#size neutral reader

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[paranoiddreams]

prev⟺next

Being Sukuna’s girlfriend is not always easy. He’s the type to show his love rarely, but when he does, it’s aggressive, to say the least.

You’ll often wake up with his large hand wrapped around your neck, his warm fingers just long enough to reach around your entire throat. At first, it was startling—a demon man you just started dating who shows basically no affection is choking you in your sleep? Was he trying to kill you and just got tired half way through??

All of your questions cease although, the moment you find out why he does this. You decided to pretend to be asleep one night as you were lying in his royal chambers, covered in love bites from moments before when he decided to suckle and nip at your skin—another strange way he shows his love for you. Your eyes flutter shut as soon as you hear him walk out of the bathroom, knowing he’s just finished brushing his teeth and is now ready for bed.

The mattress dips when he lies down next to you, inches away at first, but when you feel his large frame hover over your face to make sure you’re asleep, he moves right up against your back. You’re surprised to feel one of his muscular arms wrap tightly around your waist, the other reaching under your head so that you’re essentially using him as a pillow. His chest rumbles lowly when his hand moves below your chin, fingers carefully wrapping around your throat as usual.

You’re waiting for a squeeze, the tip of one of his nails jutting into your skin, or even a few harsh words in your ear. But all you feel next is his fingers tightening slowly, the tip of his index hovering just above your pulse point, before pressing into your soft, pliant skin. You feel your heart race against the pad of his finger, then another rumble from his chest against your back.

“Mine,” he whispers gently, before running his thumb over the soft edge of your jawline. He then presses one last kiss to the top of your head before lying his head down and closing his eyes.

Let’s just say, you never question his weird, sometimes animalistic, possession over you; because in reality, he’s just a big guy who doesn’t know how to express his unyielding love for you.

It’s givinggggggg tiger!sukuna. Should I…explore the waters of that concept more? I probably will despite the reaction to this💪🏻🫡

[rexhya]

aranged marriage with nanami kento except he's so painfully awkward around you think he just fucking hates you

"can you pass the salt, please?" you voice quivers slightly and curse the guilt that floods his system, he tries to cheer you up.

"no." you flinch and don't say anything for the rest of the dinner, it was supposed to be sarcasm but his mind was so tense with anticipation it came out sounding like he'd actually meant it.

kento tries to fix things, planning a long and drawn out apology he's gone over at least 6 times before he's ready to say it aloud but as soon as you finish your last dish you mutter a quick goodbye and scramble as far away to the other side of the palace

so he tries again the next morning, he makes the two of you tea and things are going well untill you realize what said tea contains

"nanami..." you whisper. he looks up from his book to see your pretty face on the verge of tears and uncharacteristically red...

"i'm alergic to green tea.."

safe to say after that incident you avoided him like the plague, you no longer came down for dinners, you were pretty much awol if he was around

he understood why, but it didn't break his heart any less.

as a last and final resort, nanami tries to be blunt, he'd heard you sob when he passed by your door and knew it was time to get overhimself

he goes all out, flowers gifts and a book you'd mentioned in passing conversation

your very confused when you return home from your outing, wondering if it was somebody's birthday before the blonde makes it clear it's all meant for you.

"but...why?" you can't help yourself, it just didn't seem real considering

he takes a deep breath, "you, you—" he closes his mouth and lets the wave of shame pass

"i dont want you to take your ring off." he starts, and he can tell he had to speak fast because you look shocked now. "i was just passing by, and i heard you speaking to Elizebeth, don't take off your ring. And let me apologize properly, for...my behavior."

"but, but i dont understand..." and truly you don't, nanami kento, a man of little words and even fewer actions was trying to say sorry to you

"i've not been a good husband to my wife, not a good one at all. i let my own character take over and have caused to you far to much pain. so if you have me, only if you'll have me, would you be willing to give me another chance?"

you couldn't lie at the way nanami said wife, it made you feel special, it made you feel noticed.

it made you feel loved.

"yes, yes you may."

[luviisabella]

Bakugou does push ups with you on his back.

Majority of the time you’re just reading and enjoying the view of your boyfriend biceps.. other times you’re encouraging him and he can’t help the grin that spreads on his face knowing he’s eating up every affirmation you throw at him.

—

“You’re so strong kats’ you gently place your hands on his back as he continues his workout.

“Yeah ?” he groans and it’s hot, getting him to talk during this is probably your favorite part and he knows it

“Mhm”

“You should show me how those muscles really work tonight”

Now you’ve got him all riled up-

[lxvvie]

Lately I just can't seem to stop thinking about simon with a wife who chants his name like a prayer while he's pounding her into the mattress. Dick so bomb all she can say is "oh, SIMON!" 😍

It's fuckin' music to his ears, saying his name like that, chanting it like a bloody prayer, like he's the most sacred thing walking the goddamn planet in your eyes.

You moan his name—fuck, it makes him tremble—and fucks you faster, hits that one spot like his life depends on it. You say his name with everything you have, and Simon's never felt so loved, so adored before in his life; poor bastard didn't think it was possible to turn 'I love you' into one word, but you did: him.

He hits that spot again and you're seeing stars.

Say it again, sweetheart. Tell him you love him.

[luvbabydoll]

inspired by this post from @jammiesjars

price would clock it immediately—the way you linger just a little too close to some bloke at the bar, not even speaking to him, just standing there like it might get under his skin. and it does. but not because he thinks you’re actually interested in anyone else—no, he knows you’re his. it’s because you’re trying.

his shy little wife, too sweet to even bat her lashes at another man, thinking this would be enough to get a rise out of him. and it does. just not in the way you expected.

price doesn’t say a word when he comes up behind you, big hands settling heavy on your hips. the man beside you gets the message instantly, scurrying off like a frightened animal. but you? you’re still playing innocent, even as price leans down to murmur against your ear, voice low and thick with amusement.

“was that for me, love?” his lips graze the shell of your ear, and you shiver. “tryin’ to get me all worked up?”

he doesn’t give you a chance to answer before he’s dragging you out of the bar, a firm grip on your wrist. he’s proud of you, really—proud that you’re learning how to push his buttons. but now he has to show you what happens when you do.

and by the time he’s got you bent over the nearest surface, taking you rough and deep like you wanted—like you needed—he makes sure you understand exactly who you belong to.

[tvgals]

satoru loves making brownies with you.

he loves making brownies because of the way you used to insist on licking the bowl clean because it has more batter in it for you to eat. satoru was never the kind to eat brownies, says they’re too chocolaty, that was until you made him the best batch of brownies known to man which made him hooked in return.

satoru loves making brownies because it reminds him of the way you used to giggle when satoru would playfully smear a little batter on your face and how it would tickle you purple when he licked it off your face.

he hates how he can never get your recipe to taste the same when he makes it, that when he makes brownies now, there’s no sound of you giggling or asking what movie he wants to watch. satoru drives to your tombstone everytime he makes brownies and brings a couple extra for you to try.

“i know they’re no ‘y/n brownies’ but i tried my best.” he laughs softly to himself, looking into the eyes of the little picture they had of you on your tomb. “i miss you every day, beautiful.” he admits to almost no one, sniffling. his eyes water, in all the times he’s visited you, the tears never stop. he can’t believe that after six years, he won’t ever hear your voice or feel your warmth again. “i think about you all the time, y/n. i don’t even touch your side of the bed incase you ever decide to come back to me.” he smiles, breaking off a piece of his brownie and placing it on the side of your grave. “i just wish you could come back…even if it was for a day.” satoru is full on sobbing now, wiping snot and tears from his carefully sculpted face.

satoru loved making brownies with you.

[woodle-isbae]

"Sh-shitt..m'sorry!"

He was practically a mess , shaking beneath you as you sat on his lap , cock sitting snuggly inside you

He had his hands tied behind his back , which rested against the headboard of the bed,hair clung to his forehead , his face a deep red shade as he tried to catch his breath and stop his tears

"I'm not sure if you really are."

Playing mind games with him , he knew he didn't mean to entertain other girls , he was really clueless and thought she was just being kind?

Pathetic

"Pleasepleaseplease-fuck- I won't talk to her , I'll block her please!"

Oh that was music to your ears , kissing him all over his face , covering him in a dark red lipstick before taking his phone , snapping a few pics of him , eyes low and clouded as he made the effort to smile , before posting it on his story

Setting his phone aside , placing your hands on his shoulders and bouncing on him , trying to set a steady pace but you really wanted to cum aswell , just wanting to get to your high

Snap!

The sound of the cuffs breaking rung around the whole room before he set his rough hands on your hips , snapping his at a fast and violent pace to meet your,,weak,, thrusts

"M'Sorry-ah-i can't help myself-"

Mumbling apologies and praises in your ear as he held you closer , promising to make it up to you for this , the grip on your hips far too tight ,,, it's definitely bruising ,,, promising you everything that his fogged up brain can think of

Puffy lips kissing onto your neck , legs shaking as he was nearing his high ,,, both of you knowing it doesn't end there ,,, meanwhile you've already came , fucked out from his ruthless attack on your collarbone and poor pussy

It's gonna be a long night

Armin , Choso , Kirishima , Tamaki , Deku and chosen character

[monstersholygrail]

Ghost bf possessing your old cassette deck stereo and using it to let you know how exactly he wants you to touch yourself. Skipping to different stations on the radio to tell you just how much of a greedy little slut you are for him. How fucking sexy you look while making a mess of yourself because of him.

He changes the volume to control just how fast or slow you’re allowed to fuck yourself with your hand. Watching as you desperately chase your orgasm whenever he raises it, only to lower it just as you’re about to cum. Forcing you to edge yourself for hours, both of you knowing you could cum any time and he couldn’t stop you yet you continue to obey him anyway.

And he makes sure to get it all on tape as he uses the recording feature and a mic to pick up on the way your moaning slowly turns into short whimpers and whines while you beg him to let you cum. When he pops out the cassette tape you know he’s finally allowing you your release and you don’t waste a second furiously pumping yourself until you’re gushing all over the sheets and painting them with your essence. After you make sure to take out the tape and replace it with a new one because he’s shown you more than once what he’ll just happen to forget next time you two do this as he’d be left without a tape and you’d be left without your orgasm.

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, afab reader x price, baker wife, grumpy x sunshine, domestic fluff, domestic chaos

HEADCANON: Price likes to keep his life separate. You — his sweet little baker wife, all honey and syrupy sweet vs his violent and bitter work as an elite operative. But what happens when the lines suddenly are crossed when your cafe gets robbed?

PAIRING: John Price x reader

You and your husband John owned a small cozy cafe somewhere in a quaint little town secluded in a warmy and sleepy valley. Nothing too exciting of course ever seemed to happen here. Quiet. Homey. Cloistered and remote.

Just the kind of place Price thought would be perfect to better draw the boundary between his life and yours. Where you -- his darling sweet and syrupy love of his life -- and your world remained all scones and sugar packets. While his was smoke and steel.

John didn't mind of course. He liked it perfectly that way. Loved it, even.

You didn’t ask questions when he disappeared for days at a time -- you just packed him a thermos and kissed his cheek like you always did. You didn’t need the details, he reserved. You just know that he was in the military and that was all, too dull and recluse to truly fathom that what he did could turn stomachs inside out.

You only asked him once though -- early on, when you’d burned a batch of cinnamon rolls waiting for him to come home from a mission that went a day too long.

“Did you win?” you asked, hands sticky with sugar, eyes soft and searching.

And he’d stared at you for a long, long moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah, love. We won.”

That was enough.

After that, you never asked again. Instead, you made his favorite blend of tea whenever he came back, warm and steady like a lighthouse in the storm. You mended his uniforms without asking about the holes. Humming softly as you patch through what you thought were just snags from bad fences or brambles, never suspecting the bullets that tore through and almost tore his jugular in half.

You never really knew what that odd smell was buried in the seams on some of his cargos or vests, only scrubbed a little harder, added a touch of lavender to the rinse water, and folded everything just the way he liked. Tight, precise, like the way he made his bed.

You didn’t see the bloodstains or the torn flesh. Nor the daunting threat of death and decay at his fists. No, heavens no.

You saw the man who kissed your knuckles when you handed him warm muffins. The one who grumbled every morning about how you made the café smell like vanilla instead of "real breakfast food" -- and then ate three scones before the door sign flipped to open.

The one you let rest his head in your lap and carded gentle fingers through his hair as if you could soothe away every awful thing he’s done with just a little more tenderness.

That was John. Your John.

The one who would quietly fix the loose leg on your favorite chair before you even noticed it wobbled. The one who grunted and shifted in his sleep, sometimes mumbling things under his breath that didn’t sound like English. The one whose eyes got distant in the quiet hours between closing and bedtime.

But always -- always -- came back to you.

He was a different man in this town, in your arms. Here, he wasn’t Captain Price, commander of elite soldiers, a ghost on the battlefield with blood on his hands. Here, he was John. Just John.

Your John Price. Husband to honeyed and gentle Mrs. Price from the bakery.

He loved the routine of it -- the slow pace, the scent of baked goods in the morning, the sound of your soft voice humming along with the radio as you wiped down the counters. Loved when you wore those little frilly lemon-print aprons and silly heart-shaped earrings. When you brought lunch to the old postman every Tuesday and insisted on naming the stray cat that wandered by the café (“Muffin,” of course).

No one in town ever suspected what John was capable of. Why would they? He looked like a grumpy husband with joint pain and a nicotine habit. Wore thick puffy jumpers that you'd always knitted in the winter and helped carry the elderly ladies’ groceries. Didn’t speak much. Smoked out back and occasionally grunted at tourists.

The townspeople adored you. But they... well they pitied him.

“He’s lucky, that one,” they’d whisper over tea. “Poor dear looks half-dead most days. But she’s so sweet to him.”

John heard it. He didn’t mind.

If anything, it made him smile.

And then came the Tuesday that shattered the routine.

It started like any other: sunrise over the sleepy valley, kettle whistling, you carefully arranging pastries in the display case. John out back somewhere in the kitchen. Grizzling and grumbling about as you voiced out how the espresso machine just wasn't working properly at all since yesterday. Finding the usual muttering and clattering of steel and plastic a soothing backdrop as you kneaded dough and dusted some floury residue off the counters.

Until the door opened.

Too hard. Too fast.

Three men. Military posture .... Wrong energy? Probably just grumpy and hungry you concluded in your sweet little head.

You blinked. Smile not faltering one bit. “Good morning! Table for—?”

They didn’t answer. One reached under his coat. One locked the door behind him.

“Cash. Now.”

“Oh, dear,” you said, wiping your hands on your apron. “Can it wait until I get the biscotti out of the oven?”

“No.” He slammed his hand down. “Now, lady.”

And then, without warning, John was there.

Still clad from the lacy smock you insisted he wore as uniform with you. Adorned with the added crocheted flowers and bunnies in the straps and pockets. Looking like a hulking and fuming bear. impatient and unreserved like someone woke him up too early from hibernation. You didn’t even hear him come out. But there he was, behind the counter, face calm, eyes unreadable.

“Step away from my wife.”

The man turned, laughing. “You’re the barista?”

John didn’t answer. He moved fast -- too fast for someone with a bad back. He seized the soup ladle from the stovetop, swung it like a club, and cracked it across the man’s wrist with a sickening crunch. The gun clattered to the floor. Chaos erupted.

Two down before you could even blink. One tried to run -- John slammed him into the dessert case, shattering glass and scattering éclairs everywhere. The other wry and grimy one -- standing up after being knocked down silly -- ended up with a cookie tin embedded in his skull. You ducked behind the counter, mostly to protect the good china before a tooth came loose and broke your precious porcelain collection.

When it was over, John stood among the wreckage, a shallow cut on his temple bleeding down one side of his face. Panting and slightly disheveled, he surveyed the mess. The three robbers were still stunned, two of them knocked unconscious and crumpled on the floor, the third stumbling towards the door, muttering incoherent apologies, desperate to escape.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, inadvertently smearing the blood deeper into his skin, but didn't seem overly concerned about it. His eyes flickered to the scattered debris -- one of your favorite DIY cookie jars had cracked underfoot, and a few of your pristine biscotti had been knocked into the floor.

John didn’t say anything at first. He surveyed the chaos with a sigh, his hand still on the soup ladle, the faintest traces of a grim look tugging at his lips despite the blood trickling down his temple.

This was always the moment when he felt the weight of the violence seeped in -- when his world collided so violently with yours. He’d wanted to keep it all away from you, protect you from seeing him in this light. All clawed, gnawing, and evil.

But now, here he was.

Standing in the wreckage of your cozy café, a handful of broken china and smashed éclairs scattered around like confetti at a funeral.

You, however, weren’t looking at him with concern or shock. Neither surprise or fear even. No! Your eyes locked onto the mess -- the broken glass, the ruined biscotti, your smashed up DIY cookie jars!

He heard the soft thud of your footsteps as you walked over, a stern frown settling over your face. His chest tightened, and a knot formed in his stomach. This was it. The moment he had been dreading. The moment you’d look at him not as your husband, not as John darling or the John dear who fixed the leaky sink and ate too many blueberry muffins --

But as someone dangerous. Chaos. Bloody. Resolute and messy. Cutting. Squeezing. Strangling all the good until their eyes white and their necks blue. Dealing with devils and killers close to the bone.

He hadn’t meant for any of this to spill over into your world, not like this. He didn’t want you seeing him like this -- fighting in his element. But before he could even speak, you were already swinging --

-- A sticky and wet dish rag smacking him square in the chest.

"Johnathan Price" you snapped, brandishing a broom like a sword next. “What in God’s green earth do you think you’re doing breaking my good plates?! That was the Easter jar! The one with the bunnies!”

He blinked, stunned. “Darling I—”

“You promised no more soup ladle beatdowns inside the café!”

“They had a gun—”

“And I had biscotti in the oven!”

John, a man who’d led covert strikes in warzones with a cigarette in his mouth and a knife in his boot, found himself retreating from a five-foot-two woman armed with a broom and righteous fury. He tried to sidestep your next swat, but the broom caught him on the hip anyway.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the spot. “You hit harder than Laswell on her third cup of coffee.”

You grabbed a dustpan at that. “Don’t sass me, mister. You just demolished the dessert case and scared off the Tuesday brunch crowd. They’re pensioners, John!”

He gave a sheepish shrug, eyes glancing toward the unconscious men still groaning on the floor. “They’ll come back. You make good scones.”

You huffed, storming toward the shattered biscotti like you were mourning lost children. “Next time you feel like unleashing your inner Rambo, do it outside, away from my marble countertops!”

He crouched beside you, picking up shards of cookie and porcelain, one bloodied knuckle throbbing. “I was gonna apologize, you know.”

“For what? Using my cookie tin as a blunt weapon or bleeding on the tile?”

He gave you a guilty look. “For... letting you see that side of me.”

You paused then, glancing at the trail of éclairs and unconscious criminals in his wake, then at your husband -- your grumpy, violent, cinnamon-roll-consuming husband in a floral apron, bleeding but earnest. A beat passed. And in that beat, something settled deep in your chest -- a quiet, undeniable truth.

Something had truly shifted. Maybe in him. Maybe in you. The boundaries crossed and broken. Something anew was invited when your John decided to wield a knife instead of a whisk today. When he hardly flinched when blood lingered near his teeth. Toying and grunting more pleased than disgusted by the iron taste around his fingertips and palms.

You watched him, framed in morning light and bakery ruin, chest heaving and temple bleeding, the frock of the bunnies in his apron fluttering slightly with every breath -- and in that moment, you saw not a stranger, not a monster, but something... more. Something that had always been there, just tucked behind tea cozies and his grumbling, quiet love.

And maybe you should’ve felt fear. Maybe you should’ve run. But instead --

-- you bonked him again on the head with the broom.

“John, I swear to God, if you’ve broken my grandmother’s pudding dish -- ”

He winced, actually winced, as if your wrath started to sting more than the bullet that probably grazed his arm one time back in Mexico.

“Ow! Ow! I was gonna apologize, woman,” he muttered, ducking the next swing. “Didn’t mean for you to see that side of me.”

“You think I care about that?!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at the mess. “You think I’m afraid of a man in bunny-print pockets? No! I’m mad because you smashed my entire tea set! The limited-edition one with the painted violets!”

John, still bleeding slightly, looked at the floor, sheepish. “They came in with weapons, love.”

“They came in with dirty boots!” you shot back. “And you just let them stomp all over my floor like heathens!”

One of the robbers groaned softly in the corner. Without breaking eye contact, you picked up a scone and hurled it with perfect aim. It thudded against his forehead. He slumped back down.

John stared at you.

“…You terrify me sometimes,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms. “Good.”

And that -- well, that was the real violence in John's life now.

Not wars or battles or bloodshed. No. It was John Price getting scolded within an inch of his life while holding a rag to his face, trying not to bleed on your embroidered doilies.

-- not the fists, not the firefights. Not the burning of scanting flesh and loose wounds and gunpowder --

But the fury of you. His tiny sweet little flour-dusted wife with a broom in one hand and a lecture in the other.

And John. Your John

Wouldn't have it any other way.

masterlist

[sh1-n0bu]

so,,,, despite being a monsterfucker for a while, i never really got the love for yautjas. until i was forced to watch killer of killers due to the rampage going on my feed and uhhhhh im pretty sure there are at least a handful of monsterfuckers out there who wants to top/dom a yautja like myself. also this isnt much of a fic. its just a sudden little thought i had after going thru the rule 34s tag of yautjas. no yautja in particular, take it as you will, imagine whoever you like. i dont know anything about yautjas or how this all works. im just horny and freeballing it. feel free to correct me

so… yautjas huh? what an alien species and mind you, this is my first impression of these guys. despite the majority of the killer or killers tags thirsting over the warlord — as we all should — i found myself liking the viking predator a lot. the goons are cute too. the three predators of the movie parts even have names too. jotun, oni and baron in the order they appear. of course, the guy in the pic above, the last one everyone is thirsting over, is warlord predator, also called ‘Grendel King’ by one of the characters

anyways, enough geeking over the yautjas of the movie, time to move on to my actual brainworms

yautjas are alien species and just as they are humanoid, some parts of them are indeed humanoid. and some parts, not so much. i have seen a decent amount of yautja smuts on the yautja tag — haven’t read them yet bc i prefer to be the one to fuck rather than get fucked — but one headcanon answer had me thinking multiple things

yautjas — male, female doesn’t matter — have two dicks and a vagina as well as an asshole. bigenital, if you will. every yautja can therefore sire their young, but the female yautjas tend to sire them and grow them in their bellies due to their stomach having more padded muscles, serving as a protective meat shield for the babies. the male yautjas carry them as well, but it’s more common to see the females carry them

i can’t find the author but one author here on tumblr had given their thought that yautjas never knew about blowjobs and lemme add to that — fingering as well. look at their mouths and hands, full of claws, fangs, mandibles and shit. truly a creature meant for hunting and killing rather than feeling fleshly pleasure. yautjas don’t really care about it either, they’re more of an animal mating ritual type of pleasure seekers. find a yautja who shakes your fancy, court them, knot them full and have a few strong, next generation of young’ins. simple and straight to the point like an animal mating ritual. no need for foreplay, fighting and wrestling to see who will knot who is a foreplay enough for their species

blowjobs? never, unless one is trying to bite off the dick of the other one. their mandibles stretch and open, sure. but they will never stretch big enough to take the other’s dick into their mouths. even if they do manage to painfully keep their mandibles open at all times, their fangs and canine sharp teeth will lead to bleeding and injuries soon enough. so even if their two dicks are weeping at the tip, untouched, and their pussy is glistening wet, the easiest way to just get it done with is to fuck their cocks into the other’s folds. it’ll be full of yowls, cracks, chirps and even growls because i personally like to think that the yautjas have a ribbed dick with a spliced tip. not that their tips could open up like their mandibles, but it definitely gives odd sensations. add the constant bumping and ribbing feeling of the scales and folds of their cock and the mating session between yautjas are usually always loud

so what happens when a ‘ooman is thrown into the mix? a great fighter, a blooded one who has been marked by one of their kin (like lex in avp), a recurring champion from the gladiatorial combat? yautjas are impressed, respectful and some are even vying after your attention on the few occasions you’re allowed awake from the cryo sleep and wandering around the strange, deserted, hot world of theirs. their kin usually has a bias against ’oomans due to their race being resourceful and cunning. they’re just as smart as the yautjas, if not, even more. able to use whatever is around them for survival and able to keep going even after multiple injuries (bc adrenaline). they’re an annoying species and yautjas tend to stay away. a little bit less with you, though. they want to be in the presence of the undefeated champion of the gladiatorial combat, size you up and see if you are truly worth the heavy title you bear upon your meager ‘ooman shoulders

maybe one thing would lead to another or one had gotten interested in your strengths in the bedroom as well and that leads to a yautja receiving their first head and fingering. the moment you drop them to the ground and settle between their legs, the yautja is tempted to wrestle. it is a foreplay between their kin after all. but no, he was dealing with a ‘ooman right now and as excited he was about getting to the fucking, he was also curious. how do ‘oomans show affection? how do they mate? how do they carry their young? so many questions, so little time

they would stay down and obedient, an occasional curious thrills and crackles leaving their throat as their mandibles click and clack softly. mutually curious as well, you finally manage to take off their intricate and annoying loincloth like thing, dropping it to the ground. and the hum that escapes you is equally returned by the yautja as they watch, the soft clicking of their ever moving mandibles filling the silent room. a slit like opening. two of them, even, with what you assume is an asshole underneath them. rubbing the back of your finger’s knuckle over the one on top, you hear the slight rumble from their chest like a purr, taking it as a good sign

the slit on top is bigger than the one underneath. they’re much more harder and covered with protective shells and scales as well, rather then the second one underneath that seems more softer and gummy like a vagina. messing with the scaled one, you watch with an ever growing interest as the slit opens more and more before a cockhead is pushed out, followed by a second cockhead which was a little bit smaller. so, the yautjas have both anatomies huh? like certain animals and how their two cocks are kept inside a protective slit like some reptiles and lizards’

it’s bumpy, it’s ribbed, it even has little round shaped ribs on its sides too. such curious beings, how alike they could be to your kin but also so different. of course, there was much needed poking, prodding and an eager snooping around. two large uniquely shaped cocks and a vaginal opening as well as an asshole. interesting

hearing the impatient hisses of the yautja, you merely grumble under your breath, hissing back at him with annoyance upon being cut short of your little experiment. what do yautjas even do for pleasure anyways? do they fuck like humans do? must be it, right? at least they had the anatomy for it

the moment you get down on them, head between their strong, tight thighs and restless shifting body, a sound like a warning growl was heard before it was swiftly replaced by some soft noises like the purring of a cat. yautjas don’t know what blowjobs and fingering meant after all, their bodies prevented from such types of pleasure. so when your soft, small ‘ooman mouth took in the head of the bigger cock, the warmth around it felt like the yautja was melting in the fiery chasms of the many volcanoes of the yautja prime. it was soft, it was hot and it felt good. way too good to the point the creature was growling, groaning and even letting out odd hitched noises that you guessed was the closest to a moan

and when you put their entire dick into your mouth — with much anticipated gagging, choking and the constant wild bucks into your open mouth — deep throating the bigger cock while gently stroking their smaller cock using the slimy substance the tip oozed, the yautja has basically experienced heaven. the urge to just let go of ‘honor’ and ‘instincts’ and knot inside your warm, tight throat was strong. a deep, gurgly sound escaping them as their mandibles shook all over, unknowing of what to do when your free hand slipped further down and pushing your finger into their softer slit

if you thought the yautja was loud before, they were even louder now. constant, short little noises leaving them, rattling their huge body and even causing you to shake alongside as well. strong legs kicking and clawed hands tearing off the poor floor into shreds. it was a good feeling, the very best, even more than having a clan leader recognize them or hunting down the most honorable prey. ‘oomans’ hands and mouth felt good, they were amazing at fleshly pleasures and had the yautja acted on their interest in you a little bit earlier, they would have. they honestly should have because whatever you were doing to his poor life time long neglected dicks and gushing pussy were making the yautja feel odd. so so very odd. a tight coiling in their stomach, and they for a moment, thought you infected them with something

and then, the tight coils of his stomach is gone within a moment. a loud roar leaving the beast as their body went rigid like a spring, dreadlocks slipping into the floor in a heap as their legs even gave a little tremble. the tip lodged inside your throat twitched and shook, a thick substance filling up your mouth before you could pull it off, causing you to hack and cough out the strange liquid. it didn’t take long until their smaller dick was following along, spilling a smaller load into your jaws and chest, second slit tightening around your fingers as a soft, more thinner liquid like the one from his bigger cock coat your palm. all because your little ‘ooman fingers delved inside their cunt a bit further and seemed to have found a soft spot, loud roars and short breathy growls being switched to little cat like yowls. so, they were just as sensitive as humans, huh?

safe to say, the rumor of ‘oomans being extremely amazing at fleshly pleasures spread across yautja prime swiftly and before you know it, more and more yautjas are interested in a little endurance test with their longest reigning champion

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

> summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold > tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[paranoiddreams]

prev.

You’re sitting prettily at the foot of Lord Sukuna’s throne, chin resting atop his knee. Your eyes sparkle with the admiration of someone who’s been saved; in many ways, Sukuna has saved you. He got you out of the abusive home you were raised in, gives you the finest food and shelter, and spoils you relentlessly, all while treating you as if you were a blooming cherry blossom.

But as much as he saved you, you have saved him. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you at his feet, in his lap, or by his side. He’d probably kill more than he does, and never feel an ounce of guilt over it. But with you around, his world spins smoothly on its axis.

“Why are you staring at me like that, pet?” The king of curses asks, timbre voice echoing into the dimly lit throne room.

“Because you’re beautiful, my lord.”

Your words warm his chest, a buzzing sense of pride making his heart beat faster. He’s used to the fearful worship he gets daily, but the most simple words from you are enough to fuel his dangerous confidence for the next few weeks.

Sukuna practically purrs when you climb up into his lap, cuddling against his warm chest. He smirks, wrapping his ridiculously large arm around you to hold on tighter.

“You say things like that when you’re the one who’s truly ethereal — my delicate flower.”

You look up at him, warm cheek pressed against his skin, with a soft smile. “I love you, lord Sukuna.”

He pauses, smirk faltering ever so slightly.

“Love,” he echoes. “Mortals are so carefree with the word…”

“I’m not carefree with anything when it comes to you,” you whisper. “Especially my devotion.”

Sukuna thinks of your words in the bath a few nights ago, how you vowed your entire life to loving him, and how sincere your entire existence is in general. He wonders if you really know how horrible he is, and if that’s the reason you stick beside him — out of fear. But the sparkle of your eyes, and the softness of your hands against his chest, convey anything but fear.

“Then I suppose I…share the same sentiment.”

[rexhya]

sukuna in the least sexual was possible, loves having his fingers in your mouth.

he found you on his property, a slave girl just looking for somewhere safe and no one was allowed to witness him and live to tell the story, meaning you wrre trapped here.

forever.

in the meanwhile sukuna got to inspect you all way he wanted, you folded like paper under him. it was easy to stick his too large numbers into your mouth.

"so dull...how can you hunt with these things.." he mumbles curiously.

you choke, saliva dripping feom you jaw as he released you, "there not for hunting..there for chewing."

"ah yes, i forget your species is so soft, you must turn your kills into mush before swallowing them."

you don't even have a chance to speak before there back in your mouth again, this time his pads pressed hard on your tounge, playing with the flexible muscle.

you gag this time, slapping his arms to release you and a much as sukuna doesn't want to he realizes with a frown, that you can't breath.

he doesn't pat your back as you cough again, only watching your reactions and keeping them in hus mind for later.

"you're quiet a weak one, you know that right?"

"yes, you've told me many times sukuna."

"mm, and i'm right, you really arent meant for anywhere else but under my protection."

you startle, "you're wh—"

he shoves his digits back in you mouth again, watching with precious delight as you squirm under him again.

[st4rssky]

Random Kenma bf texts cause he’s been on the brain<3 warnings: gender neutral, 1 su1c1de joke, 1 nsfw joke, 1 use of y/n, Kenma being a loser but in a cute way :3

[lonelierthanu]

Katsuki Bakugo x Reader

imagine

word count: 405

warnings: none apply; fluff

Imagine it’s one o’clock in the morning, almost two, and you’re doom scrolling in your dark living room so you don’t disturb your sleeping boyfriend. Katsuki had gone to bed long ago; he has a routine. He goes to bed at 8pm every night so he can wake up at 5 am, get his day started with a morning run and then cook breakfast for the two of you. It’s so sweet and domestic and you have no idea how he does it.

You’re notoriously a night owl. Going to bed early is just something you simply can’t do for whatever reason. Katsuki knows this so he doesn’t force you to go to bed at his time as long as you come to bed eventually. That’s usually around eleven or twelve.

Tonight, though, you seem to have lost track of time looking at recipes you want Katsuki to make, DIY’s you probably will never do but find cool, and lots and lots of edits. It’s when you think to yourself, just one more, for the third time that you see it. A dark, ominous figure staring at you from your hallway.

A violent gasp rips through your chest at the sight.

“Why are you still awake?” You hear Katsuki’s deep sleep muddled voice growl at you. You gulp, you’re in trouble.

“I was gonna go to bed I swear,” your voice trembles. In barely any time at all, Katsuki makes his way to you and scoops you up. You squeal at the sudden movement. “K-Katsuki!” He doesn’t respond and with his long strides, makes it to your shared bedroom.

With one hand he flings back the covers on your side of the bed, and plops you down like a sack of potatoes. You blink, shocked by how fast he’s moving considering he just woke up. While you’re still reeling from the speed of his actions, Katsuki snatches your phone from your hand, places it on the charger on your nightstand. Then, lays down on top of you, you groan at the sudden weight, and then slides off of you to get to his side of the bed, bringing you in by the waist.

He brings the covers over the two of you, tucks his head under your chin, and snuggles his arms around you. Instantly relaxing. “Goodnight,” he mumbles against your chest. You just laugh at his antics and begin scratching at his scalp.

“Goodnight,”

(･ω<)☆

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