#violent reader

[danniloversugar]

Imagine if the [reader] is an already troubled child turning insane, having bits of struggles with seeing violence in daily life, Using fantasy to escape it all wonderland, Neverland, etc, You were a bright and a lovely child, polite and full of light, dreams of non-existence and fantasy, though after the trauma and all the neglect the [reader] never expect themselves to fall down a very deep rabbit hole, what's supposed to be under the rabbit hole was full of dreams and fantasy, but why is it full of nightmares and insanity? after all of the neglect of the bat family, loosing your family, your beloved parents to no good criminals and when you've thought you'll be loved, it was the grueling opposite, and slowly, little by little... Reader's sanity is dwindling down to bits [Violent trauma + Neglect + Threats + Near death experience] won't that make you insane? You keep trying to gain their attention, yet nothing was EVER happening. One placed a blade to your throat a threat of death, one was ignorant enough to leave you for dead in a cold winter night, one was ignorant and didn't care enough to bat an eye, one or two, or three just have seen you as an inconvenience...And slowly EVERYTHING was taking a toll to your already fragile mind, and..You just snapped ╬ You tried to remain in your wonderland, your fantasy, your dreams, though...With your crumbling mind, your wonderland starts to disintegrate into a mere nightmare full of insanity after all the things you've seen, you can't hold it out anymore and you just lost it.

Graphic!!

: Damian tried to use the animals to go after you, barking and biting. The next thing that had happened was the animal was found dead, it's skin tore opened, the intestines out and is pooled in blood, Damian was indeed angry yet couldn't help but feel a little disturbed by how you look at him, no more was the quiet and timid bastard child, it was you.

: You snapping at Jason's harsh remark by a swing of a knife you were using to chop vegetables by Alfred, it was almost funny how his reaction looks like, though it wasn't surprising with the violence, what was surprising that it came from you.

:Timothy looking through the security footage, entering in the manor was you, yet...Your white clothing along with your hands was bloodied and..is that..One of Damian's pets you were holding...? He knew Damian did something quite earlier yet he didn't expect to see how much you'll retaliate.

: Richard Grayson (Dick) tried to reason with you and conversed with you in your room, yet couldn't help but be disturbed with how you stood there, silent, staring, eyes wide shot, mirrors broken and an unfinished paintings of the dead pets of Damian's.

: Bruce Wayne, talked you out of it first, scolded you and threatened to put you in the Gotham asylum when he first heard about Damian, yet you didn't utter out a word and you dared him, describing everything that was done to you by Damian in detail and he couldn't utter out a word after your words, Whenever Doctors, and psychiatric going to take you away...You disappeared. Nowhere to be seen, unbeknownst to them, you were taken by a Villain, though...It was unexpected to how their plans changed, what a poor lonely child who fantasies themselves in wonderland, how cruel of them not to take them in, no?

This is just a hear me out, I wanna see a troubled reader who just didn't care anymore, like literally, insanity.

[ya-bug-boy]

Idk if you're still doing request but can we please get submas twins x reader where they are getting back from a date or something, and get attacked by some team plasma grunts and they don't have ANY of they're Pokemon with them,

then Ingo or Emmet (you can choose) get injured pretty badly doing the attack, the reader could only see red when this happened, then the reader begins to beats all of the team plasma grunts into a bloody pulp with his BARE HANDS to the point of they're faces being all broken and bloody. the submas twins then having to pull him off before he accidentally kills one of them.

Sorry if this is too graphic fill free to ignore.

Submas x Violent Reader

You're the talk of the Unova media when you started dating the twins because of your bad history.

You're a notorious punk rock artist, a rather famous one at that. While you are beloved by your fanbase, there was a time you almost got convicted for having started a bar fight. What had happened was that you saw someone spiking a drink and tried to force feed the drink to them, resulting in a fight that got you both arrested. While the asshole did get arrested for that after the drink got tested, that particular man was another famous celebrity. While your reputation as a man and as an artist grew in a more positive light, it did result with violent backlash from the celebrity's fanbase.

Because you used your pokemon against the guy, you're on probation. You cannot use any pokemon in a battle for the next two years. You can keep them as a registered pet but legally you can't battle anyone.

When Team Plasma rears its ugly presence around the subway, you really didn't think that either of your boys could get hurt until now.

You saw Ingo get blasted by an attack, Emmet quickly commanding both of their pokemons to end the battle before rushing over to his brother's side. You never felt an unbridled rage before like this, rushing up to the Team Plasma duo that caused harm to your boyfriend, swinging your bass around to strike their head.

The first grunt stumbles down, as the other tries to get you next. You fight them dirty, kicking them in the balls and hitting them in the jaw to knock them out, turning your attention back to the one that hit Ingo with a Focus Blast, sitting on their waist and just wailing on them, punch after punch on their face.

You break their nose, knocking one of their teeth out, their face bloodied and bruised. You wear rings on your hands after all.

Then you feel hands pulling on your shoulders, you swiftly turn around ready to punch but it's your boys, with the most horrified look on their faces. Ingo looks haggard but the expression of shock he had and the look of fear in Emmet's eyes. . . it breaks you.

There were so many cameras. People had seen everything. The boys try to plead with the police that you were only trying to protect them but they watch in agony as you're detained and escorted away, your hands dried with the other man's blood. You used excessive force after the battle was over. . .

[xitsensunmoon]

"Old habits die hard"

[bokutoko]

OSAMU didn’t really have a favorite color.

it wasn’t until he saw you after school one chilly autumn day, your face lighting up with the question, “is that jacket new, ‘samu?”

he nodded—he didn’t think too much of it when he got it for his birthday, so he surely didn’t expect anyone else to notice. “a gift from ma.”

“i like it, it’s my favorite color,” you took in his full appearance, your eyes looking him up and down, “it suits ya.” a cackle escaped you at osamu’s flustered face, only growing louder with him grumbling, “shaddup.” osamu’s biggest tell was always his accent thickening, and you knew it.

as winter came, osamu found himself wearing that same jacket to and from school every day, ignoring atsumu’s relentless “whadda simp” comments, as a part of him hoped you’d one day be chilly enough to need his coat.

and when that day came, with his jacket hugging your figure as you nuzzled in his leftover body heat, osamu found it hard to breathe.

in that moment, he realized he’d found his new favorite color—yours.

a/n: sorry osamu if reader’s favorite color is pink😔 bro’s looking like pepto-bismol.

masterlist | navigation

please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2024.

[dreamyblanket]

Hi, just wondering, is there a witch y/n? If so, can I request shadow milk x witch y/n (with whatever situation you want) :3

- anon 🪭 (is anon emoji taking allowed???)

I'm still working on witch y/n's design but here's a little peek ^^

And I'm absolutely fine with emoji taking!

[semisolidmind]

Does Dogday like pets?

(meanwhile me who wants to pet him so bad-)

i'd say he's the kind of fella to enjoy a good pet from someone he trusts.

[ozzgin]

Currently working on a headless biker boyfriend to keep the Ghost Stories theme going. Something about a violent, violent man whose evil soul refuses to leave...and now he's even more stubbornly clinging to this world, because he has you! Seething with rage and jealousy. Would break the bones of a random stranger if you merely smiled in their direction.

Ghost delinquent boyfriend who won't stop haunting you. Sigh.

[sunrotdropbrain]

Source under cut

[reader-from-nowhere]

On my hands and knees… Rodimus pretty please … you draw him so silly but oh so cursed…

his ass is NOT doing his captain duties‼️‼️

[simonbrain]

ok ok how about this but the roles are reversed and make it a little dark bc i'm crazy

cw: depictions of violence, they are unfortunately matching each other's freaks

you fucking despise him.

that infuriating, egotistical bastard goes harder on you than anyone else during practice, stretching you to your limits until purples and blues are blooming all over your skin and you're doing the limp of shame back to the side of the sparring mat. absolutely seething when he gives you a once-over, eyes crinkled with mirth just the slightest before he huffs and turns away.

that stupid, freakish brute. that mancunian mutt.

petty insults were all you could come up with in your head each time you were near him because you knew when to hold your tongue, even if you didn't want to. even if all you wanted to do was spit in his face and call him an ugly cunt, you actually valued your life.

then the insults delved into something deeper and darker the rougher he got with you. now, instead of mocking the crooked way his mask is sitting, you think about bashing that damn skull on his face right back into his own until pink matter coats the ground. each time he barks at you to run faster, you think about strapping him to a chair, strapping his feet to another, and stomping right down the middle and shattering his knees.

"think you've been spendin' more time at the mess than in the gym," while he's got you rendered immobile on the floor, and you're gritting through the urge to reenact the current scenario of kicking him right in the balls that's playing in your head. "stop slouching and fix that fuckin' form," while you're doing hand-to-hand combat, and you're imagining an anvil falling from the sky and flattening him on impact.

is it healthy to imagine such gruesome things happening to your lieutenant? definitely not. do they help you get through each and every interaction with him? a little bit. you're just happy no one can see them but you. you're not really keen on earning the reputation for being a crazy bitch.

(little do you know, ghost sees each and every sick fantasy you have about him in your head.

he's been seeing them for a while now, and the only reason he isn't scruffing you and teaching you a lesson is because he has been filing away the images in his head and tugging his cock to them every night. all that rage you have, all that hate you carry for him, nothing like it has made him feel this wound up before. it's the reason he's so mean, the reason he throws you around like a rag doll and sneers at you like you're nothing but a nuisance.

and he should probably be pissed at the audacity you have, at your bratty attitude and dark, heavy glares, but each scenario you come up with, more creative than the last, only serves to work him up further. it's getting ridiculous how fast his cock fills out whenever he's near you, how heavy his breathing gets whenever he takes a peek in your head and sees all the horrible ways you want to kill him.

he's really hoping you try it. he's hoping he wakes up to you holding his own pillow over his face while he sleeps; he hopes you finally give in to your fucked-up desires and hurt him like you've been so desperately wanting to.)

[echoed-salvation]

One thing I love about orv is that it initially bait and switches you by convincing you early on that the constellations are the "big bad" of the story - voyeuristic beings that gain enjoyment off the suffering of others - until the reveal that they are also going through their own scenarios. This mirrors how us as the readers are going through our own lives and our own struggles yet we consume media highlighting the experiences of others. We root for these characters, we follow their journeys, we see ourselves in them. And yet we're not villains - we're just surviving. We're escaping the struggles of our own lives by indulging in these worlds created by human imagination. Similarly, many of the constellations in orv do not have malicious intentions despite living off stories - uriel cares greatly for the incarnations she supports (as the "fangirl" archetype) and sun wukong and abfd also greatly support kimcom throughout their journey.

This is further solidified in the reveal of the oldest dream. Despite unintentionally creating worldlines through his imagination, the younger kim dokja was never a villain or "monster". He was simply a child who sook to escape the tragedies of his life through a webnovel. He depended on that novel to survive. And that was in no way the sin he thought it was - not even secretive plotter who had gone through countless regressions and witnessed the despair of the universe could hold it against him. Nor han sooyoung, nor yoo joonghyuk of the 1864th round, nor yoo sangah, nor anyone else in kimcom. No one thought dokja needed to atone for anything - they loved him and cared for him even when he couldn't love himself.

Just like kim dokja and just like the constellations, we are readers seeking an escape from the struggles of reality. And we too are loved - regardless of whether we know it or understand why.

[internetb3by]

i genuinely can’t stop thinking about sucking on jason’s neck. just sloppily leaving bites and kisses down the column of his neck and leaving a trail of marks behind. like i need to ruin him. i want him to be a mess underneath me.

this is definitely a sexual thing but at the same time I want him to feel loved. i want him to feel needed with ever murmur of “i love you” saying his skin i want him to feel needed and desired like he deserves.

anyways i just really wanna gnaw on jason. there probably more here but i don’t have the energy to turn this into something more.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

hi hello tonight i’m thinking about reformed!geto again …….. he is mostly brooding and silent. bitter, obviously, a little snarky but he’s still compliant; doesn’t cause too much trouble, keeps the name-calling to a minimum. still won’t look you in the eye and still can’t train with the students without playing far too rough, but you think he’s making progress.

with the way he follows at your heel, it’s hard not to think of him as some kind of guard dog — one you’ve been tasked to keep at bay. he doesn’t stray too far from your side, even on the rare occasion he’s allowed to be without your surveillance. if he hates being bound to you, he’s awfully good at hiding it.

but dogs will be dogs. the moment a non-sorcerer tries to touch you, the moment they get close with unwanted advances or misguided hatred — he bites. you don’t have time to stop it, and for what feels like an eternity you’re convinced he killed them. but geto clicks his tongue, and lands a kick against their skull, and you recognize the twitch of a living thing. a gift to you; an act of tremendous restraint in your name, if only out of respect for the way you begged the higher ups to take him back. it doesn’t change the scent of iron, the freezing look in his eyes, the snap of his muzzled jaw. but a part of you is happy, to feel the pulse of an almost faded heartbeat. proud.

it’s progress, after all. an attack dog on a leash.

[dreamyblanket]

Heya, saw your blog and thought it was pretty nice! You’re doing a grand service to the Carrow fans out there!

If it’s not too much of a hassle, I had thought of an idea of Mystic Flour wanting to be approachable to the Reader by smiling, but she ends up unnerving them when she instead gives that creepy smile she makes in one of her sprites.

You smile to show people you love them right ? //^^//

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

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[quarterlifekitty]

You know the praise/degrading chart you made? So stay with me now kitty, stay with me bestie

Slapping Ghost in the face while riding him, holding his chin with force BUT praising him for it

I think he would cum & discover things about himself at the same time

I’m with you bestie we are holding hands rn

cw: slapping, breath play/choking, violent imagery/threats (I made reader kinda fuckin crazy lol)

Ghost is no stranger to the sting of your palm on his cheek. He tells you not to go easy on him, and you don’t— sometimes his vision nearly goes white. Between that and your hand on his throat and your cunt strangling his cock, he’s somewhere in the precipice between this world and the next.

“Don’t fuckin’ pass out on me, Simon. You wanna be good for me, don’t you? You’re always so good for me.” You let go of his neck when the thrum of his pulse in his ears gets so loud that his eyelids flutter.

“Wann’ be good,” he grunts, a surprising propensity for human speech considering he feels like a beast beneath downpour, near drowning in his own rancid pit— that fetid, pulsing mound of weakness beneath his sternum begging for love.

Your fingers trail up the column of his throat to grab his chin, forcing his attention on your face.

“You’re not just good anymore, Simon. Not when you’re with me. You’re perfect. If any other man tried to come near me, tried to fuck me with their raw cock, I’d gore them. Guts turned to garland.”

And he knows you would.

The roiling tempest burns beneath the weak skin of his belly when you speed up.

“You’re perfect and I want you inside of me all the time. You fit me perfectly. I want your everything, god— I love you. Cum right now, cum inside my pussy please you beautiful fucking man—“

He cums so hard he feels like he’s gonna throw up. You follow close after, grinding against him harshly until he can feel the squeeze of your insides on his sensitive cock.

When you lay next to him a few moments later, skin sticky and hot, he’s staring at the ceiling like it owes him money. Since when do his hardest orgasms come from feeling loved?