fic hoarder - 20+my writer acc @thelunaticselfart acc @gripplin9anxi4ty
Last active 4 hours ago
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Text
𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𓆩♡𓆪
➸ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Fucking the harbingers except you’re blindfolded and tied up
➸ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Dottore, Pantalone, Tartaglia/Childe
➸ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Foursome, Exhibition, excessive mentions of cum, reader is blindfolded and tied up, slight slight degradation, thigh fucking, not proofread :>
➸ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬: Afab reader
➸ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: The harbingers have me in the BIGGEST chokehold ever rn. They better be playable plz but for now I wrote this to cope with how fine they all look. Also new diluc skin makes me wanna write a smut on him :>

You didn’t know how you ended up here. Maybe it’s because the alcohol you drank is finally taking a toll on your present state of mind. Maybe it was the alcohol that had you agreeing to this. How did an innocent party turn into this seemed like a question you would have to answer in the morning. However, you couldn’t help but shift your hips with excitement as you hear the shuffling of clothes around you. Hands cuffed above your head, eyes blindfolded and completely naked as greedy hands explored your body. You were completely exposed and helpless to the three harbingers. Body exposed for everyone to play with, to fuck and fill you up so nicely. Unknown hands played with your clit, fingering you, playing with your tits. You didn’t know who was doing what. Who was fingering you so well, hitting your g-spot every time. Who held your legs apart, making sure that your body was left exposed for them to use and who shoved his cock between your lips.
Your body was so sensitive to their touches, shifting and leaning into the slightest of touches. Their fingers quickly bringing you to your orgasm, legs quivering as you moan around the cock in your mouth. You were already so dizzy from your orgasm but you barely even had time to catch your breath. Hands found their way into your hair, pushing you further down their cock before spilling their seed down your throat. They pulled out, leaving your mouth a leaking mess. Slender fingers pushed the cum back in your mouth, your tongue eagerly licking up the unknown person’s cum. “Such a pretty little thing, so eager to be fucked by all of us hm?” Dottore hums you praises as he pushes his cock inside you- or at least what you think is his cock. Your mouth being filled with another’s cock as the last found entertainment with the rest of your body.
You knew exactly who was fucking you but you didn’t know who’s cock you were sucking, who’s cum you were swallowing. Who was stretching you apart, who was filling you up with his seed and who was leaving hickeys all over your body. Assuming it’s Childe inside you when he moans your name so sweetly or it’s Pantalone’s cock inside your mouth as he calls you a slut. You were helpless as they used your holes over and over. Filling you up with cum so much that it’s leaking out. Staining your pretty lips with their seed. Pulling out of you only to leave your messy body on display before fucking back into you. Filling every hole with their cock as you swallow load after load and having your cunt used over and over for their pleasure. Strong hands, slender hands, calloused hands, all over your body at the same time, touching you everywhere, spreading their cum all over your body. Thighs being fucked as someone slips underneath you to fuck into your hole.
They’re using you over and over and you all love it. The way you spread your legs so eagerly for any of them, not knowing who it is. The way you cum over and over for them, the way your body reacts at every slight touch. They’re drunk on your body. They’re drunk on you. And you, you’re so eager to just be stuffed with cock that every time one pulls away you can’t help but whine at the loss. You’re so eager to be filled of cum that you’ll be licking up any drop no matter who’s own. They’re all singing you praises, kissing you, enjoying you and with each time they enter you again, it’s more apparent that you guys won’t be finished anytime soon.
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
Treasure in Plain Sight (Childe x Reader)
A Khaenri’ahi Bloom
Childe usually takes the trouble to steer clear of Liyue’s brothels. If asked, he’d say that it’s because his time is better spent gathering information for the Tsaritsa, that splurging on the prostitutes of Liyue is disgraceful for a Harbinger. He’s a loyal subject, someone who thinks only of combat—and yet when he finally meets you, all that goes out the window. After a single meeting, all Childe can think about is your stunning smile, your playful demeanor, the intoxicating scent of your perfume. And how badly he wants to fuck you.
~Part of a series, but can be read as a oneshot <3
MASTERLIST
Keep reading
433 notes
·
View notes
Note
Welcome back! So happy to see that you are doing well ☺️
Since requests are open, I was wondering if you could write some headcanons/drabbles about how the Genshin men (including Pierro, Capitano, and Dottore my fave) would react if their darling, who was pregnant with their child, tried to run away? Saying "I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!"
what it takes to love | various yandere! fatui harbingers x pregnant reader
content warning: mentions of blood, idk if childe's being sorta trad or not but I'll still put it here. I'm also a bit rusty so they might be ooc...
a/n: definitely not a drabble... I hope you enjoy!
CAPITANO
with the newfound knowledge that you were gone, the captain was on the way home.
there was not a lick of hesitation, no, he dropped everything. your leaving meant you were alone on a cold night while pregnant. who knew what trouble you could be in?
the captain knew you couldn't travel far-- it was too dark, too cold. all that surrounded the manor was woods and woods. he made sure to wear his thickest coat and brought with him his weapon in case you were in true danger. he saw your footprints in the snow, it looked as if you were stumbling about in the cold.
Oh, poor you.
this isn't how things should be-- you, running about at night without him there to protect you. you should be in the safety of his arms, in the walls of his manor.
he wouldn't try to further frighten you, that must be why you ran, no? he would place his coat over you and take you home with him.
following those footprints, it seemed you tumbled and fell a couple of times. you couldn't possibly be in a good state. (y/n)... where could you be ?
"(y/n)," the captain called out. he saw you, your cowering form, pressed against a tree, using one of his coats you'd taken with you to warm yourself, "oh, (y/n)."removing his coat, he set it over your shoulders and lifted you into his arms, expecting you to comply.
"no! st-stop. let me go, i... I'm fine!" you'd argue, though, it seemed you were in no state to.
"(y/n), no," the captain shook his head, trying to keep a gentle hold on you even as you squirmed and argued, "you're tired- you don't understand what you're saying. I'll be taking you home."
"i know what I'm saying," you shook your head, pressing your hand against his mask, attempting to push him away, "i don't want to be with you or near you! l-let go of me!"
the cold must be getting to you, capitano reasoned, who knows how long you've been out here? you're clearly not in your right mind. pressing a hand against your cheek, he felt your skin, he felt how cold it was. you needed to be home and in bed. "hush, you're delirious. (y/n), stop fighting me, i need to bring you home. you're harming yourself *and* our child."
"let go of me! stop- i refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!"
his hold on you loosened-- he was stunned, caught off guard. a monster? his hand gripped at the fabric of the coat over your shoulders, "is that truly what you think of me?"
you hated him? that was why you ran? "(y/n)," the captain repeated, his grip on the coat lessened, "answer me. is that what you think of me?"
do you understand how that makes him feel?
it's not as if you always thought this of him, this was a recent development. after getting pregnant, he was... more protective. he took extreme measures to keep you home, to "keep you safe."
it drove you mad.
so, when you woke up one morning to see that all of the house staff, including your maid that you truly loved, had been replaced-- you knew you had to leave.
"yes, yeah..." you nodded, a stray tear running down your cheek, "so, let me down- let me go," you demanded once more, squirming, trying to get away from him once more.
capitano raised his hand and wiped away that stray tear, "(y/n), do not say that-- not to me, not to my face," his hand dropped back to his side. he needed you home with him, now.
and that need was stronger than any other feeling he had at this very moment.
holding you against his chest, trying to keep you as warm as possible as he worked on getting you home.
he needed you back home; whatever happened afterward could happen, as long as you were home with him.
DOTTORE
how things seemed, you enjoy causing dottore problems.
if you weren't knocking his vials over, you were barging in on his experiments, and if not that, you'd rejected him when he expressed even the slightest bit of affection.
it was always something with you.
and now, on his day off-- on the one day when he had nothing to do and nothing planned, you ran away, or at least you tried to.
dottore refused to let his good day be ruined by something so trivial, so he took precautions.
knowing you, you would do something so he prepared for just about anything you could do.
just about anything... well, he didn't expect you, a pregnant woman, to attempt to jump out of your window to get away from him.
he heard the tell-tale shatter of glass and just knew it was you-- it was always you. he begrudgingly got up from where he was resting and went to your room, where you were halfway out of your window, bloodied from the broken glass digging into your skin.
dottore sighed, "goodness, (y/n)," dottore was approaching you and you could hear him coming closer, so, you tried to lunge yourself out of the window, to get away from him-- to protect your future.
pressing your hands against the sides of the window, you pushed yourself forward, slipping out of the window, but, of course, dottore caught you by the ankle just as you were falling.
you wasted not even a second before you began screaming and swearing at him, trying to squirm out of his grip, "let me go! let go-" you kicked at him as he dragged you back into the room.
once you were in, lying on the glass-covered floor, somewhat numb to the pain, dottore stood somewhere near your side, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at you. he was disappointed, but why?
"don't... lie in the glass. (y/n)..." he sighed once more, and reached out, grabbing your arm and helping you stand.
it was then that he assessed your injuries, asking that you stand still as he looked at your bloodied arms and torso area-- it was painfully cut from the glass.
*you must be in pain, no?* dottore mused, straightening his back as he looked at the thin layer of blood coated on his fingertip, "I'll forget about this-- I'll even forgive you for... attempting this," dottore assured you, holding your arm as he began to guide you out of your room, "I'll forgive you, i just ask that you never attempt such a thing again."
but... you refused, tugging your arm back and out of his hold, "Don't touch me-- i don't *need* your forgiveness!"
you'd never hated him quite as much as you did after finding out that dottore had no problem with experimenting on children that the knave gave him.
it made you sick. you couldn't allow your child to grow up with a man like him, "i *refuse* to raise my child with a monster like you."
dottore's eyebrow twitched, though you couldn't see it. he thought he knew what to expect from you, but, you always surprise him, "a monster? can you genuinely call me such a thing after all I've done for you?"
when you nodded, dottore stifled his third sigh and brought you along with him, despite all of your arguing and fighting. "(y/n), you're hurt. let me clean those wounds of yours. since you cannot accept my forgiveness and let this go, we'll have a talk tomorrow."
dottore cared for you, of course, he did.
he realized just how much he cared for you-- just how much he needed you when he felt his heart drop at the sight of you trying to leave.
he understood just then how much he'd hate it if you left him.
a/n: lowkey ooc...
PIERRO
escape was impossible.
with guards at your door, and all around pierro's manor, you couldn't escape.
but, when pierro found out that you had still tried to leave him-- attempting to walk right out the front door, dressed as if you had places to be, he was displeased.
he was immediately informed of this.
so, as you tried to open the gate that was locked, pierro approached you, "(y/n), where exactly are you going?" he asked, stopping to stand right behind you, "it's cold, and you aren't dressed for the weathers condition... ah, aren't you supposed to inform me of where it is you want to go before going?"
pierro knew exactly what you were doing but for you, he could play dumb. it was better than making you feel cornered and possibly upsetting you further.
he could change, he wasn't above it. after all, there weren't many things he wouldn't do for you.
he held his hand out for you, hoping you'd take it, hoping you wouldn't give him trouble-- not now, not when he was in such a generous mood.
you didn't take his hand, no, you weren't even looking at him as you said, "I'd like to go... I want to stay with my family."
your family? pierro felt his eyes twitch-- he wouldn't allow himself to be seen as the jealous type, no, pierro instead nodded his head slowly, "why don't we go back in? it's terribly cold tonight, is it not?" he'd tried to change the subject, try to ease you back into the house without an argument.
"no, uh... I've got a ride. i just need the gate to open."
pierro saw and understood what you were feeling perfectly-- desperation. "we can talk about this tomorrow, no? it's late, (y/n), im not particularly in the mood to be standing out in the cold while you talk about leaving me."
"pierro- im leaving... I'll send you letters and I-I'll even come to visit," you offered, taking a step towards the gate, looking at the lock, that stopped you from leaving.
"no, no, (y/n), you aren't leaving, at any point. how ever you feel, I'm sure you'd feel better if you spoke to me about how you feel-"
"i want to leave because i dont want to raise my child with you."
first, you cut him off, and now you say this? "you're being very rude-- now, we're going back inside. do not argue with me," pierro took your hand into his and began to guide you back toward the manor.
"no! let go, stop it!" you would drag your feet, crying and arguing, "I don't want to be here! not with you! st-stop it! let me go!"
it saddened him, truly, to hear you cry and beg so desperately, but those words rolled off of him. he didn't care at the moment; he just needed to get you back into the manor, and whatever happened after didn't matter.
he'd have a talk with the guards too.
"You're so evil! let me go-! let me be!" you'd argued, dragging your feet, attempting to make things harder for him, "i refuse to have a child with a monster like you!!"
you couldn't imagine raising a child in this environment, in the fatui...
pierro stilled, glancing back at you, his grip on your hand tightened-- then immediately loosened, "you're testing my patience, (y/n). please, just come inside with me. we can talk about this inside."
because there were fewer places to run inside.
(y/n), you truly are a work of art, pierro mused, as he dragged you along, well, he attempted to be gentle but you were making it hard for him.
but since it was you, he'd do anything, even tolerate your rude behavior, since you were his woman and his alone.
CHILDE
when childe found you, whenever that was, there was no telling what could happen or what he'd do. he loved you, that much was obvious but he was an impulsive guy.
maybe he'd take off his coat and put it over you-- you'd like that, wouldn't you? or maybe, just maybe, he'd hug you out in the blistering cold until he felt good enough to release you... which would be near to never.
or maybe he'd react in anger. again, he loved you, it was inconsiderate, rude even, to leave him while you were pregnant with his child. didn't you promise to start a family with you? (he misheard you. you said you didn't want to start a family with him.)
he wouldn't let his anger get the best of him, no. he was better than that-- he was raised better than that. yeah, he was raised better than that.
childe raised his hand and wiped at the tip of his nose, he was cold. he couldn't image how you'd be feeling right now.
that was all more the reason to find you as soon as possible!
he took this journey alone. he thought it would be somewhat intimate if he found you on his own, it would be manly too-- you'd think he's the type of man you want to raise children with... that's what he thought anyway.
you got a bit of a head start on him, he had just gotten back to snezhnaya when he was informed that you had run off a few hours before he'd gotten back.
oh, he was worried. real worried.
he forgot everything he was planning to do-- eat, change into something warmer, brush his hair, those sorts of things, he forgot all about. you were more important!
before running off, you were staying with his family. it was probably easy for you to leave, just say you're going for a walk and never come back, since his family didn't exactly know all about your relationship with him and how he sorta smuggled you into snezhnaya.
he got home and followed after your footprints for a good while. the sun was setting, and it was only getting colder; at this point, you were probably regretting leaving him and wished to be at home in his arms-- that was just an assumption, of course.
when he finally saw you, in a thin dress and coat, stumbling up a snowy hill, he smiled. (y/n)! its (y/n)!
oh, he felt so relieved to see you!
running past all the bushes and trees in his way, he ran straight into you, hugging you tightly from behind, his hands on your pregnant belly.
"are you hurt anywhere?" that was the first question he asked as he turned you to face him, patting his hands over your arms, checking for any signs of blood on your or your clothes.
he leaned in once again, hugging you after being sure you weren't injured, and his second question, asked in a muffled voice by your ear, was, "What'd ya go running off for?"
"because I don't want to have a child with you."
huh, it seemed childe couldn't hear all of a sudden, as he released you from the hug and slipped his coat off, tossing it over your shoulders, "bet you're cold, huh? now, what'd you say?"
"i do not want to have a child with you."
again, it went through one ear and out the other for childe. he wasn't hearing things right, he couldn't be, could he? "huh? what was that?" his eyebrows raised, and he leaned closer, gesturing for you to repeat yourself once more.
now annoyed, you leaned closer, saying, "I'm leaving you because i dont want to have a child with someone like you."
he straightened his posture, backing away with a less-than-happy expression-- he looked defeated. so, he was hearing things right, huh...
"we gotta see it through... y'know that, right?" still holding your hand, his grip loosened. childe had never felt quite so... sad? angry? betrayed? before.
"no, we don't. I want to go back home, I'll see it through with my famil-"
"we are family," quickly cutting you off, he corrected you, his fingers tensed around your hand, "I'm your family-- everyone back at home is your family. we're your family so why are you trying to leave us?"
he bit at his bottom lip as a means of stopping it from quivering but you could see the tears in his eyes.
"are you kidding me? you forced me to be here with you! you think i came here willingly or someth-"
"you promised me we'd make a family together! you said it yourself, so, why're you acting like you hate me?" his hold on your hand tightened, and he leaned closer to you.
he was desperate-- he didn't want to hear this! not from you, not from anyone he loved, but especially not from you because he didn't just love you; he loved you.
attempting to tug your hand away from him, you shook your head, "I never said that, ever. let go of me- i wouldn't... i refuse to raise my child with someone like you!"
everything he thought knew and believed came crumbling down around him, " oh, well... i don't care," he replied-- he had abandoned his feelings for you, for now at least, he just needed to get you home without harming you, "I love you and... I guess, sometimes that's all that matters."
you could figure it out later-- you could learn to love him later but he loved you now and couldn't let you go so easily.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
yandere (s) x reader
- incest, yandere shit (stalking), dunno I forgot, raw and unfiltered shit cause I'm pissed off, so called 'different' reader cause it's y/n, cheating mentioned, angst ig, non-con, there's mention of say gex, heh I ruined their personalities to make it more fucked up :fire:
- I was honestly thinking of writing one for Scaramouche for @tnsophiaayaonly, but my phone started lagging, like WDYM Tumblr?! This is too long for you?! Ugh. I have to put it in a different part, and I also planned one for Albedo and Zhongli, but yeah, for now u get ts...:fire:
- you go give me what other character u wnat bru
Your brother’s fucking perfect. The kind of perfect that gets worshipped, adored, and obsessed over like he’s some kind of goddamn pop idol. Aether’s the golden boy—beautiful, glittering, with that annoying as hell smile that makes men fall head over heels and do the stupidest shit just to touch him. He’s delicate, lithe, graceful—a fucking twink—and somehow, that’s enough to make the world bend over for him. And you? You’re just the unlucky bastard stuck watching it all unfold, every damn day.
He’s the school’s wet dream and the neighborhood’s guilty pleasure, and while the girls fucking despise him—’cause he keeps stealing their boyfriends without even trying—you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re not jealous. Not even a little. You’ve never had a boyfriend for him to ruin, for one. No one looks at you the way they look at him. And maybe that used to sting, when you were younger. But now? Now it’s just... exhausting.
What really pisses you off though—what makes your blood boil—is having to see it all. Not just the attention or the simpering smiles. No, the real horror is walking into the kitchen and hearing the unmistakable sound of him getting fucked against the fridge by some lovesick bastard who probably thinks he’s in heaven. Or worse, trying to tiptoe through the hallway at night, only to hear moaning echoing through the thin-ass walls like some twisted porn soundtrack to your insomnia.
Your home—your fucking home—is supposed to be a sanctuary. A safe space. A goddamn Atlantis to drown out the world in silence and sleep. But instead? It's a brothel with walls made of paper, and you’re forced to knock on his bedroom door while he’s getting his ass wrecked again.
“Shut the fuck up! I need my sleep!” you shout through clenched teeth, knowing it won’t change a goddamn thing.
And sure, sometimes it’s funny. At least, it was the first few times, when you could pretend this was just a phase. But it’s not funny anymore. Not when it’s every day. Not when you’re lugging your blankets down the hallway in the middle of the night like a goddamn ghost, knocking on your sister’s soundproofed door with dead eyes and a broken sleep schedule.
- The worst part of all this isn’t even the moaning, or the fact that every day feels like you’re living in a never-ending porno where the plot never improves. No. What really pisses you off—what gets under your skin like a splinter you can’t dig out—is how Aether’s “charm” fucked up the only real bond he had: his relationship with Lumine.
They used to be inseparable. Twin language, twin touch, twin timing. Always in sync, always orbiting each other like stars that never strayed. And then he happened. That boyfriend. The one Lumine brought home with stars in her eyes and trust in her voice. And it should’ve been safe. Should’ve been sacred. But instead? That guy ended up balls deep in your brother.
And the worst part? Aether didn’t even want it. He never really gets a choice in that kind of thing. People see him, want him, take him. They don’t ask. They don’t slow down. They don’t care if he wants it. It's always been like that. He flinches like it's normal. And yeah, he feels guilty—he’s not heartless. He hated hurting Lumine. But what the hell was he supposed to do when the guy just... fucked him? When he’s never really been allowed to say “no” and have it matter?
Lumine gets it. At least, she tries to. She’s smart, and she’s gentle, and she loves Aether in a way that makes forgiveness inevitable. But it still hurts her. You see it in the way she stiffens when she hears that guy’s voice echoing from Aether’s room. In the way her hands shake just before she says “It’s fine, really, I understand.” You see it in her eyes—how they glass over and dim a little more every time she hears her ex still fucking her brother, like her pain was never enough to make it stop.
And you? You just watch it all fall apart and rebuild and fall apart again from the sidelines like some goddamn invisible extra. Because guess what? You don’t even *look* like them. Aether’s got that ethereal thing going on. Lumine's radiant, soft, like she stepped out of a goddamn fairytale. And then there’s you—the one no one ever suspects is related. The leftover kid. The ghost. You don’t shine, you don’t sparkle, you don’t walk into a room and change the temperature. You're just... there. Breathing in the secondhand smoke of their drama.
Sometimes you think it would’ve been easier if you weren’t part of this family. If you didn’t have to watch your brother get passed around like some kind of pretty little toy, or see your sister bite her tongue until it bleeds. If you weren’t the one stuck holding the pieces of two broken twins who can’t quite hate each other enough to stay apart or love each other enough to heal right.
And the fucked up part? You still love them. God, you do. Even when you slam your fists on Aether’s door and scream at him to shut the fuck up, even when you sit in silence next to Lumine while she pretends not to cry. You love them both, but really, you're tired.
That night, for once, you’d actually managed to sleep.
Not just doze off—actually sleep. The kind where your muscles stop clenching, where the world fades out and your brain doesn’t scream at you about the creaking bed frame down the hall or muffled gasps echoing through the vents. A rare fucking miracle. You were floating in that rare warmth, buried beneath your sister’s blankets, her soundproofed room finally giving you the illusion of peace. A quiet so deep it almost felt fake.
Until you heard the door creak.
You stirred, reluctant to surface, heavy with sleep. You wanted to pretend you didn’t hear it. Just another dream. Let it be a dream.
But the soft thud of feet on the carpet made your body tense.
You opened your eyes slowly. The room was bathed in soft moonlight, pouring through the half-closed curtains. Pale silver spilled across the floor, catching the curve of a shadow.
There was someone by the bed.
You froze. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it wanted out.
They took a step closer, and the light finally caught their face.
Aether.
You blinked at him, confused, the fog of sleep still clinging to your skull. He looked... strange. Not like the usual, smug, glossy version of himself. Not the adored, fucked-out fantasy boy everyone wanted. No makeup. No fake smile. Just Aether—tired, quiet, raw.
“What the hell are you doing?” you mumbled, voice rough and cracked from sleep.
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, staring at you like you weren’t real. Like maybe he wasn’t real. Like maybe the only thing anchoring him to this world was the sound of your voice.
“I couldn’t stay there,” he whispered. His voice was too soft, too fragile. Like a thread unraveling.
You sat up, the blanket falling from your shoulders. You could barely see his expression, but there was something off. Not just tired. Haunted.
You should’ve told him to get out. Told him to go crawl back into his mess and leave you the fuck alone. But you didn’t.
Because for once, he looked like he was the one barely hanging on.
“…He was still there?” you asked.
Aether nodded. “He wouldn’t stop.”
And fuck, you knew exactly what that meant. He didn’t say the words—he never does—but they hung in the air anyway. Heavy. Ugly. Familiar.
You sighed, shifting to make space on the bed without saying anything. He hesitated, then climbed in like he was ten years old again and the thunder outside had scared him. Like he just needed someone to keep the nightmares out.
You felt the mattress dip under his weight, his body trembling as he curled up beside you. Barely touching. Barely breathing.
You stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for the clock ticking and the occasional shaky breath from him.
“I hate this,” you muttered, more to the air than to him. “I fucking hate watching you get eaten alive like this.”
Aether didn’t respond right away. Then: “I hate it too.”
There was something broken in his voice. Something too real. No performance. No manipulation. Just a boy who’d forgotten how to be safe.
You closed your eyes again. “Try to sleep,” you said, almost bitterly. “Before he comes knocking again.”
Aether didn’t answer. But his breath slowly evened out. For the first time in forever, the silence didn’t feel heavy. Not as heavy as that feeling deep inside you.
Your eyes snap open like a goddamn alarm—sharp, wild, desperate for some kind of escape that isn’t coming.
There you are, pinned beneath him, utterly exposed. Your lower clothing scattered like forgotten scraps, a mess of fabric and shame.
He pushes your clothes aside without hesitation, slick fingers sliding against your skin like he owns every inch of you.
Then—he enters you.
A low moan escapes him, almost involuntary, like even he didn’t expect how much this would fucking hurt or mean.
“I’m sorry...” he murmurs, voice thick with something close to regret, but it’s tangled with something darker.
And then, as he thrusts his hips deeper, harder, filling you up in a way that leaves you breathless and trembling, he chokes out, “I’m really, really sorry...”
His breath is shallow, ragged—his movements uneven, frantic, sliding in and out like he’s trying to erase every line of control between you two.
You don’t hold back.
You yell.
You retort with everything you’ve got—sharp words, biting insults, curses that claw at the silence.
But before you can say more, his hand shoots up, fingers shoved deep and merciless into your mouth, silencing you instantly.
You bite. Hard. Teeth sinking into flesh you know too well.
He winces—a soft, gut-wrenching sound that cracks the brittle mask he’s been wearing.
Then comes the whimper.
The kind of sound that shatters something inside you, even as your body twists with pain and shame.
And then—he comes inside you.
Warm, undeniable, filling you in a way that makes your vision swim.
Your eyes water, tears spilling down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat and humiliation.
But he doesn’t stop.
He leans in and kisses those sobs away—soft lips against your skin, like a lie dressed as comfort.
“I’m so sorry... Really, I am,” he breathes, voice breaking, words repeating like a prayer to something neither of you believe.
He pushes deeper still, prolonging the torment, stretching out the moment before your release like it’s some twisted gift.
And then—he leans closer, warm breath ghosting over your lips, fingers finally sliding from your mouth.
Instinctively, you bite him—his tongue—sharp and unforgiving.
Instead of pulling away, he moans into the kiss, cheeks flushing a dark, fierce red.
You want to scream. To tell someone. To hit him, to fight, to rip this nightmare apart with your bare hands.
But you know it’s fucking useless.
Because you’re the only one who sees the truth.
To everyone else—the golden boy. The nice, submissive little gay twink who’s always been your brother.
He wouldn’t hurt you.
Hell, he wouldn’t ever fuck you.
So when you’re left with bruises no one sees, and scars no one hears, you keep it buried deep—locked behind a smile that feels more like a scream.
Because sometimes, surviving means pretending the knife doesn’t cut this deep.
- Xiao. The name alone twisted something ugly in your gut every single time you heard it. The ex-boyfriend of Lumine — the one who tore her apart and somehow managed to fuck Aether balls deep right after. No words can truly capture the blistering hate you feel for that guy. Even when he’s cold as ice, pushing everyone away with that stony, distant expression of his, you can feel the venom dripping from every glance he shoots around. Except, of course, when it comes to Aether — then he softens, lets his guard down in ways nobody else gets to see. And that’s what makes you hate him even more.
Because he’s a fucking cheater. A goddamn liar. And he’s one of the people who regularly uses your brother like a goddamn plaything, all the while shattering Lumine’s heart into a million pieces that you’re left picking up.
It’s a sick, twisted nightmare. And one day, you snapped.
You confronted him. Really confronted him. With fire in your chest and venom on your tongue, you cornered him in a hallway, your fists clenched tight, your voice trembling but sharp as a blade.
“How the fuck can you even look at yourself, huh? Cheating on Lumine, then using Aether like he’s some kind of fucktoy? You’re disgusting,” you spat, eyes burning with rage and raw hurt.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just stared at you, those cold eyes darkening, and suddenly the distance in his expression cracked. Before you could even brace yourself, he moved — fast and silent — and the next thing you know, you’re pinned to the damn floor, his weight pressing down on you.
His body was rigid but trembling. You could feel the undeniable heat of his arousal pressed hard against your thigh, and the sickest part was—he was embarrassed. He tried to hide it, his usual cold mask slipping just for a second, replaced by something raw, confused.
He can’t believe it. He can’t fucking believe he’s attracted to you.
Hell, the truth is, he’s been watching you. Long before Lumine and he were a thing, he noticed the way you shone. Not like the perfect blond twins who dazzled with their light and laughter. No. You shine differently—darker, quieter, with something that pulled him in like a goddamn moth to flame.
Maybe, just maybe, he even stalked you in his own twisted way.
And yeah, he tried to replace his fucked-up thoughts of you by going after your siblings. But that didn’t work. Not really. Not when the ghost of you lingered in the back of his mind, haunting every touch, every whispered word.
Now here he is, pinned against you, gritting his teeth, grumbling out a rough apology that sounds more like a growl.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I... I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice low and ragged, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you.
You stare up at him, furious and confused all at once. What the fuck do you want from him? For him to admit he’s fucked up beyond repair? To hate him enough to burn the memory out of your mind? And what can you do about him?
What the fuck can you even do?
You're on the goddamn floor—cold, tile biting into your spine—right there in the middle of an empty hallway that smells like dust and silence and something rotten that no one ever bothers to clean.
And he's inside you.
Not just metaphorically. Not in some poetic, twisted way.
No—shoved deep inside you, your wrists pinned so tightly it burns, your fingers twitching with the urge to fight back, to scratch, to claw, to do something—but you can’t.
His weight cages you. His hips slam against yours like he’s chasing something only he understands, and you feel it. Every. Damn. Inch. Of him, like he’s trying to erase your insides and make you new, make you his.
And that fucking thought makes you sick.
Because this cock—this thing—that used to belong to your brother in the most disgusting way imaginable... it’s now inside you.
Stretching you open.
Filling you up until you're choking on the wrongness of it.
And still—you’re crying.
God, you're fucking crying.
Not from pain. Not entirely. Not even from fear, though it’s coiled in your gut like barbed wire.
You cry because nothing makes sense anymore. Because this shouldn’t be happening. Because somewhere between the heat and the horror, your body reacts like it’s alive for the first time, andthat betrayal makes your heart want to shatter.
You retort—something sharp, something bitter, maybe even something cruel—but your voice cracks halfway through, and all that comes out is a sob.
Pathetic. Raw. Real.
And he freezes.
Just for a second.
His forehead falls against yours. His breath hitches.
He whispers, “Fuck… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Again.
As if saying it more will undo the damage.
As if those soft, broken apologies can stitch together what he’s tearing apart with every thrust.
He kisses your cheek like that makes it better. Like he’s not desecrating what little innocence you had left.
“Shh... I didn't mean to—fuck—I just... I didn’t know what else to do,” he breathes, almost desperate, as if he’s the one being ruined.
And maybe that's the worst part.
That you can feel the guilt in him, buried under the hunger. You can feel how sorry he is.
But he doesn’t stop.
He’s still inside you.
Still fucking into you.
Still muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” like a prayer or a curse, every word landing on your skin like acid.
You hate him.
You hate yourself.
And through it all—your trembling, your tears, the slick obscene sound of your bodies colliding—you wonder if this is what love is supposed to feel like when it’s drowned in rot.
You want to scream.
But you’re too full.
Of him. Of guilt. Of shame.
And he just keeps going.
Softly. Steadily. Like this is all he knows.
Like you were meant for this.
And you know, when it’s over, when he finally pulls out and leaves you there shaking on the floor, cold and empty and ruined,
he’ll say it one more time.
“I’m sorry.”
And you’ll want to believe it.
God help you—you will.
- You were never supposed to get involved.
Childe was Aether's problem. His boyfriend. The pretty boy plaything wrapped around that smug ginger’s finger like a ribbon soaked in heartbreak. You watched it unfold—slowly at first, like watching a glass teeter on the edge of a table, then suddenly all at once, the moment Aether stopped being his and became everyone’s.
It happened on one fucked-up day. One goddamn party. Aether, drunk, pretty, golden-eyed and too trusting for his own good, was passed around like some sick, twisted favor. People at school started whispering after that—no, not whispering. Laughing. Cruel snickers behind lockers. "Aether the school toy." Like his name was synonymous with being used. And Childe? The asshole let it happen.
He called it an “open relationship” afterward, like that label was supposed to dull the ache in Aether’s eyes. Like that word was enough to justify the silent crying at night when he thought no one could hear. But you heard. You were the one who held him after he curled up on the bathroom floor, trembling, breath ragged, smelling like liquor and regret.
And Childe? That ginger fuck would come over the next day, acting like nothing ever happened. Sometimes you'd come home and find him balls deep in Aether, rutting into him like a dog in heat, and every single time, something inside you just snapped. The rage was red and raw and choking. You wanted to punch him square in that smug fucking face. Kick him in the dick so hard he’d never dare get hard again. You wanted to choke the life out of him and scream, "Was it worth it? Was breaking him worth it, you sick bastard?"
Because Childe wasn’t just ruining Aether.
He was tearing everything down. Your home, your peace, your bond with your siblings—he was a wrecking ball dressed in designer clothes, all flirty grins and faux tenderness. You hated him. You despised him. That kind of loathing that seeps into your marrow and poisons you slowly.
And one day, it finally happened.
You snapped.
He had just finished "visiting" Aether—his shirt still open, skin flushed, a fucking bite mark on his neck like he was proud of it. And the way he smiled at you? Like this was all some casual arrangement, like Aether wasn’t lying on your bed crying three nights ago?
So you punched him.
Hard.
Knuckles cracked against bone. His head snapped to the side. Blood sprayed from his nose, and for a glorious second, you felt alive. Vindicated. His hand touched the mess on his face—and he laughed.
He fucking laughed.
Like you’d gifted him something precious. His tongue darted out, tasting the blood. And then he moaned. Moaned, like this was foreplay.
“What the fuck,” you spat, backing away.
“Damn,” he said through the blood, grinning like a perverse lunatic. “Didn’t know you had that in you. You wanna go again? Maybe step on me next time?”
Your stomach turned. Disgust rolled over your skin like oil. You had broken his nose, and he looked like you’d given him an orgasm.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you hissed, heart hammering. Your fists still shook.
He tilted his head, dazed and delighted. “You really hate me that much, huh?”
Yes. God, yes. You hated him so fucking much it made you sick. But what was worse—he liked it. He liked your hate. He thrived on it.
And that scared you more than anything.
Because now—now you realize you're nothing more than a joke to him. A beautiful, pathetic joke. No strength. No power. Just something to twist, to take, to play with until he’s satisfied.
And what hurts the most?
It's not just the fucked up way he holds you, how he pinned you so easily, your own damn shirt tying your wrists like you're some willing toy in his game.
It's not just the way his shirt is wrapped around your mouth, muffling every sound you make—your pleas, your broken breaths, your shameful moans.
No, what kills you is the way he looks at you while he does it.
The way his body moves against yours, deep and relentless, pushing into places that make your soul want to crawl out of your skin. Every thrust feels like punishment and reward, all at once.
And through it all, that fucking smirk on his lips—arrogant, cruel. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
But then he kisses you.
Soft. Tender. Like he means it. Like this is love. Like you're something precious.
And that—God, that breaks you more than anything else.
Because if someone walked in on this—someone with no clue of the twisted backstory—they'd think it was romantic. They’d see the way his fingers trail down your cheek, the way he hushes your cries with cooing whispers, and they’d think, wow, what a loving couple.
But they don’t see you.
They don’t see the fucking tears slipping past your eyes, falling silently down your cheeks, pooling into the creases of his shirt.
They don’t hear the way your breath trembles beneath the cloth, the way your body flinches not from pain, but from the ache of knowing—he doesn’t really care. Not in the way you wanted. Not in the way you needed.
And he sees the tears. Of course he sees them.
He brushes them away with the pad of his thumb, gentle like a lie, and murmurs against your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world:
“Shh… It’s okay, baby. Just a little longer, alright? I’ll cum soon.”
Like that’s supposed to make it better.
You want to scream. You want to fight. But your body betrays you. Your mind is a fog of pleasure and grief and this sickening warmth that blooms every time he touches you like you matter.
But you don’t.
You never did.
Is that fucked up?
Yeah.
But this whole thing is.
Does he care? No not really, I mean, c'mon, he's been playing this game since you guys were kids, you just had... To have more of a backbone than your siblings, which irritated him to no end that he ended up liking you more than he should. So now... Yeah.
546 notes
·
View notes
Note
I just noticed that there’s a severe lack of platonic Childe fics despite the fact that he is the most siblingest character ever. So in today’s episode, I’ll be requesting kid!reader with Childe(haha Childe with a child) teaching them how to like. Fish or smth. He canonically knows how 2 do that right- Or some other mildly basic life skill.(I don’t think fishing is one of the skills in the default settings of life but whatevah)
Little Lines, Quiet Times
Summary: Childe may be a harbinger of the Fatui, but that doesn’t stop him from being the most sibling-coded menace in all of Teyvat. So when he decides it’s time you learn a "basic survival skill" — fishing, of all things — you get dragged out to a quiet lake at sunrise, sleepy-eyed and skeptical. What follows is part training session, part chaos, and all warm, as you and your maybe-big-brother-not-quite-uncle bond over casting lines and teasing each other like family.
Tags: Childe x Reader, Kid!Reader, Slice of Life, Fluff, Fishing, Found Family, Soft Childe Moments, Childe Being a Big Brother, Wholesome, Reader is a Little Gremlin (Affectionate), Light Humor, Reader & Childe Bonding.
Warnings: Minor mentions of the Fatui (non-graphic, no violence).

You squint at the lake.
It squints back.
Or maybe that’s just the sun reflecting off the surface. Either way, it’s way too early to be awake, and you’re starting to wonder if agreeing to this “fishing lesson” was a mistake.
“You’re frowning,” Childe says, cheerful as ever, crouched beside you with a long fishing rod in hand. “That’s not the right face for a proper angler.”
You scowl harder. “I’m not frowning. That’s just my face when it’s cold and I’m sleepy and I haven’t caught anything yet.”
“Sounds like a lot of excuses,” he teases, nudging your arm with the handle of your fishing rod. “C’mon, this is the best time of day to catch the big ones. The fish are still waking up. You’ve got to strike while they’re groggy.”
“Are fish even capable of grogginess?” you ask, suspicious. “Do they have brains?”
He gives you a mock-offended look. “Fish are cunning and noble creatures. Don’t let their blank stares fool you.”
You giggle — he always makes it sound like everything is some kind of battlefield. Even fishing. Maybe especially fishing.
He kneels beside you, guiding your small hands as you awkwardly grip the rod. “Okay, see this?” He gestures to the bait dangling off the end of the line. “You want to cast just past those lily pads, then wait. Be patient. You can’t rush a fish.”
“I’m great at waiting,” you lie.
Childe raises an eyebrow. “You literally asked me if we were done yet five minutes into the walk here.”
“I thought we were lost!”
He snorts and ruffles your hair. “You’d make a terrible Fatui agent.”
“Good.” You stick out your tongue. “They don’t get snacks and naps.”
“Fair point,” he chuckles, then gently adjusts your grip. “Okay, try casting now. Nice and steady, like we practiced. Not like that time you flung the rod into a bush.”
“That was one time!”
“You got it tangled in a squirrel’s tail. The poor thing looked so offended.”
You focus, stick your tongue out (for extra concentration), and swoosh — the line sails through the air and plops right where he told you to aim. You puff your chest a little, proud.
“Hey!” you say. “I did it!”
“You did!” he grins, genuinely impressed. “Look at you, future master fisherman. We’ll get you a bucket hat and everything.”
You watch the bobber float gently on the lake, rocking with the ripples. A long silence stretches between you and Childe — but it’s not awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind of quiet you only get when someone’s watching your back, and the world’s calm for a moment.
You sneak a glance at him. He’s staring out over the water, relaxed in a way you rarely see. No weapons, no mask, no orders. Just your older not-quite-brother-not-quite-dad-not-quite-uncle-but-definitely-Childe.
“...You ever teach your little brother to fish?” you ask softly.
He hums. “Teucer? Yeah. A couple times. He’s better at baking than fishing, though.”
You nod thoughtfully. “I’m better at snacks than fishing too. It’s okay.”
He laughs. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
You sit like that for a while longer, the sun slowly rising over the treetops, the water sparkling like Mora coins in a fountain. And when your line suddenly tugs — just the tiniest little twitch — you feel Childe gently place his hand over yours.
“Ready?” he whispers.
“Ready.”
Today, you're not just a kid. You're a fisher-in-training, and Childe’s the kind of big brother who makes even cold lakes and squishy worms feel like an adventure.

54 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tastes like Heaven (Childe x Reader)
MasterChef Teyvat
Childe is the accomplished one, between the two of you. He’s the one with twenty-three restaurants spread out across Teyvat, sixteen Michelin stars to his name, and a reputation of being Masterchef Teyvat’s toughest judge, despite being the youngest.
All this, and it’s your cunt he’s lapping at like he’s never tasted anything like it.
MASTERLIST
Keep reading
286 notes
·
View notes
Note
guys i think puppy would be so easy to kidnap like she would definitely follow a stranger to their car to see their dog or take candy from a van and rafe tries his best to drill it into her head that she can’t fall for it and it’s dangerous
rafe is dragging you back into the house after you literally tried to follow some random guy because he said he had a golden retriever in the car.
“are you stupid?” he snaps, voice sharp. you flinch, ears down, lower lip wobbling. “you can’t just—fuck, pup, you can’t go running after every guy who waves a fucking puppy in your face.”
“but… but he said his name was buddy,” you sniffle, eyes shining. “i just wanted to pet him.”
rafe scrubs a hand over his face like he’s gonna lose it. he’s the psycho but even he knows this is bad news. he crouches down so he’s level with you, his tone softening but still firm.
“listen to me. if someone wants you to get in their car, or follow them, or take candy, you don’t do it. you hear me? no matter what they promise you. no dog, no sweets, no nothing. it’s a trick.”
you blink up at him, still confused. “…but what if they really do have a dog?”
rafe’s jaw flexes. “then it’s not your dog. you wait for me. i’ll get you your own, okay? you want ten golden retrievers? fine. but you don’t fucking follow strangers.”
he grabs your chin gently, forcing your wide eyes to stay on his. “say it back to me.”
“…don’t follow strangers.”
“louder.”
“don’t follow strangers,” you mumble, then add: “…even if they have candy or dogs.”
“good girl,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your forehead, though his grip is still firm. “you’re mine, pup. no one else’s. you stay where i can see you.”
368 notes
·
View notes
Text
Afternoon naps — Sleepy! Reader x Simon
Just thinking about how Simon was never the type of person who could take random naps through the day— until you.
You’d dragged him with you to take your daily nap in your soft, cozy, comfortable, pink, nest look like bed, changing into your, it was his but you claimed it has yours now, oversized shirt and some comfy panties. He’d just take his shirt and socks off because he just knew he was going to get a little hot when you’d wrap him up in your cozy pink blankies.
At first, he would fight you a little, stubborn man and his own little way to make you know he really wanted it but wasn’t sure, to then give up and let you prepare him for the nap. He’d tell himself he just wanted to for you to take your nap in peace and then when you’d fall asleep he could just get up do his own thing.
Of course that was not the case.
He’d end up taking one of the best naps he have ever taken in his life, and your would just look at him with a soft smile knowing that he needed it just like you did
It became a thing of you two, a routine where you’d just give him a kiss and a little tug on his shirt and he knew it was time to take a nap of the day.
just thinking about Simon being a big, scary, man all wrapped up and taking a nap in a pink bed. Agh I love him sm >< (I also wrote this during my lunch hour because I could not get the idea out of my head)
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Oh, Sister! Masterlist
The Oh, Sister! series masterpost! Each part of this series will feature a different character from Genshin Impact and their beloved little sister—beloved in every sense of the word. Expect smut.
Each chapter is tagged with warnings! Ongoing :) The earlier chapters are from my inactive alt account, the later ones will be posted on this blog!
See my full masterlist HERE!
Keep reading
508 notes
·
View notes
Text
Knight Captain John Price has defied the king one too many times and is placed in charge of guarding you, the princess who’s fifth in line to the throne.
John has too many political allies to just be jailed and executed, and he always successfully returns alive and well whenever he’s sent on some purposefully insurmountable task to conquer, quell, or defend. The king sees this as the most effective way to limit his influence—remove him from the battlefield where he excels and have him tied to the shadow of his powerless daughter.
When John meets you for the first time, he’s not sure what to expect, mainly because you’ve rarely made an appearance in court. Your siblings are all as arrogant, spoiled, and treacherous as your father, so he braces himself for the worst.
You surprise him, though, visibly nervous and unsure of proper protocol when he kneels before you. You’ve only been taught how to live quietly and unseen until the king needs to marry you off in order to secure a political deal.
The oath ceremony is unattended by anyone but a few of his men who followed him to his new station. You have few servants and no allies, so there’s only this small group in the hall of your humble palace. When you draw the sword for the ceremony, it slips from your hands and clatters with a humiliatingly loud echo bouncing off the walls of the near empty room.
You’re frozen in place because you at least know that it would be unbecoming for a princess to crouch down and pick it up. You look to John desperately for help but don’t think to issue a command.
Rising to his feet, John lifts the sword from the floor and presents it to you. Instead of leaving it at that, though, he then adjusts your grip on the sword so you’re holding it properly. It’s a violation of the law to lay his hands on royalty, but he does so on purpose. Like he anticipated, you don’t voice any complaints, softly expressing your gratitude instead.
He guides you through the rest of the ceremony steps, and you obediently follow his instructions. At the end of it, he becomes your knight, sworn to protect you and your honor.
It’s hard to believe a sweet thing like you shares the same blood as your snake-in-the-grass father and siblings. When you admit that you had naively hoped the appointment of such an illustrious knight to your guard meant your father had acknowledged your worth, John assures you that the king is not someone you need to seek approval from. All the while, John also makes plans to fill that void of the man in your life that you should crave attention and praise from.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Soap eating you out, edging you on purpose just because he likes the way your thighs spasm. So of course you end up grabbing at price whos trying to enjoy his novel. glancing over his book at you two, reading glasses low and an unimpressed look on his face "johnny, stop playin' with your food, what did I tell you?" He turns to you, pats your head lovingly "sorry about him, kid. Simon never taught him manners." To which soap retaliates by giving you orgasm after orgasm, not letting up until price pulls him away with your soft sobbing following him out.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
cw: pregnancy sex :3
you were so done with being pregnant.
your belly was huge, stretched tight with the weight of your overdue pregnancy. every step felt like a struggle. the doctors said any day now, but any day felt like a cruel joke when you were waddling around the house, swollen and aching.
simon hated seeing you like this—uncomfortable and desperate for relief. and he especially hated that there was nothing he could do to speed things along. or so you thought.
“c’mere,” he rumbled one evening, his voice low and rough as he pulled you against his chest. his hands were massive, warm as they slid down your sides, settling on your hips. “let me take care of you.”
you knew that tone all to well. it was the same tone that wound you up pregnant.
“simon,” you breathed, already feeling the heat pool between your thighs. “i’m too fucking pregnant for this.”
“no such thing,” he growled, lifting you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed like you weighed nothing. his hands were everywhere, stripping you bare, his mouth hot against your neck as he laid you down. “gonna make you feel good. help you relax.”
you wanted to argue, but then his fingers were sliding between your legs, finding you already wet, already aching for him.
“knew it,” he muttered, smug. “missed my cock, didn’t you?”
you whimpered, arching into his touch. “fuck you.”
“that’s the plan,” he said, and then he was pushing inside, thick and slow, stretching you wide. you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you, his hips pressing flush against yours.
“christ,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder. “so fucking tight.”
you were breathless, overwhelmed, your body trembling as he started to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you.
“gonna make you come,” he promised, voice rough. “gonna fuck this baby right outta ya.”
you moaned, the words sending a shock of heat through you. his pace was relentless, his grip bruising as he held you in place, taking what he wanted.
it didn’t take long—the pressure, the stretch, the way his body covered yours, all of it sending you spiraling. you came with a cry, clenching around him, and he followed with a groan, spilling deep inside you.
he collapsed besides you, both of you panting and spent.
and then a sharp pop, the sound of your water breaking.
“...told ya,” he said, smug as hell.
654 notes
·
View notes
Text
His and Hers
stalker x stalker, college simon and reader
//cw murder, stalking
︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶
Blondie. Purple backpack. Ms. Always on the treadmill. Ponytail girl. Bad hair dye. History class.
They didn’t have names. Didn’t need names. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was Simon. Your Simon.
All that mattered was him and that they were all too close. Too friendly, too cheerful. Too excited.
Easy sloppy girls with eyes bigger than their stomachs. Simon was the kind of man you had to gorge on. The kind of man you needed two hands to hold, the kind of man you needed energy for. Energy for the sex, for his anger, you needed the strength for his anger. You needed the strength to do what it took to keep him yours.
You could sense the nervous energy in her.
Ms. Here’s a pen.
Little Miss Let’s study at yours.
You could hear it in her stuttering steps, stumbling over her own feet as she tried to run. Tried.
The thing about easy sloppy girls is that they don’t look before they drink. Don’t smell before they sip. It was creeping through her slowly, but it was effective. Cheap little drug rubbed around the lip of her glass from the caf.
Simon needed a woman who looked before she drank.
She was scared, her palms dragging across the brick of the alley as she tried to push her body up and forward. Clawing at her chest as her own body started to betray her. Knees buckling and lungs seeming to collapse in on themselves.
You waited in the shadows, watching in satisfaction as she finally slumped against the ground. You thought about taking her, immediately thought against it.
She’ll be dead by morning, the autopsy should come back inconclusive. And if it doesn’t? Your guy won’t rat you out. He can’t. Not when you had your own dirt on him.
No need to take another body.
Bradley Thompson — 22. Two-thirty, all muscle. Criminal justice major. Forensic chemistry minor. Aged out of foster care.
Tyshaun Smith — 20. One-eighty. Business major. Single father. Twin older sisters.
Callum Abrahams — 19. One-sixty. Undecided. Both parents. Lucky him. Five younger siblings, all under fifteen.
And then there was Hector, Mateo, Jake, John, Kyle.
The details mattered to Simon. The details made up the bigger picture.
Details always mattered to Mr. Riley but they were make or break when it came to you. The pretty social butterfly he kept catching glimpses of.
With that overly-charmed backpack, and the way you’d wrecked your chances with every sorority by showing too much interest. The way you’d hold a door for ten minutes, risking being late to class just to offer a few people a sweet little “good morning.”
The way you’d pluck flowers, breathe them in, and sigh like the world had stopped for a second. The little digital camera he’d caught himself on the other end of too damn many times, always around your wrist.
The way you’d noticed a bit of dried blood on your shoes and ducked around a corner to stab your shin with your pencil really quick. That cold, satisfied smirk when it started to bleed. Pretty white flats soaking crimson.
And the way you’d all but thrown yourself at him when he offered to carry you across campus to get it looked at.
Simon was convinced you were the love of his life.
He’d do anything for the love of his life. For the girl who’d go from screaming at parties while her friends soaked her with cheap tequila, your nipples hard and poking through your shirt. To anxiously scrubbing her backpack in the parking lot at midnight.
Glancing around like a scared alleycat.
He’d do anything for you. To keep whatever you’re doing secret. To keep you his.
Simon carefully pulled away the blindfold from Carl’s eyes. Carl Jacobs — 23. Chemistry Major. Two dead parents. No siblings.
“This is my girlfriend.” He murmured, kicking the chair down. He watched Carl’s eyes widen as he took in the wall covered floor to ceiling in less than flattering photos of you. All taken in secret.
“Her name is Y/N.. do you think she’s pretty..?”
He watched Carl flail, nodding eagerly as tears pricked his eyes.
“Yeah.. I know..” He grumbles, suddenly kicking the side of his head. “So pretty you keep offering to drive her home.”
“Why do you want to know where my girlfriend lives, Carl? Are you going to hurt her..?”
Simon could hear Carl’s muffled screams and thrashing as he turned around, grabbing a small box. Maybe Carl was begging for his life. But what did he care?
“I bought this for you, a gun.” Simon turned around, carefully opening the box. “In your name, yknow.. Can’t have this getting back.”
Simon could see the fear in Carl’s eyes as he loaded the small handgun, cocking it and placing it to his temple. “You should have stayed away from my girl..”
209 notes
·
View notes
Text
Too sweet
// southerner simon x reader, mini mini blurb
︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶
Too sweet. Like the way the tea his momma would make in the kitchen on Sundays tasted before she’d add more water. Like licking powdered sugar off his thumb from funnel cakes at the state fair. Like taking a bite straight from the cake instead of getting a slice.
You were too damn much for him, an overwhelming kind of taste. The way your pretty sun-kissed skin shined next to everyone around you, the tan lines from your thong sitting right above your hip dips. The way your tongue sucked barbeque from your acrylics and the peek of tramp stamp under your shorts.
You were too sweet, like he was sticking his tongue straight into sugar. And young. So young. Too young.
Simon stumbled back a bit as you slammed your hat down on his head, his steps stumbling as he tried to keep up with the line dance despite your interruption. “What on earth are you doin’?”
“Trynna take you home!” You screamed back over the music, your nose wrinkling as you grinned.
God, that smile. Enough to make a man buckle at the knees. “How old are ya?”
You shrugged as you followed the steps, guiding his hands to your waist. “Enough.”
“Enough..” You could feel his nose brush your neck as he wrapped an arm firmly around your neck, keeping your ass square against his chubbing cock. “Need a number, babygirl.”
“Twenty.”
It made him stutter, just a bit. But just as quickly he regained himself.
“You’re young…” His lips brushed your neck, a chaste kiss as he continued to grind your ass up against him.
“Too young?”
“Nah… not all.”
250 notes
·
View notes
Text
The band on his finger itches, skin rubbed raw as he twists the wedding ring. He wanted it to be plain, didn’t care for jewelry, just tungsten metal and silver. Nothing compared to the pretty rock on your finger, intricate design, and delicate metals. Welded just for you.
If he was younger he might’ve pounced at the sight, drawing his gums back to reveal the harsh canines that reside there, and the wild blood pulsing through his veins. But he’s not young anymore. He’s older, mature, a stray dog trained. Caged and domesticated.
That’s reserved for when he wears his ring on his neck, when it dangles alongside his dog tags on the field. Now, he’s learned how to control it, how to keep you.
So, he watches you from afar, mentally noting every time the coworker you’re exchanging pleasantries with trails his eyes lower than your chin. Six times.
Every step he takes closer to you. Three steps.
Every term of endearment he calls you. Four times.
Stores them for late, another time.
For now, he’ll wait.
Justice is best served when he’s got your skirt rucked to your hips, knees pressed to your shoulder blades, watching the way your sweet cunt suctions his thick length. Clinging to him, scratching and clawing at his back in a plea for him to stuff you full of his cum, swell your stomach with his child.
He’s almost tempted, maybe people will finally leave you alone when you’re plump and swollen because a ring isn’t good enough. Fucks you so pleased and exhausted that you don’t notice when he crawls out of bed.
Jealousy is what the man calls it when Simon shows up at his door step. Simon calls it disrespect. 13 times too many.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
the other woman
housewife reader x neighbor price
// 18+ cheating, some mentions of piv sex and fem receiving oral
︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶
He was your little toy. The handyman next door. Cute, easy to wind up, always ready to fix whatever you asked.
And especially fun when your husband wasn’t around.
Marriages get stale. Your mother drilled that into you as you slipped into your wedding dress. They get sour, they stretch thin. But you learn to endure.
Lose yourself. Become a woman unrecognizable. Pretend temptation doesn’t exist. But you were certain that wouldn’t be you.
Not with him. Not with your him. The love of your life.
Until you met John. Big, hairy, full-beard John.
“Want a beer?” John.
“Need anything fixed?” John.
It was your husband who invited him over the first time. He kissed your forehead, grabbed his things, and said, “Just show John the sink, he’ll take care of it.”
Your poor, clueless husband. If only he’d known which wrench to use, how to stop a leak, you might never have ended up pressed against the bathroom wall, dress shoved up to your chest.
And you tried. God, you tried.
Tried to be playful, tried to be fun. Tried to push his head down between your legs, tried rolling onto your stomach instead of lying flat, a sardine beneath his humping.
But every time, he coaxed you back. Back into place. Back into the soft, submissive role he wanted.
Your mother had been right all along, your marriage had gone stale.
But John made you feel… alive.
He made you feel different, grinning against your lips as he gently rocked you on his cock. With him, you felt seen. Wanted. Like you were everything.
Something was always broken in the house, besides your marriage. Cabinet doors started falling off, your china cabinet was wobbly, you wanted a new dresser built. There was always something.
“John’s finishing the new bedframe today?” your husband asked, tugging at his tie. “Yes,” you hummed. “Don’t worry, I’ll test the strength after.” “Jump on the bed like a kid?” he scoffed.
Your lips pressed thin as you flipped through the magazine.
“You’ve been putting on weight lately.” He continues, “I love you fluffy, but you were so small when we met—”
“It’s nine!” you blurted, springing up. “You’re late.” “Am I?” He glanced at his watch, already rushing for the door. “Love you, bye!”
“Fluffy…” you whispered, lingering in the doorway.
But there wasn’t much time to dwell on it, your husband’s car barely cleared the driveway before John’s truck rolled in.
“Still in your nightgown?” he teased, strolling up with a cupcake in hand. “Sexy.” You laughed, nose wrinkling. “Good morning, you.” “Good morning…” he murmured, eyes trailing down your body. “Get in there.”
“John—” you squealed as he scooped you up with one arm, lips already peppering your face. “Oh my god—”
“Eat, “ he whispers, depositing you on the counter. “Its from the bakery you wanted to try..”
“Flavor..?” You ask, your voice shaking as you feel his hand sliding up your thighs. Dropping to his knees as he hooks his fingers into your panties.
“Like liquid gold,” he purred, kissing along your thigh. “Like heaven…” “The cupcake,” you gasped, head tilting back as you melted under his touch. “Mmm.” He hummed, drawing you closer to his mouth. “Something lemon?”
“Do you think I’m fat?”
He froze, pulling back, his lips still glistening. “Excuse me?”
“He called me… fluffy.” You waved a hand, vague, embarrassed. “Fluffy.”
“Fluffy…” John echoed, rising to his feet. “Fluffy is cute.”
“He says he wants me smaller—”
“Leave him.”
“…What?”
“Leave him,” John repeated, firmer this time. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing as if the word itself tasted sour.
"Thats....absurd!" Your stomach tightened. “John…”
“He doesn’t see you,” he said, stepping closer, tilting your face up. “Not the way I do. Not the way you deserve.”
You blinked, your eyes prickling. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is.” His thumb brushed your lip. “You don’t belong to him anymore.”
“And I belong to you?” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.
His grip on your chin tightened, “You always have.”
“John…” you whispered.
He leaned closer, his beard rough against your skin. “Stop wasting yourself on a man who doesn’t see you. Who doesn’t want you. I see you. Every inch. Every flaw. Every curve. You’re mine.”
Your heart pounded. You thought of dinners gone quiet, of your husband’s distracted glances at his phone, of the way the word fluffy had stuck in your chest.
You were stale. Your marriage was stale.
And then you thought of John…his eyes that burned straight through you, his hands that held you like you were something worth breaking the world for.
John didn’t give you the chance to speak. “You don’t belong to him anymore,” he insisted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You belong with me.”
But what if it goes stale with him too? What if you lose yourself again?
For a long moment, you stared at him. At the devotion carved into his face. And then, with shaking fingers, you reached for your left hand.
The gold band felt heavier than it ever had. You twisted it once, twice, then slid it free.
It landed on the floor with a soft, final clink.
“I’m yours.”
462 notes
·
View notes
Text
SEXIST!RAFE’S FAVORITE POSITIONS
1. missionary (but degrading)
not sweet or romantic—this is him pinning your wrists and pushing your knees to your chest while growling things like: “what would you do without me, huh? you were made for this.”
he loves how helpless and dumb you look below him—eyes glazed, whimpering, completely overpowered.
2. over the counter / sink / bed edge
quick, possessive, usually starts with him yanking your panties down mid-task. “did i tell you to stop cooking?”
gropes your tits from behind, one hand on your throat or hair.
loves when your knees buckle and you whine his name with your cheek pressed to the surface.
3. lap-riding (his control)
you’re on top, technically, but he’s doing all the work—gripping your waist, bouncing you hard, whispering dirty things about how you’re “his little wife,” “so fuckin’ dumb on daddy’s cock.”
lacy nightgown half-pushed up, tits bouncing in his face while he praises and mocks you at once.
4. mating press
pure ownership. wants you fully folded, crying, gripping his forearms. “gonna fuck a baby into this dumb body. fill it ‘til you forget your name.”
long, intense eye contact while he talks down to you.
5. face-down ass-up (discipline sex)
this is what you get when you break his rules. “no drinking, remember? now take your punishment like a good girl.”
spanks you between thrusts, full hand on your head or back, keeping you pressed down.
1K notes
·
View notes