you and caused you to jump.

Skittering away from the desk, you spotted the familiar buzzcut standing in the doorway. 

“I–, uh,” you swallowed and recalled the reason for your hunt, “my mom’s forcing me to go to that party at Topper’s tonight.”

“Okay, and?” he scoffed. 

“And so, because I don’t really do that sort of thing–”

“Because you’re a fucking loser who never gets invited.”

“Because I have better things to spend my Friday nights doing, your father wanted you to keep an eye on me and to make sure I got home safe.”

The only way you were gonna get through the night was if you got as wasted as possible.

Which is exactly what you ended up doing. 

When the clock chimed two, the raging headache you were developing from the blaring music convinced you to finally call it a night. You’d given it enough of a chance, enough experience to go home and state that partying simply wasn’t for you. 

But if you didn’t find the literal demon of a stepbrother and let him complete his end of the bargain, then maybe your mom wouldn’t believe you alone and force you to go to another. 

However, locating him turned out to be a much more difficult task than you’d thought. As you stumbled around the massive house, supporting your wobbly weight on the walls as you peeked into each of the rooms where some partygoers had migrated to, you soon dug your phone out of your jeans and dialled up his number. 

It was on the third attempted call that you finally stumbled into him. Sitting with a random blonde on his lap and the remnants of a mysterious white powder dusting the coffee table separating you from him. 

“There you are,” you grumbled, “I’ve been trying to call you!”

His expression turned sour as he noticed your presence, swiftly flipping his phone around as it layed on the table, though the caller ID that lit up the screen wasn’t of your name as your phone still buzzed in your palm to get through to him. Instead, it spelt out fleshlight in big bold letters. 

“So, you have,” he exhaled, “what do you want?” 

“I wanna go home,” you shoved your phone back in your pocket. 

“So, go home. What do you want my fucking permission? Are you that obsessed with me?”

“You have to take me home,” you reminded him, though when he began to laugh in your face, you shot back, “or you can just deal with your dad yourself when you get home. Your choice if you wanna keep being in his good graces or not.” 

That managed to shut him up. Though as he reluctantly pushed the blonde aside and got up from the couch, he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “fucking prude,” like a curse on the wind just before he marched passed you and grabbed a hold of your arm to drag you with him. 

“Ow, Rafe, you’re hurting me!” you tried to tear yourself free of his grip. 

“Oh, shut up you baby, no I’m not. You wanna feel what does hurt?” his long fingers then dug further into your flesh and caused it to actually ache, “this.”

As he pushed open the front door, you whined, “ow, please stop,” but when he finally did, he only traded the grasp out with a light shove to your shoulder, directing you further towards his parked car. 

When you were planted in the passenger seat with your gaze firmly fixed out the window as the dark streets rolled by, you crossed your arms and mumbled, “I hate you…” gaining enough courage from the dizzying alcohol ravaging your system to utter it out loud. 

“What was that?” Rafe cast a glance in your direction.

Twisting your neck to glare back at him, you hesitantly repeated, “I hate you,” though the faint flicker of bravery you’d acquired was snuffed out as swiftly as it ignited when you saw the smirk that bloomed on your stepbrother’s features. 

“Aw, don’t tell me that, princess,” he chuckled, “you’ll just make me hard.” 

Eyes widening, they briefly fluttered down to the crotch of his trousers before you blinked away, a reaction that was evidently satisfying enough for Rafe to cause him to keep going. 

“But you probably wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.”

“I know what to do,” you said defensively, though regretted your humouring him as soon as the words slipped out past your lips. 

“Oh yeah? Just how would you know that? Everyone knows you’re a fucking virgin,” something he was to blame for, though that wasn’t a fact you ever had to know. You didn’t have to be aware of just how many times he had stopped guys from asking you out, just because he wanted you all to himself, “but are you secretly a perv, sis? Is that how you think you know what to do?”

“Don’t call me that,” you cringed lightly. 

“What? A perv? Or sis? Don’t you wanna be reminded that you’re my stepsister?”

“Not particularly...”

As the car curved into the driveway to Tanny Hill, an offer suddenly rolled off Rafe’s tongue. 

“You know, I could help you. Pop that little cherry for you,” he shrugged as if he didn’t seem out of his mind for what he was brashly uttering, “you desperately need it, that fucking stick up your ass makes you such a bitch to be around. But no one is gonna wanna bang you, I mean, maybe you could be kinda hot if you weren’t such a fucking loser, if you didn’t dress like a fucking pogue, but I don’t think anyone would commit social suicide like that. So, I’ll take care of it. Fix that problem for the good of everyone else.” 

Your mouth hung agape as the vehicle rolled to a stop, the sudden shift made you fear that your latest drink would come up again. 

Utterly stunned, you couldn’t form a single word as you stared back at him. 

“I mean, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” he went on, turning in his seat to gaze over at you, already undressing you with his eyes, “haven’t you always had the hots for me?”

“I–…” it felt as if the car was swaying around even though it stood completely still, “…I drank way too much tonight, and I think you might have as well.”

“You’re drunk?” darkness glinted in his eyes, “well, I honestly don’t know if I should be impressed or run inside and wake everyone up so you can get grounded for fucking ever,” he laughed. 

“No!” you gasped, “You can’t tell them, please! I–…” you felt tears begin to sting the corners of your eyes and blur up your already hazy vision, “fuck!” 

Leaning even further back in his seat, he cocked his head, “I mean, I could also keep it a secret…” the tip of his tongue mischievously slipped out to poke his lip, “for the right price, that is.”

“Seriously?” you glared back at him, “are you serious right now?”

Capturing your hand, he swiftly brought it to the palpable tent in his pants, “do I not seem serious?” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly to a squint. 

Your lips parted in shock, stare flickering away from his eyes to spot how he ever so slightly pressed your palm down against him. 

He was so hard that you could nearly feel his pulse through the fabric of his trousers. 

“I mean, really I’d be helping you out,” your gaze stayed glued to how his broad hand engulfed your own a moment longer before you glanced up to find his unwavering stare once more, “so you should really thank me for both keeping your secret and doing you such a massive favour…”

As a shaky breath escaped your lungs, you whispered once more, “I hate you…”

But the proclamation only conjured a smile to appear on his lips, “tell me again,” and he leaned in a bit closer.

“I hate y–,” but you didn’t get the last bit out as Rafe then crashed his lips against yours.

It took a second for you to react with anything other than a surprised whimper, but when you did, it was slow and cautious compared to his boldness. 

A string of saliva strung you together as he eventually parted from you. Offering himself a small caress, he pressed your palm down against him one last time before he let you go. His breathing was heavy as he momentarily let his thumb trace your bottom lip, briefly slipping it crudely in your mouth, before uttering, “get inside.”  

Why, after all of this time, after all of the pain and torture he alone made you go through, why did he still have to give you butterflies the way that he did?

It was your room that he led you to, a hand ever rooted on you as you made the journey. At first, you thought it was because he saw the way you occasionally stumbled over your own feet, but perhaps it was just in case you wanted to make a run for it, just a precaution, a safety net already halfway over you. 

“Take your clothes off,” he commanded in a cold tone as he shut the door behind you. 

“W-what?” you turned to look back at him.

Sitting down on the edge of your bed, he repeated, “take your clothes off,” though they came out sounding slightly impatient. 

He palmed himself through his pants as you slowly began to strip. Though as you’d shyly peeled your t-shirt off and dropped it to the floor, his voice halted you just as you began to undo your jeans. 

“Stop,” his voice cut the thick air like a knife, “turn around when you pull those down,” you twisted away from him as your thumbs sank into either side of the waistband, “and do it slowly,” he made you put on a show, ogling as you gradually revealed the curve of your ass, “that’s it…” he nearly moaned as your pants crumbles to the floor, “bra and panties too, princess. Unless of course, you’re backing out of our deal already.”

Clenching your jaw, you squeezed your eyes shut and shed the rest, ignoring his soft wolf whistles and crude comments as you exposed yourself. 

Slowly turning back around to face him, your hands were clasped before you out of sheer timidness and not knowing what to do with them. 

“You gonna stand over there all night?” he raised his chin slightly.

When your feet stood rooted right before his seated position on the bed, your hands began to fiddle as he pulled his shirt over his head and caused your pulse to somehow beat even harder than it already did. 

One of his palms then scooped up your stomach and briefly grabbed one of your tits before scooping you closer, “come here,” and utilised his leverage to toss you down on the bed beside him, “let me get a good look at you.” 

Grabbing for the bedsheets as the mattress momentarily bounced beneath your spine, you blinked up at Rafe as he sat next to you, twisting his form and craning down to near your core. 

You tried to clamber your legs shut, embarrassed for what his cruel reaction might be, but he was not only faster, but stronger than you, and grabbed a hold of your thighs. As he split you apart, his lips curled up into a grin. 

“Look at you… fuck,” he let out a short chuckle, “this is gonna be fun.” 

A gasp curled out of your frame as he then grazed his thumb over your folds, smearing some of the mortifying wetness that seeped out and made you feel even more intoxicated than you already were. He lightly spread you apart and studied intently your dripping pussy, how it looked, how it glistened and how your little hole twitched when he lightly circled your clit. 

“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” he rubbed your puffy pearl with a mean lightness that caused your hips to buck slightly, “you like it when your big stepbrother touches you like this?” but when you didn’t reply, he reached down and grabbed your jaw, angling it for you to meet his eye, “answer me.”

“I–… y-yes,” you quietly admitted, feeling as if you were in some strange dream. 

“Of course you do, you dirty little girl,” he bent down again to gaze at your pussy a little too close for your taste, “I knew you were a slut since the moment I met you.”

Letting go of your face, he then snaked his free hand down to give himself an ounce of relief. 

“You know, part of me doesn’t even wanna prep you with my fingers first,” he smirked and let his fingertips sweep down to tickle your entrance, “I like the idea of not stretching you out first and letting my cock do all the work, let it feel just how tiny and pure you are for me.” 

“But isn’t that gonna hurt?” your breath caught in your throat. Sure, you’d played with yourself nearly till your hands fell off, but that idea still managed to scare you. 

“God, I hope so,” he groaned and briefly leaned down to press a hot kiss to your clit, sucking it into his mouth and sloppily making out with it. 

When he then stood up and pulled his pants down, your jaw nearly hit the floor as well when you saw how thick his dick was. Fat and veiny, curving proudly up towards his abs. 

Seizing your hips, Rafe yanked you closer to where he stood, nearly letting your ass dangle over the edge of the mattress.

“Wait,” you suddenly reached out to touch his forearm as he gave himself a few lavish strokes, staring down at your cunt, comparing the obscene size of him to your puff, “what about a condom?” you squeaked as he flicked his leaking tip down to tap your core. 

Sucking in a fierce breath through his nose, he glared down at you and shot back, “what about you shut the fuck up and just be grateful,” before he sent his open palm down to smack your pussy. 

“Ah! I’m sorry, I just–, fuck!” you shuttered beneath him as he soothed the slap with the nudge of his length, rubbing it against you and teasing your cunt before he started sweeping it through your folds, nearly fucking your soppy slit, the tip of him kissing your little pearl on each silky advance.  

A dollop of spit dropped from his lips and joined the mess he already tickled at between your parted legs. 

“It’s too big…” you murmured as you stared down at how his fat girth parted your pretty petals, though the observation only conjured a smile on Rafe’s lips, “maybe you could just put the tip in?” you tried through your foggy mind, “that would still count.”

A rumbling chuckle bubbled out of him as he stared down at the two of you together, “just the tip…” his movements then grew more erratic as he slid through your folds, “is that all you think your little virgin cunt can handle?” shy gasps escaped you every time he deliberately let his cock catch at your opening, “just the tip?” 

As he slowly pressed just the flush head of his length in to breach your entrance, your brows crinkled up at the mind-numbing stretch. 

“Like that, baby?” he only moved ever so slightly, “is that all you think you can handle?” and you nodded foggily in return. But as you let your eyes flutter shut and breathed through the staggeringly wonderful sensation, Rafe’s voice once again washed over you, “nah,” like a splash of cold water while you were licking up warm sun rays, “that’s not good enough. This is,” and he then slammed the entirety of his length into you.

Your eyes instantly shot back open and your legs curled up even further on either side of you at the shock. 

“What?” he cooed at you mockingly as he slowly dragged his dick back out for just the memory to remain, “does it hurt?”

You were a blubbering and cursing mess, trembling beneath him as your pussy tried to accommodate him.

“Come on, princess,” he bent down over you and let his nose ghost against yours, “tell me that it hurts.”

“It h-hurts,” you whimpered as his hot breath fanned across your blazing cheeks. 

It did sting, a lot, but though you hated to admit it, a part of you loved it, a part of you sank even further into the pit of pleasure he so slowly dunked you into. 

“Tell me that it’s too big for you,” he nuzzled his nose against yours as he plugged you back up. 

Your body shook beneath his every time he moved as much as a millimetre inside you, “i-it’s too big.” 

Letting out a low moan of satisfaction, he then leaned down to press his lips to yours, stealing your breath away even further. 

You tried, but couldn’t really focus on kissing him back, not that he seemed to mind much as he moaned into your mouth, soon letting his sloppy kisses dance over your cheek and down your neck, letting hickeys bloom in his wake and mark up your skin like a brand.

As he sucked down on the spot where your pulse went wild beneath the skin, his hips drove against yours harder, causing them to collide in a sticky smack, as well as letting the tip of him bully the deepest part of you. He didn’t just do it once, but kept it up as he enjoyed the little squeaks you let out every time he bumped against your cervix. 

Kissing his way back up to your lips, he only offered them the briefest of pecks before raising himself off of you, just ever so slightly, and one by one, grabbed your already wide-spread legs and rested each one of them onto his broad shoulders, efficiently folding you in half. 

“H-holy shit,” you panted as the mattress rippled beneath you at every one of his rough thrusts, “Rafe–”

“Yeah?” he smirked down at your melted form, the vein in his forehead popping from the strain, “are you gonna cum? Are you gonna cum on your big bro’s dick?” one of his hands swept up to squeeze your tit, then gave it a swift tap before growling, “come on, princess. I can feel you squeezing me so fucking tight. Do it, I fucking dare you. Be a good girl and cum on my cock.”

You almost screamed as you tumbled over the edge, your head curling to the side to hide yourself in the crumbled duvet beneath you as your pussy gushed all over his fat girth. 

“Oh, fuck,” Rafe croaked as he straightened back up to get a good view. Pulling out of you, he briefly flicked his dick through your folds to urge more of your nectar to leak out, before he slid it back inside and asked in amazement, “you ever squirted before?” 

Trembling from the overstimulation, your eyes rolled in your skull as you shakily mumbled, “maybe twice, I think.”

“Such a good fucking slut,” he growled proudly, “squirting all over me like a proper whore. Just look at you,” his grip dented your thighs as he pressed them further down against the bed, “you’re already a pretty little cockdrunk mess.”

“I–, I–,” you blubbered as you felt drool begin to trickle down your cheek. 

“Oh, fuck,” he then groaned, glancing down at where he split you apart, “hold your legs back,” he requested, though had to help your sluggish hands find their way, “look at this, baby,” he scooped a palm behind your head and ushered you to spot what he had noticed. Splaying a wide hand over the lower part of your stomach, he traced the faint bulge that rhythmically appeared, “sure as fuck not a virgin anymore, are you? Fucking ruining that perfect little pussy of yours. Now that’s how you pop a fucking cherry. Aren’t you happy I was in such a charitable mood tonight?” he then pressed down on the imprint rudely, the overwhelming sensation causing your pussy to drizzle a little more around him, “aren’t you, sis?”

“Yes,” you mewled, feeling as if you were floating on a cloud and not getting your guts rearranged. 

“You’d let me do anything I’d fucking want, wouldn’t you?” he smirked down at your dazed form. 

“Y-yes,” the word flowed out of you, though you couldn’t quite comprehend all of his dirty talk any longer. 

“Hold on,” he briefly slowed down and stretched over to reach a small apprentice obscured and hidden in all of the cluttered decor on your nearby dresser. Turning it in his hand, he pointed the discrete camera down to film you, “say it again,” he picked his pace back up, “tell me that you’ll let me do anything I want to you.”

“Anything,” the words bubbled out through your moans, “anything you want.” 

“Say that you’re my little slut.”

“I’m yours–, I-I’m your s-slut.”

Tilting the hidden camera down to get a few close-ups, his voice then seeped into you once more, “now tell me again that you hate me.” 

One of your hands fluttered down and began to rub your puffy clit.

“I hate you.”

“Again,” he reached down to give your left nipple a harsh pinch.

“I hate you.”

“Keep going, princess.” 

And the more times the phrase flowed out past your lips, the more it began to lose its meaning and morph into just another sound, one that was almost akin to the complete opposite kind of proclamation. 

Just like you barely noticed when Rafe dug out the hidden camera, so too did you miss it when he put it back down, obscured somewhere among your things, possibly not even the only one. 

When you came once again, Rafe didn’t so much as pause when you creamed around his cock and drenched the sheets beneath you that much further.

“There you fucking go,” he sent a palm down to smack the sensitive skin on your inner thigh, “god, you’re so hot. I can’t believe you actually let me do this,” he grinned as your fingers stretched out to graze his wild hips, trying and failing to slow him down, “you’re such a little freak,” he glanced down at the ring of your essence that marked the base of his throbbing cock, “so fucking nasty for your stepbrother. I bet you’d even let me keep using you after you fall asleep. I mean, who’s to say I haven’t already,” he chuckled, “you’re so fucking cute when you sleep. No annoying remarks, no dumb comments… I think I might prefer you that way…” his slamming grew sloppy as he soon moaned, “fuck, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Pull out,” you begged through your hazy pants. 

And just when you thought he wouldn’t respect your wishes, he yanked out and furiously stroked himself before your winking and wrecked hole as it slowly retraced from the severe stretch. Moaning loudly, he swiftly painted your pussy with his load, getting it all over your puffy petals till he was panting above you. One hand rested on your thigh as he brushed the sensitive head of his cock over the cream, messily tapping the hefty weight of him against your aching clit and making you jump a few times as he smeared it in. 

Throwing himself down on the bed beside you, he let out a long sigh and said, “you’re welcome.”

You felt like you couldn’t move, like you might never be able to move again. Your breath still came in ragged as the only thing you could focus on was the sore throbbing centred at your core, that blossomed out through the rest of your nerves. 

“Well,” Rafe huffed as he soon lifted himself up to a sitting position, “night,” and without another word, slipped out through your shared bathroom into his own bedroom. 

“I can’t believe they made you take me,” you grumbled as you watched Rafe shadow you in the clothing store, “I could have just gone to the mall on my own.”

“You don’t have a car though–, also, why are you the one complaining? I’m the one being forced to go fucking shopping with you of all people.”

Somehow, for some mysterious reason, since you’d moved into Tanny Hill, your collection of underwear had shrivelled down till you barely had enough to get you through the week. Guess that was the price you had to pay for letting someone else do your laundry, though you’d always assumed it would more just be a single sock that commonly vanished in the wash…

When you dipped into the fitting room to try a few of the gathered options on, you only managed to test out two of them before the curtain slid back open and you swiftly scrambled to cover yourself.

“Rafe!” you let out a hushed screech, “what do you think you’re–”

“Try these on,” he handed you a wide stack of hangers. It wasn’t just underwear dangling from them, but also some clothing, though all of it way too revealing than you were used to. 

Glancing down at them, you refused to grasp the items and simply stated in a clear tone, “no.” 

Letting out a low sigh, he then turned to close the curtain back up before he twisted back to face you, “do you need me to have a little talk with your mom and my dad?” he took a few steps towards you, slowly pushing you into the corner by the tall mirror.

Glaring back at him through your pout, you huffed, “no…” 

You stayed in the corner as he then hung the clothing up on the hooks before taking a seat on the small stool where your purse was resting before he swept it to the floor. 

“Are you just gonna sit there and watch?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, “it’s boring as shit out there. At least in here, I might get a moderate amount of entertainment.”

Rolling your eyes, you reluctantly began to try the attire on. 

“I hate thongs,” you muttered as you tugged a pair into place over your hip, trying not to catch your stepbrother’s stare as his gaze wandered from your reflection to the perfect view he had of your backside. 

“I recall you hate a lot of things you still don’t hesitate to jump on.”

“Whatever,” you sighed, “you have your fun, enjoy this little fashion show, but I’m sure as hell not getting any of these.”

“Well, good,” he uttered demeaningly, “because I’m buying them for you.”

Catching his eye in the mirror, you told him, “I’m still not wearing them. You can’t make me.” 

“Yeah,” he puffed out a smirk, “we’ll see about that,” and then tore his gaze away from you to gesture to one of the hangers, “try that dress on, but keep the pink thong on underneath, only the thong though.” 

You had to shut your eyes in annoyance a moment before you fulfilled his request, soon standing before him in a scantily cut, pastel mini dress, crafted in a fabric so thin that you could see the faint shadow of your nipples poking through them, especially after they’d turned all pebbly after Rafe had torn that privacy curtain to the side. 

“You happy now?” you turned to face him and propped your hands on either side of your hips. 

“Hm,” he cockily pursed his lips as his gaze studied you, “I was right…”

Your brows stayed furrowed till you watched his palm slide down to squeeze himself through his shorts. 

“What are you doing?” you hissed, eyes growing wide. 

“You do look hot in normal clothes.”

“I don’t think any of this is normal…”

“I think it’s time you learned how to suck a cock,” he suddenly announced, eyes still glued to the dress’ low neckline as he unzipped his slacks. 

“Rafe…” you breathed. 

His eyes flickered up to find yours, “get on your knees,” he tilted his head, “come on, princess. You’ll love it, trust me.” 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[dearmisshoney]

porcelain

synopsis. your love for the paranormal and the cursed led you to a more than deadly night with a tormented spirit. desire has a price, and tom never plays fair.

pairing. cursed doll! tom riddle x reader

content/mdni. NON-CON. SOMNOPHILIA. fem!reader, cursed doll!tom, evil spirit!tom, cruel!tom, dom!tom, possessive!tom, selfish!tom, blood play (cuts), MONSTER-FUCKING FR, mentions of gore, choking, missionary, clit stimulation, multiple orgasms (f receiving), tummy bulging, hair pulling (m receiving), mentions of cunnilingus and fingering (f receiving), dry/wet-humping, teasing, degradation, pet name (darling, good girl, filthy little thing), tom wants to kill you, raw sex, creampie, bad ending.

word count. 4.6k

a/n. saw a reel with the masked guy from the boy and it reminded me of tommy. i haven’t watched the movie/series tho, so don’t come for me! please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

you were definitely the weirdest human he had ever encounter.

even now, from his carefully chosen place on your wardrobe, leaning against the wall, he still couldn’t understand what is wrong with you.

for starters, you bought him — a presumably cursed doll — at the antique shop two streets away from your apartment without any dare or blackmail being involved. tom still refused to believe your smile that day, the day you spot him in the shop, was a genuine smile of happiness.

it was soon confirmed to be true, as you video-called one of your girl friends that very night to boast about your new gorgeous and possibly cursed doll. to a mortified and disgusted pansy. her reaction was more natural to tom than your own.

his new owner was a weirdo for sure.

if that wasn’t strange enough, you also placed him in your bedroom.

in your private sacred space.

you did not use him as decoration for your living room — like most people do. you didn’t drop him in the attic or the basement, places he was fairly familiar with. heck, not even the balcony.

your. bedroom.

you joyfully put him atop of your dresser, next to a few jewelry boxes and books, close to the wall so his heavy head — carrying that porcelain mask — wouldn’t shatter after a nasty fall. you also offered him a lovely view of your huge bed, spread right before his eyes.

and a lovely and intimate view of you.

tom riddle, the ruthless cursed spirit who bears the heavy mask of his sins, takes care of his victims fast. trapped in that useless doll body, he uses less-physical methods to deal with them. invading dreams, creating nightmares, carrying worrying whispers and words of dread to the owner’s ears… he makes their deaths look like an unfortunate accident.

their life force is all that matters to him.

you? you somehow evade all these. even as shadows warp around your sleeping form, even as shadows of your familiar furniture twist into an angular, sharp, foreign claw, even as the monstruous hand looms over your pretty naked neck. you sleep.

sound. unwavering. pleasant.

his malicious whispers do reach your ear, but they only make you giggle. you merely sprint between rooms, smirking at your other haunted objects — which were not actually cursed, from what tom could sense — and asking them which one chirps in your ear such sweet words.

“tommy, my beautiful boy. was it you?”

you’d crane your neck at him, grasping his doll body and pushing him so close to your curious eyes… he swore you almost touched his mask with your sclera.

but after days and days of failure, tom riddle realized what was so peculiar about you: you were a single woman with an insatiable sex drive.

he was graced with first-row seats to your masturbation sessions; you were always so needy and desperate, fingering that drooling cunt of yours, rubbing your aching clit on a pillow until your legs gave out, or even toying with your pussy with the help of a vibrator until you squirted all over your bed sheets.

your dreams were also all filthy and wet; there was no space for his nightmares and death-impending omens in that dirty mind of yours.

and tom riddle was exasperated.

“ugh– ah–”

there it was again, another night when you whither and whine in your bed under the influence of nasty lust-filled dreams.

your eyes were shut tight, your limbs all scattered around the disheveled bed sheets. your thin blanket was thrown aimlessly across your lower half, barely covering your naked legs and your pantie-clad bottom.

“y–yessss…”

incoherent mumbles continued to spill from your parted lips, filling the silence of the night and taunting poor tom and his previous attempts at stealing your life force.

your nails were scratching and digging into the mattress, while your legs spread further. pushing the blanked up the plush of your ass, tom now had a clear view of your covered pussy and your shiny wet spot. even if he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t, as your hips rocked themselves back into the empty space, chasing relief.

if only he was strong enough, he would materialize and strangle you to death for once.

“please, ohh–”

you sounded so pornographic, mewls and whimpers and random clusters of words just combining into a mesmerizing chant. if he were in his human form, he would definitely have a bodily reaction — a thick, prominent cock print right against the zipper of his pants.

but he was just a doll.

… a cursed doll though.

tom threw away everything he previously planned for you and extended his malicious aura, briefly shaking all the furniture pieces around your room. then, just like last time, the shadows on the walls were sucked up into the doll and turned into a sharp claw-like hand.

it was completely dark, created from a sturdy yet misty substance; the fingers, long and slender, adorned with hauntingly pointy nails, were more visible than the forearm.

this creation was truly cursed.

the hand loomed over your twitching body, its first trajectory being your throat. it was so soft and inviting, your skin almost begging to be gripped and ravished. but tom tempered his desires and dipped the mist lower, right next to your pussy.

the air around the cursed limb was cold. that sudden change of temperature, applied so closely to your heating center, made goosebumps rise all over your skin, made you sigh in pleasure even in your dreamland.

tom dared to get closer, press the pads of his fingers against your wet spot. he could feel it — the flimsy material of your panties, all sticky with a creaminess he barely remembers. sloshing the material around, more and more of your wetness spread, making your cloth barrier stick to your folds and barely act as a protector.

fucking hell, she looks delicious.

tom hasn’t felt such lustful desire in so long. but now, when his hand was rubbing all over your cunt, pressing and prodding against your pulsing hole, pinching your hardened nub and making your hips jolt into his touch… he needed more.

his sharp nails scratched at your inner tights, desperate to be let in. the lines were thin and perfectly traced on your skin, and the fine lines of blood just pulsing to life looked stunning on you.

the sting of the cuts only made you moan louder into your pillow, muttering pleas against it and pushing your hips into the air yet again.

shit, i can’t finger her with that.

tom wouldn’t have thought twice if it was someone else, really. what does it matter if he fingers you with his sharp nails and makes you bleed internally? what does it matter if you get hurt by him?

it does matter, because he doesn’t want to do that.

he doesn’t know why, but tom does not split your insides into a bloody mess. he just sneaks his misty claw underneath your drenched panties and, with direct contact, rubs fast circles onto your pulsing clit until you cum.

you spill all over his hand like a good girl, not once repulsed by his monstruous touch. you don’t even wake up, blissfully unaware you just came because of a curse’s hand. you just turn over, continuing your sleep like nothing happened.

tom wished he had a mouth to taste you.

•••

but something shifted.

tom felt it the moment your orgasm hit — the moment your slick gushed warm over his claw, the moment your thighs shook with such desperate hunger, as though you were feeding off of him.

the air in the room shimmered, making the shadowy hand disperse.

it was unlike any other time he’d taken energy from a human. this wasn't death he was drawing in — it was life, depraved and pulsating, dripping with heat and sin.

your lust made him stronger.

it poured into him like wildfire, dancing at the edges of his cursed porcelain shell, cracking it from the inside out.

the mask trembled. a sound like bone cracking echoed faintly in the still room.

an uneven fissure split down its center.

tom twitched.

not the shadows around. not the diluted mist. him. the doll body, cursed into paralysis, spasmed with a jolt of real power. for the first time in decades, he felt his limbs move.

he gasped — faint, dry and hoarse, in a throat that hadn’t drawn breath in over half a century.

and then, it happened again. your hips twitched in your sleep, a little whimper breaking from your throat as your thighs pressed together. still so sensitive. still damp with the sticky aftermath of your orgasm. still dreaming.

tom could feel it. that energy. it clung to the room like perfume and sulfur, soaked into the sheets, threaded itself into the shadows. it was feeding him. worshiping him.

another small crack split across his mask. the doll’s chest shuddered. his arms, once stiff and useless, flexed with a sick pop of movement. then his neck — god, the satisfying stretch of a joint rotating after years of stillness. something inside him growled as he pushed against the barrier of his prison.

she made me stronger.

the thought came not with rage, nor with confusion. no. tom embraced it with terrifying clarity. it was always hunger that drove him — but this was different. your hunger had looped around his own. you craved, and so did he. and in your sleep, in your sopping, vulnerable arousal, you offered him something no other soul had given.

life.

the cursed doll body shattered in a silent explosion of shadow. splinters of old wood and dusty porcelain were sucked into the darkness like dead leaves in a storm, disappearing from this world altogether.

all that remained was the mask.

the mask — and a man, now standing next to the dresser.

tom was towering and pale, twisted muscle over graceful limbs. dark, almost too dark, hair curled at his temples in gentle waves, damp with sweat and cursed energy. his body was sculpted like a statue, lean and precise, long fingers twitching at his sides.

bare. entirely bare, save for the cursed mask still fixed to his face.

a cruel thing. blank, white, expressionless, but for the empty hollows where his eyes glowed faintly beneath. it wasn’t painted — no. it was bone-like and seamless, fused to him with dark magic, with agony and shame and sin.

he moved closer, silent and smooth, like a predator in the pitch-black stillness of your bedroom.

you shifted on the bed again, that thin little shirt of yours riding high, shaping to the curve of your waist. your thighs still glistened, legs sprawled and soft, pliant with sleep and satiation. the room was warm from your body heat, thick with the scent of sex.

tom stood now at the foot of the bed, watching you.

he should kill you. that had always been the plan. that had always been his purpose.

and yet…

his cock was hard. painfully so. he could feel it pulse at the sight of your parted lips and the soft rise and fall of your breasts. he could feel the weight of your orgasm in the air like incense, and it made him ache.

you’d fed him, intentionally or not.

and now, he was flesh again.

"such a filthy little thing." he whispered, voice hoarse.

it wasn’t loud enough to wake you. not yet.

he stepped closer, bare feet ghosting across the hardwood floor without a sound. he reached out one hand — still long-fingered, no longer a misty claw, but flesh. pale skin, knuckles flushed with blood, sharp nails now trimmed and human.

he hovered over your throat.

the heat of your body radiated upwards. your pulse fluttered against your skin, fast and frantic. even in sleep, you knew something was watching.

tom leaned closer. but he did not press his hand down on your neck like he should.

he dragged it slowly, softly, from your throat to your collarbone… down between the covered valley of your breasts. hovering over you like a dark god, a monster made man by your own depravity.

his fingers curled, brushing the edge of your shirt. it had ridden up your body in your restless movements, now nicely exposing your stomach and the elastic waistband of your panties — those poor ruined panties, soaked with slick and shame.

you whimpered again, your hips shifting, your thighs clenching as if still chasing friction in your dream.

“so greedy.” tom whispered, voice like a lament, low and old, yet full of sharp pleasure. “you give yourself so easily. and yet…”

he trailed a finger along the inside of your thigh, grazing softly over the surface cuts his claw left. the blood was no longer runny, yet the pads of his fingers managed to get stained by that gorgeous shade of red.

“…you don’t know who you’re feeding.”

tom riddle. he was here. real. awake. alive again because of you.

but the mask…

his hand reached towards it on instinct, curling around its edge — only to stop. the ancient magic pulsed beneath his fingertips, a stark, screaming warning.

someone else has to remove the mask.

he growled, low in his chest. frustration laced with lust. the mask itched like a wound. it burned. but he couldn’t take it off. he couldn’t be free of the curse completely.

not unless you chose to unmake the curse yourself.

his frustration bloomed, tightening in his chest and sinking down to his aching cock — flushed and rigid, twitching in the thick heat that clung to your room.

you had no idea what you’d done, what you’d awakened. your skin glimmered with sweat and sleep, and your thighs parted in lazy invitation as if your body already sensed his arousal.

tom let out a ragged breath, the porcelain mask creaking as his jaw flexed beneath it. you… you were so open, so willing, even in your unconsciousness. his fingers gripped the edge of the mattress, blunt nails digging in, and then–

he slipped onto the bed.

the weight didn’t stir you. you were floating somewhere deep, still dreaming of being touched, still mewling quietly as your hips gave those needy little tilts. tom’s hand traced your thigh with more vigor, fingertips ghosting along the curve until they met the material of your ruined panties. slick had soaked through the cotton, cold and wet and heavenly.

he pressed his human thumb to your clothed cunt and felt it throb.

you gasped softly.

your back arched away from the mattress, and that was enough — enough invitation for him to part your thighs further, to press himself between them. he crawled up, one slow inch at a time, until he was nestled between your warm and plush thighs. his cock droop lower and rested against your core, hard and heavy, smearing precum across the sticky fabric of your underwear.

a moan slipped from his mouth, stifled by the porcelain.

he throbbed against you, dragging his cock along your clothed cunt — back and forth, slow, sinuous ruts that had your hips responding even in sleep. your slick mixed with the clear wetness leaking from his tip, making everything impossibly slippery and filthy.

tom bit down a groan and pressed harder, rocking against your clit in desperate rolls.

“fuck–” the word was cracked, feral. “you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

you whimpered.

your legs shifted around him, instinctively wrapping at his hips, pulling him closer. he nearly collapsed against you with the force of it. the movement made his cock slip beneath your drenched panties, caging his throbbing cock underneath.

and gifting tom the sweet feeling of your warm bare cunt.

tom braced himself over you, panting now, a man on the edge of madness. his hands gripped your thighs, possessive and reverent, his thumbs digging into the soft skin above your knees as he spread you wider.

“i could tear you apart.” he growled. “split you open. make you scream.”

but he only rutted harder outside of your pussy, cock sliding along your slit in steady, greedy thrusts. every drag of the swollen head over your clit made your hole twitch with desperation. your panties, weighted down by the combined arousal, felt heavenly on his sensitive tip, each rock of his hips widening the bulging form of the material.

and he knew you were close again. his voice was barely human now, breaking and desperate.

“i would eat you alive if i could.” he snarled. “bury my face in your sweet, sinful cunt and lap it all up until you sob.”

but the mask wouldn’t let him.

that damn mask — sealed by his own sins, fused to his soul. his mouth could not touch you. he could not taste you.

he sobbed once, the sound ragged and low and filled with longing. his thrusts slowed, dragging his cock over your cunt again and again, clinging to the edge of release.

he wanted to cum.

he wanted to bury it inside you, flood your insides, mark you with something real. but not like this — with you unconscious, unaware.

not yet. not until you beg for it.

tom exhaled hard, sweat beading at the base of his throat beneath the mask, his hands trembling where they held your thighs apart. every muscle in his body was alive with tension. with hunger. and yet he waited; because as much as he wanted to ruin you, to defile every inch of you while you lay helpless and pretty beneath him… he needed you awake.

he needed to see you beg.

so he moved his hand, slowly, and this time — he gripped your throat.

your body jolted, the shift immediate. your back arched, breath catching in your lungs, a panicked little gasp slipping from your lips. your hands groped weakly at the sheets, thighs tensing around his waist. his fingers tightened, not cruelly.

no. not to hurt.

just to hold. to wake.

“wake up.” tom hissed, his voice low and coaxing and cruel all at once, fingers flexing around your neck.

your eyes fluttered.

and then — they opened.

wide. glassy. dazed. confused.

you blinked up at him, body still sluggish with the heavy fog of sleep and orgasm. for a moment, you just lay there beneath him, staring into the void of the mask — at those inhuman eyes glowing behind it. your brows furrowed; your lips parted.

“…tommy?”

he laughed — a dry, bitter sound, cock still grinding just enough to keep your cunt wet and twitching beneath him. “not dreaming anymore, darling?”

you shivered, pupils expanding. he could see the moment the haze of fear touched your features — your gaze darted downwards to the way your thighs were spread open around his hips, to the heat of his bare cock pressed against your ruined pussy. the realization hit you in waves: the wetness; the closeness; him.

and then, your hands slowly rose.

but you didn’t fight him.

no. you cradled his wrist where it held your throat. your lips trembled, but not with fear.

“…you’re real.”

tom didn’t answer. didn’t have to. the air between you was already too thick with the truth. you swallowed — a struggle, with his fingers still curled around your neck — but then you whispered your devious desire.

“please… fuck me.”

tom grunted, pleased with your words, hips jutting with more force against your cunt, tip bumping into your perky clit over and over again. you arched your hips again, this time with volition, dragging your cunt along the underside of his cock. your lips were parted in invitation, your voice thick with desperation.

“fuck me.” you whispered again, softer this time, almost reverential. “i want you to. need you to.”

he groaned again, deep and guttural, his cock twitching violently between your folds. his fingers released your throat only to drag down your chest, trembling. one hand slid under your shirt, cupping a bare breast, squeezing until you moaned. the other dipped between your legs again, thumb brushing over your ruined panties — still soaked, still hot.

you were so ready.

he leaned closer, his breath brushing your lips even through the mask.

“say it again.” he demanded. “beg nicely for it.”

your eyes didn’t waver. your hips rocked up once more, desperate and sweet and oh so willing.

“please, tom… please fuck me. make it real.”

he whispered your name — a sound of victory and hunger — and in one swift motion, he pressed his fingers over your panties, redirecting the head of his cock down to your entrance. 

tom pushed in without a second thought, feeding you his cock in one swift motion.

you gasped — loud and broken — fingers clenching the sheets as he sank into you. he was thick, hot, impossibly deep from the first thrust. the stretch was unbearable and perfect, making your back jump off the bed as your cunt fluttered helplessly around him.

“fuckkkkk.” you breathed, voice ragged. “you’re– you’re inside me.”

tom hissed, driving forward until his hips met yours, bottoming out with a brutal final thrust. your pussy clenched hard in response, pulling him in like you didn’t want to let him go — and you didn’t.

his hands gripped your thighs again, holding you still, your slick leaking out around his cock, dripping down onto the sheets. the heat of you was overwhelming. he was growling — snarling really — each roll of his hips grinding deep, deliberate, as if he wanted to carve his shape into you.

and he did, the bulge in your tummy taking his form with every sharp thrust.

he wanted to own every soft, trembling inch of you.

“feel that?” he panted, voice thick and trembling behind the mask, hand jumping from your leg to your tummy. pressing down on his shape, making your eyes roll back in pleasure.

“you’re mine now, darling. every inch, every drop of you.”

you whined, nodding feverishly, your hands rising to grab at him. your nails dragged over the cold, painted porcelain of the mask before slipping into his hair and slightly tugging at it.

but it wasn’t enough.

you needed him.

all of him.

“i want to s–see you.” you moaned, your cunt squeezing around his cock as you said it. “i want to see your face.”

tom stilled.

for a heartbeat, he just loomed over you — panting, trembling, the muscles in his arms shaking with restraint. then, slowly, he reached up, hands quivering, and wrapped his fingers around your own, pushing them towards the edge of his mask.

“take it off, darling.”

he encouraged you, voice dripping with venomous honey. he disguised his liberation moment into an intimate activity reserved just for you. and you, so mesmerized by tom, did feel special as you gripped at the porcelain and lifted it completely off his face in one go.

it felt heavy in between your palms, but the weight was soon forgotten as your eyes finally met the face of your devilish man. his face was pale, drawn tight with lust and hunger. his eyes — dark, glowing, cursed — were locked on you. his mouth, twisted with need, curved into a smirk of longing and disbelief.

“beautiful.” you breathed.

and that’s all it took.

tom slammed back into you, his now-unmasked mouth crashing against your throat, teeth dragging down your skin — lapping and biting across the purple marks his vengeful fingers left — as he fucked you like a man possessed. his cock pistoned into you, deep and relentless, wet slaps echoing off the walls as your arms fall back on the bed, over your head.

“tom– fuck, fuck, fuuuck–”

you cried out, sobbing his name, legs clinging to him like salvation. your pussy squeezed around him, milking every inch, every thrust. and when he growled against your ear, you screamed for him, over and over again.

“mine. say you’re mine.”

“yours, yours, tom, i’m yours–!”

he came with a shattered groan, burying himself to the hilt, flooding your cunt with sticky cum. his arms gripped you tightly, keeping you caged beneath him as you shook through your own release, sobbing into your pillow.

with his vision cleared, now no longer obstructed by the damned porcelain, tom admired the mess he had made of you. your panties, still wet against your pussy, were now painted in creamy white from both of your releases. your shirt was bunched up over your tits. your hair was completely ruffled, sticking to your skin from all the sweat.

but something else caught his attention — the mask, still sitting untouched between your weakened fingers, shining almost horrifyingly back at tom. and then he felt it, the way more of your energy poured into him, just like before.

he was still cursed. the mask was still his.

tom exhaled raggedly, head falling to the crook of your neck where he licked the sweat from your skin. you whimpered, blissed-out and pliant, legs loose around his waist, arms limp above your head. your cunt still pulsed around him, every flutter making more of your combined release spill out.

but he was restless.

the curse still gnawed at him.

your warmth, your blood, your pleasure — all of it fed him, but not enough. not truly. his hunger was deeper than skin and sin. it was soul-deep.

and the mask, even discarded, still laughed silently at him from the bed sheets. still had control over his spirit.

no.

that won’t do.

“darling.” he whispered, his voice now like velvet soaked in venom. “you look so perfect like this… so full of me.”

you sighed, soft and dazed, your fingers twitching slightly around the cold porcelain you still held unawarely.

“mm… tom.” you murmured, voice sleepy and ruined. “i feel… strange. warm.”

“i know.” he cooed, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “you’ve given me so much already. but there’s one more thing i want…”

you blinked slowly, like a doll winding down, your eyes barely focusing.

tom leaned in, his cursed, beautiful face only inches from yours. his mouth hovered above your lips, breath sweet with the scent of lust and something darker.

your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation — waiting for his kiss.

but he didn’t give it.

instead, his hand moved.

in one graceful, eerie motion, tom slid his hand over your jaw, fingers gentle… before curling tightly under your chin, tilting your head back.

and then — slowly, deliberately — he dragged the porcelain mask down.

over your hair.

over your eyes.

over your mouth.

your eyes snapped open in alarm as the bone-white surface pressed down on your face like stone, like a curse latching onto flesh. you gasped — but the sound was swallowed by the mask's power as it crept across your skin, hollow and hungry.

“no– tom, wait–!”

your fingers twitched once. then again.

then they stopped.

your body stiffened — then softened.

tom watched, his breath shuddering as your skin took on a soft, plush-like texture. the glow of life dimmed in your eyes as they glassed over, mouth shut down in a slightly curved line.

the curse flared out his body like fire. his hunger — his unending need — was suddenly satisfied. your entire life force poured into him in a hot, radiant flood.

freeing him.

he looked down at you — at the perfect doll lying beneath him, hair still messy atop of the mask, shirt still weirdly draped over your miniature and lifeless body.

and he smiled.

“oh, my darling.” he whispered again, voice hushed with something sinister yet triumphant.

he cupped your porcelain face and pressed a tender kiss to your glossy forehead.

“you’ll stay like this for now. but don’t worry… i’ll wake you again.”

tom gathered you in his arms — his beautiful, cursed doll — and held you close, cherishing you like you did with his doll form.

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @theodoresvalentine, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove, @minidemont, @yuunarii-arii

[dooberific]

❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say

summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.

wc: 1.8k

Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.

Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.

You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.

It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).

You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.

And you were totally his type.

He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.

The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.

He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.

The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.

It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.

“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”

“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.

While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.

Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.

Almost.

It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?

You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.

Right?

Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.

This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.

You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.

“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”

If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.

“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.

This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.

He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.

His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.

“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.

“Helped you get ready?”

He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.

There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.

You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.

“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.

“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.

Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.

Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3

[thehoneycrypt]

Risky Business

word count: 5.5k

contains: modern/college au, no preestablished romantic relationships (viktor and reader are besties that torment jayce /hj), frat bro/lacrosse player!jayce, honors student!viktor, art kid!reader, switch!jayce, dom!viktor, switch!reader, bottom!jayce, top!viktor, alcohol, weed, drug use, stoner!viktor & stoner!reader, oral sex (blowjob & pussy eat), anal sex, cock milking, safe sex & proper use of lube!!! (wrap it before you tap it & never do anal without lube), doggy style, too many mentions of prostate/cock/dick/pussy/cunt, praise kink, corruption kink, virgin!jayce, teasing, praise, pet names (golden boy/darling/sweetheart/baby), vaginal sex, somewhat animalistic/rough sex, we swallow not spit, cervix bruising, multiple orgasms, jayce aims to please, jayce’s cock is too powerful, lightweight!jayce (bro can't handle the weed), viktor and reader are menaces, one off mention of public sex, humiliation if you squint

summary: jayce embarks on a spiritual journey of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll with the help of his two hottest classmates at his fraternity's risky business themed party.

a/n: shoutout to this fic's beta reader @zevrra <3 they're awesome and write amazing arcane content!

Stale booze, pungent smoke from loosely rolled joints, and people making out in every room of the house are the trifecta of a typical frat house party. Yet, things have been turned up to a hundred and fifty for Greek Week’s Battle of the Greeks, each frat and sorority house on the Row competing to be the Greek Life chapter. For Piltover University’s Sigma Phi Delta, Greek Week means maintaining their incumbent title. 

Jayce, the newest recruit and brother, has the most unfortunate task for the party: keeping drunken idiots from destroying every inch of the frat house. Not that he minds, of course! Despite his charming looks and demeanor, Jayce Talis despises parties. Sure, a party of twenty people or less is fine, but a party at this level of insanity? Pure nightmare fuel.

To make matters worse for poor Jayce, someone from Sigma Phi Delta (he has his suspicion of who was responsible, a certain snobby blonde named Allira Salo) had suggested Risky Business as the theme for this year’s Battle of the Greeks. Now, here’s Jayce, standing by the drinks table in nothing but grey boxers, crew socks, and the longest button down he could find. D.M.S.R. by Prince plays over the speakers, a staple from the movie and the perfect party song.

Jayce nurses a Red Solo cup of cheap liquor in his hands, but he hadn’t taken a single sip. Whenever a frat brother or chatty drunk girl would come up to him, Jayce would feign drinking and laugh like a gleeful drunkard, playing along in the hopes they would skitter away to their next victim.

“Not much of a drinker, huh?” someone shouts to him over the loud beat of the funk track. Jayce looks down–he has to look down at everyone on the campus–and sees you, a classmate from his ART 106 class, Drawing for Non-Majors. Everyone pursuing a degree at Piltover University is required to take a “Creativity and Creative Development” class as part of their core curriculum. Drawing for Non-Majors happens to be the only art Jayce believes he could net an easy ‘A’ in. 

“How could you tell?” he yells back, as the music switches to The Dream is Always the Same, a somewhat psychedelic song. You tease the rim of your cup, bubbling lemon-lime soda inside, “You’re the least giddy frat boy at the party.”

Jayce eyes the way you guide your manicured finger around the cup and has to tear away his gaze to answer, “Yeah, makes sense. I got tasked with ‘drunk dumbass’ duty, so it’s better to be sober if some ass tries to pick a fight and break something.”

You give a nod and hold up your cup to Jayce, “Care for some Sprite then?”

Jayce’s eyes widen at your offer, “But you,” he blinks his surprise away, “That’s your drink.”

“Sharing is caring,” you chuckle. 

Jayce grabs the cup from you and examines it; never has he taken an already consumed drink from someone else, nonetheless from a cute girl like you. It’s like an indirect kiss! Oh, Jayce Talis–the cheesy romantic–is not one to kiss and tell, but he could count on one hand how many people he has kissed. Now or never. Jayce takes a timid sip from the cup and relishes in the refreshing taste, “Oh God, I needed that.”

“Good!” you take the cup back and down the rest of it. Now, this is an indirect kiss! Jayce’s tanned cheeks warm up at the realization and he fans himself with his free hand. Seeing his overheated face, you tilt your head and ask, “Too hot? Wanna come with me to a cooler spot?”

“Oh! Uh,” the frat boy runs through the possible outcomes if he does or doesn’t follow you. What if a fight happens while he’s occupied? What if you think he’s a bummer for not joining you? What if– “You don’t have to,” you add on and shrug, “If you don’t wanna.”

“No!” he exclaims, a bit too loud. Jayce quickly masks his enthusiasm with a fake cough, “Lead the way,” he flashes you his ‘Golden Boy’ smile. Please don’t think I’m an inexperienced loser.

“Cool,” you toss your cup in the nearby trash can and grab Jayce by the wrist, barely able to wrap your whole hand around it. Through the mobs of partying sorority girls, people cheering on a frat brother’s keg stand, and folks getting way too into dancing, you lead Jayce outside to the back of the frat house. A few party attendees are lounging about in the backyard, some of which are couples making out or people exchanging joints. 

“Viktor!” you call out. Sitting around some abandoned lawn chairs, a thin man with shaggy shoulder-length hair and a flannel perks up. He waves the two of you over and you each find a chair to occupy. Jayce examines the stickers on Viktor’s cane.

“Hey,” Viktor greets you both, his accent rich and thick.

“H- Hey,” Jayce attempts to be nonchalant, but fails miserably when his baritone voice cracks into soprano range. He recognizes Viktor from many of his engineering classes, but he never had the opportunity to chat one on one with him. Yet, judging by the hordes of engineering students seeking the cane user out for tutoring, Jayce doesn’t want to come off as needing such assistance–well, some assistance would be appreciated–or that he would use Viktor for it.

“Cute,” Viktor lets out a deep chuckle, honey amber eyes glowing almost eerily under the full moon’s light, “The Golden Boy’s a bit shy, huh?” 

“Oh, for sure,” you snort. Jayce pouts and averts his eyes from the two of you, only to have you tilt his chin back up with the tip of your finger, “We only tease in good faith,” you coo, “I take it that you know Jayce, Vik?”

“Everyone does,” he answers. Jayce pouts again and Viktor stifles back a laugh, “Also he’s my classmate in about half of my classes,” the pretty haired–Pretty haired?! Jayce, get it together!–boy leans closer and Jayce can smell the familiar stink of weed on his flannel, “I thoroughly enjoyed seeing your Rube Goldberg machine unfold during our class with Professor Hemingdinger.”

“Haha, yeah, that machine,” the engineering student cringes. You raise your eyebrows at the exchange, “Oh no, what happened?”

“The concept was ingenious, I must say,” states Viktor, “A creative way to dispense a cup of coffee for our dear professor,” Jayce buries his face into his sleeves of his varsity jacket, as Viktor continues, “However, Jayce miscalculated the placement of the coffee pot.”

“Don’t tell me,” your cheeks puff up to hold back your laughter. 

“Cue our poor professor drenched in coffee!” the cane user laughs. You break and join in, boisterous laughter ringing through Jayce’s ears. The frat boy peers up at the exchange and comments, “At- At least, it was lukewarm coffee…”

“Thank God,” you calm down from your laughing fit, “If it was any warmer, I’m afraid that you would have been sued,” Viktor nods along in agreement. Jayce runs his large, veiny hands through his clean-cut hair, “Okay, okay. Enough is enough.”

“Sorry,” you throw an arm around Jayce’s shoulders and pull him close, the scent of your strawberry perfume strong and intoxicating to the frat boy, “We can make it up to you, if you want.”

“How so?” he inquires.

You give Viktor a wink and he returns it with a thumbs up. Viktor snatches his worn out satchel from the leaf-covered ground and rummages through its content. It takes a moment or two before Viktor procures the object of desire, a baggie of green flowery clumps.

“Please tell me that’s oregano,” Jayce pleads.

“Nope,” the cane user confirms, “One hundred percent pure marijuana.”

“Don’t worry! Vik has a med card, so it’s like… totally legal,” you reassure Jayce with a pat on the cheek. Jayce bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying something utterly stupid, “Are you sure it’s okay? We won’t get in trouble?” Okay, nevermind, he does say something utterly stupid.

“As long as you’re not a narc,” replies Viktor. He sets the baggie down and pulls a few more items from his satchel: rolling paper, filter paper, and a grinder, “Watch the master at work,” 

Viktor grinds up a clump of flower; once properly grounded up to his liking, he places the filter paper on one end of the rolling paper, followed by the flower. He rolls it up flawlessly and seals it, producing a perfectly made joint, before making two more joints.

“Here,” he holds out a joint to Jayce. With shaky hands, Jayce accepts the joint with visible hesitation, almost dropping in the process. You squeeze his shoulder and murmur, “Don’t worry, the first time can be scary, but we can help you.”

“How?” questions Jayce. A sparkle of mischief flickers in your eyes, “Lemme show you,” you hop off your lawn chair and approach Viktor. You plop down on his lap and throw your legs over the arm of the chair, twirling a strand of Viktor’s tousled locks, “Light me up, baby.”

Viktor pulls out a silver lighter from his jeans pocket and you place the joint between your lips, letting it dangle. Jayce watches with bated breath, as Viktor flicks the lighter open and holds the flame by your joint. Once lit, you take a drag of it and inhale some of the smoke. You pull the joint out, cheeks puffed out with smoke, and beckon Viktor to come closer. Leaning in, you press your lips against Viktor’s and exhale, allowing the thinner man to consume the rest of the smoke, as the two of you kiss. 

Jayce gawks at the sight of you making out, the way you tug at Viktor’s hair and the way he grips at your sides stirs something inside the frat boy, “And that’s called shotgunning!” you finish the kiss up and inform Jayce, “Just make sure you part your lips before I shotgun you, or else we’ll waste some good smoke,” you offer him a lopsided smile, “Wanna give it a try?”

“Sure,” he nods. You move from Viktor’s lap and onto Jayce’s, the joint still lit in your hand. Jayce swallows any fear away, as you lay the joint between your lips and breathe in the smoke, the lit end lighting up with the inhalation. You pass the joint over to Viktor for him to hold and he steals a few hits, as you moved closer and closer and–

Jayce’s lips connect with yours and he parts them just enough for you to push smoke into his mouth. It travels down his throat and into his lungs, burning and irritating. Jayce breaks away from the kiss to cough, spluttering out hot smoke. You rub his back while he hacks up a lung, “Yikes, yeah, that happens a lot to beginners.” 

“Have some water,” Viktor passes off his water bottle and Jayce snatches it, drinking up all the liquid like a dehydrated man crawling through the Sahara Desert. He coughs a bit more up and finally settles down, “When does this-” he cuts himself off, as a fuzzy feeling suddenly clouds his mind. Jayce closes his eyes, then opens them, and then closes them again, “Wow,” he giggles, “Feels nice…”

“Please tell me that he didn’t just get high off one hit,” begs Viktor.

“I think he got high off one hit,” you answer. You prepare yourself to disembark from Jayce’s lap, but stop yourself, “Jayce,” he looks at you with wide eyes, “Yeah?”

“Why are you hard?” you question him. 

Jayce’s eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets at your inquiry. He jerks his head down and sees his predicament, a noticeable tent in his boxers. His face turns a deep shade or crimson red, “N- No, fuck, I’m so so so sorry- I don’t know why-” 

You place a finger against his lips to shush, “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll take care of you,” you whisper into his ear and stroke his cheek with your thumb, “I know for a fact that you find me and Viktor very attractive, mhm? I saw the way you looked at us while we kissed.”

“And so what if I do?” the frat boy retorts, puffing out his chest in an effort to appear manly and confident. Yet, his resolve crumbles the moment you press your chest up against his torso, the fabric of your shirts being the only barrier, “We find you very attractive, too.”

Between the haze dulling his brain and the lustful stares of two stunning individuals on him, Jayce Talis caves in and whimpers to you, “Please, take care of me.”

“Good boy,” you peck him on the lips, “Show us the way to your room.”

Like an obedient pup, Jayce rapidly nods and helps you off his lap. Viktor nearly chokes on his joint when he sees Jayce’s boner, “What the fuck, you’re huge,” and earns a slap to the back of the head from you, “Don’t announce it!” you hiss to him, “He’s ours.” 

Those two or so words send shivers down Jayce’s spine. He’s ours. All Jayce ends is to be wanted; his efforts on the lacrosse team, his performance in class, everything he does is motivated by his need to be praised. He squeezes himself between you and Viktor in a line as a makeshift hiding spot for his boner and guides the two of you back inside the frat house. You three weave and dodge various obstacles, such as neglected soda cans and a sorority girl threatening to puke on you. Upstairs, a few people are scattered about the hallway, but none pay any mind to you all. You make your way to Jayce’s room and he opens the door, allowing you and Viktor to enter.

Jayce’s room is somewhat stereotypical of an athletic frat boy with messy bedsheets and posters of famous athletes on his wall. However, he has a few so-called nerdy things in his room, including a mechanical model of the Solar System and a Lego-built U.S.S Enterprise from Star Trek. You make yourself comfortable on Jayce’s bed while Viktor borrows the desk chair and Jayce sits on the floor. 

“Sooooooo…” the lacrosse player twiddles his thumbs, “How do we fix this?”

“What do you mean?” Viktor scoffs, “Haven’t you gotten a blowjob or a handjob before?”

Jayce’s silence speaks volumes and you connect the dots, “Oh. My. God. Jayce fucking Talis is a virgin.”

“No! I’m- well-” the virginal accused racks his brain to deny the allegations, “It’s- Ugh, okay, it’s true,” he confirms to you and Viktor, “It’s not that I have a vow of celibacy or anything, just that I wanted to save it for someone special.”

“It’s kinda cute,” you giggle softly while Viktor jokes, “And they say chivalry is dead. Good on you for defying frat bro stereotypes.”

“Are you gonna tease me all night or is one of you gonna choke on my fucking cock already?” Jayce’s filter went offline, the effects of weed taking more of an effect. 

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” answers Viktor. You blow him a ‘good luck’ kiss and get cozy for the show. Viktor rises from the chair and leads Jayce to the bed; he sits down next to you, now face level to Jayce’s pelvis, “Drop those boxers, Golden Boy.”

Jayce tugs down his boxers and haphazardly shakes them off his legs. Now free from its confinement, his cock bounces freely, on display for you and Viktor to admire. Viktor sizes up Jayce’s dick—as thick as his wrist and as long as one and a half pencils stacked—and mumble to himself, “Damn, this is a virgin killer.”

“Impressed?” Jayce strikes the Superman pose and smiles. Viktor wraps a hand around his cock and gives it a light tug, watching as Jayce’s cockiness vanishes in an instant, “Yeah. It’s pretty impressive,” Viktor lines his lips up to the top of Jayce’s dick and opens his mouth, carefully sliding him inside. A soft moan tumbles Jayce’s lips from the sensation, as Viktor’s hot and wet mouth costs his cock. Inch by inch, Viktor takes more and more of Jayce’s length until he gets all but an inch in, a small bulge pointing from under his Adam’s Apple. Testing the waters, Viktor goes agonizingly slow with the blowjob, taking his sweet time to pull back until only the tip is inside. 

“Please go faster,” Jayce whines. Viktor lets out a muffled chuckle, the vibration ever so pleasant against Jayce’s shaft, and picks up the pace. He bobs his head up and down the length of Jayce’s cock, occasionally running his tongue down the prominent vein underneath and twirling it around the mushroom tip. Combined with the weed, Jayce is experiencing pure bliss, as he jerks his hips forward and shoves his dick deeper down Viktor’s throat. The smaller man gags at the sudden change, but quickly recovers, letting Jayce fuck his throat. Jayce thrusts his pelvis forward and slams his cock deep inside Viktor, gripping the receiver’s shoulders for extra support. Spit leaks from Viktor’s mouth, his hooked nose smacking into Jayce’s well-trimmed pubes, as Jayce assaults his throat with his fat cock. 

“Oh, shit!” the lacrosse player grunts, “I think I’m gonna-” he doesn’t have time to warn Viktor before climaxing, shooting sticky hot cum down the other man’s throat. Once positive that Jayce had finished orgasming, Viktor unhinges himself from the taller man’s cock and coughs up some cum. He swipes it off his lips and licks it off his fingers, “Salty.”

“Did you swallow all of that?” you ask, eyes as big as saucers, “He came for- like- two whole minutes.”

“Spitters are quitters,” he jests in retort. You playfully smack his arm and turn your attention to Jayce, “How are you feeling?” 

“Amazing,” he pants, face flustered, “Just one issue, though.”

“What’s up?” you furrow your eyebrows.

“I’m still hard,” the frat bro points downward, his cock still hard as a rock. Viktor looks over at you and rasps, “Tapping you in.”

“More than happy to have my turn, take five to recover,” you tell Viktor. He leaves the bed and returns to the desk chair, massaging his throat. You focus in on Jayce and pull him onto the bed, “Ready to try some pussy?” you coo.

Eager, Jayce nods in response, his mouth salivating at the thought of eating you out. You obligate his desires and strip yourself of your jeans, leaving only your cherry red undies left, “Take them off and have a look.”

Jayce follows your command without question, pulling your panties down your thighs and off your legs. You spread your legs open and Jayce bears witness to his first ever not porn-related pussy. Some wetness spills from your slit and onto the bed, you’re simply drenched. He hooks his hands around your legs and pulls you closer to his face, inhaling the smell of your divine cunt. The scent alone sends Jayce into a needy state, rutting his weeping cock against the mattress for some form of relief. Yet, he wants—no, needs—to focus on the task at hand, pleasing you.

“Give it a try, I’ll guide you,” you inform Jayce. With a timid nod, the frat bro dives right in and licks a long stripe from the bottom of your entrance to the top of your clit. You shudder and curl your toes, as Jayce experiments with a variety of methods. He sucks on your clit, first gentle then hard, altering to see which one you like more. It seems that you prefer hard, taking sharp breaths whenever he sucks like so. Above, you rip off your T-shirt and bra, freeing your breasts. You gesture for Viktor to come over and he does, finding a suitable position before latching onto one of your tits. Sweet mewls escape your lips while your boys have their way with you, Jayce now confident enough to devour your cunt like an animal and Viktor groping at your unoccupied tit while he suckles the other. 

“Fuck!” you croak out a shaky moan, as the knot in your stomach snaps, releasing a wet wave onto Jayce’s mouth and face. He happily laps up your juices, consuming every ounce he possibly could. You give yourself a minute to recover, Viktor laying beside you and tracing miscellaneous shapes on your skin while Jayce rests his head on your thighs. 

“Good job, boys,” you announce. You give each man a tender kiss on the lips as a reward, “You two should make out with each other.”

“Okay!” Jayce cheerily complies while Viktor merely shrugs. Viktor takes your spot on the bed and lays down fully. Jayce hovers over him, one leg on each side of Viktor’s petite waist. Only once did Jayce Talis ever kissed a boy and that had happened in middle school, but kissing boys is just like kissing girls… completely nerve-racking! 

“Just kiss me already,” huffs Viktor, yanking Jayce by the collar and slamming his lips against his. Jayce lets out a surprised yelp, but adjusts. Viktor’s free hand travels around Jayce’s waist and to his back, landing on his ass. He smacks Jayce’s ass, earning a moan from the other man, and begins groping it without remorse.

“Dude,” Viktor pauses the kiss to get your attention, “You have to feel this ass, it’s like pound cake.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” you make your way to Jayce’s backside, grabbing his ass and feeling it up, “Damn, Jayce! You have a whole bakery here!”

“Uh, thanks?” Jayce answers, unsure if that’s a compliment or not. You give Jayce your own smack on the ass, “Nice ass, Golden Boy. Now, get back to making out with my best friend.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he exclaims before he resumes kissing Viktor. Meanwhile, you utilize this opportunity to ‘rub one out’, as you play with your clit and folds. You shove a finger inside and whimper, visualizing Jayce’s finger in its place. Another finger is soon added later and you bite your tongue to suppress any ungodly noises. 

“Hey, is it cool if I fuck him first?” Viktor asks you, receiving a weak thumbs up in return because you’re too busy jerking off to properly speak, “I’ll take that as a yes. Jayce, go get a condom from my bag.”

Jayce picks up Viktor’s satchel from the side of the bed and peeks inside, scooting various items out of the way before locating a roll of condoms, “I didn’t think you were the kinda guy to have a whole roll of condoms in your bag, Viktor.”

“Blame that one over there,” Viktor points over to you, who’s too entranced in pleasure to comment, “She likes to fuck everywhere.”

Jayce blushes at the thought; if you like to fuck everywhere, did you ever fuck in the arts classroom? His cock twitches when he imagines you and Viktor fucking in that classroom. Maybe, they’ll let me join them next time, Jayce ponders. 

Viktor shimmies off his pants and boxers, revealing his own equally impressive cock. It’s definitely not as long as Jayce’s, but Viktor rivals him in terms of girth. The man in question  rips off a condom from the roll and opens up its packaging, rolling the condom down his shaft, “Ready?”

“Wait, why am I the bottom?” he huffs.

You and Viktor stare at Jayce in silence, only the muffled echos of the party downstairs can be heard.

“Okay, you’re right, but still,” he concedes. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you,” states Viktor, genuine care in lieu of dry humor. Jayce smiles to himself at the reassurance and positions himself above Viktor, his hole dangerously close to his dick. 

“Got any lube?” asks Viktor.

“Yeah, in the top drawer of my dresser,” responds Jayce.

“Sweetheart,” the smaller man calls out to you, “Be a dear and grab the lube. No one’s raw-dogging anal tonight.”

“On it!” you approach Jayce’s dresser and open the top drawer. Among the stacks of underwear and socks, you find a bottle of lube, half of it already used, “Want me to lube you up, Jayce?”

“Sure,” he consents. You squirm some lube on your hand and Viktor pries Jayce’s cheeks open, granting you access to his hole. Jayce hisses at the coldness while you lube up his hole, taking time to finger him loose for extra measure, “All ready!”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Viktor smiles and pecks you on the lips, “Now, enjoy the show,” he lines his cock to Jayce’s asshole and guides him downward. Viktor’s cock pierces through Jayce’s untouched hole and Jayce swears he sees stars in that moment. The feeling of a dick in his ass is definitely a new feeling, as Jayce gives himself grace to adjust to Viktor’s size. The other man strokes the sides of Jayce’s legs as a means of distraction, “Take all the time you need, darling.”

Pain soon morphs into pleasure and Jayce moans loudly, “Fuck! This is nice!” He begins to ride Viktor’s cock, his own dick bouncing up and down with each movement. His tongue rolls out of his mouth, the overwhelmed pleasure incapacitating any reasonable thought in Jayce’s head. Jayce steadies himself with the help of his headboard, continuing to hop on Viktor’s dick like a rabbit in heat. Cum drips from his cock onto Viktor’s pelvis, but he pays no mind to it, too fixated on Jayce’s blissed out expression. Viktor joins in with Jayce’s bouncing and thrusts his dick upward whenever Jayce goes downwards. He positions his cock just right to hit Jayce’s prostate, sending full body shivers through the larger man.

“There, there!” Jayce eggs Viktor on. Using Jayce’s hips for support, Viktor pistons his dick in and out of Jayce, relishing in each inclited moan and plea from the lacrosse player. To Jayce, each collision against his prostate feels like winning at the slot machines. One final thrust grants Jayce with the jackpot win, as he climaxes and coats Viktor’s torso in cum. Viktor follows afterwards and grunts, spilling his cum into the condom.

“Congratulations,” Viktor lets out a pant, rubbing circular motions with his thumbs against Jayce’s aides, “You just lost your anal virginity.”

Jayce tries to reply, but all that comes out of his mouth is incoherent babbles of pleasure subsiding. With Viktor’s assistance, he carefully slides off Viktor’s dick and promptly collapses on the bed beside him, his poor hole throbbing. Viktor removes the condom from his now flaccid cock and ties it shut; he tosses it into the small trash can and eyes you up, “I think he might be done for the night.”

“I’m not!” Jayce refutes, “See, look!” he gestures to his cock, still hard. 

“Jesus Christ, did someone spike your drink with Viagra? How are you still hard?” you sputter, “This calls for drastic measures.”

“Drastic measures?” questions Viktor. 

“I’m gonna milk that cock,” you proclaim.

You and Viktor swap places while Jayce regains his energy for another fuck. Engulfing Jayce in a side hug, you quietly hum to him, “What position do you wanna do? I’m a fan of missionary and doggy style.” 

“Can we do doggy style?” he requests.

You snicker, “You’re not gonna be beating the golden retriever boy allegations anytime soon,” you roll over and get on your hands and knees, “I’m all yours for the taking, Golden Boy.”

Jayce rises up from the bed and gets behind you, your ass hitched up and slick leaking down your inner thighs. He gropes your ass a bit and gives it a few smacks as playback, “Nice,” he mumbles under his breath. 

“Are you gonna keep admiring me or are you gonna fuck me already?” you sway your hips at Jayce, his cock twitching hard. Viktor tosses him an unused condom and Jayce rolls the rubber over the entirety of his shaft. Now properly prepared, he lines his dick up to your entrance and rubs it with the tip, making sure you’re wet enough for him to enter. You let out a low whine and Jayce takes it as a sign to slide in, doing so methodically and with as much gentleness as he could muster. 

“So big…” you mewl, taking each inch of Jayce’s length like a trooper. By the time he finally bottoms out, there’s a noticeable bulge by the lower half of your stomach. Jayce caresses your stomach and finds the bulge, silently gawking at the sheer power of his size. On the other hand, you’re able to faint if Jayce Talis doesn’t fuck you yet, so you take matters into your own hands and pull back a bit on his cock before smacking your bottom against it. Jayce snaps into focus and grabs your hips, digging his nails into your supple flesh. His chest presses up against your back and he groans in your ear, “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Says the guy who just lost his virginity five minutes ago,” you fire back. Jayce responds with a sharp thrust and you replace your sass with a shameless moan. The frat bro starts thrusting in and out, making small modifications to his movements that incite the biggest reaction from you. Jayce finds it very hard not to pin you down and fuck the life out of you, he’s a gentleman like his mamá raised him to be. However, you’re more than willing to get the life fucked out of you, as you beg to Jayce, “Please! Fuck me, fuck me like an animal! I want you to destroy my cunt!”

All logic, all reason, went out the window the moment you tell Jayce to destroy your cunt. He buries your face into the bedsheets and latches a hand onto one of your tit while the other locks around your waist. You realize what a big man Jayce Talis is when he pins you, easily trapping you under his size. The sound of skin slapping against skin and filthy moans fill the bedroom, as Jayce growls to you, “You want me to destroy your cunt, huh?” 

Smack! 

“You want me to bruise that cervix of you, make you unable to walk for days?”

Smack! Smack! 

“I wonder what kind of excuse you would have to use to justify such a prolonged absence.”

Smack! Smack! Smack! 

“Sorry, Professor! I missed last class because Golden Boy Jayce Talis destroyed my tight, little cunt!”

“Jayce, please, please!” you sob against the bedsheets, tears of pleasure and arousal running down your cheeks, “Bruise my cervix! Do whatever you want, just fuck me!”

Jayce grits his teeth and picks up his pace, the bed rocking and creaking with each thrust. He looks over at an awfully quiet Viktor, only to see the stoner stroke himself off at the sight of his best friend getting fucked. That pushes Jayce to the limit and he lifts you up, holding against his body while he relentlessly fucks you. Any noise that comes out of your pretty little mouth is either pitiful cries or moans forced out by Jayce’s pistoning.

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, as his third orgasm of the night builds up, “Want me to fill you up?”

“Yes! Yes!” you wail. In a flash, Jayce flips you over so you’re facing him and his lips clash against yours, a passionate kiss to silence his orgasmic moans while he climaxes. Near the desk, Viktor climaxes, as well, covering his mouth with his hand to suppress his moans. Your walls clench around Jayce’s shaft and you keep him inside your pussy until you milk every last drop from his beast of a cock. 

Finally flaccid, Jayce pulls out of your cunt and falls exhausted by your side, completely drained. Viktor joins the two of you on the bed and snuggles up close to your left while you rub Jayce’s back on your right. 

“That was so hot,” comments Viktor.

“Agree,” you tack on.

Jayce mumbles something against the bedsheets, but neither you nor Viktor can decipher what he says. You turn on your side and hug Jayce from behind, “Congratulations on losing your virginity, we’ll get you an ice cream cake to celebrate it tomorrow.”

“Yay…” he weakly cheers, “I love ice cream cake,” you chuckle quietly and kiss his back a few times, “Good job, very good job.”

“Hey, where’s my aftercare?” Viktor mockingly frowns. You pull away from Jayce and kiss him on the lips; you then pull away and pinch his cheeks, “Ouch!” he hisses, “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re my bestest friend in the whole wide world!” you tease. Viktor rolls his eyes and sets back into the bed. With a handsome boy on each side of you, you smile fondly to yourself and bask in the glory. 

“We’re definitely doing this again.”

[lild00td00t]

Hi, I hope you are doing well! Can I request headcanons on how Crocodile, Buggy, Mihawk and Doflamingo would propose to their s/o or how they would react if their s/o was the one to propose to them? (Which ever you feel like is fine! :))

Have a great day!

One Piece War Lords: Proposing to their S/O

This was so adorable thank you for requesting the War Lords!! I’ll have to write a part 2. Buggy was honestly my favorite for a bit… 👉🏻👈🏻 but these are gonna be so HELLA friggin cheesy. I’m a hopeless romantic.. so please… COURT ME LIKE WE’RE IN PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.

Buggy

• He’s so nervous, his hands are clammy, even on the inside of his gloves sweat is lining along the fabric of them. He’s talked it over to himself multiple times, rationalizing the best and worst case scenario.

• He can’t help but melt when he sees you with the promise ring he gifted. He sweats bullets when you tease him about getting married… at dinner he nearly choked, and poor Mr.3 nearly had a heart attack just trying to dislodge the food that got caught in his throat. But he felt like that a majority of the times you discussed it. Like something was lodged in his throat and cutting off his air.

• So when you’re watching the crew bring a haul back on the ship, hands on your hips in a relaxed stance, you barely notice when he slips a ring on your finger, and he discreetly prays you don’t say anything about it until you screech and throw your arms around him, his body probably splits in 2 out of shock- this poor man -

• “ How does it feel knowing you’re going to be married to the future pirate king ?! Flashy ?! As it should feel?! “ Then the second you romanticize over the idea he practically hemorrhages 🥲

Mihawk

• The most poetic. God - he probably leaves you little poems every where, and they’re all based on you <3

• Your dates are so adorable. Like picnics, or going on row boats. It’s so quiet on the water, so you don’t notice when he slips down on one knee, clasping your hands in his while presenting a ring.

• You nearly flip the boat when you finally comprehend what’s happening but luckily your better half is much more calm and collected.. he was prepared for this reaction.. atleast he thinks he was -

• He kisses your knuckles, then overlaps your hands with his and holds them to his heart

• “ It seems as though the love saga of my poems will continue until death do us part…“

Crocodile

• Posessive..

• He truly is materialistic and is telling the truth. You genuinely will get what you want. But he can see it in your eyes that you’re not after his money, or his valuables or even his status. He can see the way you adoringly look up to him when he talks. And he’s not used to such an innocent form of love you offer.

• He feels that you must be protected, for what you make him feel is vulnerability. Which scares him. Because no one has ever made him feel that way before. So when the time is right, most likely on a starry night when you’re on a walk he’ll stop, just long enough to kneel and pull out the box, just long enough for you to realize what he’s doing. And with that, he confesses his love

• “ With this ring, you are mine.. whatever you want you can have. You will always be treated with my respect and my love, nothing will ever be enough to satiate how I feel for you. No amount of gold compares to that ring on your finger, for it holds the greatest power in all the world.. my promise to you. “

Doflamingo

• Like crocodile he’s possessive.. but with a sweet?? Spin ?? To it ???

• The moment he slips the ring on your finger he brings your hand to his lips for a sweet kiss, giving you that bone chilling smile while keeping his lips pressed to your skin.

• He doesn’t make a big, fancy show out of it. Because he knows that you don’t need everyone to know. It’s obvious that you’re his

• You listen when he talks. You’re never put off by his nightmares or bad moods. You urge him to talk about his brother and family. You talk about starting a new one… as a second chance.

• “ A second chance for the Heavenly Demon.. “ he thinks to himself, lost in thought. You weren’t scared to say that he was flawed, but it didn’t matter, because you could work on it together

• “ As long as you are mine, you will be taken care of and no one, I mean no one, will ever mistreat you ever again, lest they want my wrath… “ And he means it. He means every word of it. He would wage wars in your name, bring cities to the ground, and split the ocean in two if he could, unlike crocodile, who is alittle more materialistic with his promises. <3

[balkanradfem]

So I got incredibly lucky; one of the ladies I know is about to move, and she's looking to get rid of a lot of her stuff, so she called me up and asked me, if I wanted her old knitting supplies. And oh did I want her knitting supplies. I was at her place in 15 minutes, receiving a ful bag of various yarn and needles, and thanking her endlessly, which honestly had her a bit concerned for me. I got home, I snooped through everything, and I got, a LOT of supplies.

I divided the yarn based on fiber content; I have one smaller bag of cotton yarn, few little balls of wool, and a big bag of various acrylics; now this immediately had me in ethical peril, because if I make something out of acrylic yarn, and then I put it into the wash, it's going to leek microplastic all over the place, and I can't emotionally handle that. But if I made stuff that I never wash, it's possible that all the microplastic will just stay in the yarn, it's the wretched machine that makes it shed. So what I need is just horrible laundry habits, and I have that. What I really want is to learn how to make a hat, and if I end up making a wearable hat, I can just handwash it maybe? But even just the knowledge of making it is valuable to me.

So, I went back to learn how to knit; two years ago I made an unusable hat with messy yarn I found on the street, and using paintbrushes instead of needles. But I forgot how I've done that. So I pulled up a tutorial, and immediately I ran into several issues trying to make a practice sheet. I kept increasing the number of stitches I had, every row, and I didn't know how that was happening, and all the stitches on the end were loose and my little practice sheet was a mess. I imagined this happened to other people as well, so I looked up solutions – and found them, and then I was finally able to make a good looking little practice sheet! I made fabric and it looked nice!

That sheet was made using the knit stitch, and I needed to learn the purl stitch as well, something I've never tried before. And the purl stitch. Is a nightmare. I could not get my hands to memorize how to do it! Doing the purl-stitch practice sheet was a fight to the death between me and yarn. For every stitch I had to consciously think about every step, I couldn't do one smoothly, I had to wrestle with the yarn to death to make it happen. When it was over I felt like I gave my life for it and it had the nerve to look exactly like the knit sheet. They're the same stitch! But one is easy and the other is created in hell to torment me!

But okay, at least I knew how to purl, and could pull it off struggling and crying all the way trough. Time to knit.

I wanted to make a hat. I decided to use black yarn because there was a lot of it, and mentally prepared myself for the fact that I will make a very bad hat. I was going to follow all the instructions, and I had the stitches down, but it was going to still look very bad because it's my first, but I will learn a lot and I need to be cool with that. So with this mindset, I started.

Immediately I had to unravel the first row 5 different times due to multiple different mistakes with cast on (100 stitches!), and when I finally started the third row I realized that I forgot to co-join the edges to actually form a circle. This is where I had to go rogue. I knew then that if I were to unravel the hat one more time, it would never get done. I connected the edges belatedly, and then, another mistake presented itself.

See I was following a pattern, but the pattern specified a yarn size and circular needle size, but I never considered that having different weight of yarn and needle would affect my hat whatsoever. It was only on my 5th row that I realized my hat was way too big, like it would fit 2 heads, and at that point I'm like, oh I'm not starting over. I'm too deep in. I'm gonna reduce the amount of stitches now. Pattern is gone it's dead to me.

After 7th or 8th row I finally gave up on the purl stitch and decided to just end it in knit, because I was moving so slow, and at this point I am obsessed with the hat. I'm neglecting everything else in life in favour of obsessively knitting, my wrists hurt, my neck hurts, my both arms hurt, I want the hat to be done, I don't care how ugly it is. This is where I encountered another problem: the cable on the needles is too long for the hat, so it's tense and getting harder and harder to knit using it.

I am once again, fighting for my life against the tool I'm working with, I didn't understand why they made these needles like this and it kept getting worse until it got so tense that... part of the cable popped out. And I went OH.

The entire time... I could have pulled out a part of the cable and the hat would pleasantly sit on the rest of it, with the normal amount of tension. I felt like an idiot. But then how else was I supposed to learn this? Was I supposed to look up how to use circular needles before grabbing them? I looked at them once and said 'how hard can it be' and went on my merry way. But it could have been worse. I could have made the entire hat not realizing this was an option. At least it was just 10 rows of dumb behaviour.

I worked on the hat until 11:30pm the first day, and I got half of it done. I'm surprised by how good the knit stitch is looking; I expected to be worse at this. I wonder if it's because I had experience with weaving baskets from natural fibers, which taught me to keep continuous tension while doing it. I'm gonna finish this tomorrow and show you the results!

[bunny-claws]

cloud magic ☁️

a cloud is an aerosol consisting of a visible mass of liquid droplets, ice crystals, or other particles, suspended in the atmosphere of a planetary body or similar space such as the earth.

my personal associations and correspondences for clouds include: all types of weather phenomena (storms, hurricanes, tornadoes, etc.), celestial bodies such as nebulae, uranus (ruler of the sky), the air element, destruction, shielding, illusion, distortion, peace, comfort, dreams, sleep, warding nightmares, and divination.

how to use clouds in magic

craft spell jars based on intent; add puffs of cotton to represent clouds

craft a cloud in a jar/bottle

craft a cloud shaped dream pillow

cloud watching as meditation

use cloud movement for weather prediction [to time spells]

use cloud shapes for divination [nephelomancy]

cluster crystals together in various shapes or patterns depending on the type of cloud you want to work with

pair with the suit of swords in tarot cards

listen to music produced with wind instruments

use marshmallows or whipped cream to represent clouds in desserts

use as a source of energy to charge items or spells [storm clouds would be good for this]

cloud manipulation [energy work]

cloud illusions [sun dogs, halos, and pillars]

nephelomany / cloud scrying

nephelomany, also known as cloud scrying, can be performed by interpreting cloud shapes and surrounding colors. the most common clouds to scry with are cumulus or stratocumulus clouds due to their well-formed shape and defined boundaries.

types of clouds by altitude ✧

prefix definitions cirro - curl, tendril alto - mid strato - layer, sheet nimbo - rain bearing cloud cumulo - heap

high level clouds - composed of ice crystals; above 20k ft

☁️ cirrus

appearance: white, narrow, wispy, fibrous, silky filaments

about: fastest moving type of cloud; occurs during fair conditions but may signal an approaching change in weather (warm front that can cause storms)

keywords: swiftness, wit, change, transformation, transitions, freedom

☁️ cirrocumulus

appearance: small puffs of white clouds arranged in patchy sheets or ripples

about: short lived; usually seen with fair but cold weather; signals approaching rainstorm or potentially hurricane

keywords: focus, momentum, energy, anxiety, preparation, safety

☁️ cirrostratus

appearance: widespread, veil-like; fibrous; smooth

about: looks similar to a thin stratus but is distinguished by the solar or lunar halo that shines through it; commonly forms optical illusions such as sun dogs, haloes, and sun pillars; signals approaching rain or snowstorm (within 12-24 hours)

keywords: distortion, illusion, glamours, beauty

mid level clouds - composed of water droplets or ice at low temperatures; between 6,500 and 20k ft

☁️ altocumulus

appearance: white or grey poofs in rows composed of scales or rolls

about: usually forms in groups; when they pass in front of the sun or moon, it can create a corona; often found between warm and cool fronts in a depression; signifies thunderstorm or cold front

keywords: comfort, peace, warmth, serenity

species of altocumulus clouds altocumulus lenticularis - lens shaped, resembles a UFO altocumulus castellanus - rising towers, turrets altocumulus floccus - puffy, ragged tufts altocumulus stratiformis - horizontal layers altocumulus volutus - tube shaped roll chaotic altocumulus - poorly defined, multiple species or forms of these types of clouds

☁️ altostratus

appearance: grey or bluish sheet-like layers in parallel bands; sometimes thin enough to see the sun as if you were looking at it through a foggy lens or ground glass

about: streaks of rain can be seen hanging from these clouds and may produce light precipitation; occurs before heavy rain or a warm front

keywords: invisibility, shielding, distortion, illusion, delusion

☁️ nimbostratus

appearance: multi-level dark grey, diffused by precipitation; thick enough to blot out the sun

about: cloud base lowers as precipitation continues; spreads vertically into high and low levels; occurs along warm fronts and produces steady, moderate to heavy rainfall; preceded by cirrostratus and altostratus

keywords: cleansing, renewal, consecration

low level clouds - composed of water droplets; below 6,500 ft

☁️ cumulus

appearance: white, detached, dense, well-defined; resembles mounds, domes, towers; your typical cloud-shaped cloud

about: develops on days of clear to fair skies; has the potential to become a thunderstorm

keywords: duality, balance, joy, dreams, psychic abilities, divination

☁️ cumulonimbus

appearance: thick, heavy, dense; often resembles an anvil, tower, or mountain; upper portion can be smooth, fibrous, or striated

about: storm cloud; produce larger droplets and more intense downpours than a nimbostratus cloud; can produce heavy rain, hail, and tornadoes; occurs with cold fronts; preceded by cirrocumulus and altocumulus clouds

keywords: destruction, manifestation, power, energy, catalyst

☁️ stratocumulus

appearance: white/grey rounded clumps or patches that form in groups

about: may or may not merge with other clouds; do not typically produce precipitation, but may indicate incoming weather changes (windstorms, thunderstorms); can turn into nimbostratus clouds

keywords: potential, humility, togetherness, companionship

☁️ stratus

appearance: low, grey cloud with a uniform base that blankets the sky; flat, hazy

about: turns to fog when it hits the ground; may produce drizzle, ice, or snow; typically do not produce a solar or lunar halo except, on occasion, at very low temperatures; reveals blue sky once dissipated

keywords: optimism, hope, wisdom, knowledge

other

☁️ fractus

appearance: small, ragged cloud fragments broken off from bigger clouds; jagged, shredded, cotton candy-esque

about: constantly changing; forms and dissipates rapidly

keywords: fleeting, temporary, metamorphosis, transformation, baneful magic

weather correspondences uranian weather magic

keywords in this post are based on my own associations and research - do not redistribute and please source back to me if you reference my content.

© 2025 bunny-claws

[jen-with-a-pen]

(In Your) Arms Tonight - 2/2

summary: Wade tests out his previous hypothesis with great success. Might experiment more later.

pairing: Logan Howlett x Wade Wilson / Worst Wolverine x Deadpool

word count: 3.6k

warnings: MDNI 18+, Wade's POV-ish, blowjob, itty bitty blood mention, slight angst, nightmares/PTSD, pining, cursing, claws, crude humor and language, fluff, touching, *cue start of something new from high school musical*, Wade's a little shit, cum drinking bc i guess that's what happened, deepthroating, lowkey face fucking, bad flirting but it's kinda reciprocated, wade is the throat goat next question, wade kissed his roommate and they both liked it

a/n: here she is :') thanks yall for the patience and all of the magnificent love and comments for part one ❤❤❤ means the world to me, especially since it's my first time stepping out of stucky territory as a whole. also got a little away with the tags 😅 hope yall enjoy this !

Not beta'd. Half-written on my phone, edited and revised in ellipsus + gdocs. Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes!

If I've missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @tomshiddles | dividers by @saradika-graphics | warning banner by me ❤️

My AO3 | My Masterlist

Read this fic HERE on AO3

❤️ Reblogs and comments are appreciated, as always ❤️

PART ONE | PART TWO

Wade forgot to turn the AC back on. 

It's his turn to sleep in bed tonight and he's got the worst case of swamp ass you can get this far from a fucking swamp. He's already thrown the covers, sheets, pillows, and his boxers off; he swears if he gets up there will be a sweaty version of a goddamn chalk outline on his mattress. 

He stretches. Notices he can feel both hands now, fully grown and everything, fingernails and all. Smirks to himself as he flexes his new fingers before reaching over to the nightstand– it's actually a really sturdy cardboard box, but it works just as good– for his phone. The screen responds with a bright 3:02AM overlayed on a photo of him and Vanessa. 

There's a pang in his heart for a moment. The same type of twist and pull he felt when Logan got up to leave after their big adventure (AKA saving their universe.)

“See you around?”

Wade tried to swallow the hard lump of desperate hope that had been bubbling inside of him the entire time they ate their shawarma. Hopes it wasn't obvious in his voice. Not a total cry for help, but definitely more of a solemn whimper and puppy dog eyes.

No matter how many times he was used to it– the people he loved leaving or dying or what have you– it still stung like a bitch. 

“Probably not.”

And Logan didn't mean for it to come out so harshly, but that's what happened when– and if– he got too close. To anyone. To everyone. 

With that, Logan rose from the bench, gathering his cowl and TVA jacket up from the place on the bench separating him and Wade and started walking. Dogpool whined and scratched at Wade's arms to chase after him. 

Wade had to do something. Anything. He couldn't let this one– this Logan. His Logan– walk off into the sunset.

No.

Not without him. 

“Logan!” 

And then he turned around. 

And now they're here. 

He feels a similar yank and tear elsewhere in his body– lower belly, groin area– whenever thoughts wander back to that glorious time in the Honda Odyssey; Adamantium stabbing in and out of his chest cavity, puncturing his lungs and literally taking his breath away. The tight feeling of multiple seat belts holding him down to the second row passenger seat and the sickeningly happy grin adorning Logan's face when he tied the last knot. Wade remembers smiling just as bright under his mask.

That one definitely got filed into ye ole spank bank for safe keeping.

Sighing, Wade remembers he's sweating like a hog and drops his legs over the edge, planting two clammy feet onto the creaky floorboards. He throws on his previously discarded pair of boxers just in case Logan has a case of insomnia. Gotta take a man out to dinner before you show him your dick, like a gentleman. 

Wade peaks his head out into the living room, TV glow assaulting his pupils like a flash bang. The door creaks open wider and Wade steps further out. He doesn't want to wake either furball– you'd be surprised how grumpy Dogpool gets when she doesn't get her beauty sleep– as he tiptoes out in front of the couch. 

His breath catches in his chest. 

Logan lies propped up on the couch, head resting on the arm with a throw pillow behind for support, arms crossed over a bare, hairy chest rising and falling slowly. A sheen of sweat coats his skin that reflects the changing colors of the TV. Half a snuffed cigar smolders on the coffee table ashtray. The semi-permanent crease between his brows is softer, perfect pink lips parted as he snores quietly.

And to top it all off, he's in his fucking boxers; his jeans are discarded on the opposite end of the couch, kicked off in his sleep to beat the heat.

Wade can't breathe. He can't help but stare, committing the heavenly scene to memory. A knowing smile slowly spreads across his chapped lips.

He's happy. Happy at how peaceful his roommate looks. Happy that Logan is finally feeling safe enough to sleep here. Genuinely. Wade knows first hand what it can be like to be constantly on the run, chasing peace and release, rest and safety. 

Tip toes make way to the thermostat, Wade presses the 'on' button to the AC when there's stirring behind him. Head turning slowly, he catches the tail end of Logan mumbling something in his sleep. 

“...Wade, please.” 

Wade freezes like a carjacker caught in an impound lot. Surely he didn't hear Logan, his roommate Logan– The X-Man, The Wolverine– fucking whining Wade's name in his sleep. 

What were the symptoms of heat stroke, again? 

Wade shuffles back over to the couch. Feels like a creep watching his fucking roommate sleep, waiting another moment to see if he needs to take a power drill and give himself a DIY lobotomy or not. 

“Mm… No, Wade…No, please, don't–” Logan murmurs softly. Struggling, brow furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ngh… Don't hurt ‘im… please.” 

Logan begins to shake. His head whips from side to side against the pillow, hands dig into the couch cushions, grunting, fists clenching as his claws itch to defend from the phantom threat. Muscles tensing and chest heaving, his breathing grows harder, faster, more frantic. 

He's having a nightmare.

Wade recognizes the signs immediately. He knows where Logan's at: some distant memory with talons and sharp teeth assaulting his brain without him knowing. Hell on earth on the worst nights, a light ego beating and insomnia on the better ones.

Wade knows– his stopped two months ago. When Logan came home.

Without another thought– one in which he probably should’ve given– Wade climbs onto the couch to straddle Logan’s hips in the most non-horny way he can make it. Hands press into the center of Logan's chest. He gently calls his name, preparing for the sharp stab of Adamantium through an appendage and/or organ. Nothing he isn't used to at this point, but he secretly prays it isn't something totally major.

“Logan. Peanut, hey,” Wade whispers. He presses further into Logan, heat radiating off rough, hairy skin into Wade's tingling fingers. “Logan, it's me, Wade. You're having a nightmare, you’re scaring the kids–” 

SHNK. Intestines. Ten or fifteen points, depending on if it's big or small.  Wade's thankful it wasn't a kidney or his stomach– those are a bitch and a half to grow back.

“Okay– that was maybe warranted,” Wade grunts. Both sets of claws penetrate straight through his lower abdomen as Logan jolts awake, sitting up as much as he can while pinned under Wade. A gnarled scream catches in his throat. White-hot knuckles graze the skin of Wade's stomach, who is really, really trying his hardest not to get a boner right now. 

“Th’fuck's goin’ on?” Logan slurs, face inches from Wade's bare chest. He blinks. Once. Twice. His brow returns to its permanent crease as he adjusts to the scene before him: bright TV glow contrasts with dark shadows Wade casts over him.

Wade is on top of him and his claws are inside of Wade.

Face scrunching– not inherently in disgust, Wade hopes– claws retract with a muted grunt. Wade can breathe again while his body begins repairing itself. His hands are stuck to Logan's heaving chest, fingers fanning out over each delicious pec. Thick arms rest on either side of him, elbows bent and resting on Wade's thighs.

Wade swallows, praying the man currently underneath him either A. doesn't know where his hands are at the moment or B. this is going exactly the way he wet-dreamt it a few weeks ago. Completely unprompted too, by the way– he's no stranger to the sick side effects of PTSD, he wouldn't knowingly exploit that in order to get into his roommate's pants. He's got more class than that.

Well, most of the time, that is. Again, completely unintentional. Coincidence, if you will.

Maybe he does need that DIY lobotomy.

"Where th'hell am I?" Logan asks, voice less threatening and more alert. His eyes flick from the TV and travel up Wade to meet sympathetic chocolate eyes already on him. Wade peels each finger off Logan's chest and sits back on his knees. Gaze softening, hands fall into his lap inches above the chiseled V pointing to down under Logan's boxers. He doesn't dare move a fucking muscle.

His pinky finger twitches.

"You're okay. You're here, in my world, Peanut. Twenty-first century. New York. We use fifty-cals now, not muskets. You were having a nightmare–"

Wade's throat hitches. He's not gonna cry, no– he's not that much of a fucking empath, for chrissake– but what he wants to say versus what he probably should say get lodged together on the way down to his mouth from his brain.

"I– I did the pressure thing Dogpool does with me, sometimes. Except I thought you'd wanna wake up to this pretty face 'nd not one with drool."

Logan looks skeptical, searches Wade to see if he's actually telling the truth for once, features relaxing once he mulls it over in his head. Wade's gnawing at the inside of his cheek when Logan's thumbs subconsciously start rubbing slow circles over the toughened skin of his upper thigh. Upper-outer, to be exact, but right now Wade doesn't really want to dwell on the minute details.

"So," Logan starts, "you woke me up… 'cause I was havin' a nightmare…?"

"Well, not exactly because you were having a nightmare, no." Wade runs a hand over the top of the couch, distracting himself. "Al really likes this couch. Antique, actually. Vintage find. Be a shame if some man with claws–"

Logan's palms press into Wade's thighs. A warning.

"Mouth."

Wade sighs. Hands fall into his lap once more and he is absolutely not fighting to gawk at Logan's V that lights up like a road work sign pointing to a detour. The semi-hard abs just above definitely do not make him want to run his fucking tongue across them like a cheese grater.

He looks back to Logan, clears his throat. "Look I– I've been there. Am there, honestly. Didn't want you t'be alone whenever you woke up, but I also know how hard it is to wake up. So," he shrugs, voice lowering, "thought I'd help. Help you come down from it, I mean."

Logan stares back in response, eyes trained on Wade like a hunting dog and a downed fox. Wade swears the corner of his lip twitches along with the meaty hands on his legs.

He's gotta get the fuck out of here.

"So!" Wade starts, "Seems everything's in working order. The doctor will be in soon–" Wade starts to scramble off before realizing Logan's holding him down. Sharp claw stubs poke into scarred skin and a deep growl rumbles out of Logan's chest. Not necessarily threatening, no, more of a 'you're not goin' anywhere.' Wade gulps, hands raise up jokingly, forcing his racing mind to think of a naked, cross-country skiing Al to stave off the blood violently rushing to his stubborn cock.

Logan sits up, closing the space between him and Wade. Hazel eyes study wide brown ones. Logan takes a breath, shaky but sure.

"Don't want y't'go. Not– not yet."

It's hesitant. Unsure but curious, quiet enough Wade thinks he's hallucinating again. Wade mulls it over, leans forward with hands back on Logan's chest, skin and muscles taught underneath with tactile tension.

Wade sucks in a breath, moves his hands higher to Logan's collarbone and it's grossly apparent how tense Logan is. Hostile to any sudden movement, untrusting of touch to the point his fists shake against Wade's legs. A slow, tender hand inches up Logan's throat and onto his cheek. Wade feels through the rough facial hair and unkempt stubble, a thumb finds the shaved spot at the point of Logan's chin and strokes gently. Fists start to unclench, but there's a hesitancy still lingering in the air, under Logan's skin. Wade thinks it smells like fear. Inches away, face to face, breaths fan eachother's faces.

There's a shift in the air and Wade leans forward.

Logan doesn't stop Wade from connecting them together, lips touching lips in the softest manner possible. Almost feels like there's nothing there, Wade's too gentle. Nobody moves, breathes, at first; they're each trying to make sense of what the fuck exactly is happening. Logan isn't saying no, isn't sawing through Wade's skull and Wade isn't pushing himself on Logan.

Okay, maybe leaning in to kiss his roommate might be pushing himself on Logan to the logical bystander, but in the moment it just felt right.

To Wade's surprise, Logan's the first to move.

His lips start molding into Wade's. There's pressure, a little pushing, chapped skin and the remnants of tobacco on his breath when his lips part and his tongue pokes ever-so-slightly through. Wade pushes back, hoping his breath isn't as abhorrently delicious as leftover cigar. He tilts his head, nose poking into Logan's cheek as his does Wade's, and lets his tongue explore a little more. Logan allows him in, meeting him at the tip and hungrily welcoming him. Breaths turn heavy, panting, while hands begin to roam, more comfortable now that they've crossed the line into 'spit swapping' territory.

Wade drinks him in. Greedily swallows the choked-back groans Logan keeps holding in his throat that come out as muted mewls. Fingernails wantonly dig into one another and leave temporary marks that disappear under rapid replacement cells.

It feels like forever when Wade finally comes up for air, unable to focus with the growing hardness digging into his thigh.

"I–fuckin' shit– I think I have an idea." Wade pants like a dog in heat– and fuck, he might as well be at this point. Logan pulls back with lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

"'s that?" He's hesitant. Hands tense slightly over Wade's back, his whole body stiffens.

"Do you– do you trust me?"

Wade holds his breath.

Logan only nods. Adam's apple bobbing, lips part in anticipation and curiosity.

Wade strokes Logan's cheek in reassurance, shoots him a wink before shimmying down his body to the other end of the couch, keeping Logan's legs in between his thighs. Fingers hook around Logan's boxers, in turn causing Logan to jolt up immediately. A set of claws unsheathe an inch away from Wade's throat.

"Th'fuck are you doin'?"

Wade only smiles, taking a hand away and kissing the tip of the middle claw, gently pushing it back into Logan's fist and coaxing him to lay back down. What he's about to do would be easier with an in-tact esophagus.

"Relax, Peanut," Wade coos, "'m not gonna hurtcha."

Logan stares at Wade. Eyes pinch, still suspicious.

"…Promise?"

A sharp pang ripples through Wade's heart.

"Promise."

Logan hesitates, relaxes, gives another go-ahead. Wade's fingers curl once again around the waistband of his boxers and slowly, but surely, pull them down and off him. He can't help the immediate salivatory reflex upon seeing Logan in all his glory; the deep V lights up like a fucking Vegas sign pointing straight to the jackpot.

Logan's big– like, big big. Biggest Wade's ever seen (and Wade's seen a LOT.) An automatic response, Wade's asshole clenches, mistakenly preparing to take Logan. Wade forces himself to relax– that's not happening tonight. He promised Logan he'd go slow, no surprises, no whipped cream or leather cuffs.

Not yet, at least.

His own cock weeps happy tears through his briefs. He cannot believe how perfect– how beautiful– how fucking huge Logan is.

"What're you gonna do?" Logan whispers, hesitant eyes hooking on Wade and every little movement he makes.

"If it's alright with you, 1972 Burt Reynolds, 'm gonna suck every ounce of tension out of your perfect, hairy body and make you feel the best you've felt in a looong time."

Logan scoffs a laugh, brow furrowing as he shakes his head slightly. "Don't know who–"

Wade shushes him. "Don't worry, baby girl. I'll be your Sally Field."

Wade smirks at Logan's confusion and mentally makes a note to his future-self to show Logan the glory that is Smokey and the Bandit.

A gentle hand steadies the base of Logan's cock while another slowly wraps around his stiffness, standing at attention and beginning to cry, begging for Wade's touch. Heavy breathing and bitten-back grunts fill Wade's ears. It's a heavenly symphony he's lucky enough to have a front and center seat for. Free ticket, too.

"Ngh– Red, whatever you're gonna do– ah–!"

Wade presses his lips to the base, bush of hair tickling his nose and lips while he kisses his way up to the head, tongue poking out to lap up the precum. Before siccing his lips around Logan, Wade looks up once more, mostly searching for permission to help him feel pleasure for once instead of pain.

Logan reads Wade's mind and sends a small nod in response.

With a shit-eating smirk, Wade welcomes Logan into his mouth, flattening his tongue and curving his lips over his teeth so as not to scratch the sensitive, velvety skin. Drool spills out the corners of Wade's mouth and swallows a gag when Logan jams into the back of his throat, digging into his uvula. Squeezing the base and cupping the balls, Wade begins to bob his head to the rhythm of Logan's mess of 'fuck's, 'shit's, and–

"Mmm–Oh–oh, my god," Logan moans. A calloused hand runs over Wade's bald head, scars and grafts rippling under his touch while another hand grips tightly onto the side of the couch. Wade slurps up every drop of precum, relishing in the sweet musk of Logan's scent, head bobbing and tongue swirling in tandem. Logan's hips buck up into Wade, fucking his throat without meaning to. No amount of lozenges or peppermint tea will be able to cure the sore throat Wade knows he'll have come morning.

"F–fuck, Wade, baby– shit– that feels so–!"

Another lengthy dive down onto Logan hits the very back of Wade's throat, pulling a long, strenuous 'fuck' from the deepest part of Logan. He bucks harder into Wade who stalls, choking on Logan's cock while his own strains against his briefs. Another swipe of tongue, another gag and seeping drool, and Logan is officially done for.

"F–fuck! Motherfucker! Oh my, god, Wade–!"

Curses and chants and shaky breaths fill the living room as Logan spills into Wade with an 'O' on his lips and a hand on the back of Wade's head. There's a sharp shngk and a sting at the tip of Wade's ear as red warmth drips down onto Logan's thigh; his claws unsheathe into the couch this time, not Wade, who slurps and sucks every last drop of mutant cum from Logan's softening cock like it's the Fountain of fucking Eden.

He comes up for air, finally, lungs gasping against a swollen, fucked throat. He sits back panting on his thighs and Logan's legs underneath, a mix of cum and drool and the slightest bit of blood running down his cheeks and neck. Wiping away the mess with the back of a hand, blurry vision focuses back into reality and onto his roommate.

His roommate. Logan. Wolverine. Who's dick he just sucked the ever-living hell out of.

Well this is awkward.

Wade swallows, offers a crooked half-smile to the man who he just sucked, fucked, and milked dry.

"How 'bout them Yankees?"

Logan barks a laugh. A real, genuine laugh, one with teeth and spread lips and legitimate amusement. Wade preens.

"That was–" Logan wipes beads of sweat off his brow, "Fuck it. That was fuckin' amazing, Wade." He stuffs a hand behind his head, blinks a couple of times to recalibrate. "Didn't know that mouth did anything else 'sides talk."

Wade shrugs cutesily. "It impresses me sometimes, too. Helps when I have a willing participant. Just hope you signed the paperwork."

Logan shakes his head. Arms reach up to grab onto Wade, pulling an ear to Logan's lips.

"Now how 'bout we take care of you next, baby? Hm?"

\|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/

Morning sun and a weight on his chests wakes Logan from probably the most peaceful sleep he's had in… well, ever, honestly.

There's a wetness and mix of smells wafting into his nostrils that make him stir next; combination of what feels like a tongue on his cheek making way towards his lips, dog breath, and the sweet smell of something cooking in the kitchen. Eyes fly open when a whine vibrates on his chest, finding himself greeted by Dogpool wagging her rat-tail with eyes bugging out of her little head.

"Gah– get off me, mutt," Logan scolds, sitting up and gently shoving Dogpool onto the couch cushion next to him. He runs a hand over his face and into his hair, the crick in his neck a little less noticeable this morning.

"Gooooood morning, sunshine!"

Logan looks up with tired eyes still adjusting to the morning light to find Wade in his robe covered in flour with a mixing bowl cradled in his arm as he stirs. Last night comes screeching back to Logan as soon as he locks eyes with his roommate, mouth going dry and dick twitching in his boxers.

Wade only smiles, not at all hiding his obvious glance at Logan's crotch. "You want chocolate chips or blueberries in yours?"

Logan shakes his head. "In my what?"

"Pancakes, Peanut. In your pancakes."

"Oh. Yeah." Logan blinks, then scoffs a laugh to himself. "Yeah, Mouth. I'd, ah– blueberries. I'd like blueberries."

[icasticonoclast]

WIP Whenever

I've been tagged in this multiple times at this point by @fourraccoonsinacoat and @amasec (at the very least! there might have been others I've forgotten!) and I just haven't participated because I've never had a really ripe WIP when the tag came in.

But this is part of a WIP I've been sitting on for a while because I was vividly inspired but I haven't gotten to that part in the story yet in my fic series, so I've held off on posting it. (Though maybe I should since it's a disconnected series of vignettes rather than a longfic...)

Anyway. Maybe the dopamine hit will motivate me to write the actual next section of the story that's making my brain stuck.

~~~

CW: Torture and all the usual caveats that come with Commorragh, Drukhari, and discussions thereof.

Sleep eluded him, as it had for weeks.

The first few nights he tried in vain to sleep by sheer force of will. Instead he simply lay in the dark, remembering the tableaus left behind by Drukhari atrocities he’d witnessed. In dreams, when he did manage to sleep, his imagination transposed Evanelia into the memories. He saw her face contorted with agony, pale tear-tracks cutting through a layer of blood and grime. He saw her still alive — but barely, her eyes pleading silently for relief. He saw her eyes glassy and lifeless. He saw her body bruised, broken, bent at unnatural angles. Looking away was no relief when he could still her screaming.

He had never actually heard Evanelia scream before. Shouting in battle, certainly, or a yelp of surprise… but never this. Never the raw sound of pure terror and helplessness, clawing vocal cords bloody as if the sound itself was trying to escape a pain that would not relent. It didn’t matter. That lack of information did not stop his mind from recreating what it might sound like, nor prevent the sounds from haunting his many waking hours with crystal clarity.

He aided his sleep with biomancy only once. That night, nightmares of Evanelia facing Drukhari torment mingled with memories of Inquisitorial interrogations. The subjects of his interrogations were her. The torturers flickered between figures — strangers, Marazhai, cultists, Calcazar — but inevitably the face settled into his own. In the bizarre logic of dreams, he was both witness and perpetrator. He watched from outside his body, powerless to stop it, as she was tortured — as he tortured her, as he felt the Warp thrumming in his veins, staining his hands as surely as spilled blood. Heinrix could still hear her ragged sobs and pleas for mercy when he awoke, sick to his stomach and gasping for air, with a sheen of half-frozen sweat on his skin.

After that, he gave up trying to force sleep. Instead he sat at his desk and pored over notes, as if by sifting through half-corrupted reports from unreliable informants for another hour he might find something useful. Then he started going on walks throughout the ship to clear his head. When his path brought him to the chapel two nights in a row, that became his habit.

The chapel on the officers’ deck was usually empty in the middle of the night, apart from a handful of enforcers and priests. Very occasionally, he would find some officer who’d had the misfortune of being relegated to night shifts temporarily. But even then, they gave the Interrogator a wide berth.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König of the Icks

I’m sorry y’all, König is an ick magnet. He’s such an awful human being. Not because he’s genuinely vile or awful or morally fucked (okay a bit morally fucked), but simply because he does so many things that give the ick. He’s King of the Icks. He really is. He’s awful. So, with me breaking your bubble, let’s go over a few of the icks that I think are most prevalent. More posts of König icks to come.

König wears socks and sandals. Or socks and crocs. He’s awful. He only does it when he’s wading in the water, meaning he’ll walk around in wet socks for about an hour afterwards until they dry out. It’s so disgusting I cannot stress how awful it is. He tries to tell people that it’s safer and more comfortable, but he looks awful. It’s a fashion nightmare. No human should be wearing socks and sandals while wading in the water. In all fairness, he’s right, it does keep his feet safe, but does he really need the socks???

He wears clothes in the wrong size almost all the time. You tried to get him clothes in the right size, but he rarely wears them. He wears clothes too large because he says it’s ‘comfy’ but he looks like a slob. He’s so disgusting it hurts. He doesn’t even treat his clothes well because they collect spills and stains as he wears them for multiple days in a row. He’s had someone ask if he needs money for a bus ticket before. It was the one time in his life he realized how other people saw him. He’s since started to try to wear nicer clothing when going out. Around the house though? He looks terrible.

This wouldn’t be so much of an issue if he weren’t such a messy eater. He may look like a slob, but normally he’s very clean and neat in his habits. He cleans dishes immediately after using them, he sweeps and mops regularly, he has good personal hygiene and takes care of himself. He’s a generally clean person. That is until he sits down to eat. It’s awful because he takes bites that are too big and then it’ll fall out of his mouth and onto his shirt. He’ll then suck the stain to ‘get it out’ but it just makes things worse. He also uses his shirt as a napkin or towel, depending on the situation. He’ll also make pretty loud sounds when he eats, especially when he’s eating noodles or slurping a smoothie. If you think you’re lucky and these will be rare instances, he has a protein shake every morning and will have a bowl of buttered noodles at least once every other day (usually more).

Along this line, König got in deep shit for not having a white shirt when he was a new recruit. They asked him why he wasn’t wearing a white shirt, and he told them that it was, in fact, the standard issue white shirt. The sergeant pointed at all the other recruits in bleach white shirts, and then back at König’s grey shirt. They got into a huge argument, only for the drill sergeant to pale when he spun König around and read the tag because this grey piece of shit was a white t-shirt all along

König is an excellent cook. Why is this an ick? Because he doesn’t cook. He could, if he tried, but he’s too lazy so he just throws a day-old grilled cheese in the microwave and calls it done. He then has the nerve to complain that he’s hungry when all he’s eaten are old chips and candy bars. The only time he’ll consider cooking is if you ask him to cook or if he’s having company. Otherwise he will eat trash and you cannot stop him. He will, however, once a week or so lay out a full meal. It's beautiful and delicious, but you know he'll be eating leftovers for days, and then go back to a day of only junk food, then he'll finally force himself to cook again.

On the topic of food, König refuses to accept that food can expire. Just straight up. He doesn’t believe in expiry dates. ‘It’s a best by date, not an expiry date’ is his motto and he pays for it. At this point, he has a designated sick bucket because he gives himself food poisoning so often. All the others soldiers can’t believe that he’s fine with the MREs, but you know that when he comes home, he’ll be chowing down on stale bread he found in his fridge with moldy cheese. It’s disgusting and you have to regularly clean his fridge, lest he get sick eating things. He will also fish things out of the trash, so you have to be tactical in how you remove things. It’s a dangerous game.

This is just the tip of the iceberg of my König ick list. I’m telling you all that this man is a gremlin, and we love him for it. Part of the joy of dating König is dealing with his icks and suffering.