#cw mention of noncon tattooing

[rockstvrdotcom]

❁ // YANDERE! EYELESS JACK SFW + NSFW HCS

synopsis: ej is sosososoosoososooo inlove with you— literally fell for u the second he saw u and he knew he couldn't let anyone else have you

that jtk yandere hcs request sparked smth in me..

tw/cw: noncon, stalking, kidnapping, ej has multiple tongues lol, begging, overstimulation, rough sex, ej gives u brain 😛, dumbification.. (i think), marking, being tied up, breeding kink

SFW

- you had caught ej on his mission, you were a heavily trained cia member and were often assigned to serial killers; he was much more stronger than you. he easily overpowered you and knew he couldn't let you go.

- but he didn't want to kill you, he was taken aback by your beauty. he brought you back to the mansion and held you captive, caring for you no matter what profanities you spat at him, or how many times you uselessly throwed punches and scratched his face.

- called you stupid but cute lil pet names— sometimes just straight up called you pet. calls you sweetheart, darling, my love, angel, princess; all of that cute corny stuff.

- loves to see you in his shirts, forces you to wear them even if its just a simple plain black shirt.

- gets furious whenever you mention leaving him or the mansion, or when you mention that you have a life and a boyfriend to go back to. he doesn't tell you he's already killed your boyfriend— and everybody else close to you, he's afraid you'll hate him forever. he screams at you, telling you that all you need is him and nothing else.

- if you ever mention leaving him or ever mention your family, job, or boyfriend; he'll sometimes leave you isolated for days (or something else..) no food nor water, chained up to your shared bed. he shows you how life would really be like if you didn't have in.

- totally accidentally killed your boyfriend, cooked him and fed him to you.. to this day you still have no idea.

- very attentive

NSFW

- whenever you mention leaving him or mention anything outside of your life with him, he'd typically leave you in a dark room for days with nothing. but on special occasions.. he'll bend you over the bed and fuck you senseless, making you chant his name. he pounds into you until the only thing on your mind is him; and how much you love him.

- loves to make you beg for him during sex. or just anywhere- it makes him so hard when you beg in a whiny voice and look up to him, pleading. (he towers over you).

"fuck... jack, please slow down. it's too much—" he cuts you off by putting his hand around your throat. you can't remember how many times you've orgasmed already. you sobbed; in both pleasure and overstimulation. you feel him throbbing inside of you, and it feels like heaven.

"i won't stop until you admit that you are mine, my love."

- eats you out.. alot. literally almost every day. hes obsessed with the taste of you. your legs are almost always hoisted up onto his shoulders while he uses his tongues to pleasure you in a way you've never felt before.

- his dick is 7 inches dont play w me.

- obsessed with tying you up, also likes to carve, draw or tattoo his name/initials on you; especially on your thighs, ass and sometimes right above or next your pussy. it's his way of showing you that you belong to him— and so does your cunt.

- has a very prominent breeding kink. constantly talks about putting his babies in you so you can't ever leave him.

your hands were tied to the headboard of your guys' bed, the bed creaking; it sounded as if it was about to crack. ej was deep inside of you, grunting and growling like a feral animal. his teeth were sunken into your neck as he endlessly talked about cumming inside of you and you won't ever be able to leave him if you have his kids.

"you'll be the perfect mother, sweetheart." 💗

- loves to fondle with your tits and grip at your thighs. it's his favorite part of your body; he often leaves marks all over them or writes/carves his name onto them.

- during sex, he's either making love to you or fucking you so hard you're unable to walk for days. when you've made him happy or anything else he would typically praise you for, it's as sweet and romantic as it could possibly get. when you've made him upset or angry? your left on the bed with his cum leaking out of your pussy, your legs so unbelievably sore.

- makes you cockwarm him while he's doing 'work'. he loves the feeling of your warm walls around his cock.

i hope u guys enjoyed this one! tips/writing advice is very appreciated!

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 18 - Body Modification

Ghost x Soap - 4.9k (on ao3)

summary: Johnny's tattoo artist doesn't give him the design they'd agreed on. (Johnny POV)

cw: noncon!!, trans johnny, kinda mirror sex, implied future kidnapping

“It looks great!” Johnny confirms as he looks down at the design Ghost holds up for him. 

It’s the very bottom of what will become a full back piece further down the line, but Ghost had explained that for a piece as large as the one Johnny was looking for he’d have to get it done in sections. He mostly knew that - his sleeves hadn’t been done in one day, after all - but he also hadn’t been expecting to have one full section done with nothing anywhere else. Maybe lining, then color, then shading, but he trusts Ghost’s process.

Johnny’s been going to Ghost’s tattoo parlor - 141 Ink - since he was twenty-two and drunk off his ass, looking for anything fun to do after a night out with Kyle. The two of them had stumbled into the tattoo shop close to midnight, half-way to blacking out already, and gotten themselves a pair of matching tattoos. The owner of the shop, the eternally grouchy John Price, had talked them down from matching rifles on their thighs to a pair of puzzle pieces on their ankles - something to laugh at in the morning, not something to start saving up for a cover-up after seeing.

Johnny had come back a week later to get something done on his kneecap - a skull with an open jaw - and the only artist open for walk-ins had been Ghost. He’d thought the man hated him for most of the process when he didn’t respond to any of Johnny’s attempts at small talk or jokes, so the next time he planned to get something done he’d scheduled an appointment with Price. But when he got there he was told his artists had been switched, and that Ghost would be working on his piece instead. He was almost as quiet as the first time, but the tattoo came out perfectly, and Johnny figured it was a fair trade.

Ghost has done all of Johnny’s ink since - the matching kneecap, both of his full sleeves, and now the start of his back piece. It hasn’t even occured to Johnny to try finding someone else to work on him. He’s working up the nerve to get a tongue piercing done, but the idea of having Ghost so close to his face with his fingers in Johnny’s mouth… he’s got to get his rampant crush under control a bit more before that can happen.

“Good,” Ghost grunts, nodding over to the leather chair set up in the middle of his office. “Shirt off, pants down, chest to the back of the chair.”

Johnny’s already pulling his shirt off before what Ghost said registers, and he pauses halfway to the chair, laughing a little awkwardly. “Sorry- pants down?”

Ghost makes a noise that Johnny interprets as yes, idiot. He’s never had to fully take his pants off for a tattoo before but… well, he’s also never had his lower back tattooed. So he trusts Ghost, kicking off the sweats he’d worn in preparation for a long day.

“Boxers too, Johnny. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Johnny blushes as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, hesitating with a thumb hooked in the fabric of his underwear.

“Uh, you’re sure-?”

Ghost sighs, raising his head from where he’d been preparing his ink and shooting Johnny an unimpressed look. “Don’t get prudish, MacTavish. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

That’s not actually reassuring, but Ghost’s dismissive tone makes Johnny feel… well, not more comfortable necessarily, but more like he was the one being weird in this situation. He takes a deep breath and quickly takes his black boxers off, folding them on top of the rest of his clothes and quickly straddling the chair. He hasn’t mentioned his transition to Ghost before, but there’s a pride flag hanging in the shop’s lobby, so he knows he’s at the very least not a bigot.

“I’m not a prude,” he defends, wrinkling his nose as he glances in Ghost’s direction to see if he’s looked at Johnny yet. “I’d bet I’m more than you could handle.” 

A snort from Ghost, and Johnny resists the urge to look over again and see if he’s wearing one of those half-smiles. “That’s a good joke, Johnny. You might have a career in comedy.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, smiling. “Yeah, real funny, Ghost.”

He shifts a little in the chair - he’s uncomfortably exposed like this, despite the banter. With one leg on each side of the chair, he’s spread just enough for his cheeks to part and a cool breeze to blow over very sensitive areas. He has to hover a little awkwardly to avoid just pressing his spread folds to the leather. It takes a bit of wiggling for him to lay a bit more comfortably as he speaks, but he isn’t able to quite shake the feeling of being too exposed. 

Ghost lays a hand on Johnny’s shoulder as he sits on a stool behind him, and Johnny can’t help but jump a bit at the sudden contact.

“Steady,” Ghost commands. “You’re fine.” He pushes down with just enough force that Johnny is pressed to the chair, and he winces a bit at the shock of cold from the leather

“Easy for you to say,” Johnny snorts, shaking out his shoulders and trying for levity even as goosebumps race down his arms. “You’ve still got your drawers on.”

Ghost laughs a little in response, and Johnny counts it as a win.

“You want me naked too, Johnny? Gotta pay extra for that.”

Johnny’s glad they’re not facing each other so he doesn’t have to fight down the heat rising in his cheeks. “Och, I’m paying you to get me naked here, and I’ve got to give you even more for some reciprocation? Feels unfair, Ghost.”

“You’re paying me to stab hundreds of needles into your skin for a pretty picture,” Ghost corrects, the machine buzzing to life. “Now settle. You know it feels better when you relax.”

The innuendo there has to be intentional, but Johnny chooses - for once - to be mature and swallow all the jokes sitting on the tip of his tongue, instead sinking into the leather and forcing the tension from his muscles. He’s glad he’d shaved before coming, he’s not sure he could handle both of Ghost’s hands cleaning him up like that right now.

Johnny’s always enjoyed getting tattooed - enjoyed it maybe a little too much, honestly. He’d done a few stick and pokes in university (faded from lack of care and easily covered by the black and gray work on his arms) and knew even then that pain felt good in a way very inappropriate for the public eye. 

That fact has only been reaffirmed again and again with each tattoo he’s gotten professionally, and Johnny always finds himself trying not to squirm in the leather chair as he grows more and more slick.

He’s pretty sure he’s hidden his clenching thighs and shivery breaths from Ghost, but he tries to tamp it down as much as possible just in case. 

But sitting like he is, legs spread and completely nude, it’s a little harder to hide the way his hole starts to drip, the cool air making his t-cock twitch. He goes limp in the chair as soon as Ghost starts working, the pain a comfort despite his impending embarrassment, leaving his cunt pressed awkwardly into the seat.

Usually Johnny would talk endlessly during one of their sessions. Ghost plays at being annoyed by his rambling, but the man also got offended when Johnny mentioned another tattoo parlor across town, so he’s confident there’s at least some affection there. Plus, Johnny’s seen Ghost shut down rowdy customers without any hesitation - if he was really bothered by the endless talking, Johnny would know.

He’s not keen on babbling this time, though. Not when he feels like an exposed nerve, skin and muscle stripped away and leaving him bare. He sits with the pain, lets it sink into him, and just rides the sensation. Ghost never talks much while tattooing, so they’re left with just the sounds of Ghost’s machine buzzing.

He doesn’t bother to ask Johnny if he needs a break when he pulls away to swipe at certain areas of the tattoo. The first time Johnny had asked for one - his first sleeve, and because he needed to use the restroom - Ghost had levelled him with a distinctly annoyed look and gone back to his work without responding. Johnny had nearly pissed himself, but he hasn’t bothered asking for a break since.

It’s not like he does need one. The few seconds Ghost takes to change ink or clear some of his skin is more than enough for him to catch his breath from the pain. On one such break he shifts his legs a little closer together, squeezing the chair between his thighs. It gives his core a little more cover, makes him feel less like he’s just spread wide for Ghost to see.

Ghost grunts when he turns back to Johnny, giving the outside of his thigh a few harsh taps. “Relax again. Can’t have you tensed up like that.”

Johnny glances over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “‘M not tense. Just putting my legs together.”

Ghost scoffs and rolls his eyes above the black surical mask. “What, like a lady? No need for modesty here, Johnny. Spread ‘em.”

Johnny goes crimson at the comparison, burying his head in folded arms while he reluctantly spreads his legs again. The wetness between them feels more obvious now, and he bites his tongue to keep from ignoring Ghost’s command.

“Good boy,” Ghost says, then goes right back to tattooing. Johnny just has to sit there and pretend those two words don’t have him leaving a puddle on the chair below him.

The session passes mostly without incident after that. Johnny’s blush never fully abates as the wetness pooling beneath him becomes more and more obvious, but Ghost doesn’t say a word about it so neither does he. The pain is easy to manage, and they’re done before he’d even expected.

Ghost is, as always, a little harsh as he wipes the fresh ink off. “Alright. Looks prettier than I expected. Wanna take a look?”

Johnny’s a little confused by that - they’d agreed on an epic battle scene for the piece, it certainly shouldn’t be pretty - but he’s excited to see the finished product, so he’s quick to hop up.

“I’m sure it’s great, Ghost,” he compliments, stretching and moving towards the mirror hanging against the wall. Before he can get far, a warm glove wraps around the nape of his neck, pointer finger and thumb squeezing. Johnny freezes, his back arching instinctually.

“You gonna leave that mess on my chair?”

The slight growl to Ghost’s voice is unfairly sexy, and Johnny prays that he doesn’t start dripping down his thigh. He tries to laugh off the humiliation at being caught once the words register. “Sorry, sorry. You got any towels?”

Ghost grunts, then muscles Johnny forward without warning. He can hardly keep track of what’s happening as he’s forced down, bent at the waist with his nose pressed to the leather, hands just barely darting forward to catch him in time.

“Be quick about it.” Ghost’s tone is dismissive, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary here.

Johnny isn’t quick. He stays like that, Ghost’s hand on his neck and hip pressed against his side, and breathes heavily with wide eyes. The puddle right in front of his mouth is tiny, but noticeable, and he feels a little choked up at the notion that Ghost had seen it.

“C’mon,” Ghost pushes his head a little further, until he makes a small noise in his throat from the sharp pressure in his nose. 

He feels a little like he’s living in a fever dream, like at some point while getting tattooed he fell into another dimension where it’s socially acceptable to bend over your naked clients without batting an eye. But Ghost’s hold is firm and unrelenting, so tentatively, Johnny sticks out his tongue.

“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles, squeezing the nape of his neck again. Not harshly, like he had before, but almost like a massage. “The rest of it now.”

Johnny shudders at the tone but listens, darting his tongue out in quick little licks to clean up the slick and sweat from the session. It doesn’t take very long, but he feels every second like a heavy weight on his shoulder.

Once he’s done, Ghost pulls his hand away. “There you go, attaboy. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Johnny doesn’t respond as he stands back up, blushing from his hairline to his chest. He can’t quite work up the nerve to glance up and see if Ghost is staring at him, instead focusing on taking a few deep breaths and stomping down the insistent throb between his legs. He probably shouldn’t be okay with what just happened, certainly shouldn’t be aroused, but his clit isn’t on the same page.

“Come have a look now,” Ghost says, laying a hand on Johnny’s shoulder and giving him a slight nudge towards the mirror. He walks over on slightly wobbly legs, heart still beating a little too fast in his chest. His mouth is dry now and he compulsively licks his lips to try and alleviate the sticky feeling on his tongue.

He’s still a bit shaky in front of the mirror, and he has to twist a little awkwardly to see the tattoo, but once he manages to get a good look his heart stops.

There, in two thick lines right over the crack of his ass, is a large bold script reading “PROPERTY OF SIMON RILEY”.

Johnny can’t quite get a breath in. He hadn’t even known Ghost’s real name - if that is Ghost’s name at least - and now… now it’s tattooed onto him. What the fuck?

“What-” he can’t even get the words out, takes a shuddering breath and tries to twist to get a better look as he starts again. “What the hell is this?”

He reaches back to run a hand over the reddened skin, like touching will make it less real, and Ghost - Simon? - catches his wrist mid-air with a tsk.

“No touching fresh ink,” he scolds. “You know better, Johnny.”

He meets Ghost’s eyes in the mirror, confusion painting every inch of his face. Ghost looks calm and collected, cocking an eyebrow just slightly.

“What the fuck?!” Johnny’s voice rises to a near shout, and he tries to yank his hand away from Ghost while throwing himself back. “You- how dare you- why- why would you do this? What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Ghost follows him when he pushes himself into the mirror, one hand dropping to grip his ass and pull his hips forward so the only part of him touching the glass are his shoulders and head.

“No touching,” he purrs, pressing their chests together and leaning so close they’re nearly nose-to-nose. “Didn’t I just say that? Someone should teach you how to listen.”

Johnny’s breath hitches in his chest and he pushes against Simon’s shoulder with his free hand. “I’m not fucking listening to you, you bastard, you’ve- you fucking mutilated me!”

Ghost scoffs and rolls his eyes, pressing even closer. “Don’t be such a drama queen. My name looks real good on you.” His voice pitches a little lower and he pulls Johnny fully off the mirror, looking over his shoulder and down at the reflection. “Yeah, fits you perfectly. Now everyone will know who you belong to, hm?”

Johnny’s in shock, that must be what this is. He’s fallen into some sort of wormhole and entered an alternate universe, and now he’s in shock. That is the only feasible explanation for his tattoo artist - who he’s only ever seen at scheduled appointments - is making a claim on him via non-consenual tattooing.

He’s pulled even further away from the mirror, left stumbling into Simon’s chest when he can’t catch his balance. Ghost grabs him by the chin and cranes his neck back around, forcing him to stare at the tattoo.

“I don’t-” Johnny cuts himself off when he can’t quite get enough breath in. His voice is almost embarrassingly quiet, but he can’t bring himself to be any louder. “Why the fuck would you do this?”

Ghost hums low in his chest, stroking his hand over the curve of Johnny’s ass and to just below the fresh ink, careful not to touch the reddend skin. “It’s easier this way. Now you and I and everyone else knows who you belong to. No more confusion.”

“There wasn’t any confusion,” Johnny protests, one hand pushing weakly at the arm holding him in place by his shoulder. “I don’t belong to anyone, let alone you. We don’t even really know each other. This isn’t- this isn’t okay.”

Ghost snarls at that, a shockingly loud animalistic noise that sets off every warning bell in Johnny’s head. He’s gone completely stiff as Ghost pulls him closer by the hand on his ass, ducking down to snap in his ear. “You’re covered in my work. You’re mine.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond as Ghost hauls him away from the mirror, throwing his body over the leather chair in the center of the room. He’s left splayed onto his stomach with the mirror right in front of him, bent over at the waist with his ass facing towards Ghost.

Just as he gets his hands beneath him, complaint already on the tip of his tongue, a hand lands between his shoulder blades and pushes him down with such force that the air is knocked straight out of his lungs. He blinks dumbly at himself in the mirror as Ghost steps behind him, his all-black outfit a sharp contrast to Johnny’s tanned skin. 

“Wait-” Johnny starts, some primal part of him (or maybe the part of him that’s watched too much porn) knowing exactly what Ghost wants to do. “Wait, Ghost, you can’t-”

There’s a sudden, stinging pain on Johnny’s ass, and the sound of a smack echoes in his ears. It takes a minute for him to realize that Ghost spanked him.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare-” he snarls, rearing back as much as he can under Simon’s hold. He gets another harsh slap for that, then several more. Ghost lands blow after blow across his ass, each hit thudding and heavy. Johnny bites out insults he’s never used before, fighting as much as he can to no avail.

Eventually the pain sinks a little too deeply, and he goes limp beneath Ghost’s palms. That gets him a purring rumble, and the hand on his back strokes across his shoulders.

“There you go,” Ghost purrs, leaning his hips into Johnny’s reddened ass and shushing the ensuing whine. “Fight all you want, I’ll beat you into submission as many times as you need, Johnny.” He chuckles a little, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s back. “That’s what good boyfriends do, huh?”

Johnny whines at that, a little choked up. He gets his words a minute later, forcing out, “Not- not my boyfriend. You’re gonna rot in jail for this, jackass.”

“Oh?” Ghost coos, leaning to Johnny’s ear and whispering his words, like they’re just meant for him. “Will you come see me? Maybe a couple of conjugal visits from my sweet cunt on the outside?”

His free hand creeps down Johnny’s body, and he has no time to prepare for the palm suddenly stroking over him. Johnny almost dances on his feet, trying to find any way to get the stimulation off.

“St-stop!”

“Stop? But you’re so wet, baby, why would I stop? I can tell it feels good.”

“No, it doesn’t. I don’t let perverts fuckin’ touch me, get off.” He tries to throw his head back into Ghost’s shoulder, but the hand on his shoulder quickly catches him by the mohawk and yanks him back instead. Ghost’s face - mask now taken off - hovers upside down above him, a smug curl to his lips.

“Really? I think you might be a little pervert yourself. Look at how wet you are.” He delivers a quick slap to Johnny’s folds, and the wet sound is humiliating in the otherwise silent room. “You liked licking your mess up that much? Don’t worry, you’ll be cleaning up all your messes from now on. I’ll teach you how to behave properly once I take you home.”

“Home-?” Johnny blubbers a bit, wriggling around but only managing to shift a few inches in any direction. Simon works insistently at his dick, jacking and rubbing the bundle of nerves in an agonizing pattern that has Johnny dripping. 

“Yes, home, Johnny. Did you think I’d give you my ink then leave you wandering the streets?” Ghost snorts as he shifts to stand up more fully, forcing Johnny’s head forward more so he’s staring at the pair of them in the mirror again. “What if you got lost, baby? Then some horrible pervert might just scoop you up all for themselves. No, you’ll come home with me, and stay right there, safe and sound.”

Johnny’s past words - he just sort of gapes at himself in the mirror, mind still stuck thirty minutes ago, when everything still made sense. Ghost doing all this, having him bent over, rubbing his pussy in the perfect way… it doesn’t make sense. He has to bite back the confused noise wanting to escape him,  tears welling in his eyes from the restraint.

To his chagrin, Ghost notices.

“Oh, baby,” he hums, condescending tone out in full force. “You’re just so needy, huh? Need fucked so bad you’re crying over it? Don’t you worry, Johnny, will fix that for you. Here - I’ll even skip the prep.”

That hreat along with the sound of a belt being undone jolts Johnny back into his body, and he desperately pushes himself up on his hands. Simon’s grip doesn’t let him fully stand, but he manages a bit more leverage.

“No, no, Ghost, you can’t- you can’t fuck me, please-”

“Why not?” Simon just hums, perfectly at peace as his jeans fall to the floor. “Your cunt’s soaked, Johnny. Might be a bit of a stretch, but I’m sure a slut like you can take it. Price’s out, so no one will hear your cryin’ and beggin’.”

“I’m not gonna fucking cry-”

Johnny immediately proves himself a liar as Ghost pushes the head of his cock into his slick hole. He doesn’t push any further than that, but even just the head has Johnny’s arms giving out and leaving him to slump back to the chair.

Ghost is fucking massive. Johnny’s not sure he can even breathe past the stretch, his hole feeling like it’s on fire. He’s sure he’s bleeding - there’s no way something can hurt this much without blood.

He doesn’t even notice he’s crying until a hand turns his head to the side and wipes at his cheeks. “What was that?” Ghost asks, the smugness palpable in his tone. “What were you not gonna go, Johnny?”

He can’t make any sound past a whine, desperately trying to breathe through the stretch.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Ghost pulls back and rests his hands on Johnny’s hips, fingers stroking soothingly. “You’re not bleeding, so I think you can take a bit more.”

“No, no-” is all Johnny manages to gasp out before Simon moves forward, and everything he just felt is multiplied by ten.

He’s almost certain he blacks out from the first push to the press of hips against his sore ass. He feels split down the middle, like the things shoved inside of him is going to keep going forever, come right up out of his mouth and leave him in two pieces. He can feel the tip of Ghost’s cock at his fucking cervix.

By some mercy, Ghost doesn’t fuck him immediately. He coos and whisperes condescending comforts, little hums that humiliate more than they soothe.

“You’re alright, baby boy, just relax. Deep breaths, relax into it. You know how to relax for me Johnny, seen you do it beneath the machine enough time by now. Your body’s meant to take my cock, you’ll be fine. You really are a little drama queen, huh? All those pretty tears and I haven’t even started fucking you yet. You gonna be my little pillow princess, baby? Lay there and let me do all the work?”

Johnny doesn’t even try to work up the energy to respond.

“Alright,” Ghost eventually says, giving the side of Johnny’s ass a pat. “I think you’re about as comfortable as you’re gonna get. Deep breaths now, Johnny, be good for me.”

Johnny’s so deep into sensory overload, he hardly notices when Ghost pulls out. He definitely notices when he thrusts back in - the sudden punch at his cervix has him crying out, even as drained as he already feels.

Ghost chuckles behind him. “I know the pain feels good, Johnny. Just lean into it, baby, it’ll feel good soon.”

He’s right - it only takes a few well-aimed thrusts for Johnny’s body to turn even further against him. The sharp pain of a too-soon stretch is still present, but the drag of a heavy cock inside of him, the way Ghost rubs at his clit and manages to hit his g-spot, it all leaves Johnny with a slack mouth, drool dripping to the tile.

Each touch to his cervix is a shot of pain directly up his spine, but that pain just sets sparks off in his cock. He’s closest to orgasm at those moments, every press deep inside of him nearly shoving him into a pleasurable abyss.

Ghost keeps him riding the edge for a while, doesn’t give him the rush he wants so badly.

“Want to come, sweet thing?”

Against his own better thought, Johnny can’t help but gasp, “Ye-es, need it, oh god…”

“Yeah? Go on then, Johnny, beg for it.”

“Nooo,” he hiccups, hips jerking back into Ghost’s movements before he’s stilled by a harsh squeeze.

“Yes,” Ghost hisses mockingly. “You can feel good once you start to behave. Now come on, beg for it.”

Johnny bites his lip, determined not to give in.

He barely lasts two more thrusts before he can’t take it any longer, riding the knife’s edge of an orgasm driving all rationality out of his head.

“Alright, okay, please, please, need to come so bad, Ghost. Come on, please let me come? I’m right fucking there, I can’t- I can’t fucking breathe, please, ‘m gonna die, needta come, please, please…”

Another laugh from behind him, and somehow the fucking gets even rougher.

“You’re gonna die? There’s my favorite little performer, you just need it so bad don’t you?”

“Yes! Please, please, please-”

“Alright, alright, I hear you.” If Johnny were anything less than completely cockdrunk, he’d have the wherewithal to be offended by how non-chalant Simon manages to sound. “That was a good start, baby. I’ll teach you how to beg properly once you’re home, okay? You can go ahead and come, c’mon, let your cunt milk me.”

Like his brain is already trained to obey Simon’s every whim, Johnny comes as soon as the words are out of Ghost’s mouth. He feels shattered by his orgasm, his vision whiting out as he screams from the pleasure. He clenches down so strongly on Ghost that the stretch feels like too much again, and the sparks of pain just prolong his orgasm.

“There you go,” Ghost moans, hips pumping slowly into Johnny’s snatch. “Gonna make me come, baby.”

He’s got just enough presence of mind to whine at that. “Not- not inside…”

“Not inside?” Ghost almost sounds offended. “What, you want me to come on your back? Johnny, you just got a tattoo done. You want me to give you an infection? No, no, you’re gonna keep my come nice and safe in your cunt. Say, thank you, Simon.”

Johnny whines at the first spurts of come painting his insides.

“No - not quite,” Ghost leans his weight over Johnny’s back, panting heavily. “Try-try again, baby. Come on, be good for me.”

The words don’t encourage Johnny much, but the series of sharp taps to his sensitive clit do that trick.

“Ow- ow, fuck, th-thank you, Simon…” he gasps out, squriming against the pain and then moaning as Ghost just shifts further into him.

There’s a long, content sigh over him. “Good boy,” Ghost praises, then huffs a laugh at the clench of Soap’s cunt. 

They lay there in silence for several long moments, both of them slowly sinking back into their bodies. Johnny stares with half-lidded eyes at the mirror, still partly unable to really grasp what just happened.

 Eventually, Simon pulls out, shushing Johnny’s whine and wince at the sensation.

“We’re done now, Johnny, stop your cryin’. You’re gonna be alright.”

Looking at the pair of them in the mirror - Johnny, soaked in sweat, tears, and come, and Ghost, standing tall and proud seemingly without a care in the world - he can’t help but doubt the words.

But he doesn’t have the energy to think about the future right now, it’s all been fucked out of him. So Johnny lets his eyes drift shut, figuring that things surely couldn’t be any worse when he wakes up.

[struckd0wn]

I'll Make You Mine ── Hanzo Shimada

Hanzo Shimada × ftm!reader

CW: mentions of noncon (not w/ Hanzo), Hanzo leads Shimada Clan AU, sex slave, reader had top surgery, clit and cunt used as describing anatomy, he's gentle :3, mention of scars and bruising from previous experiences,

A/N: this lowkey drags on so mb, also dk if I hate it or like it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You were on your way to the Master's room, nervous and shaky as two women led you there. They had retrieved you at his request. First they took you to the bathhouse, pampering you with soft hands, making sure to not miss a single spot. The two scrubbed and washed your hair, almost relaxed if it weren't for your nerves. The bath was filled with cherry blossom soap, probably made with the trees just outside the Shimada castle. After, they dried you off promptly before adorning you in a plush robe that came down just below you knees.

You had been in the castle for a little over a month now, having been captured by the Shimada clansmen. You had gotten yourself stuck in business you had no need to be in and it led you here. You were supposed to be dead, and maybe you would have preferred to be. Instead they kept you in a room, by yourself, to be used by the men of the castle for their pleasure. They were rough, you deserved it according to them. They had spared you so you owed them, and you payed with you body, and although you were greatful at first you didn't care much for it now. The ladies of the clan would come by twice a day with food, which you would eat with bound hands and the door locked at all times. You weren't bathed, simply wiped down with a damp rag after every use.

Word about you had gotten around fast, in your first week you were visited more times than you could count, and now he wanted to see you. You never met Hanzo truly, only seeing him in passing or hearing about him from the clans members. But he had never stopped to see you, you wondered if he even knew about you, and here you were on your way to his private bedroom.

You'd better behave, one of the women would tell you. He's the Master, you cannot upset him. The more and more they warned you, the more and more tense you got. But you couldn't turn back now, standing right outside what you assumed was his bedroom door.

"Master Shimada, he is ready for you." The other woman chimed out, giving you a worried look before sliding the door open. You stood there, completely silent as you took in the scene in front of you.

His room was boring. A futon, low to the floor on a short wooden frame, pushed head side to the wall. Next to the bed was a nightstand, similar to the one in your room, that housed a small bonsai tree. He sat with his back turned to the three of you. The sliding doors in front of him opened to reveal a private garden, dark but lit with small lanterns, the curtains blowing gently in the crisp summer wind. Next to him on the floor was an incense stick, the smoke wafting through the room almost creating a fog. He wore his typical blue, only this time a yukata, one shoulder uncovered to reveal his tattoo, his hair down and draping over his shoulders.

The clans woman pushed you into the doorway, causing you to stumble slightly as the door shut behind you. You stood there awkwardly, fidgeting with your robe. "Sit." He speaks out, holding a hand out twords the futon. You flinch before rushing over to kneel on the bedding. You again wait, watching as he lifts the incense stick, blowing it out and tapping the ash into it's holder. The wind feels cold on you collar bone were the robe doesn't cover but you don't say anything. He turns slowly, looking at you for the first time. Your face feels warm and you try to prepare yourself for whatever might happen.

Hanzo stands up, walking twords you. You can't help but admit he is a very attractive man, much better than the clansman that would bed you every night. You avoid his eyes, gaze wandering to his tattoo that spans across his exposed chest and left arm. The Master sits in front of you, looking you in the eye. "I will stop... If you want me to." His voice is soft but raspy and you're surprised at the suggestion. No one had given you the option before. You nod your head a little at this and he continues.

The bigger man leans forward, gently pushing you at the chest to lay down. Your nerves are at their peak, staring up at the clans leader. He rest himself between your legs, pulling you so your legs rest on his thighs. The man in blue is silent the whole time and you almost wish he'd say something, or at least direct you so you do him no wrong. Hanzo's large hands find you thighs below the robe, pushing the fabric up to see.

You busy yourself with looking at the ceiling. His hands rub the fat of you thighs, one hand stops, and his thumb pushes down over one of the many bruises. You hiss out in pain and your hand flies down to grab at the Master's wrist before you can even think about. Panic. "Sir! I'm sorry, I didn't-" your words are cut off shorts as he flips his hand in yours, instead taking your wrist. But it's not angry, he holds it softly in his own. His eyes fall onto the ring of red on your wrist where your hands were bound together. Tutting his lips, Hanzo leans down to press a kiss to the bruise on your thigh, then to your injured wrist. You stare down at him in awe.

"If I was aware they were hurting you, I wouldn't have let this go on for so long," He admits to you. "You do as they ask and they are still greedy." Hanzo's voice is sad, disappointed in his followers for your poor treatment. Even if you had gotten into their business, you were serving your "duties" yet they still found time to disrespected you.

He drops your hand, continuing up to the bow that held you robe together. The man watches your reaction as you gulp heavily, but he persists, unraveling the tie and letting the robe fall off your front. He doesn't make efforts to take it off of you entirely, his hand moving up to hold you at your plush hips. He squeezes at you love handles with a small smile, taking you all in with one look. You refuse to meet his eye but Hanzo doesn't object, his right hand sliding down to your crotch and the other to you chest. One thumb strokes the scarred flesh of your pectorals and the other finds your clit, applying a pressure that makes you squirm.

Hanzo is completely enamored by you. Robe half off, skin glowing under the moonlight that shines in from the still open door to the garden. You hide your face from him but you can't hide the moans that escape you and the way your hips move to chase his touch. It's the first time someone had stopped to touch you how you wanted. He wasn't just taking, also giving as he rubs you to near explosion, just watching you wiggle below him, indulging in your sounds.

Life as a clans leader was lonely, the Master didn't have time for relationships outside of business so this within itself was a treat. He had heard about you, his clansman weren't discrete about you, not at all. But the thought weighed heavy in his mind about having you for a night, and he wasn't regretting it now that he had you.

You feel your peak nearing but the man doesn't allow it for a second, pulling his hands away. You let out a deprived whine but he's to busy now, moving his yukata out of the way to reveal his hard cock underneath. "Don't worry, you'll get your fill soon enough." Is his response to your whining. He stroked himself with a low rumble before running his tip through your folds. You take this time to finally look at him, as now he was to busy to notice.

His face was serious yet relaxed. Hanzo was a fit guy, you traced around his muscles with your eyes, watching as the tattoo formed around them perfectly. You wanted to see more, so feeling a little daring you reached out twords him. Your finger hooks under the fabric of his obi, the band of fabric that held the yukata together. Tugging very gently at it, this gets his attention. The Masters eyes find your finger, then your eyes. Hanzo smiles sweety down at you, using both of his own hands to remove the obi. After, he shrugs the yukata off his other shoulder, fully revealing himself to you.

Before you can look for another second. He pushes his tip into you, your head rolling back against the pillow. Hanzo moves slowly, pushing inward with his hips and it doesn't take long before the two of you are connected at the base. The man's large hands find your hips again and he uses them for leverage as he pulls out painfully slow. He watches every expression, listening to every noise you make.

He begins to move faster, thrusting into you with a pace that makes you head go foggy. The drag of his cock as he pulls out is almost teasing you before he slams back in. You can't help but get a bit louder now, but he can't either. Your moans are sweet and his are ragged, grunting over you eagerly. Hanzo leans over to kiss you, lips connecting to yours, moving slowly as he swallows each whine that comes from you. The feeling excites him, he grips tighter on your hips, fucking you deeper into the mattress below. His lips move down to kiss your jaw, then neck, his ear positioned near you mouth. You're loud, but he doesn't care. You smell like the trees that surround his home, his castle. You're soft and lovely to handle, not to mention how good you felt. By the minute Hanzo grew more and more obsessed with you, beyond the point of sex, he found himself wanting to know you.

"I am drunk on you," He admits out loud. You just barley process it, but you are truly flattered. By now he's entirely wrapped around you. His large arms wrap around your middle as he ruts into you endlessly. "My senses are full of you, I can't get enough of the way you feel, how you look, how you moan for me. I imagine you taste just as perfect, " Hanzo confesses. "I bet they say the same thing, but who wouldn't. You're beautiful." He continues on thrusting into you faster than before, the coil in your stomach on the verge of snapping. The thing is, they didn't say the same things. To the others you were just a good fuck for whenever they needed. You wondered how they could be so relentless and brutal but their leader is wrapped around you and desperately telling you how amazing you are.

Hanzo pulls the two of you upwards, now sitting on his thighs as he fucks upwards into you. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and your head leans down to rest on your bicep. He watches as you barley have the energy anymore, the two of you growing more tired, but your end is fastly approaching. "I won't let them treat you badly anymore. You're mine, I want to know you. I want to treat you nicely, but only if you allow me." Hanzo tells you, and if feels nice to have a choice, nice to feel wanted instead of being constantly degraded. You whine in response, and finally you feel yourself snap.

Your orgasms is strong and you tense in his arms before fully letting go. You moan his name as you wrap around him tighter. His breathing is harsh and he's still pushing into you eagerly, the feeling of you realising over his cock is to much as your walls flutter over him and soon enough he's finishing too. Hanzo groans loudly, hissing in pleasure as he cums inside of you, gently fucking into your sweet pussy. He pulls out slowly, your legs and his waist are covered in your combined slick. You relish in the feeling for as long as you can, having been the first orgasm to come purely from pleasure to happen for a while. The man leaves you, and you wondered if he'd just leave you there to be picked up, after everything he had said. He's back before you know it, back at your side with a glass of water and a rag.

After he cleans you he lays beside you, facing you. It's all a bit awkward now, but you're to tired to care. "I meant what I said..." His voice is quite, but you hear him. "I've seen you. I've overhead you and my maids talking and I grew interested in you. I thought maybe you wouldn't want to see the leader of the clan that is keeping you here." He tells you, his hands move to brush the hair out of your face. "I really didn't know they were hurting you and for that I am sorry. If you'd let me... I'd love to make it up to you." The wind picks up a bit outside, but the air is warm. The moon is shining in onto the two of you, it illuminates his face with it's serious expression.

"I'd like that..." You whisper back, closing your eyes to fall asleep.

[3-2-whump]

Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

[inkyquince]

08: Trick or Treatin’ Daddio (Part 1)

characters. Bailey. Featuring a hint of Robin.

cw. Nothing yet, it's the first part to Bailey being the absolute worst to the reader. Mentions of bullying from Bailey and creepy behavior from Eden. Robin being a little guy. Next part will feature noncon, anal, and very very very mean Bailey, but that's for the actual Spooky Day.

Halloween was always one of your favorite times of year. Ever since you were young, you had looked forward to October more than any other month, more than your own birthday. Your parents always found that adorable, how at the start of August, you were already planning your costume and the decorations, the same way people prepared for Christmas. 

You remembered also being teased for this, especially by a pointed face boy who openly mocked you whenever you were in earshot, to his gargantuan friend who just watched you closely and creepily. When you got older and remained in love with the holiday, he went from mocking you for being childish to snapping at your waistbands and your ribs, sneering that you could at least dress slutty if you were going to be an eyesore. His tall friend just continued to watch. One of your blessings these days was that you never ever saw Bailey around that much, too swept up in God knows what. That and Eden disappeared a few years after graduating, no longer around to suddenly appear behind you when you turned around, or staring at you from across the room, or, you swear, following you home. 

Now you could just thrive, known as the best person on the block to go for the actual fun sized chocolates and sweets, the funnest decorations, everything. Hell, that’s how you met the kid. 

Robin was practically herding some of the younger orphans around, shyly talking to their friend the entire time but they brightened at the sight of you. Hell, he liked to hang out with you just normally, happily staying for dinner and asking your advice on crushes. It was adorable, and some parental instincts you never knew you had kicked in. To the point he shyly asked if you would ever think about adopting him, maybe even their friend, who always seemed so much busier and constantly on the move. 

You promised him that you’d think about it and he in turn said he’d bring it up to his caretaker. 

Speaking of Robin, you were eagerly awaiting him to swing by, having promised to set up some of the extra decorations. He was always so timely, so you didn’t care that he was so late when the knock finally came, but your smile was wiped from your face when you finally did open the door. 

Bailey. Standing right before you. With his tattooed hand clamped onto Robin’s shoulder, so tight you could see the crinkles of his shirt pulled taut. Worst of all, Bailey looked great. He had grown into his pointy rat face, muscles pressing against the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, tattoos stark against his skin. You even wish you could call his slicked back hair greasy looking but it just didn’t. 

“Hey, stranger.” Bailey’s thin lips spread into a sneer, similar to the ones he would shoot you so long ago. 

Underneath his grip, Robin swallowed, looking up at you with bloodshot eyes. His eyes flickered to the door again and again, specifically focusing on where your hand rested on the handle. Beseeching you, but for what? You already knew Bailey was just a bully, but he couldn’t be that bad. 

“Hey Bailey.” You finally greeted back, opening the door a bit more. “What’s-” 

“Our little Robin mentioned you to me the other day. Almost couldn’t believe that you were still hanging around this dump.” Bailey interjected, his grip tightening on the orphan’s shoulder. “Thought we could have a sit down and discuss our next few steps, hm?” 

You brightened and the caretaker’s grin sharpened before glancing down at Robin once more. 

“Go back to the others.” He loosened his grip and jerked his head down the street, where a small group of children were waiting, wide eyed. 

Robin looked between you two, his breaths coming fast and in shaky puffs before he jutted his chin out, as if defiant. 

“I wanna stay. It’s important to me too, right?” 

Bailey stared down at him before glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, and something darkened in his eyes. He leaned down, almost nose to nose with the boy and whispered, low, just to him. 

“Fuck. Off.” 

That’s all it took for the orphan’s courage to crumble down into dust and he turned on his heel, heading back towards the group. Meanwhile, Bailey straightened up and smiled at you again, nasty and off putting. 

“Now, shall we?”

[forwhump]

a/n; more wren pov & a little bit of backstory ! what’s not to love ? <3

tw/cw: implied rape/noncon, misgendering, transphobia, kidnapping, captivity, mentions of drug use

creepy whumper, military whump

He can still remember that last day. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t, but he can’t forget it. He remembers sitting on the floor in the unit of an abandoned apartment building, across from his big brother. The shell, anyway, of what was once his big brother, skinny and shivering despite the stained comforter he was swaddled in.

God, Wren had lived a lot of lives.

As a child, a teenager, he’d been white and blonde and he grew up in Texas — he did pageants. He used to clean house at them, too. He’d been a prized show pig.

So maybe his life really hasn’t changed all that much, actually.

Later into his teenage years, he started to transition, and that was an entirely different lifetime. His mother was also a white, white blonde former beauty queen from Texas, a good Christian woman. But she was a good mother, in a southern belle kind of way. She didn’t take issue with his transition, not really, she was just kind of a bitch to him about it. If he wasn’t passing, his mother was the first person to let him know. They used to argue viciously about his hair — she wanted him to cut it, why put in all this work just to have girl’s hair? It’s stupid! Wren had never wanted to cut his hair. He had great fucking hair. He’d taken meticulous care of it his entire life.

Now, if he ever gets the chance, he’s going to shave his fucking head.

His last year of high school, he got a few big breaks on social media, and that changed his life. That was an entirely different lifetime. He was an artist, a working artist. He wasn’t famous, not by any means, not outside of the art world, but he was making a name for himself within it. He had a girlfriend, Julie, a tattoo artist from Amsterdam that had always kind of scared him. That’s always sort of been his type, he supposes.

Robin, a few years older than him, also from Texas, had enlisted in the military as soon as he turned eighteen. Wren can remember begging him not to; he’d been only fourteen or fifteen, still a beauty queen. Wren can remember the begging turning to screaming matches between them; even if they both didn’t know it yet, they were both their mother’s sons. Wren was an artist, a hippy — he hated the military and everything they stood for. He hated they were taking Robin from him. Robin had always been a little bit more of a cowboy. He was gone within six months of enlisting.

When worried for him, that’s why he had fought him. The military sends teenagers to slaughter, and he knew it, even young. If only he had known it was going to be the beginning of the end of both their lives.

Robin does a couple tours. The first time he came home, Wren had started to transition while he was away, and he was almost nervous to see him again — he hadn’t needed to be. Robin was always a bit more of a cowboy, but Robin was his best friend. It was good to see him.

The first time he came back, he was almost entirely whole. The next time, something was missing, but it was hard to place exactly what it was. When Robin finally comes home for good, Wren is only nineteen, a year and a half into living in a beautiful apartment with his beautiful girlfriend, living the dream, a working artist. When Robin finally comes home for good, there’s nothing of him left.

He’s a shell of who he used to be. He’s empty. He lives at home with their mother for six months before he disappears to the streets. Wren moves back home. His girlfriend doesn’t wait for him. Robin starts doing heroin.

He can still remember that last day. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t, but he can’t forget it. He remembers sitting on the floor in the unit of an abandoned apartment building, across from his big brother, skinny and shivering despite the stained comforter he’s swaddled in.

“Come home,” Wren says softly.

Robin shakes his head, and the movement is unnatural. Twitchy. This isn’t the same older brother that used to get all gussied up for Wren’s pageants in boots and bolo tie. His teeth are chattering. “I’m-m s-sorr-ry.”

Wren sighs through his teeth. “Robin —“

“Wr-Wren,” he tries. “J-just a…a couple bucks.”

Wren looks away. Back against the floor, he remembers watching the fifteen year old version of himself that had thrown a textbook at Robin’s head in an attempt to keep him from leaving overseas.

“Wren,” Robin tries again. “P-please. Please.”

“Just come home,” Wren pleads.

“I c—I can’t,” he chokes, shuddering. “You don’t see how mo-om lo-ooks at m-me.”

Wren shakes his head slowly. “I’ll get us an apartment somewhere else,” he says. “Anything I can do to help. You just have to try and get clean.”

When there’s a sound like the front door has been kicked open, Wren doesn’t even jump. It’s an abandoned apartment building, shelter for homeless people and addicts, there’s always some kind of noise. Usually gunshots. Screaming, too.

“I j-just n-need a couple—a couple bucks,” Robin says. “Please.”

Wren does jump, however, when the door to the room they’re closed off in is kicked open.

It’s like a nightmare, the way it unfolds.

Wren can’t process what he’s seeing for a second, but his heart starts beating in his throat, anyway. Filling the doorway, blocking their escape, big and broad shouldered, is some kind of —

Wren thinks soldier, but what the fuck? What is this?

He looks quickly at Robin, whose eyes are glazed over. The man in the doorway looks like a SEAL, or SWAT, but the most nightmarish version of either that Wren could ever imagine. All black, armed and armoured.

He lifts his gun towards Robin as he pulls a mask down the lower half of his face with his other hand. “He’s in here!” He shouts, in the loud, commanding drone of the military. “And he’s got a girl with him!”

“Hey,” Wren says, almost inappropriately indignant. “I’m not a —“

And then the room is full of those soldiers, those SEALs, Alpha Team Six or whatever, shouting at each other, at Wren and at Robin, guns lifted, aimed. Two of them grab Robin, each by the arm, and he sags back into them without a fight. His eyes are still glazed over.

One of them grabs Wren by the braid and wrenches his head back. He cries out, silenced by the barrel of the gun that finds the soft skin beneath his chin. “No civilians,” he says, low and lethal.

This wakes Robin up a little bit, out of his stupor, and he tries without success to get his feet beneath him again. “No,” he grunts. “No.”

“What the fuck?” Wren cries, maybe screams. Hell, maybe whispers. He isn’t sure. He can’t hear anything over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

“No witnesses,” barks another soldier. “Put her down.”

“Get the fuck off me!” Wren cries, probably screams. “Get off me!”

“Wait,” says a voice. It has the same commanding lilt of military charge, but his voice is so, inappropriately calm, almost amused, that it makes all the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stand up. “Wait, now.”

The other soldiers part for this one. He draws through them with an unhurried, almost smug confidence, their superior in some form, platoon leader, maybe. They’re all big men, SEALs, but he’s considerably bigger than the rest of them, tall and broad, all thick, bulky muscle. When he pulls his mask down to grin at Wren, he’s handsome. He’s very handsome, in a very sharp, supermodel kind of way.

People had said of Richard Ramirez, those fortunate enough to have lived to have anything to say about him, that there was something not right in his eyes. That it wasn’t like looking into the eyes of a man, but a rabid animal. This man has those same eyes.

“Why,” the man says, and he puts on a bit of a twang, mocking him. “Aren’t you just a pretty little thing?”

“Fuck you,” Wren spits, an instinct. The man holding him by his braided hair pulls with enough force to make Wren cry out. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Settle down, now,” the man says, grinning at him. “Be a good cowgirl.”

“Fuck you,” he spits again. “What the fuck is this? What do you want?”

The man clicks his tongue and points at Robin. “We’re just here to reclaim what’s ours,” he says, and crouches slowly in front of Wren. He grabs him by the jaw, and Wren tries to jerk away, but the man holds fast, biting through his flesh and making the hinge of his jaw creak in protest. “We aren’t supposed to leave behind any civilians,” he explains, looking too closely at Wren. There’s something not right in his eyes. “No witnesses. Strict orders. But you, cowgirl,” he says, and his voice softens to something sickly sweet, something that makes Wren’s stomach turn, “are an awfully pretty little thing.” He turns his face this way, that. “And I’ve always liked ‘em blonde.”

He starts to run his thumb over Wren’s lower lip and Wren jerks away again on instinct. The man behind him holds his hair a little tighter until it strains at his scalp and his platoon leader slides his thumb into Wren’s mouth with a giddy smile. “Cheerleader?” He guesses. “Pageant girl?”

Bile starts to climb up the back of Wren’s throat. He tries to lean away and he can’t. He’s trapped.

“I think it just might be your lucky day, little darlin’,” he says, taking his thumb from Wren’s mouth, and Wren spits in his face.

He wipes his cheek with a gloved hand and grins a little wider. “It would be a shame to put you down, cowgirl. I think it would be a waste of you. I think I might just be able to find a better use for you.”

“Who are you?” Wren spits, and he’s shaking.

“Oh, darlin’,” he says with a coo, grinning even wider. It’s grotesque, an inhuman mimicry of a smile. “I think I might just be your worst nightmare.”

[qierxing]

Yan!Trey x Yan! Succubus Cater x Reader

CW/TW: Noncon, Toxic expectations,Pregnancy mention, Cater's gender and sex is Ambiguous, Reader has AFAB genitalia but is still referred w/ G/N terms & is implied to be infertile, unconsensual polygamy, womb tattoo

Finding prey is rather entertaining sometimes.

—

Imagine being in a loving marriage with Trey.

Or you once were, and now, it's become a shriveled shell of itself.  You don't really...remember where it started going downhill. Maybe it's when he started asking you about how you feel about children and how you have to awkwardly respond that your body physically can't give birth. You starkly remember how his eyes had dimmed that day in disappointment.

Still, you held hope that you didn't need a child to keep your relationship loving. But as each day passes and the way the two of you drift apart, the more you begin to get disheartened. 

You've long resigned yourself to this dead marriage, only barely kept alive by old burnt kindlings of past happy memories. And as Trey spends more time out and away, you're sure it's only a matter of time when he doesn't ever return back to the apartment you two used to call home.

But he does, and not alone. 

Cater's a pretty little thing, you have to admit with a dull ache in your chest as Trey introduces her. Luscious red locks, bright green eyes and a fair complexion to match; it almost seems like she's too perfect. There's only a heavy tiredness in your chest as you watch Trey smile so brightly at her, the way he used to smile at you. 

You can only clench your teeth and nod as Cater holds your hands and asks if she can stay for dinner. Perhaps some part of you should get angry, yell at Trey for cheating on you so blatantly, or tell Cater to get the hell out. But it all fizzles as you catch them fucking each other, in your shared bedroom.

And as you stare down at the divorce papers in your hands, you can only feel relief. Even though you should be angry or sad, you're just…glad that Trey could find someone else to love, to give him what he wants. Cater seems like such a bright and cheerful person. It hurts, more than anything else, that it couldn't be you, but…perhaps it is one last act of love that you couldn't find it in yourself to leave with bad memories. This could give you the clean break you’ve always wanted.

Except, when you return back to the apartment, your husband is nowhere to be found. Only Cater, who beams at the sight of you and immediately dragging you to cook spicy curry together. It's surprising how easy it is to get along with her, even if she is the reason why there's divorce papers stuffed in your raincoat pocket. And the more you spend time with her, the more you begin to like her and realize how lucky Trey was to have found such a wonderful, cheery lady who has the most entertaining stories and anecdotes to pass the time. She doesn’t insult you at all like you expected, instead listening intently to your small talk and complimenting your decoration skills in the apartment.

"I'm glad to have met you." She says with glimmering eyes. And you can only think the same in return when the door opens.

Trey rushes to you, fear and worry clouding his eyes and you're taken back when he asks where you were and why weren't you answering your phone. Trey turns his wrath on Cater for not texting him that you had returned home, and you can only smile in mild amusement at the banter that ensues. 

It's agonizing, quietly inquiring if you could talk to Trey alone for a moment. The two of you sit across from each other at the wooden dining table, but the distance seems to be so long.

When you set down the divorce papers in front of Trey, you had thought of many situations that might occur. Maybe he would also be relieved, perhaps sad, or possibly guilty. But what you never could’ve expected is him getting angry, telling you with a cold voice that you would never be apart from him, tearing the papers into shreds. Something in you snaps, from irritability or having to just endure so many things from the past years, as you scream at Trey to take the damn mercy you were offering him and–

You're cut mid yell as something pinches your neck and you collapse to the floor, rendered immobile. Your eyes frantically swivel to see decorated red diamond converse walking in front of you, with a familiar voice giggling.

“Gosh, you’re lucky I was here, or they would’ve absolutely left you.”

It's the last thing you can recall when you wake up in your bedroom, ankle chained like an animal to a bedpost. As you try desperately to get the iron shackle off, an arm slithers around your waist and tugs you back into Trey's chest. You kick and yell, demanding to know what is going on, as Trey chides you for being so unfaithful.

Your blood runs cold when another voice chimes in. It doesn’t really start to seep in until you see red hair peek into the moonlight, then bright green eyes next. 

No, you aren’t really scared until you look closer.

Her jawline has gotten angular, cheekbones much more prominent and his figure more lean and lithe, all sharp and no softness to be found. Were her arms always that muscular? When Cater leans forward to cage you in and your horror multiplies at how he (?) grins.

“I made some changes, do ya like it?” Poison green eyes glint under the moonlight and you can only get lost in them with a ditzy smile as you’re put under a spell that you can’t explain. It makes you limp in their arms as they take you relentlessly, filling you with endless thick, white cum that spills over your skin and thighs, heating up your stomach and making your brain go empty and blissed out. Their stamina together is relentless, and it only continues when you pass out.

By the time morning comes around, you’re filled with mortification at how the two are still wrapped around you, cocks somehow warming your tight cunt and a foreign marking burned into the skin on your belly.

“Now we’ll actually have a family together…” Trey sleepily mumbles in your ear, sending your world crashing down.

You don’t know how you can escape, both the men and the glowing mark on your womb.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Chosen, Chapter Four

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |

CW: Aftermath of noncon/dubcon, nonsexual nudity (or... post-sexual nudity?), mentioned bruises, creepy whumper, intimate whumper

-

Present day

“You don’t believe in Dromada.” Grigori keeps his gaze firmly off to one side, refusing to grant the bastard the privilege of eye contact. Instead, he stares through the barred window at the beautiful day outside. 

Bohli only laughs, straddling Grigori’s hips as he reaches over him to untie his hands from the intricately carved headboard, one by one, before pulling them down to tie them together. Why Bohli bothers, Grigori will never know - it’s not like he can go anywhere, like he could escape this. Put that damn pendant back on and Grigori will look like he’s in love if he’s told to. He’ll feel like he’s in love, and be utterly unable to understand he isn’t.

“No,” Bohli says, voice low and heavy, and Grigori’s mind may shudder at the idea that Bohli will want him again so soon, but his body responds differently. “Or rather… yes, but not the way you think.”

He pulls away, leaving Grigori to shiver in the sudden chill when Bohli’s too-warm body is gone. He sits up, watching Bohli dress in his black leathers while Grigori can only sit there naked, picking at the knots on his wrist without success. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“Well, I believe in Dromada, but I don’t believe in any such thing as your silly human goddess,” Bohli responds easily. His leather slide on like a second skin, and as soon as he has them, Grigori can hardly remember what he looks like without clothing - only a sense of skin absolutely covered with runic tattoos in the elven tongue that he refuses to explain or elaborate on. “Those are two different things, Grigori.”

Bohli is a little flushed from his exertions, his hair a wild mess atop his head, but he doesn’t even bother to try and comb it down. He has a feral look to him, with his narrow chin and hard jaw and sharp teeth, that isn’t attractive, not in the slightest, no matter what Grigori’s immensely traitorous body thinks.

“No, they’re not,” Grigori says. Before he can finally work one knot open and free himself, Bohli is back in front of him, pulling him to his feet on shaky legs. His hips hurt, his lower back aching in a soft way that might have been sweet, if any of this was what he wanted. 

Isn’t it, though, by now? He could be fighting harder than this.

But he doesn’t.

As days pass, he fails to see the point in trying. At least his mind is wiped clean, for a few perfect minutes, each time Bohli overcomes his resistance. At least he has peace, briefly, before all his self-loathing rises again. 

“Hm?” Bohli blinks, pulling Grigori’s knuckles to his lips, giving each one a gentle kiss that has Grigori’s fingers twitching in an urge to throw a punch that he knows damn well won’t land, just to say he did it. Just to keep fighting. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Dromada is the human goddess of forgiveness,” Grigori says, slowly, frowning and jerking his hands back from Bohli’s grip. The half-elf… man… whatever he is, laughs and ties a new rope to the short bit of slack between Grigori’s wrists, backing up while jerking on the makeshift leash to force Grigori to stumble forward, naked and sweaty and marked from Bohli’s attentions, with lips still red and thighs still shaking. “Wait, what-... what are you doing-”

“Taking you for a walk,” Bohli says cheerfully, continuing backwards to the door, yanking Grigori into the hallway even as he starts trying to drag his feet.

As lean as he looks, though, Bohli has inhuman strength, and no amount of struggle keeps Grigori within the relative safety of his room.

No, his feet stumble onto the thick, heavy rug that runs the length of the hallway, and his face flushes a deep dark red as he sees two of the bandit gang turn to look before they burst into laughter and murmur to each other.

Bohli keeps him moving, away and not towards the two who still direct their laughter at Grigori’s back. 

Grigori’s heart pounds in his chest, he’s dizzy from rage and humiliation as they pass bandits in ones and twos, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door of this ramshackle home for evil out into the sunshine. Every single bandit laughs at him - he knows all their darkest sins, they come to confession regularly whenever Bohli commands it, and they don’t lie. They want him to know the depravations they pursue, they want him to see the wicked natures of their hearts. 

He knows the worst things they have ever done, and yet here, they laugh at him - and he can do nothing. As far as they're all concerned, he is just Bohli's bedtoy and prisoner, here to amuse, here to be ground under their feet, here to give Bohli his basest desires to play with, a holy man to turn into profane perversion.

Not that he feels holy any longer.

Please, he prays, but Dromada doesn’t listen. Maybe She can’t hear him in the Kaila, maybe the woods are beyond Her ability to reach. Maybe that’s why mankind stays away from the darkness here, the trees older than time, the first forest to have ever existed. The place where the elves once came from, before they were chased back into it, before they were destroyed.

Or were they?

Please save me. I will be your priest again, and I will not waver this time. Please, please, goddess, please. 

She gives him nothing.

The sun, at least, is warm on his hair and skin, and the grass is soothing and soft under his bare feet. Bohli tips his head back and Grigori watches his eyes close as he seems to preen and flower under the heat and light coming from the bright blue sky. Grigori looks wrecked, like a whore after serving in the war-tents for the soldiers.

You are a whore, now. You know that, right?

He forces his own thoughts away. Grigori knows he looks destroyed, torn apart, scratched to bleeding, bitten to bruising, slapped to redness on his arse and face according to Bohli’s depraved lusts. But Bohli… looks pristine. There’s no red marks on him, no bruise. Nothing to show what he's done.

Only his lovely, sharp face and his bright, shining smile.

As if Grigori had simply fucked himself into this appearance, and Bohli had stood by above it all.

“I hate you,” Grigori says aloud, hardly realizing he’s done so until Bohli opens his eyes and turns to look at him, looking faintly surprised. 

“What?” Grigori’s heart quakes, just a little, at the way Bohli’s smile drops off like it was chalk washed away by rain, and something in those dark eyes turns coldly elven, all his humanity simply gone like it’s only a mask he wears and he can take off at will.

“You… you heard me,” Grigori says, and somehow his voice stays steady. There are more bandits out here - the ones patrolling the edges of the clearing, guarding against wildlife that might try to make its way in. A few simply sitting out on the grass enjoying pints of beer they make themselves here from stolen grain. He knows they’re looking while pretending not to look, seeing the marks on his body, knowing their leader put them there. “I hate you. You have-... you have ruined me.”

For a moment, those black eyes on his feel like voids he might fall into and drown.

Then Bohli throws his head back and laughs so loud that a flock of birds is startled out of the trees nearby and takes flight with raucous caws and the beat of wings.

He keeps laughing, the bastard, his knees folding and then giving out until he falls onto the ground, jerking the rope until Grigori is pulled down, too, to land on his hands and knees on the grass. Someone calls out something filthy about what they could do with him out here like this, and his face burns. Tears are hot beyond his eyelids and he works as hard as he can to ignore them.

Bohli is still laughing, airy and breathless, as he drops onto his back, turning his head to look at Grigori with appraising, glimmering eyes. “Gods below, you thought I would care. See, Brother Grigori-”

“How dare you call me that!”

“-this is why I like you so much! You are a fucking treat. I’m so glad we let you live. I’m so, so glad I found you. You’re a beauty, and you’re mine. Now that’s a gift from the gods, don’t you think? My very own dirty little priest.”

“I-I’m no longer-”

“Oh, you still are one. Just because I have taken all your sacred parts and sanded them down to mud doesn’t mean you aren’t still a priest of Dromada, my pretty little man. You are a pure man turned to slut at my command, and that's all I need you to be, really. Come here.”

Grigori sets his jaw, knowing it won’t matter. But he can’t force himself to move, and he has to make Bohli work for this, even if he isn’t sure why he bothers. “No.”

“I said, come here, little priestling.” Bohli's smile shifts again, fades a little.

“And I said no.”

They stare at each other, for one long breath of silence broken only by the wind in the trees and the fading calls of the fleeing birds. Then Bohli’s smile widens so much that he seems like the stories of sea monsters and sharks, a mouth full of rows of endless teeth, black eyes that take in light but don’t reflect it. “Oh, Brother Grigori,” Bohli breathes, lighting up with new desire. “If you want me to take you again so badly, you should just say so.”

“What?” Grigori’s eyes widen in shock and new horror. He still hurts, he still throbs. “No!” He throws himself backwards, and Bohli isn’t expecting it - the rope slips through those long fingers fast enough to make the half-elf wince before Grigori is on his feet and fleeing, still naked, towards the woods.

Others in the bandit group stand, but Bohli holds up a hand. “Let him go,” He says, voice bright, getting softer as Grigori runs. “I’ll give him a ten-minute head start, let's see how he begs for me to take him back once I catch him.”

Grigori hears more laughter, but he ignores it, making the edge of the clearing in only a few seconds. He’s always been a good runner, fast and strong. He used to race some of the others in circles around the temple, see who could do the most laps in the shortest amount of time. His breath burns his lungs as he things, unwillingly, about his brother priests, the family murdered by the same bandits who keep him here as a sort of toy for their amusement, who shred him body and soul, day by day, to… what? Prove some point about their hatred of the goddess?

To prove some mysterious point to the King, a man Grigori has never met, who no one has ever seen in person outside the palace and the battlefield?

He runs, half-blinded by tears that come unbidden, that he can't quite seem to force away. He runs as if fleeing the flames that had burned down the only life he ever knew and left him to dissolution, to being preyed upon by a creature of such absolute devotion to degradation.

The trees at first seem natural and normal, but as Grigori runs straight into the woods, the Kaila begins to crowd around him. The sunlight grows dimmer, blocked by the grand canopies of the trees that loom over his head. After a couple of miles, maybe three, the canopy is so thick that it seems as dark as night around him. Things crash away from him through the woods, wildlife startled by him into fleeing. 

His feet hurt, sharp pains as he keeps stepping on things he can’t see through the underbrush. He's panting like a child - or like a man who hasn't been allowed to run in a year.

By now, he knows, Bohli is after him, tracking his trail through the trees. Grigori comes to a stop, looking around himself and realizing he has no idea how far he will need to go to find one of the safe paths through the Kaila.

Or if there even is one in this direction.

He takes a breath through lungs that burn, realizing he can’t even give up and turn around and go back. He has no idea which direction he’s come from, and no idea which direction to go. His rebellion may be simply to die, lost in the dark forest that is damnation to man, doomed to wander as just another trapped spirit caught here between the trees, subjected to the whims of the lingering traces of the elven gods and their terrible cruel amusements.

But at least he will have wiped that smile off Bohli’s face, taking from him his toy and breaking it where he cannot follow, the bastard.

Grigori squares his shoulders, looks around, and walks in a direction at random, heading for the sound of some kind of stream he can hear, picking his way more carefully now that the panic has subsided. Do elves track by scent? Bohli might, if they do… he doesn’t know. But it can’t hurt to stop for a drink of water before he moves on anyway.

Show me the way, he prays. He pleads, he throws every last remaining shred of belief he has in Her mercy into his mental voice. Please, my goddess, I have worshiped you since I was an infant. Save me. Please, please save me.

She doesn’t answer.

She hasn’t answered him since the day his brothers all died and he was spared by a trick of fate.

Still, he keeps moving.

His last act as Dromada’s Chosen, he supposes, will be simply to take from a wicked man something he wanted for his own. It’s not much.

It’ll have to do.

If he’s very, very lucky, he’ll get Bohli so lost he dies in here, too.

-

Tag list:

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

[kim-poce]

Masterlist One-shot: Non-titled

Separated due to link limit

Masterlists Masterlist

Masterlist of One-shots (Maybe)

I'll make blocks of 10 for easier reading.

B1

CW: pet whump, mention of nail whump, mention of starvation, feeling like being an annoyance, kicking, whumpee going back to whumper.

CW: guilt.

CW: war mention, implied war, blood mention, death mention, off-screen violence.

CW: implied past torture.

CW: non-human whumpee, implied future torture.

CW: broken bones mention, starving mention, blood mention.

CW: hypothermia, scars, nudity (as in taking the wet cold clothes out so they can live)

CW: mention of death

CW: multiple whumpee, conditioned whumpee.

CW: past abuse.

B2

CW: medical whump, implied past torture, implied past rescue, female whumpee, burn mention, cut mention.

CW: captive, chain, collar, choking, forcing feeding, implied past torture, digging a finger into cuts, passing out, too weak to move, female whumper, male whumpee.

CW: male whumpee, female whumper, powers, failed escape attempt, implied future torture.

CW: sick whumpee, fever, forced to perform.

CW: kidnap mention, solitary confinement, possessive whumper.

CW: past trauma, breakdown.

CW: supernatural, death, death of a child, main character death, exorcism.

CW: pet whump, solitary confinement, touch starved.

CW: female whumper, male whumpee, dub-con body modifications (tattoos and piercings), intimate whumper, implied abuse.

CW: sold, rescue, abuse, kicking.

B3

CW: Pet whump, conditioned whumpee.

CW: gun, caretaker whump.

CW: cigarette burns, intimate whumper, possessive whumper.

CW: past torture, trauma, mute whumpee, selective mutism.

CW: mer whump, captivity, torture, angst, victim-blaming.

CW: No Holds Barred Beatdown, pet whump? implied future torture.

CW: Ableism, implied abuse.

CW: torture, cuts, knife.

CW: pet whump, training, starvation, dehumanization.

CW: captivity, torture mention.

B4

CW: trauma.

CW: fear of death, death (kind of), come back to life (kind of), vampire whumper.

CW: whumpee turned whumper, whumper turned whumpee, death threat, chained, talk of death/dehydration and starvation.

CW: Cutting, knife, intimate whumper.

CW: rescue after long-term captivity.

CW: captive, touch starved.

CW: self-sacrifice, implied future torture.

CW: gun, humiliation, fear of death, threats of death (non-verbal).

CW: knife, masochist whumper, self-harm, forced to hurt.

CW: self-sacrifice, multiple whumpees, defiant whumpee.

B5

CW: several minor characters death mentioned, implied manipulation of masses, the hero is female and hurt, violence, gun mention.

CW: knives, fear of punishment.

CW: implied past abuse, scars, broken bones mention (past).

CW: female whumper, male whumpee, power dynamic, humiliation, slapping, forced to kneel.

CW: whumpee turned whumper, whumper turned whumpee, cigarette burns.

CW: emotional whump, betray.

CW: noncon drugs, kidnapping, death mention.

CW: solitary confinement, touch starved, intimate whumper.

CW: male whumpee, female whumper, humiliation, self-harm (accidental), possessive whumper

CW: female whumper, male whumpee, intimate whumper, fear of death, razor, cut.

B6

CW: female whumper, male whumpee, cruel whumper, forced to watch, punishment by proxy

CW: captive, mentioned forced labor, touch starved, female whumper, intimate whumper, male whumpee, stockholm syndrome.

CW: death, car accident.

CW: minor whumpee, poverty, slavery, implied sex worker, implied noncon with minors (like really implied)

CW: lab whump, gaslighting, failed escape attempt, sensory deprivation, starvation.

CW: NSFW, noncon, shocking, defiant whumpee, oral, creepy intimate whumper.

CW: NSFW, no advised “bdsm” (between “” because bsdm NEEDS clear CONSENT or it ISN’T BDSM ), dub/noncon, overstimulation.

There’s just something about characters who are so used to being in pain that it doesn’t really scare them. What bothers them, however, is the worried look with which Caretaker regards them. Now that is something they can’t take.

“Let’s say you did escape. What would you even tell them?”

[hanasnx]

⿻ FAQ — !

BEFORE YOU INTERACT ༄

"I don't care if we don't sleep at all tonight / Let's just fix this whole thing now." — John Mayer. (2009). Heartbreak Warefare.

彡 personal 「 � 」

about me ¡! ❞

✩ indy ノ he/him ノ gender-fluid ノ demi ノ 22 ノ 18+ blog ✩ characterization consult ✩ personal aesthetic ✩ arm kink aficionado ✩ home of indy green ✩ rom com buff ✩ fave movies ✩ fave tv shows ✩ fave games

✩ i'm very vain and i love praise. inbox messages are my favorite to receive. i try to read and respond to every comment, mention, and reblog.

✩ i have a boyfriend of three years ノ i've been writing my entire life; blog origin story ノ i have two dogs: murphy and daisy, but i'm not a pet person ノ i have a big family ノ you pronounce my user like: hana-es-en-ex; origin ノ i wear glasses and contacts ノ tattoos ノ piercings ノ synesthesia ノ i was named after indiana jones ノ why i write fem ノ face descrip ノ eastern time zone ノ birthday: feb 20; pisces sun, gemini moon, virgo rising.

✩ i can't enjoy the horror and mostly thriller genre because i'm extremely susceptible to paranoia ノ i do not have a favorite genre of music, i like all music genres in phases; favorite songs; favorite music artists ノ fandoms

✩ favorite color: phthalo green, teal, any color between green and blue ノ favorite mythical animal: dragons ノ favorite non-mythical animal: horses, tigers ノ favorite fruit: white peaches, strawberries, rainier cherries ノ favorite fictional character: batman; favorite batman ノ hobbies: writing smut, playing video games, watching tv

✩ kin list ノ kin list 2 ノ mutuals origins stories ノ donnie and i origin story

彡 hanasnx 「 � 」

blog cw ¡! ❞

✩ be aware i speak obscenely: cursing, sexual language, etc. this is an nsfw, 18+ blog. and a safe place for the nastiest jokes and dirty talk known to man. ✩ 18+ content ノ explicit sexual content ノ jokes: sexual, violent, suicide ノ non-serious flirting ノ swearing ノ heresy/blasphemy ノ religious themes ノ christianity criticisms ノ body horror ノ disturbing imagery ノ drugs including but not limited to: alcohol, nicotine in any form, psychedelics, marijuana ノ kinks including but not limited to: daddy, infidelity, breeding, size, degradation, age gap ノ plays including but not limited to: impact, breath, anal, cnc, dub, noncon ノ mostly cis/dom!male x cis/sub!female.

favorite content ¡! ❞

✩ kinks: infidelity kink ノ domination ノ sadism ノ masochism ノ daddy content ノ size kink ノ dirty talk ノ squirting ノ degradation kink ノ brat/brat taming kink ノ bareback ノ arm kink ノ face-fucking ノ tit-fucking. ✩ plays: dubcon ノ coercion ノ impact play. ✩ fantasies: mfm love triangles ノ age gap ノ break-up fantasy ノ dom!character x sub!reader ノ daddy!character x princess!reader. ✩ other: porn links.

accounts ¡! ❞

✩ @hanasnx on wattpad, ao3, pinterest ✩ @adventuresnx: adventure time theme & posts ✩ @blossomsnx: girlsona & fem reader posts ✩ @novasnx: mass effect theme & posts ✩ @firesofmustafar: anakin skywalker rp blog

indy-words ¡! ❞

✩ glossary

彡 interaction 「 � 」

✩ dni: AI users of any kind that includes AI character chats, tag cloggers (don't tag your life updates with "x reader" fuck off). ✩ do not copy or translate my work and do not copy or translate my work onto any other sites. this is the only site my work is available on. besides a portuguese translation on wattpad. will link when i have it. ✩ do not steal my themes or layouts. ✩ ask my permission to elaborate on my ideas in a separate post, or elaborate on those ideas in a reblog of my post. do not just take my idea and post your elaboration about it on your own blog, that is what the reblog button is for. ✩ if you are directly inspired by my work, credit me by @ in your post. ✩ ask my permission to use one of my au's.

彡 my au's 「 � 」

✩ sk!anakin ✩ adultfilm!/pornstar!anakin ✩ baby daddy!anakin ✩ 6’7!anakin

✩ dark!hayden ✩ work dad!hayden ✩ baby daddy!hayden

✩ baby daddy!jason

✩ baby daddy!hak

彡 characters 「 � 」

what characters do you write for? ¡! ❞

✩ here's a definitive list of every character i've ever written, character's i'd like to write for, etc. ✩ thirst for whoever you want in the inbox at any time after you read my rules. ✩ sometimes i'll announce a character/scenario i'm into and would like to hear from you about, so check my announcements tag for any recent info.

彡 theme 「 � 」

how'd you get the green text? ¡! ❞

✩ bbcode & html text colorizer | follow the prompts -> copy the bottom box aka the "html code" -> go to tumblr on desktop -> create post -> click top right gear for settings -> scroll down to "text editor" to select "html" -> paste your clipboard -> scroll up to the select "html" or "preview" to both edit html and see how it looks after you do.

how'd you put links in your bio? ¡! ❞

✩ go to tumblr on desktop -> go to the blog settings -> copy: <a href="[insert link here]">[text you want the link to be attached to here]</a> for example, mine would look like: <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/hanasnx/697970103257530368/about">影</a> -> click "edit appearance" in blog settings -> paste in bio section and edit accordingly. the "accent" color of your blog will be the color of the link in your bio.

how do you edit your photos to indy green? ¡! ❞

✩ go to your photo editing app, i use picsart -> pick a plain image -> completely cover the plain image with the color of your choice completely -> save it. -> pick your image you want to edit -> open it in picsart -> on the bottom panel, scroll until you see "add photo" and click it -> pick the plain color image you made earlier and add it -> cover your image completely with color image but do not apply it yet -> click "blend" on bottom panel -> choose "overlay." -> open your layers in the top right -> select the non-plain-color image -> scroll bottom panel until you find "adjust" click it -> play around with the saturation, more often than not i get rid of all saturation, but sometimes i leave muted color accents of my choice by using the eraser tool and changing its opacity. -> once you're satisfied with its adjustments whether it's contrast or saturation you adjusted, click "apply" -> open layers again, and use the eraser tool at the top to erase any spots of the color image you think are too heavy. you can change the eraser opacity and hardness for a softer blend -> once satisfied, click "apply" -> save it. you're done.

彡 pinterest 「 � 」

✩ pinterest ✩ darth vader board ✩ rinakin board ✩ batman beyond board ✩ indy green anakin skywalker + darth vader board

彡 playlists 「 � 」

✩ anakin skywalker song albums ✩ anakin skywalker + muse ✩ playlist masterlist for anakin, vader, hayden, star wars, etc ✩ anakin skywalker + brutus lyrics

彡 tv 「 � 」

✩ hayden christensen watchlist ✩ anakin skywalker watchlist

彡 star wars info 「 � 」

✩ i am not a star wars fan, i'm just a darth vader fan and everything that comes with him. ✩ i only care about lucas saga. the contents of the original trilogy, the prequels, some comics, some video games, and some books. disney sw is fine sometimes, but not the text i go off of. ✩ hayden christensen's depiction in attack of the clones, and revenge of the sith is my favorite and the definitive anakin skywalker characterization. that is my personal opinion that shows through in my blog. ✩ i am not an anakin/vader apologist.

彡 credits 「 � 」

✩ profile/header picture: pinterest

✩ navi pictures: pinterest ✩ edited by me: picsart

✩ text/solid/gradient color banners on posts ✩ created by me: phonto ✩ edited by me: picsart

彡 disclaimers 「 � 」

✩ i do not own the images of the characters or the characters themselves (unless stated “oc”) on the panels or in fics, i only write them in fictional scenarios.

NAVI | M.LIST | RULES

updated 9.07.24

[s0apysm1les]

Dead DoveTober Day 5 - Permanent Body Modification

CW: NONCON Body modification, Tattoos, branding/marking

I'm only doing this for the Dead Dove. The other shi i write is obviously not okay stuff but I just wanna say here bc it's a bit more vague and can seem "not as bad". I do NOT and WILL NOT condone changing people's tattoos or putting your name or symbol in there without their knowledge or consent. That aint it and I stand by that thought.

..

All it was was a simple smiley face, at first. You felt a thrill at the stack of needles pattering on your skin, driving ink into the spots between the cracks of your skin. It was like you were drunk, and the drink was a sweet Amontillado that drove you deeper and deeper into the dark cellar and catacombs of the shops.

You became personally close to the tattoo artist who had done your first tattoo, he was a bit peculiar but was more endearing than alarming and you quickly saw him as more than a friend. He started encouraging larger tattoos, covering more patches of your skin and was even designing a majority of them now.

The ink stretched across the canvas of skin and laced across the once-bare spots of skin. Once the entirety of your back was tatted and a collar with chain ribbons was inked across your neck, you finally noticed his name on your skin when asked about the tattoos at the beach.

You had loved showing them off, the thrill of turning people's eyes - not only because of your scandalous suit, barely covering anything, but also the flaunting of the bright images and dark contrasts that littered you from your toes to your throat. It was a friend who first asked you about who your tattoo artist was - not as a tattoo artist though, they had asked you who his Name was. You never even mentioned to them that your tattoo artist was a guy, let alone his name.

And so you ask how they knew that name.

"Well. It's spelled out on your back." Your blood ran cold. You rushed them to take a photograph of the tattoos and when seeing it, they were right. There was his name. clear as day amongst the ink and flesh. On the back of the decorative collar was even the word "property" swirled and slightly obscured by the lace that decorated the false clasp of the tattoo.

He had... branded you. He had marked you as his property and smiled at you and looked you in the eyes with you none the wiser. You quickly gathered your things at that moment and rushed out of the sand and sun you were just playing under. There was a particular artist you had to visit, after all, and your body hummed with excitement. You didn't want to keep your owner waiting.

[whumperfully]

Fun Little Ways to Remind Whumpee of Who They Belong to!

The good ol' branding! Never fails! Extra fun if you have to remove the previous whumper's brand first!

The Artistic Whumper™'s Tattooing! Is it somewhere easily visible or is it somewhere slightly hidden? Did whumper have to remove whumpee's previous tattoos?

Collars! Yes!! Can never get enough! Do they have bells in them so that whumpee can't sneak around? Of course we have the excellent shock collars! Do they have a tracking chip that whumper may or may not let whumpee know about? Is it so tight that it reminds whumpee of its existence with their every breath? Or is it loosely hung around their neck as a casual reminder?

Changing whumpee's name? How quickly does whumpee accept it? What does whumper have to do to make them accept it? By the end of their conditioning, does whumpee remember their original name or not? Does whumper give whumpee their surname? Do they get a human name Or do they simply get a set of numbers and/or letters?

Changing whumpee's appearance? Whumpee with dyed hair watching their hair grow so much in captivity that the dye is only on the ends now? Or does whumper dye their hair a different colour? Or does whumper simply cut most of it off? Alternatively, whumper having short haired whumpee grow long hair because they love pulling it around? Defiant short haired whumpee cutting their hair off to rebel? And that's just hair! Clothing? Whumpee who loves fashion being forced to wear bland clothes or clothes they don't like? Whumpee who loves simplicity being forced to be decorated by whumper or forced to decorate themself according to whumper's standards? So! Much! More!

Feel free to add more!

[much-ado-about-whumping]

Green Shoots

Previous installments for Callistos: [Bite the Hand that Feeds] [Canvas] [Paying Dearly] [Taste of Ashes] [Callistos Masterpost]. I'm gonna go ahead and give this whole series a blanket warning of Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

And yet! Check out the CWs on this baby:

CW: actually not that many? recovery from a suicide attempt in an in-patient facility that for ~reasons~ I have decided is like...not controlling, very optional, more group home than institution; drug use/addiction mention; combatting sexual abuse and other kinds of objectification with body mods; past non-con

This bit is the opening of some hurt/comfort in a recovery arc.

---------------------------------

"Those would look fucking sick with some ink around 'em," a voice says.

Callistos looks up. He's been getting himself coffee at the little bar in the corridor, like those things he's seen in some hotel lobbies.

The boy next to him is someone he recognizes. He lives on his floor, he thinks - they might have been in a group together sometime. He's definitely seen that bright blue hair before.

He wants to ask for clarification, to elicit more information - what does he mean? - but what he says is, "Huh?"

The guy chuckles a little, awkwardly.

"Those scars on your forearm. They look like...I dunno, man, like lightning or tree limbs or something. You ever think about getting some tatts?"

He gestures toward Callistos, like a shrug that continues down to his elbows, turning himself inside-out. He's exposing the insides of his forearms, where brown, twiggy branches extend down to his wrists, bursting with cherry blossoms in full bloom. Callistos is so disarmed by the art that it takes him a moment to place how vulnerable the gesture feels.

"'S what I did with my track marks the second time I got clean," he says, smiling a little sheepishly. "Now if I ever wanna use again, I think about whether I really wanna fuck up my ink, and it stops me."

He laughs again, soft, jagged, warm.

"Well, that and a fuckload of therapy."

He reaches out a hand.

"I'm Pax," he says. "What's your name?"

Callistos feels like he's just been awoken from a deep sleep by a bucket of water turned over his head. The gears in his brain creak.

"Uh- I- Callistos," he says, extending his hand. He feels limp, awkward.

Pax's touch is electric as he grasps Callistos' hand and pumps it in a friendly shake.

"Good to meet you, man. I'm in 407 - see you around, yeah?"

Callistos nods dumbly.

"Uh- yeah."

Pax laughs again and bounces off down the hall. Callistos gazes after him, still trying to catch up.

His hand is almost tingling. It's been a long time since he's let anybody touch him.

He takes his coffee back to his room and glances - just for a moment - at the room two doors down. 407. Pax. Callistos' lip quirks up in a glimmer of a smile.

---------------------------------

End Notes: I hesitate to call Pax a caretaker exactly, because he's also taking care of himself, but if nothing else Callistos is getting himself a fellow-traveler of sorts (...and maybe a lil' crush). Pax is transmasc and probably non-binary - so far he strikes me as a he/they/not-opposed-to-neopronouns-if-the-mood-is-right sort.

[inkyquince]

kiss! excited for you about the tattoo!

also you should talk about your hyperfixation actually 👀 (if you'd like akahakna)

okay so tattoo under cut and then shall be deleted cuz ew thats me, but im so happy with it and its healing really well. kissing ur head @pip-n-chips (sidenote, the void stares back is my handle on discord and i fuckin pissed myself in surrpise)

But who cares because hyperfixation teehee. i got another ask like this so im splitting my bEEG ideas and leaving one out because im fully on page 3 of writing young bruce wayne fuck boy anyway.

for you? for my pip pip cheerio?

BAD brain rot about Red Hood. Of course, mans is hot and depressed, he's my favourite emo boy.

cw. noncon turned dubcon. pseudo-incest but jason and reader aren't blood related. dacryphilia, mentions of blood, tho its ambiguous. VERY DARK AND NARSTY JASON TODD. Usual batfamily depression. Also, yknow, references to Death In The Family.

But as per usual I have to think my little awful thoughts. Where Jason is fully still in his revenge phase, but it warps. Bruce has let him down repeatedly before it hits him that he's let all of othem down repeatedly. Except for one. You, the bloodspare to Damien, the bloodheir, who never was a Robin, never spread your wings. Stayed home, stayed safe and stayed the softest spot in Batman's side. The one person who'd never leave because you didn't set yourself up for that. Even though you were older than Damien by quite a bit, you had seen every single iteration of Robin come and go, they all knew that Damien stood to inherit the mantle, which was what Bruce truly cared about. But you laughed at the jokes about Damien usurping your role as sole inheritor. And you loved your little brother. And you were loved. As the playboy's sweetest kid, by all of his brothers.

When he was Jason Todd, the boy wonder, the Robin, he loved you. But he wasn't that anymore. And he wanted to hurt the man that left him for dead, by hurting the one person his father could see nothing but goodness in, the one he thought of when he stuck by his moral codes even at the death of his sons. He was Red Hood now. He had blood on his hands.

And fuck, he still loved you.

He loved you as a boy, and as a man, his love took on a salty tinge. Sweat on his tongue, as he dragged it up the back of your neck, to your ear as you squirmed inbetween his forearms, pressed against the floor on your belly. Sweet, simple you. Who'd have gone anywhere for him, with one text. And now, you're here, with his cock sheathed fully into your hole, his mask tilted so that his mouth was exposed. Just so he could bite. And lick. And taste. Despite the saltiness, your tears tasted sweet. You whined for your brother to stop, your cheek pressed against the cold concrete floor, and Jason wondered if you knew that this was close to the place he died, wondered if Bruce told you, wondered if he could ever tell you that he was hurting Batman, hurting Bruce, not you.

So he tucks his fingers into your mouth, letting you taste the metal and blood of his digits, and continues to ruin your virgin hole, spreading you more than your sweet hand ever could before.

Worst of all, the part of him that should feel guilty... Doesn't. At least not after you cum all over yourself and the floor, thighs shaking with his own legs spreading them. Got a front row seat to the most beautiful show on earth and the sounds you made? Slipping from begging your brother, to stop, to slow down, to ease up, to whining and groaning. Then weakly grinding against him, stuffing yourself with the rest of his cock. Whispering for Jason, for Red Hood, to continue, to not stop.

He'd take it all. Your virginity, your first kiss, all the work that Bruce had put in to keep you safe, to keep you isolated from the world until it was safe, but he failed. He failed Jason and now he failed you. No signal would draw him near to save either of his children from what was happening, and wouldn't stop the two of you desperately rutting against each other, Red Hood holding you down by your throat just so you wouldn't be able to wriggle away when he finally cum inside of you.

AnyWAY, tattoo under cut, love u pippy.

:P too late, but it's cool tho

[bakumu-archive]

kinktober 2021 day 15 - breeding

Sukuna Ryomen x fem! reader

wc: 1.6k

summary: when you've had enough of your husband's neglect you always find yourself in Sukuna’s bed, but tonight Sukuna wishes to claim you as his own.

cw: NON/DUBCON BREEDING, SMUT (breeding kink, consentual sex but noncon/dubcon breeding, forced breeding, mating press, biting, nipple play, pregnancy mentions, baby trapping, noncon breeding, lotsa cum, unprotected sex, possessiveness, creampie, heaven/hell metaphor), INFIDELITY, CHEATING, nicknames (dove, baby), modern au where he's just a hot morally gray guy with tattoos, ooc probs

a/n: special thanks to @lunastellanova for helping me with phrasing at 1am

<< back to my kinktober masterlist

minors do not interact. this work contains mature themes and if you continue reading you have agreed you are willing to see such content

You climb into bed next to your husband, trying to chase away the heartache in your soul. Maybe tonight will be different.

As soon as you nestle into his side, you breathe in the cologne that you used to love, thinking of all the times he cuddled you to sleep or gave you loving forehead kisses. Until his arm pulls away from you, patting you on the head as he rolls over onto his side, facing away from you.

You try to still your broken heart from hammering in your chest from his dismissal but maybe the night can be salvaged.

“I don't get a good night kiss?” your voice whispers, trying to sound sweet just like the old days.

He rolls his shoulders back and puckers his lips to kiss you. You sit up so that you can reach him, but his kiss feels like kissing your grandmother, his lips hard and unmoving, accompanied by a fake muah sound.

He gives you a polite smile before rolling back to his side and tucking his pillow under his head.

You lay down next to him, resting your head against his back. When did things get like this? When did you start craving that intimacy that comes with being so in love? Is it too much to be wanted? To crave the feeling of hands digging into your flesh by someone completely obsessed with the idea of you?

As if on cue, your phone dings.

‘You comin’ tonight or is he actually paying attention to you?’

Your bare back bounces on the bed as Sukuna climbs over you. The hard lines of his tattooed body seem to flicker in the red light of his room as his hands grope your flesh.

His tongue traces a line up your neck to your lips before he kisses you passionately, and you let yourself fall into his obsessive touch.

His hands grab your hips in a way that your husband never has. His fingernails dig into you, leaving crescent moons on your skin. He's addicting in every way as his lips move against yours.

You moan from his touch as your fingers thread into his hair, pulling his body impossibly closer to you, his weight pressing you further and further into the mattress, almost suffocating you.

He's heady and intoxicating and ever since you met him, you haven't been able to shake the feelings he blooms inside you. Your body craves the harshness of his fingers and the wildness in his heart and you can't seem to stop yourself from coming back.

The first time you saw him, you felt the air around you freeze as your eyes locked with his. Your heart hammered in your chest when he introduced himself to you, his leather jacket only cementing his bad boy persona. And when he learned you were married, it motivated him to work harder for you; not that it was too hard to whisk you away from a husband who never pays attention to you.

Would Sukuna say he loves you? No, he would never say such a thing. But does it drive him mad that you're with someone who doesn't worship the ground you walk on? Hell fucking yes. Every time you come over, all needy and crying because that bastard of a husband ignored you or forgot your anniversary ... he swears that he is going to end the guy. And one of these days he will do it.

He starts to rub your clit as he peppers kisses down your throat, stopping at the junction of your neck to bite into your flesh. You gasp as his teeth dig into your skin and he revels in the sound, his dick twitching against his thigh as his fingers skillfully rub against your clit.

He kisses your chest, until he's sucking your nipple into his mouth, his teeth rolling the sensitive bud around as his tongue flicks against it. Your back arches as he continues to suck and he can’t help but fantasize about how they would swell if you were pregnant.

He hates that his thoughts always drift to this when you're moaning under him, but he can't help it. The thought of stuffing your cunt full of his seed, seeing you swell with his child, it's all he ever imagines. All he thinks about.

Maybe if you got pregnant, you would finally leave your bastard husband.

He sits between your legs and runs his fingers through your folds, watching how your essence coats his skin. You're so wet, so needy. Your whimpers egg him on as he eases his fingers inside of you, your head pushing further into the pillow under you as he curls them right against your g spot.

Your legs threaten to close around him as he thrusts his fingers into you, his speed only increasing as you keen. Your back arches off the bed as your hands scrunch the sheets in ecstasy.

“You look so good cummin’ on my fingers—” he leans over you, his half-lidded eyes filled with a lustful glow as his parted lips pant, watching your face as you cum “—so fuckin’ good.”

Sukuna is always so proud when he can make you cum so fast, your euphoria only making him harder. He palms his weighty cock, feeling himself throb at the sight of you below him. Your legs spread further as your own cum seeps out of you, your panting chest rising and falling as his hands grab your thighs.

He can't help but coo at you as he pushes your legs into your chest, “I’m going to fuck you so good, dove.” You nod with begging eyes as he motions for you to hold your legs for him, lining himself up with your drooling cunt. “Gonna fuck you so good my name is gonna be the only thing you remember.”

He pushes the head of his thick cock inside you, savoring the way your walls suck him in until you stop him.

“Ryo,” you pant, “condom… did you?”

How could he forget? You both were always so safe, so careful.

“Don't worry, I’ll pull out,” he lies, but you believe him, letting out a content sigh.

You look so pretty under him, and you'll look even better when his cum is dripping out of you. He pulls the tip out before pushing in again slowly. Your warm tight walls squeezing every inch of him as he bullies his way inside you.

You let out a loud groan when he's fully seated inside you, your wet walls pulsing around him as your eyes flutter. He's so big, the stretch is so good, and you're almost creaming just from him putting it in.

His hips start building up to a brutal pace as you grab onto his wrists holding your legs open. Your fingernails dig into his black tattoos as he pounds into you, each stroke getting harder and harder.

Sukuna’s head spins as he pounds into you; your pussy trying to squeeze him, to hold him still, but he won't stop. He needs to fill you, needs to breed you. Fill you so full of him that you won't have a choice. You'll have to leave your good-for-nothing husband because you'll be full of his pups.

A feral growl leaves his throat. One word emanating in his mind with each thrust. Breed, breed, breed.

“You want my cum, don't you?” he snarls into your ear, pushing your legs even further into your chest.

Your eyes flutter in your head, his words slurring in your head as his cock plunges into you as you moan, “Cum— gonna cum.”

His thrusts barrel down into you as your legs start to shake. “Want me to fill you? Pump you so fucking full, baby.”

You nod at the sound of his voice, reaching closer and closer to heaven. Your nails scraping against his skin, trying to drag him with you to the pearly gates.

“Yeah, you want that, you want that?” Every word he speaks sends him closer and closer to blowing his load inside you, making you his and his alone.

“Yeah, yeah you do,” he starts enunciating each word he speaks with a harsh thrust. “Yeah. You. Fucking. Do.”

Your legs try to close around his body as your orgasm rockets through you. The pearly white gates of heaven are just within your reach until you're falling faster and faster. Your body shakes at the strength of your orgasm, and Sukuna can feel your walls trying to force him out as you gush around him, but he fights your grip, fucking into you even harder.

“Fucking take it, dove,” he says with a grunt, his dick twitching inside you, “Take my fucking cum.”

Sukuna looks down at where your body is connected as he lets his orgasm wash over him. His dick pumping into you as shutters rake his body before his hips are pushing his cock all the way into you.

His white hot cum fills your womb. Pumping more and more cum into you with every clench of his balls.

Sukuna doesn't let your body relax, wanting to stay inside you for as long as possible, to keep his cum in you for as long as possible.

Your pleasure filled mind slowly wakes up at the realization that he came. He came inside you. That his cum is still inside you and you shake your head, willing it to be untrue.

You blink away the spots in your eyes, and when you open them you're standing before the gates of hell, and Sukuna is smiling down at you.

“It's alright dove, everything is going to be just fine.”

taglist: @eijirosriot @mossygreys @thathoneybee3 @hornime @luna-rin @tehehebri @lilyshadows15-blog @shittywomann @ebiharachan @bisexualtragedy @01-20-1992 @lunastellanova @jardiindexeliin

[blackrosesandwhump]

Uncommon Whump Tropes

I compiled the answers to my recent uncommon whump trope question into a list for everyone's reference. Enjoy!

CW: very brief mentions of teeth whump, minor whump, female whumpees, noncon body modification

Feral hissy kitten whumpees, the bitey scratchy ones who scream incoherently at their rescuer/caretaker rather than use their talking words. The ones who can’t be made to understand they’re not going to be hurt anymore

Medieval fantasy dungeon/torture chambers

Female whumpee and platonic male caretaker

When person 1 passes something to person 2, via kiss or other pda, to help P2 escape somewhere, especially if there had been some kind of prior misunderstanding between them

Good old-fashioned chloroforming

Mind control and mind control-adjacent tropes like hypnosis

Whumpers who are subtlety scary

Childhood trauma/minor whump

Whipping

Teeth whump

Older whumpees

Whumpees who aren't conventionally attractive

Non-“innocent sweetie” whumpees: bastards, confused himbos, feral ladies, baffled aristocrats, tormented monsters, traumatized immortals, frightened Everyday Gals who react by throwing things and yelling, questionable antiheroes

Whumpees who turn bitter. Whumpees who are angry and complicated. Recoveries that are tough. Caretakers that don’t know what to do because a little nice touch and sweet words aren’t enough

Captive whumpees that slowly manipulate the situation they're in, gaining enough favor and trust with the whumper till it's the right moment for the tables to be turned and whumpee can get their revenge

Snakes used on the whumpee

Female whumpees

Small whumpers

Whumpers that aren't the physically stronger ones

Whumpees who aren't honorable, who lie and scheme and cheat their way out of their bad situation

Whumpees who aren't defiant, because they're smart enough to know all that defiance will get them is more pain. They aren't stoic because they know the whumper wants to hear them begging and crying

Manipulative whumpees. They bend, pretending to break, until their whumper gives them an opening

Villain whumpers who aren’t interested in captivity. They just love to antagonize the hero, do they care about stealing or blowing up the city, no not that much. But they love getting on hero’s nerves and beating them and mentally dragging them down until they can hardly do it anymore, and then just moving onto a new hero when it gets to boring for them

Androids, or human whumpees inside mech suits that get ripped to shreds during a fight so that the circuitry is exposed

Average whumpees, whumpees who aren’t super muscular and have more realistic proportions, whether they are large, medium, or small

Caretaker with some sort of trauma already in their past, and they’re desperate to protect whumpee, who’s probably someone older.  The caretaker— having been scarred and trying to grasp at any bonds they have made as comfort— takes care of the person who should probably be taking care of them, and then, when the whumper comes in and does what they know best, the caretaker goes ballistic. They do unexpected, dangerous things to themselves behind whumpee’s back. They get themselves so deep in their deals with whumper just to be able to get whumpee out, because caretaker would inflict pain on an entire continent before letting whumpee go. And when the whumpee’s out, caretaker is too far in to turn back now… maybe they’ll force the whumpee back, they’ll be safer with them anyways…

Monster whump. More claws, wings, fur, long ears, tails

More queerplatonic Whumpee/Caretaker relationships

Female whump (that isn't non-con). Ladies can break their arms and get kicked in the gut too

Being conditioned into submission and having trouble shaking it, i.e. even days after the shock collar has been removed they still almost never speak unless spoken to

Human experimentation

Unique stress positions, especially ones where the pain builds up over time

Noncon body modification, but more extreme than piercings & tattoos, e.g. wings/ears/tails/etc, or cybernetic things

Sci-fi themed whump that's not about androids

Whump involving timelines, time loops, alternate universes and other stuff like that

Physical signs of whump for supernatural whump that aren’t scars or lost body parts, like changed eye colors or new appendages or like marks on your soul

Forced mind control self-whump while the caretaker watches but doesn't know they're under mind control, or even a non-consensual situation because it's just barely mild-looking enough until the caretaker leaves because they really thought they were doing the right thing by trying to step in but they were told they were just interrupting and now they feel bad. And the whumpee has no idea what’s going on but when they come to and are being weakly willful to the whumper but they are informed that the caretaker saw and didn’t care, breaking the last part of the whumpee’s will that was barely holding out

More accidental trauma reveal

Lab whump

Lady whump (and lab lady whump)

Feral whumpees

Spitting blood

That trope where the group has to explore their loved one’s mindscape to save them and secret trauma is revealed in their memories

Being presented with a fear that is wholly mind numbing and the annoying character not poking fun at the one that's scare

“Phantom pain” but not in the traditional amputee sense, e.g. whumpee’s arm gets cut off in a corrupted video game and he still feels the pain of it IRL despite his real-life arm being intact…or alternative forms perhaps being: sharing a soul with someone and feeling the pain that they feel, characters with past lives feeling old injuries from their predecessors, or a mecha story where damage done to the mech is felt by its pilot

The plot allowing enough time for a newly disfigured character to process and grieve over their new appearance, e.g. Spiderman 3; the worst/best part is Peter did this to him, which adds that best-friends-do-permanent-damage-to-each-other-but-they-remain-good-friends layer. They could overcome that sense of betrayal, even if Harry ended up dying

Character getting kidnapped while sick

Teams saving someone from hypothermia

Colleagues as caretakers

Seizure aftercare

Dehydration after a long spell somewhere hot, like working hard outside, and whumpee doesn’t feel the heat exhaustion and dehydration creep up on them, which can lead to a fever

General extremes of heat, when someone pushes their own body to the limit and doesn’t realize until it’s too late, and their coworkers and friends have to pick up the pieces, leading to some pretty difficult conversations about looking after yourself and listening to your own needs

Whumpee leaves or disappears and after some time is found again with a big injury by caretaker with no context

Brainwashed Whumpee randomly switching between their brainwashed personality and their original one. Top tier: the original is stoic and grouchy but the brainwashed is either really goofy or lovey-dovey - and their loved ones go from finding this funny, to finding it unsettling because the original personality is reacting to it with terror

Shapeshifting whumpers. Whumpers that can effortlessly infiltrate and adapt to whumpees' friend circle even before (or after) whump. Whumpers that shapeshift into whumpee's loved ones during whump. Whumpers that basically catfish whumpee by turning into multiple different people and all "befriending" Whumpee, just to see the look on whumpee's face after the "I have friends who will find me" moment

Older pet whumpees, e.g. pets on the verge of being put down or past their prime time of use being berated for being so slow and weak and useless. Pets knowing they’re on borrowed time and knowing that their master is so merciful as to keep their worthless ass alive

Impalement through the neck/strung up by the neck

Being forced to apologize to everyone for making them worry while you were being tortured/otherwise suffering

Whumpees who aren't male and white

Redeemed villains that are too scared to ask for help and they end up hiding all their injuries from the hero(es)

TW: noncon/abuse/nsfw

Tickling, either consensually dubcon or against whumpee's will

More nsfw/dubcon (basically noncon but the whumpee doesn't really have a choice to resist)

Noncon touching (SEXUAL)