#cw object insertion

[thehypnone]

size queen rain with a huge thing for object insertion and objectification being put on all fours next to mountain during rehearsal with a bunch of drumsticks in his ass. just a drumstick bucket :3

[skele-bunny]

anything aurora and rain

*disappears*

Rubs my hands together like a fly (but evily)

The listener and the yapper to the CORE. Rain continuing whatever he's doing while Rory makes a whole three hour conversation, always getting smiles or little inputs from Rain. He loooves listening to her. Of course, Rory knows only the best gossip in the entire abbey or secrets of the others.

"Did you know a few of the choir sisters got detention for having sex in the choir loft? YEAH! And get this... With the INSTRUCTOR!" // "Guess who's jealous of Adele... BEYONCE!" Typa shit

Rory has picked up crocheting, and one of her forms of affection is gift giving! Rain has a bunch of tiny stuffed animals ranging from a shark to a bumblebee, one time she made him a giant jellyfish he happily sleeps with.

Rain has decorated her entire shelves with sea glass, seaweed, smoothed stones, pearls, and shells. His current project is making a fish scale reflector. He's doing it in rainbow order and only needs white scales to complete! Some of his own scales are in it, too. It's one of the highest forms of love.

These two are RIDICULOUS and will gladly judge you from afar. They love people watching and making their own conversations of what people are saying. They're like the aunties of a family reunion constantly giggling to each other and quickly turning their heads when you look at them.

One time they did a small date to the schoolhouse's playground, and Rain ended up with a sprained wrist after Aurora spun him really fast on the carousel to the point he flew out. They still laugh about it to this day!

Big on kisses! Rain has a process. Her forehead, her nose, both cheeks, both ears, her horns, knuckles on both hand then the palms, then her lips. Rory will take any kisses she can snag, even if it's kissing Rain's ass in the literal sense!

They are literally the purple/blue couple :((( 🩷 sun/moon if you will. But fuck they work perfectly together. He loves giving Rory flowers, she loves giving Rain physical touch. GAH THEYRE IN LOVE

Spicy wise? Amen.

CW - OBJECT INSERTION, MOMMY KINK

Rain is a dominatrix, adores topping and domming Rory. She's always so eager to please and make him happy, and of course gets the best rewards for her outstanding behavior.

Sometimes Rain will tie her up to where her wrists and ankles are connected, pussy on full display. He'll place guitar picks right on the edge of her hole, fingering her carefully to scrape one out. She's had pens, a hairbrush, miscellaneous makeup brushes, and even a few grapes shoved in her. Always such an amazing holder for Rain, has even cum a few times from just the insertion.

Aurora always knows to say "Thank you, Mommy." After each session, getting her chin scratched under and adorned in kisses. If she's lucky, she'll get another orgasm out before actually ending.

There's been a few times she's been allowed to top Rain, settling her strap so comfortably between his cunt and just babbling how beautiful he is to take her cock. Her hands just squeezing his hips and dragging him down, or just completely pinning him down and watching his face scrunch in pleasure.

One of their favorite positions is a 69. Rain prefers being on the bottom, just relaxed as can be as he eats Aurora out, blowing against her clit and watching it twitch. Loves how her tits are pressed against his stomach as she has to crane herself down to eat his pussy in return.

Have you seen that picture of Rory and Rain's height difference? Yeah. Yeeaahh. Loves towering over her and pressing his chest against her mouth. How she doesn't even have to bend and can just latch immediately while her hand goes between his folds. 💪💪

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 12: Phineas Plays With Leannan

1864 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, alcohol, explicit noncon, object insertion

Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

Ecclesiastes 9:7

Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for God has already approved what you do.

~~~

By evening Leannan was a weepy limp heap on the floor, utterly convinced something terrible was going to happen to him for having listened to a book being read aloud. He was, unfortunately, also starving, so he dragged himself to his vanity and made himself mostly presentable. It wouldn’t do to appear before his masters red-eyed and sniveling.

When he reached it, the dining room was empty except for Councilman Brochard at the head of the table. He was picking moodily at some very bare fishbones, but brightened when Leannan entered.

“Leannan!” he smiled warmly, “We missed you today.” His eyes flickered over Leannan’s bruised neck, but he didn’t react.

“Forgive me,” Leannan said, the two words a well-trodden path, “I was with Councilwoman Jeanette.” He moved to sit at his usual spot, watching Brochard for his reaction to Jeanette’s name, but there was none. Brochard just kept smiling and waved him over.

“Come sit by me.”

He directed Leannan to sit where James usually sat, at the elder Councilman’s right hand. He also took it upon himself to uncover a platter and serve Leannan fish and beets. Leannan quickly protested, nearly rising back out of the chair.

“You don’t need to do that, Master Brochard!”

“Bah, I’ll do as I please!” Brochard waved him away, then poured Leannan a cup of wine, setting it down firmly in front of him. “There, eat up, dear thing.”

Leannan dug in, making quick work of the food. Brochard watched him closely. No matter; Leannan had had masters who like to watch him eat before. It was mostly harmless.

“The wine is particularly good,” Brochard prompted, so Leannan took a sip. Like all alcohol, it tasted foul and rancid to Leannan, but he nodded and hummed appropriately. He continued to take polite, periodical sips as he ate, suppressing a cringe each time.

When his cup was half empty, Brochard rushed to top it off. “Have as much as you like!”

Leannan paused. So Brochard wanted him drunk. That reframed this encounter. Leannan ran through what he knew of the Councilman: he was old, but not terribly so. He was powerful; he had no qualms about making a deal behind James’ back. But he wasn’t entirely secure in that power – he had balked when James called him out. He felt some attraction to Leannan, but wasn’t yet confident enough to act on it.

That’s where the wine came in. It would make Leannan less threatening. Easier to control.

Leannan wasn’t looking forward to that.

He hated being drunk – the taste, the nausea, the lack of self control, the memory loss, the painful aftermath – no. Leannan would avoid this if he could.

He took even smaller sips as he finished his food, to no avail.

“Please, Leannan!” Brochard spoke with forceful merriment, refilling his own cup and topping off Leannan’s again. “Drink!”

Leannan lifted his cup, and Brochard watched his every move. They were done beating around the bush, now. They both knew what Brochard wanted, and knew the other knew. Leannan closed his eyes and chugged the whole cup down, unable to suppress his wince of disgust this time.

“There you go!” Brochard applauded, and refilled Leannan’s cup yet again, ringing a handbell on the table when the wine bottle dribbled out its last.

Servants arrived, and Brochard directed them to clear away the plates and bring more wine. Leannan murmured a quiet thank-you when they took his plate, but couldn’t quite look any of them in the eye. Jeanette’s book had him wondering if any of them talked about him behind his back, like the servants in the story about the nameless woman. He caught the thought, cursing himself for letting the blasphemy invade his mind again.

This was it, he realized. This was his comeuppance. Brochard would get him drunk, and do as he pleased, and it would probably hurt, and Leannan would deserve it.

He picked up the cup once more, raising it to his lips, and prayed he wouldn’t say anything stupid.

~~~

Phineas strolled back towards their room, after an evening fraternizing with the guards. The guards of Donda Island swore fealty to the Council and violently enforced its will, in exchange for special privileges.

Privileges that had been shrinking, year by year.

They wanted more power, and some of them wanted Leannan – but Phineas was confident they could come up with something to sate the guards without undermining their authority or giving up their precious Iowan.

Phineas had also learned over the past few days that the five acres they had been granted were among the weakest they could have possibly gained. Dwindling crop yields, emaciated cattle – but Phineas wasn’t about to complain.

They weren’t the complaining type.

But they were looking for a pick-me-up, and when they stopped in front of Leannan’s door the soft crying that could be heard within put an instant smile on their face. They entered without knocking.

Leannan was curled up on his side on the bed, naked but wrapped up in a blanket. Even with the curtains drawn back to let in the night air, the room smelled of sex and wine. Empty bottles lingered about. Phineas closed the door behind them and approached the bed, stepping over Leannan’s clothes strewn across the floor.

“Hej, bebino,” they plopped down on the bed, their voice surprisingly affectionate, “Whatcha crying for?”

“Oh, Phineas!” Leannan sat up eagerly, but then his face screwed up in pain and he flopped back down. “Ohhh, Phineas….”

Phineas laughed. “Too much drink?”

“I don’ like it here, Phineas,” Leannan whined, “Everyone is so… This place was s’posed to be perfect, and it’s nawwwwt!”

“Aww,” Phineas combed a hand through Leannan’s hair, “Poor bebino.” They couldn’t keep a streak of sarcasm out of their voice, but Leannan didn’t pick it up. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a sad drunk… I should peg you, though,” they added thoughtfully. Their hand drifted down to prod at Leannan’s neck. “They really did a number on you, huh.” The whore was adorable like this – all banged up and out of his mind drunk.

“You’re’n asshole, Phineas,” Leannan mumbled, his eyes falling closed, “But you’re really really nice. Not like the others. James with his hitting and Brochard with his shoving and Jeanette with her books, s’all… bad… I don’t like…”

“Books?” Phineas repeated with interest, leaning down. “What books?”

“She… Wait, no…” Leannan’s eyes blinked open as he sobbed anew. “I can’t tell you! I’m not s’posed to tell you!”

“Hej,” Phineas’ hand crept under the blanket, finding its way between Leannan’s legs, “You can tell me, I can make you feel good, remember?”

Leannan squirmed weakly as Phineas’ hand closed around his cock.

“Phineas,” he sniffled, “Phineas, I’m not s’posed to.”

“Come on,” Phineas wheedled, beginning to gently move their hand, “What kind of books does Jeanette have?”

Leannan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “No, nothing!”

“Hej, Leannan,” Phineas breathed the name sensually into the Iowan’s ear, knowing the effect it had on him, “You already said she has books, there’s no harm in telling me the rest.”

Leannan lowered his hands, revealing his red and tear-streaked face.

“Phineas, I can’t.”

Phineas sat back, withdrawing their hand. If the carrot wasn’t working, they’d try the stick. They threw the blanket off of Leannan and reached around to his rear, exploring with their fingers. Leannan whimpered and flinched when Phineas made contact with his entrance; it was still soft and slick from whoever used it last.

“You’re going to tell me,” Phineas said, shifting to that they were kneeling on the bed. They already had a gist of it – if these books that Jeanette had were upsetting Leannan, they were most certainly ‘unholy,’ deserving of destruction in the Iowan’s mind.

But it was the principle of the thing. That Leannan obeyed them.

They grabbed an empty wine bottle off the bedside cabinet. Without warning or ceremony, they spread Leannan’s buttocks with one hand and inserted the mouth of the bottle into him with the other.

Leannan cried out when the cold, hard bottle met his raw and bruised flesh.

“Phineas! Phineas stop, please, I can’t – ah!”

Delighted by Leannan’s whimpers, Phineas pushed the bottle in as far as it would go, while Leannan panted and writhed weakly. Phineas grabbed his hip to hold him still, keeping one hand on the bottle.

“You like being a good boy for me, don’t you, Leannan?” they asked softly, shifting the bottle.

“Yes, Phineas!” Leannan gasped, fisting his hands in the blankets, “But that huh-hurts!”

“I know it hurts,” Phineas smiled, sweetly sadistic, “And I’m going to fuck you with it until you tell me all about Jeanette’s books.”

“Phineas, I can’t, please – mn!” Leannan bit his lip with a whimper as Phineas drew the bottle out slightly before shoving it back in. “Phin…eas… Ah!” Phineas repeated the motion again, and again, building a slow and painful rhythm. Each impact wrenched a new noise of pain out of Leannan, and Phineas took joy from each and every one. Leannan turned his face down into the pillows to muffle his cries, but Phineas grabbed his hair and turned his head back, wanting to hear him. Leannan’s face was puffy and bright red, wet with tears and contorted in pain. Too drunkenly weak to struggle, to submissive to fight back even if he could. Phineas grinned.

“Phineas,” Leannan croaked, the only plea he could muster at this point, “Phin-n-neas!”

“Tell me about Jeanette’s books, Leannan,” Phineas said, moving the bottle insistently inside the whore. They watched him groan and twist under their hands, cringing away from the intrusive object. Phineas shoved the bottle in harder, and Leannan cried out.

“I can’t, Phineas, please stop, it hurts!”

“I’ll stop when you tell me about Jeanette’s books.”

Leannan sobbed, exhausted. He withstood one more press of the bottle into him before cracking.

“Stop, stop, stop! There’re books, under her bed, and she should’ve burned them, but she didn’t!”

Phineas held the wine bottle still.

“Under her bed?”

“Yes,” Leannan moaned.

“Oh, good boy, Leannan,” Phineas slowly, carefully, withdrew the bottle as Leannan whimpered, “You were such a good boy for telling me.” They cast the bottle aside and petted Leannan’s hair. Leannan didn’t even react to the praise or the comfort, just closed his eyes as tears slipped out and he fought for air, taking juddering breaths. Phineas took hold of his chin and turned his face upwards, leaning down to kiss him and stifle his gasps. Leannan’s hands curled and uncurled in the mess of blankets and he drew his knees a little closer to his chest, the only signs of a struggle he could give.

Phineas sat back, satisfied, and threw the loose blanket back over Leannan’s still, pitiful form. They doubted Leannan would remember this, but they still considered it an important lesson for the Iowan. They watched him closely for a few minutes, and caught the moment when his neck and hands relaxed as he slipped into merciful unconsciousness. At that, they stood and made their exit.

They had much to think about.

Much to plan.

~~~

Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

[wrathofrats]

safe word anon (swa) here

i'm also curious about something else now...

what's the most out there/niche kink you think the ghouls would have/be into? or would they be more vanilla?

i love how you write the ghouls and i'm a silly goose just wondering what you think they'd like.

Lmao I’m so extremely glad the name stuck

Also ahh I just had to squirm in happiness from that I am so very happy you like how I write the ghouls!!!

I think most if not all are into a lot of very strange things, they are demons from hell I don’t think a ton is off limits.

Here have some headcanons of what the weirder things I think the current (plus some fav oldies) are into (:

Cut for length and weirdness, no explanations of what the kink is or why they have it (at least in this post) bc I know some people want to read without that, but everything that needs a cw will have one

Swiss: hard sadism, blood included, he’s so extremely weird about blood and knives

Rain: blood is obvious, so I’m going object insertion, loves to see what he can fit up there

Phantom: stupidifcation

Dew: tentacles especially rains but I think he owns a couple tentacle dildos

Mountain: boot worship

Cirrus: period play

Cumulus: bondage

Aurora: exhibitionism and size difference, she’s a size queen

Aether: bit of medical play, and obviously magic/quint control

Zephyr: cockwarming and breath play

Ifrit: ohh I think ifrit is into forcefem directed at himself, especially titfucking

Pebble: humiliation/corruption

Ivy: joi, or jerk off instruction, also humiliation (see pebble)

[livemedown]

CW: suggestive (but silly. and stupid.)

What is with people suggesting Toilet as a dominant love maker in whatever ship he's in? (Mostly Toipad but I've actually seen it with others too.) I've seen like three artists imply this now. I'm not complaining, it's actually incredibly hilarious to me that everyone decided the toilet fucks. Who let him fuck? Is it because he yells all the time? Good for him. That is so stupidly funny.

[glitchedlad-art]

oh, the shit pysche did for eros...

pale white horse by the oh hellos // heluveden on pinterest // badtimehex on pinterest // hermit the frog by marina and the diamonds // magical doctor by maretu (translyrics from vocaloid lyrics wiki) // veraxite on pinterest // sunligxthobi on pinterest // mania by the blake robinson synthetic orchestra // wicked company by harley poe // appwldarlin on pinterest // cbee0099 on pinterest // calm by fun. // fosswaters on pinterest // i love you, i swear from adamandi by the princeton university cast // coin locker baby by maretu (translyrics from vocaloid lyrics wiki) // unsplash

theme: stalking with a healthy dose of teenage angst and toxic relationship energy

yeah. i'm brainrotting. GRAHHH I LOVED THAT RP SO MUCH I'M. i want them to have a happily ever after i want them both dead i want them to kiss and cuddle they should not be allowed within 100 feet of each other. do you understand

dedicated to my mutual <3 (@mcabre-cadavre <- tagging your nsfw blog because this probably fits better there)

look up the meaning of coin locker baby. just do it. trust. trust me bro. trust

this thing red. red as hell

I'M SO NORMAL GRRRAHHHHHH

dividers by anitalenia

[whump-card]

Send me an ask with any word and if it's any of my WIP's, I'll post a snippet!

My word is “raw”.

Raw! RAW! 😰😰😰

I only used it once and wouldn't you know it...

Snippet below the cut cuz lads... it's noncon

Leannan cried out when the cold, hard bottle met his raw and bruised flesh. “Phineas! Phineas stop, please, I can’t – ah!” Delighted by Leannan’s whimpers, Phineas pushed the bottle in as far as it would go, while Leannan panted and writhed weakly. Phineas grabbed his hip to hold him still, keeping one hand on the bottle.

[paroroland]

i swear to santa if this self-insert becomes their own character i'm gonna

[remiratboi]

I like the idea of being sent to hell for carnal sins, and the punishment fitting the crime, so to speak.

CW: torture, hell, pain, edging, overstim, orgasm denial, mind break, forced sex, monster fucking, beast fucking, object insertion, tentacles, machine fucking, oviposition, egg birth, egg birth denial, size kink, anal, knotting

Every fantasy you’ve ever imagined is granted to you, but in the wrong way. Every single depraved, twisted thing you wanted to experience, even things a mortal human body can’t physically do. It’s hell, so those restrictions no longer apply.

You’re fucked for literal years on end. By everything and anything. Monsters, criminals, beasts, objects, machines, if you can think of it, it fucks you, or someone fucks you with it.

Huge cocks that would literally ruin you in your past life. Strange objects and techniques that would rip you apart.

Tentacles fuck all the way through your body, entering your ass, and thrusting through your throat.

Massive eggs deposited deep in your womb, only for you to have to birth them, your body stretched obscenely and painfully. Just when you finally feel one crown, another huge cock pushes it all the way back into you, forcing it to reenter your cervix.

Massive Minotaurs forcing you down on two of their cocks at once, your mind snapping in half as they slam themselves into you over and over again.

3 headed Cerberus with his huge dick longer than your arm, pounding his knot in and out of your ass at a dizzying speed. Gallons of cum pumped into you until it’s dripping out of your mouth.

Crazed scientists with hundreds of machines to test on you. How much does this one hurt? How much does that one make you scream?

Criminals you knew of on earth who stand against everything you believe in, making you a drooling slut on their cocks. Taunting you for being so easy to break. You’ll just fuck anything won’t you? Even the literal worst humanity has to offer.

Being spitroasted between two huge demons, their tips meeting in your middle, their tails deep in your ass.

So much cum. You’re always filled, dripping, swallowing. Each creature depositing their cum, or eggs, or whatever else inside you and dropping you to crash to the ground when they are done. At all times you’re incubating at least 3 different species.

And the kicker? What truly makes it all the worst punishment imaginable? You can’t cum. You have been cursed to be unable. You live just before the peak at all moments. But you never tip over. You never get to feel the release.

You spend eternity on the precipice of the strongest orgasm anyone, anything, has ever experienced, and you will never get to find out what it feels like.

[gojosoups]

cw: angst, slight fluff, canon compliant?, character death and injuries, hurt no comfort, grief, mourning, non-binary reader/reader insert, poorly proofread lol

a/n: cried a little while I wrote this.. I miss him sm :(

When Gojo Satoru died that day, a piece of you died with him.

As you stood above his grave, you couldn’t help but reminisce about happier times—your old high school days, when everything was so much simpler.

You missed those goofy glasses he used to wear, his god-awful fashion sense, the way he used to walk—lanky limbs all carefree.

You missed his toothy smile, and how he always made time to help you with your training, even when he was exhausted from his own missions. And yet, he never once complained.

You remember how the four of you—Shoko, Suguru, Satoru, and you—used to sneak out of the dorms, slipping past Yaga as you all made your way to the convenience store, all because of Satoru’s sweet tooth.

You remember how he used to barge into your room, sprawling across your bed, his lanky frame taking up too much space as you fussed over his cuts and bruises.

Gojo and Geto were unforgivable when training together, leaving you to mend Satoru’s wounded ego. Gentle hands working carefully to patch him up and soft lips pressing against Hello Kitty bandaids to ease the pain.

You missed waking up in the mornings to find him in the kitchen, attempting to cook your favorite meal—Shoko and Suguru watching from the sidelines, amused as he made a mess of the common room.

You missed getting detention with him, staying behind after class to clean up—all because Gojo kept passing you silly little notes during Yaga’s very important lectures on the misuse of cursed objects in modern times.

You missed how carefree he was. Back then, he wasn’t the strongest. He didn’t have to carry the weight of the world. Back then, he was just Gojo Satoru—a loser and a lovesick teenager.

And now, all you could do was stand before his grave, reminiscing over someone he once was—over the life you once had.

He left you behind so easily, with nothing but memories of the past in his absence.

Suddenly, the ring on your finger felt a bit tighter, but nothing could compare to the painful clenching of your heart.

“You liar,” you think to yourself.

So much for his promises of being the strongest.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[artstennisracket]

request: thinking really hard about coach!dilf!patrick and how he'd spank bratty!tennisplayer!reader with his racket whenever she mouths off (and then fuck her with the handle. obviously)

tennis coach!Patrick x fem!reader, part 2

cw: nsfw (18+), spanking, object insertion, d/s undertones

You’ve gone through 15 tennis coaches in the past 5 years because you were “uncoachable”. But your parents knew the real reason why, your attitude.

You would question, fight back, and argue about every single little thing anyone tried to teach you. It’s exhausting for them but also for you. You never thought any of those coaches were good enough. They were too nice or too soft or too inexperienced or just too wrong.

No one really meshed with you or your playing style. You had non negotiables. One of those things being your serve. It was unique. You would bend down at an almost uncomfortable angle, bounce the ball twice, before you shoot up tossing the ball the air and hitting it.

It was weird and you didn’t know why you did it that way but you did and it worked. But every coach you ever had wanted you to fix it. Except for Patrick.

He coached you sure but never once mentioned your serve. Maybe it’s because his serve was weird too.

Your parents were surprised you kept this coach for so long, but Patrick just treated you like a real player. The part that really surprised your parents was that you never argued with him or mouthed off.

He was also just really hot. He would come over 5 days a week to your family home, and you guys would practice at your home tennis court.

He was older than you, by almost 12 years. He started coaching you when you were 18 and now you’re 20. You tried to make your passes and did your occasional flirting. Wore extra short skirts and made sure to bend over slowly when you had to pick up a tennis ball.

You were nothing if not persistent so this practice was no different.

You pulled out all the stops. You wore a short white tennis skirt that stopped just below curve of your ass and a tight pink polo top with the top buttons unbuttoned. You didn’t wear a bra so the outside breeze made your nipples perk up under your shirt. And whether or not you were wearing panties was questionable.

Patrick never acknowledged what you were wearing. He just kept his sunglasses on and a neutral face when he said, “Ready to get to work?”

Practice went on as usual until you decided to be difficult on purpose. Patrick had you doing drills serving to hit certain cones spread out on the court. So you just kept missing on purpose.

“Are you good? Feeling okay?” He asks from where he’s stood on the other side of net.

Okay time to turn up the brattiness. You scoff putting your hand on your hip, “What? I can’t miss a couple shots?”

He raises his eyebrows clearly taken aback, “Who pissed in your cereal?”

“I just don’t understand why you keep asking me questions, you don’t get paid to question me you get paid to coach me.”

“Well I don’t like your fucking attitude right now so i’m not coaching shit.” He says dropping his racket into the bin that holds all the tennis balls. He starts to walk off the court, taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

Fuck. You need to get him to come back here and take out his anger on you, not cool off with a cigarette.

You yell in his direction, “Yeah? Well you’re so old you can’t even coach for shit anyway!”

He stops in his tracks. He puts his unlit cigarette back in the pack, putting the pack back in his pocket. He turns back in your direction and walks straight to you.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you into the sports shed where your family kept all their sports gear.

He stops dropping your wrist. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. He turns around to face you, standing so close to you, your noses are almost touching. He says just above a whisper, “You think you can fucking talk to me like that? What the fuck do you think this is?”

This is the closest, physically, you guys have ever been. So naturally, you’re a little nervous but happy that your plan is maybe working? You stutter, “I-I um I didn’t think anything.”

He does a once over, looking you up and down. Then he continues, “You think I don’t know what this is? Acting like a brat to get my attention? To get me to fuck you?”

Oh. He saw right through you and somehow that just adds to the butterflies in your stomach.

“That’s not— I never, I didn’t—“

He cuts you off, “Don’t lie to me.”

You shake your head continuing your lie, “no I never— I swear I didn’t—“

Before you can register what’s happening, he sits down in the bench and puts you over his lap. Oh.

He lifts up your skirt and curses under his breath. You weren’t wearing panties. You could feel the rush cool air against your now exposed skin. He rubs his hand over your ass for a second before he picks up a nearby racket.

“You expect me to believe you weren’t acting up to get my attention when your wearing the shortest skirt you own, no bra so everyone can see your hard nipples through your shirt, and your not even wearing panties?” He asks, slowly dragging the tennis racket over your ass.

You nod biting your lip.

Smack.

“Ah—“ You let out a half gasp half yelp when the first smack of the tennis racket lands on your ass.

“Well if you’re gonna keep behaving like a lying brat, then I’m going to have to punish you like one,” He says before landing another spank on your ass.

Smack.

You moan this time as the racket collides with your ass.

“Parading around the court like a desperate slut. surprised you didn’t just bend over for me right on the court. That’s what you really wanted right?”

Smack.

You nod your head letting out another moan.

Smack.

“I asked you a question that means your supposed to answer me.” He says sternly before raising the racket again.

Smack.

“Yes fuck, that’s what I wanted. Wanted you to fuck me on the court, please.”

You anticipate that another smack is going to land on your ass but instead you feel two fingers sliding up your folds and pressing into your entrance.

“Shit, Patrick,” You whine as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of your tight hole.

“You’re already so wet. you really are desperate for me, aren’t you? How long have you wanted me to fuck you?” He asks while he curls his fingers inside of you, pressing against the spongy area.

You groan. It feels really fucking good, it’s hard to focus, “Ah- two years, when you became my coach.”

Now Patrick groans. He adds one more finger inside you, alongside the two that were already in there. “Fuck. Dressing like a slut for two years trying to get me to fuck you. I fucking knew it. Jesus. Made me feel like such a creep watching you. Had to start wearing sunglasses to practice so you couldn’t tell I was staring at you.”

You smirk at that, you knew your plan had to have been working all these years. From your place laid across his lap, you can feel him start to grow hard.

“Well I’m still not gonna fuck you, brats don’t get rewarded.”

You whine at that, “That’s not fair you just said you wanted to fuck me so fuck me please, please just fuck me.”

He bites his lip before he gets an idea. He pulls his fingers out of your hole and you whine at the loss. He grabs the same racket from before.

“Wait what’re you doing—“

He uses one hand to spread your folds, exposing your hole, while using the other hand to line up the handle of the racket. He starts pushing in it slowly, watching closely how your hole grips around the racket.

He groans, “Fuck baby, taking it so well.” He pumps the racket slowly, pulling it so the handle is almost all the way out before pushing it back in as deep as it can go.

You never felt this full before but every time he presses the racket in deep it feels so good. Eventually he starts pumping the racket a little faster. You start moaning uncontrollably, rocking your hips back against the racket.

“Your tight hole is so fucking greedy baby, jesus. Fucking yourself back on it like you can’t get enough.” He moves one hand to squeeze your chest, circling your nipple with his finger.

You can feel your orgasm creeping up on you. The volume of your moans increasing until you reach your release, “��m gonna cum, oh fuck Patrick.”

He lets you ride out your orgasm before he pulls the wet racket handle out of you. It’s covered in your juices.

You think it’s all over until you hear him say, “Get on your knees.”

So you do. Still a little wobbly from laying down for so long but you get on your knees between his legs. You can see the tent in his shorts now. You’re hoping you’ll finally get to see his see his cock, feel the weight of it on your tongue. You just know it’s huge.

So you open your mouth, sticking our tongue to show that you’re ready to suck him off.

He smirks before he presses the tennis racket handle down your throat, “Good girls clean up their mess.”

You choke a little but try to relax your throat, sucking the handle to clean it off. Once he’s satisfied he pulls the racket out of your mouth, placing it beside him on the bench.

He stands up and you watch as he tucks his boner into the waistband of his shorts. He bends down to whisper into your ear, “Maybe next time if you’re a good girl for the whole week, then I’ll fuck you.”

He stands up heading to the exit the sports shed. He moves his sunglasses back down to rest on his nose bridge. Before he leaves he calls out, “See you tomorrow for 8am practice.”

[kabr0ztrousers]

Similar to the portal one. But reader is a chubby witch in a house full of diffret species (not picky on the type). Anything with a big size differance is chefs kiss though. She has a crush on one of them. So she puts a portal spell on a toy and leaves it out for him to find. And he does but what she didn't realize was how many of her roommates share there toys. And now she has live with the consequences or for some the reward

You can even do a continuation were they figure out what she did and they give up on the toy and just start to use her instead

Kabr0z Writes episode 68: Toying Around

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: infidelity via deception; dubcon via deception; public sex; free use; autocunnilingus

A/N: Ah, my two great loves, portals and free use... Whatever would I do without them.

########################################

You finally figured it out. You'd had the hots for Andy for months, ever since he moved in with you. You were already living with Debbie, and the pansexual lupines Paul and Brian couldn't object to the new housemate; they were fucking practically every night, and weren't quiet about it. The only problem is, Andy only had eyes for Debbie, and you weren't about to fuck up the flat dynamic by stealing her man.

But what a man he was, the very ideal of a minotaur. Eight feet tall and as wide as a doorframe, 150 kilos of pure muscle and sinew, with biceps thicker than your plush thighs. The time you walked in on him in the shower (totally by accident, you understand) sealed it. He was equally huge down below, a cock as long and thick as your forearm. You got wet just thinking about burying that flared monster in your cunt. You just had to get around his obnoxious fidelity first.

That's where a little bit of magic comes in.

Magical study can be understood as ten domains, or spheres, interacting with one another. Forces is the flashy one for tossing fireballs, entropy is the scary one for making things degrade, life is the one for healing wounds or changing your shape, if you can think of it, there's a sphere that does it. Your speciality was a little more esoteric: correspondence. Correspondence is the magic of spatial relationship, specifically the realisation that distances are an illusion and can be subverted with a little know-how and just enough gumption. Theoretically, correspondence lets you teleport too, through a process of literally not being here and being somewhere else, but when that goes wrong it's not uncommon to accidentally become part of a building or worse, so prudent mages only pull that trick in times of direst need.

This trick was almost too easy. You'd get his usual cocksleeve, take out the insert, and link the end of it with the gusset of a pair of knickers. Barely a party trick, it's the same mechanism for pulling a rabbit out of a hat, though with any luck there wouldn't be any pulling out happening. A few magic words, and one exsanguinated mouse later, a hazy film lay on the top of the toy you'd pilfered. You pushed a finger into it, and watched it come out of the inside of the underwear you'd used for the other side. Pulling on the panties you tested again.

Yep, you could feel your finger stroking your pussy lips, a hint of wetness coming away on your hand as you did. You'd always been curious of this. You brought the tube to your face, smelling the warmth of your cunt through the portal as you licked yourself through it. Damn, you taste good. Too good, and god does it feel right. Your tongue explored your nethers, running up and down your slit, lapping up your wetness and circling your clit. Either you're a natural at this, or you're getting far too turned on by the idea of being able to really fuck yourself.

It wasn't easy to stop, but you knew if you let yourself cum like that you'd be there all day, and you wanted to be out of the house before Andy came home from work. He was always pent up when he came back, and modifying his normal cocksleeve into your enchanted pocket pussy was a simple job. He probably wouldn't notice, at least not until he was already balls deep into you. By that point, he might not care.

Replacing the toy, you slipped on a sundress and made your way to the park. You weren't going to risk being caught in the flat while he wanked off with you. There's a quiet spot under a weeping willow, right near the river, about a mile into the park where nobody goes, not even the dog walkers.

That's where you sat, channeling the power of the river and the forest, recharging as you waited. Getting fucked here would probably help, if anything, sex carries powerful magic. It's just a pity he wouldn't be here in person.

Something touched you. A gentle fingertip slid some lube over your pussy, coating your lips in a cold, slick film. The finger pushed in, rubbing the lubricant around the inside of you, feeling the texture of your inner walls. It pulled out. Moments passed. Seconds felt like hours as your mind raced. Of course he'd figure it out, he'd have to lube his toy before fucking it otherwise that huge bitch-breaker would rip it in half!

Or not. The flare pressed against your hole briefly, before forcing its way in. You groped a tit as it pushed in, filling you slowly before he started fucking himself properly. He was going fast, faster than anyone could fuck. Every push made you yelp, your eyes rolling back as it hammered into you, getting deeper and deeper with every push. Your yelps and whines reached a crescendo, the hammering cock driving you to orgasm hard against it.

You felt yourself tensing, gripping the flared beast inside you as your toes curled and your body shook. The force of the orgasm almost made you fall backwards, your arms catching you as your back arched, your hips pushing up against a man who wasn't there as you groaned.

He wasn't far behind. The flare flattened against the entrance of your womb as he pulsed into you, delivering his cum right where you wanted it. The thick liquid steamed through your cervix in a river, filling you in an instant before threatening to spray out around the sides. He held the toy down, keeping you hilted as he pumped you to bursting.

At last, the flare started to recede, he pulled out. You felt the still too wide tip pulling on your entrance before popping out in a fountain of thick cum. You lay, panting on the sparse grass, shielded from passers-by by the fronds of the willows above. It's another simple spell to prevent pregnancy, a handful of river water mixed with a little ash and daubed over your belly neutralises the semen filling your womb. Life magic wasn't your speciality, but a witch knows the rudiments.

You picked yourself up and started to walk back to the main park. It's about a 20-minute walk at a decent clip, but you were taking your time.

Something touched your pussy again. Not a finger, not Andy's flared member, something else. Thinner, shorter, already leaking fluid into you. Have you been borrowed?

The new cock was slower, fucking you like it was savoring the experience. The minotaur cum lubricating him as he slid in and out.

You looked for somewhere to duck out of the way, slipping into a bush as the cock slowly fucked you. It wasn't as big as the minotaur, but the languid pace made you squirm.

It sped up for a few pumps, making you arch yourself again, before slowing down. The cock twitching and throbbing in your cunt, it hadn't knotted you yet, the slippery precum adding to the mix of fluids dripping out of you.

Over and over, the slow stroking punctuated by fast thrusts, each time drawing moans and gasps from you as the canid cock edged inside you; each time brought you to the very edge, before slowing back down and leaving you panting.

The fast fucking started again, this time you clenched yourself against it, feeling the thickness of the cock pressing back at you. You created your peak, tears welling in your eyes as you half-moaned, half-sobbed your release. The knot filled you up, and another man's cum started to fill you.

Walking is hard when you have a tennis ball sized knot plugging you up, harder still when that knot is moving and thrusting with a mind of its own.

You staggered home, the knot staying hard, holding the rest of his cock in you as it twitched and pumped more and more into you. Lupine cum isn't as thick as a minotaur's, but there's just so much of it; you could feel it dripping down your legs, the unmistakable smell of fresh cum filling your nostrils. You were just glad you didn't need to take the bus.

You finally got home, the knot still in you, and slid into your room, waiting for it to pull out.

A knock on the door

"Hey" It's Andy "I know what you did. I gave you to Paul, he's loaded Brian up with boner pills, so don't expect to be getting out any time soon. Next time you want to hook up, just ask, OK?"

Well, looks like you're in for the long haul.

Worth it.

######################################

Not sure how I did on that. The minotaur fucking was fun, but was the lupine as good, or did it overstay its welcome? Maybe I'm being over critical because it's my work.

Either way, if you have a request for any scenarios you want to see or kinks you want me to explore, please do drop an ask! If you're not sure if it oversteps any boundaries, send it and I'll make a decision. The worst I'll say is no

[urhoneycombwitch]

i fumbled and deleted the original request... insert ovulation dry humping anon req here (anon I deeply apologize 😭)

<3 <3 <3

foreword: okay no literally ovulation happens once a month. every month. since I was young. and somehow it’s still a surprise every time??? wtf. relatable tho. you know I’m always down for some slutty over the clothes action w/Eddie+R so here’s more of that love u 5ever thanks for sending <3

cw: pov Eddie, LTR, pet names (babe, sweetheart), soft!dom Eddie, reader is gn, r has breasts + vagina, ovulation, smut, dry humping, scent kink (if you squint), you-know-who cums in his pants king <3 +18 MDNI!!!

wc: 1.4k

____

It’s halfway through Saturday when Eddie realizes the source of your discomfort. 

You’ve been on edge since the morning, grumbly far past the mug of coffee that usually improved your mood.

Unable to settle, you’d been flitting from one task to the next, muttering curses at the underside of the fridge shelves or scoured sinks. When Eddie offered to help, you’d snapped at him- with no real bite to your voice, but sharp enough to send him back a step.

“Sorry.” Your apology came swift as the bark before it, back turned at the sink, shoulders tight and trembling with exertion in the pause. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just… I didn’t sleep well, or something. Sorry.”

Eddie approached the angry, sparking form of you, uncaring if he got burnt in the process- but his arm seemingly slipped between the defensive shield, taut as a seatbelt across your chest and just as grounding. 

He felt the resistance from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine, wound tight but not enough to keep you from yielding a bit into his hold; Eddie dipped his chin to your shoulder, kissed over the flannel, then one at your bare neck- “S’okay. Want some help?”

Testing the waters of your irritation, Eddie had an inkling this mood might be hormone-related, further proved by the way you were unintentionally pressing back into his body; if he had to guess, you were less a ticking time bomb and more like a hostile cat, touch-starved and willing to be stroked into good behavior. 

“I’m almost done.” In answer, your voice was weary and strung-out, sponge squeezed in your grip like a lifeline. “And then I’ll do the oven, which I don’t particularly want your help with- no offense.”

Eddie wasn’t offended in the slightest, not with you melting like butter in his arms and the incident from last autumn cleaning still scorched in his nasal memory. “None taken. If I burn my eyebrows off again you’ll kick me to the curb, I know the rules.”

That got a half-smile, hard-won, and Eddie kissed it from your lips before making a retreat for the outdoors, with a few last remarks about being the Man of the House and doing some Manscaping (in truth, the outdoor shed is mostly used for dust collection purposes, but you laughed so he’s taking the win). 

Eddie strips down to his black undershirt, spring air fresh and sun mild as he sweeps the front porch and steps. He makes sure to cross in front of the kitchen window’s path a few times, on the off chance you want to ogle at the extra skin and back muscles in secret. 

When he heads indoors to wash up, you’ve beat him to the punch, perched on the couch with a book, in a fresh t-shirt and pair of clean jeans. 

“What a gorgeous sink,” he comments from the kitchen, sloughing the accumulated grime from between his fingers and rings. “Looks too clean and fancy for lil’ old me. Might wanna banish me to the outdoor hose from now on.”

The corner of your mouth lifts to show you’re listening, but the joke isn’t enough to smooth the deep frown lines from your pretty face as you glower at the pages in your lap. 

Eddie flings himself onto the couch beside you, budging up obnoxiously close so he can see the new object of your vexation.

“It’s from the library, due in two days so I’m trying to finish,” you say by way of explanation, eyes fixed on the print as Eddie hooks his chin over your shoulder.

There’s over half the novel left. “Babe, I don’t think humankind was made to read that much Salinger in one weekend. It’ll make you batty.”

“Fair point.” Taking the bid to set the distraction aside, you toss it with a thunk on the coffee table.

Eddie feels your sigh, head lifting at the deep rise and fall. Even if your internal systems are fighting it, there’s a soft longing with which you move, in the tiny ways you open for Eddie, or shift to be closer- it’s a confusing opposition of signals, and Eddie might be hopeless if he hadn’t made it his life’s mission to study you completely. 

“Wanna veg out and watch some crap TV?” 

When you nod, Eddie flicks on a reruns channel, then reaches to drape an arm around you, stopping with a wince partway- “On second thought. The back I inherited directly from my uncle is requiring a horizontal position after all that sweeping. You mind laying down with me, sweetheart?”

He’s laying it on a little thick, and Eddie almost feels bad until he remembers this is for a higher cause; you comply so sweetly and willingly, pulling him down flush between the couch and your back. 

“Should’ve let me do the sweeping.” Your voice is relaxed, barely a mumble as Eddie molds himself to the warmth and shape of you, one arm settling over your waist, the other across your upper chest.

“Shh. You’re incoherent. Rambling nonsense. S’posed to be vegging out.” Eddie gives you a little shake, then a growl that precedes a bite to the softest part of your neck. 

This makes your spine arch, ass pushing back into the cradle of his hips as a bright peal of giggles leaves you breathless. Eddie takes the opportunity to slide his thigh between yours, passing it off as necessary to getting the perfect angle for kissing your neck.

He didn’t bite near hard enough to bruise but kisses over the teeth marks regardless. At your chest, a cool track of his ringed hand trails innocently down- until his whole palm is suddenly over your breast.

On low, crackly volume, there’s an audience laugh track as Eddie tweaks at your nipple, peaked through the layers of shirt and bra. A whiny, high moan from your throat when he pairs this with a solid rocking forward of his thigh against your cunt. 

Eddie’s pretty sure he can feel the beginnings of your dampness seeping through to his own skin; the thought makes him groan, blood rushing in his ears and south quick enough to dizzy.

“Eddie.” This time, your voice is wavering and small, and Eddie’s glad for the automatic mute feature as the TV changes to commercial. “Please don’t tease.”

“Honey, I promise I’m not.” Eddie’s close to hysterics (laughing or crying, unclear at this juncture), settling his nose where your neck and shoulder meet, huffing a laugh. “It’s okay. Just relax. Let me help you feel good.”

The last threads of your resolve are splintering, thighs stuttering and tightening around each thrust of his hips. At the small of your back, Eddie cock throbs. 

“Wanted you-ah-… all day.” Your confession split by a gasp when Eddie finally gets past the restriction of your bra cup, thumbing hard into doughy flesh.

“All you had to do was ask, sweet thing.” The skin under Eddie’s nose is intoxicating- he could swear you smell different on ovulation days: this wild, heady lull of siren song calling out to him. “You’re just how I like you, though. Stubborn. Won’t ask unless I’m giving it. You can take, now.”

Permission grants you new purpose, following the urge of Eddie’s hand at your hip with pleasure-soaked intent. A few more fluid rolls of hips and Eddie feels the telltale signs of your panting pitching upwards, legs and stomach tensing- “That’s it. Good, baby, let go. Yes.”

This last encouragement pushes you over the edge, coming hard with a long, low noise from your dropped jaw, thighs clamping and spasming with the force of it.

Eddie makes sure to wring out the last of your aftershocks on his shaking thigh before he comes, too, cock pulsing into the constrictive fabric of zippered jeans but blessedly rutting against the firm contours of your ass. “Fuck me.”

“I’ll say.” Sounding similarly winded, you clutch at Eddie’s arms, keeping them wrapped around your form as breath returns. “How the hell did you know I needed that?”

By smell is probably a bit too hard to explain (or defend). Eddie shrugs, pulling you ever closer. “Call it lover’s intuition.”

[goofygubegubler]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

You’re trapped with the one person who always gets under your skin. And this time, there’s no escape—just options.

wc: 4.8k |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: enemies-to-lovers, mutual pining, locked-room tension, flirty office chaos, bratty reader x repressed Spencer, slow-burn heat, heavy innuendo, power play lite, Gen Z banter, Hotch is so done.

A/n: This is a pick-your-ending fic — at a certain point, you’ll choose between smut or fluff, each in its own post with separate warnings and word counts. If you’re into this format, let me know! It just fits certain stories, y’know? Love and chaos—MWAH 💋

The BAU was supposed to be a serious, elite unit. You had envisioned it as a whirlwind of case files, high-stakes chases, and brooding men in bulletproof vests. What you hadn’t expected was for it to be filled with this many attractive people—or for the most infuriating one to be Spencer freaking Reid.

He was unbearable. All logic and statistics and that smug little way he corrected people, like a walking, talking Wikipedia page you wanted to shove into a filing cabinet. And, of course, he always had to insert himself at the worst possible moments.

Like now.

You were halfway up the stairs to Hotch’s office, arms full of paperwork, when Spencer materialized beside you, keeping pace effortlessly.

"You look focused," he mused, sipping from his stupid World’s Best Genius mug. The Caltech logo gleamed mockingly under the fluorescent lights.

You ignored him.

"Or frustrated," he added, tilting his head like he was observing something under a microscope. "Maybe both."

Your grip on the files tightened. "Do you ever shut up?"

"I do. Statistically speaking, though, you tend to provoke responses, so the probability of silence is low."

You stopped dead in your tracks, turned to glare at him, and exhaled sharply. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?"

Spencer blinked. "Yes. That’s how hearing works."

Your nails dug into the folder. "I hate you."

"That seems like a misdirected use of emotional energy," he replied smoothly.

You inhaled sharply, clenching your jaw so tightly it could crack. Ah, yes, self-control. A beautiful, fleeting thing. Before you could hurl something at him—your files, your shoe, your entire existence—you flipped your hair with deliberate defiance and kept walking, your heels clicking a little louder than necessary against the steps.

Truth be told, you weren’t just frustrated—you were livid. Not just because of the mountain of paperwork threatening to bury you alive, though that was bad enough. Deadlines loomed, your patience was nonexistent, and apparently, the BAU believed in torturing interns via bureaucracy. But no, the universe wasn’t content with that level of suffering. No, you had to be ovulating, too.

And your body? Oh, your body had decided to make that fact impossible to ignore. Every brush of fabric, every deep inhale around a particularly nice-smelling coworker—hell, even the way Derek Morgan smiled at people was suddenly a personal attack. And then, as if the gods of humiliation weren’t done with you, there was Spencer Reid.

Unbearably smug. Infuriatingly brilliant. And, much to your horror, the hottest of them all. It was an objective fact, but one you would sooner choke on a case file than admit.

You stomped into Hotch’s office like a woman on a mission, dropping the stack of paperwork onto his desk with a satisfying thud.

Hotch barely glanced up. "Not so easy."

You groaned. "Hotch, please."

"All intern paperwork has to be proofread and signed by a superior agent," he said, sliding the files right back toward you without even looking.

You narrowed your eyes. "You didn't even check."

Hotch finally glanced up, unimpressed. "You think I don't know when something’s unfinished? The weight is off. The stack isn’t dense enough. And if that weren’t enough, you wouldn’t have dropped it like it burned you."

You inhaled sharply, then exhaled through your nose like a bull about to charge. "I know, but every time I try, they’re too busy, and besides, Hotch, you know me—"

"Reid’s not busy," Hotch cut in. "He does paperwork the fastest. Morgan even pays him to do his, not that I officially acknowledge that particular rule-breaking."

Your soul left your body. "You cannot be serious."

"It wasn’t a question." His expression remained unreadable, but you swore there was amusement in his eyes. "Reid is your assigned agent from now on."

Your hands are clenched at your sides. "Hotch, you don’t understand. That’s cruel. That’s a human rights violation. That’s—"

"Efficient," he interrupted smoothly. "And unavoidable. Unless, of course, you’d rather I reassign you to Rossi. He loves a good mentoring opportunity, and I hear he enjoys dictation."

Your mouth snapped shut. That was how he won. Every. Single. Time. He had a way of shutting you up with a perfectly placed, completely infuriating threat that left you with no choice but to storm out with whatever dignity you had left. You inhaled, exhaled, and bit back the thousand things you wanted to say.

But, of course, Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned back slightly, fixing you with that assessing stare that made your spine straighten. "And," he added, "we talked about the skirts."

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your inner party girl out for just a second. "Yeah, yeah, you’re required to say that, but let’s be real—HR only cares if it’s disruptive, and last I checked, no one’s tripped and fallen into a scandal because of my legs."

Hotch’s lips pressed into a flat line, his patience visibly thinning. "I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that."

You grinned, victorious. "Good choice, bossman."

His stare didn’t waver. "Leave."

And because you valued your job (and, fine, maybe because getting the last word on Aaron Hotchner was a dangerous game), you spun on your heel and strutted out, thoroughly pleased with yourself.

God, if you didn’t have a massive, wildly inappropriate crush on Spencer, you’d bounce on Hotch in a heartbeat. Even if he was divorced. Even if he had a kid. Even if he was old enough to be your father. Domineering, dangerously competent men were simply your type, and unfortunately, you were surrounded by them.

As you made your way back to your desk, you let yourself fantasize—just a little. Maybe, in another life, you could have both. A little Eiffel Tower moment, if you will—

"Hey, you in?"

Penelope’s voice pulled you from your wildly inappropriate thoughts. You blinked, turning to her just as she plopped down in the chair beside you. "In?"

"For going out tonight. Drinks, dancing, chaos—our usual."

You hesitated, your attention snagged by movement across the bullpen. Hotch stood by Spencer’s desk, speaking in that low, measured tone of his. Spencer, ever the picture of unbothered intellect, nodded along, his fingers idly drumming against a case file. Hotch’s brow furrowed, and something about the intensity of his gaze made your stomach twist.

"Okay, now I know you’re distracted." Penelope snapped her fingers in front of your face, making you jolt. "What’s got you zoning out like a lovesick teenager?"

You tore your gaze away and cleared your throat. "Hotch just told me I have to start running my paperwork through Spencer."

Penelope’s eyes widened. "Oof. Condolences. What did you do to deserve that?"

"Apparently, Hotch thinks I’m not cutting the ropes as a newbie," you deadpanned. "But he likes me otherwise, y’know."

Penelope snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. That is the most delusional thing I’ve ever heard—and I’ve been in a fandom war."

Before you could respond, movement caught your eye. Hotch and Spencer were walking toward you, Hotch balancing a precarious stack of files in his arms. You barely had time to brace yourself before he stopped beside Penelope, giving her a pointed look.

"Garcia. Back to work."

Penelope pouted dramatically. "Ugh, you are such a buzzkill, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am, still insisting," Hotch replied dryly. He barely glanced at her. "Garcia. Work."

Penelope gasped, clutching her chest like he’d personally wounded her. "Rude. And here I was, ready to offer my radiant presence for a night of fun. But nooo, crushed by the oppressive fist of bureaucracy once again." With a theatrical sigh, she stood, smoothing out her skirt. "Fine, fine, I’m going. But if my sparkle dims, Hotchner, just know it’s on your conscience."

"And yet, somehow, the world survives," Hotch replied flatly. Then, without another word, he plopped a massive stack of files onto your lap. "You and Reid need to redo this entire stack before you leave."

"Oh, fantastic," you drawled, shifting the weight of the folders in your arms. "Because nothing gets me hotter than redoing paperwork with my favorite human encyclopedia."

"That’s between you and HR," Hotch deadpanned before turning on his heel and walking away.

You scowled after him. "I hate this place."

"And yet, you continue to show up," Spencer mused, already pulling a file from the stack in your hands. "Let’s see how much damage you’ve done this time."

"Oh, bite me," you shot back, dropping the rest of the files onto your desk with a dramatic sigh. "Before you start spewing unsolicited critiques, just know that I put my heart and soul into those."

Spencer flipped through a few pages, his lips twitching. "You used gel pens again."

"So?"

"So, it smudged everywhere."

You rolled your eyes. "Forgive me for wanting my bureaucratic misery to sparkle a little."

"And your phrasing," he continued, ignoring your defense. "This is meant to be objective. What is ‘a concerning amount of eyebrow waggling’ supposed to quantify exactly?"

"It means the guy was sketchy!"

Spencer gave you a long, suffering look. "You are the worst intern in FBI history."

You smirked, tilting your head just enough to be insufferable. "Aw, Doctor, you say that like it’s a bad thing."

Spencer just exhaled through his nose and turned back to the files, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "If we ever have to testify based on your notes, the jury’s going to think we’re making it up."

"Oh, please," you scoffed, leaning back in your chair. "Eyebrow waggling is a known intimidation tactic."

"According to whom?"

"Me. Obviously."

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about the downfall of modern law enforcement before refocusing on the paperwork. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the slow exodus of the office. First, Morgan and Emily strolled out, offering half-hearted goodbyes that suggested they were thrilled not to be stuck with this nightmare. Then JJ, then Rossi—each departure leaving the bullpen quieter, the fluorescent lights humming louder.

By 6:30, even Penelope had fled, but not before dramatically sighing, "Ugh, this is so unfair! We were supposed to have a girls' night. Or at least get you drunk enough to make some questionable decisions!"

"Oh, trust me, I am questioning every decision that led me here," you deadpanned, glaring at the endless stack of papers.

Pen just pouted. "Well, hurry up and get it done so we can still salvage the night! I have snacks, face masks, and enough gossip to fill an entire season of reality TV."

"Maybe if someone would stop talking, we could actually finish this," Spencer cut in, not even looking up from his work.

The clock ticked on, relentless and unsympathetic. 7:15. Then 7:45. Then, somehow, 8:30. The bullpen had long since emptied, the low murmur of voices replaced with nothing but the scratch of pens and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

And, of course, the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears every time he shifted, every time he exhaled a little too sharply. The air between you crackled with something neither of you would dare acknowledge—something electric, infuriating, and impossible to ignore. Spencer was always irritating, but tonight, the sharp edges of his voice sent heat straight to your spine. His rolled-up sleeves, the furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tapped impatiently against the desk—it was too much. And he had no idea.

You shifted in your chair, pressing your thighs together, as another agonizing minute crawled by. The warmth pooling deep in your stomach was getting harder to ignore, bleeding into every impatient twitch of your fingers, every sharp inhale you tried to steady. It was making you reckless. Every movement he made—every flicker of irritation tightening his jaw, every absent tap of his fingers against the desk—sent another unwanted jolt through your system.

And you were nowhere near done.

You propped your chin in your palm, elbow sinking into the desk, twirling a pen between your fingers in a half-hearted attempt at distraction. But the numbers on the page swam uselessly in and out of focus, blurring into meaningless symbols. How were you supposed to concentrate when the biggest source of your frustration was sitting just feet away—close enough to feel, close enough to rile you up with nothing more than his presence?

Spencer’s voice was sharp, his presence sharper, and despite the fact that you supposedly couldn’t stand him, your body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. You were existing in a frustrating limbo—exhaustion pressing at your skull, attraction setting fire to your nerves. Your skin felt too hot, too tight, hypersensitive to every minute movement across the desk. You could feel the weight of his eyes even when he wasn’t looking at you. If you weren’t careful, this night was about to get a whole lot longer in more ways than one.

It took exactly one sharp exhale from across the desk for your tenuous grasp on focus to fully snap. Spencer, who had been nothing but an irritatingly efficient machine for the past two hours, finally looked up. And oh, he was irritated. The pen in his hand hit the desk with a clatter, and he leveled you with something caught between exasperation and begrudging patience.

“Are you even paying attention?”

You blinked slowly, head tilting. “Hmm?”

Spencer sighed, dragging a hand through his already slightly tousled hair. “Your lack of attention to detail has ensured that we need the regional case file, not this—a duplicate copy.” He gestured at the offending document like it had personally insulted him. “Which means, thanks to this mistake, we need the actual original file.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching your back slightly just for the principle of it all. His eyes flickered downward before snapping back up, his jaw tightening, but you pretended not to notice.

“And?”

“And,” Spencer said tightly, voice teetering on the edge of patience, “Garcia’s already gone for the night, so we can’t just pull it from the digital archives. That means I have to go to the file room and physically retrieve it.”

You raised an eyebrow, lazily dragging your gaze back to him. "Cool. Have fun."

His expression darkened. "The file room is in the basement."

“Sounds like a you problem.”

His jaw flexed. "The file room is on sublevel two—buried under concrete, terrible ventilation, not a single camera, and if that door shuts behind you? You're stuck until someone remembers to check."

You blinked at him, unimpressed. "So, what I’m hearing is: a perfect setting for a horror movie."

Spencer's lips pressed into a thin line. "It’s a security feature."

"It’s an oversight. The FBI, an organization that prides itself on preparedness, has a room where someone could just get stuck until an unsuspecting soul wanders down there?"

He exhaled, slow and measured. "Yes."

You grinned. "That’s insane."

Spencer, to no one’s surprise, did not grin back. "That’s protocol."

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair, stretching deliberately slow. His gaze flickered downward for the briefest second before he forcibly dragged his eyes back to your face. Oh, he noticed. And that little detail sent something devious curling inside you.

“Well, since you’re the one so concerned with protocol, go get the file."

His stare was unimpressed. "You made the mistake. You go."

You scoffed. "Oh, please. If I hadn’t made a mistake, you’d have found another reason to be insufferable. You were just waiting for an excuse."

Spencer inhaled sharply, like he was holding something back. "That’s not true."

You smirked. "No? Then what was that little lecture just now? Don’t tell me you just enjoy talking down to me. That’s kind of kinky, Doctor."

His fingers flexed against the desk, a telltale sign of irritation but also something else. His voice came out quieter, a touch too taut. “The file name is ACB-714. Basement archives, second cabinet on the left."

You gave him a lazy salute. “Consider it handled."

Truthfully, you needed an excuse to step away. The way he’d spoken to you—sharp, clipped, just on the edge of losing control—had sent your brain spiraling into places you did not need to be right now. It was bad enough working alongside him when your body was already betraying you, but the fact that he sounded that good when he was frustrated was unbelievable. Unnecessary. Unfair.

And the way he looked at you? Like he was barely keeping himself in check? Like he was two seconds from saying something neither of you could take back? That was dangerous.

You pushed back from your desk, the sharp click of your heels against the tile the only indication of certainty when everything inside you was anything but. Maybe the basement’s clinical chill would help, its walls lined with forgotten case files and the ghosts of bureaucratic neglect grounding you back into something solid. Maybe the hum of the fluorescents, cold and impersonal, would smother the slow, insidious heat crawling beneath your skin—the heat fed by too many lingering glances, too many tension-laced arguments that never seemed to resolve.

The door groaned as you stepped inside, its weight swinging shut behind you with an eerie finality, unnoticed in your distraction. The file room stretched ahead, a silent graveyard of paperwork, thick with dust and the acrid bite of industrial-strength cleaner. Overhead, the fluorescents flickered erratically, their jittery glow casting restless shadows against the endless rows of filing cabinets standing like sentinels in the dim light.

Your mission was simple—retrieve one file, ACB-714, and get out. But the second you stepped into the file room, your focus was already shot to hell.

Spencer Reid was ruining your life.

Okay, maybe that was dramatic, but at the very least, he was ruining your concentration. He had rattled off instructions with that sharp, impatient cadence, his fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose like he was physically restraining himself from strangling you. The worst part? It wasn't just the irritation that got to you. It was the way he watched you, the way he always seemed locked in on you, even in exasperation.

You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to let it roll off your back. But your body betrayed you, heat curling at the base of your spine in a way that was neither productive nor appropriate for a professional setting.

Your fingertips skimmed over the metal cabinet labels, your eyes skimming but not really seeing. Was he always like this? So insufferably exacting? So unwilling to let anything slide? It wasn’t just the way he corrected you—it was how he did it. Precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin and lived for it.

It was honestly impressive.

You blew out a breath, pushing your hair out of your face as you rolled your shoulders back. Focus. Find the file. Get out. But instead, you leaned lazily against a filing cabinet, barely noticing how the movement nudged the doorstop at the threshold.

The sharp click of metal shifting barely registered before it was too late.

Your stomach dropped.

The door.

Oh, you had to be kidding.

Panic didn’t hit immediately. No, it crept in slow, slinking up your spine like a cold hand tracing your vertebrae. You turned on your heel, already knowing what you’d see before you even reached for the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was fucking locked. Because why wouldn’t the government’s precious archive room operate like a goddamn haunted house? You stared at the heavy metal door, willing it to magically swing back open. It didn’t.

Your hand flew to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you exhaled. This was just perfect. You had let your brain wander off into Spencer Reid–induced nonsense, and now you were locked in an FBI basement because you couldn’t be bothered to properly secure a doorstop.

And you weren’t just trapped. You were trapped while ovulating, which meant your body was already in a state of desperate, hormone-fueled hysteria. Which meant you had spent the last fifteen minutes alternating between rolling your eyes at Spencer’s condescending attitude and staring at his hands. His long, unnecessarily pretty hands, which had absolutely no business looking that good while shuffling through case files.

Great. Now you were locked in a basement, overthinking, and horny.

You slid down against the filing cabinet with a groan, head thumping back against the metal. How long would it take for someone to notice? Would Penelope come looking for you, or would she just assume you finally gave in and quit? Maybe Spencer would realize something was off. Maybe he’d put the pieces together, retrace your steps, and...

No. No way. If anything, he’d think you were just slacking off. He’d probably roll his eyes, make some condescending remark about how you were the worst intern in FBI history, and move on with his night. Because that’s what he did—he got under your skin, poked and prodded and found every little thing that made you tick.

And the worst part? You let him.

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling, determined to push him out of your head.

Then, just as you started to resign yourself to a long, embarrassing night of solitude, a noise broke through the thick silence.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Then—finally—the sound of the door handle turning.

The door swung open, and there he was, framed by the dim hallway light, looking every bit as exasperated as you knew he would. His gaze flicked over you, arms crossed, mouth already pulling into a disapproving frown.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, stepping inside with an exasperated shake of his head. "You, of all people, got yourself locked in a room that explicitly warns you not to let the door close behind you. I even told you."

You scoffed, pushing up from the floor. "Wow, Spence. So good to see you, too. Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly," he deadpanned, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on you for half a second too long. Then, with the same distracted precision he applied to everything, he grabbed the doorstop and wedged it beneath the heavy metal frame.

"There. Now, let's get—"

The sharp, metallic click of the door lock echoed through the room.

Silence.

Spencer froze.

You blinked.

Then, slowly, terribly, you turned to face each other.

"Reid," you started, voice calm in a way that meant you were absolutely about to lose it. "Did you just—"

"No," he said immediately, but his voice had gone slightly higher. "No, I didn't."

Your arms crossed, mirroring his stance. "Then what was that noise, genius?"

Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose, then reached for the handle, twisting it once, twice, then yanking with just enough force to confirm the worst.

Locked.

You stared at him. He stared at you.

"You," you said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Just locked us both in."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, jaw tightening. "Technically—"

"Oh, no. No, technically, Spencer. You just pulled a me."

His eyes narrowed. "Pulled a you? I think not."

"Oh, I think so!" You threw your arms up. "Because last I checked, I was the one who got us into this mess and you were supposed to be the responsible one!"

Spencer let out a long breath, adjusting his stance like he was physically restraining himself from escalating. "Okay, well, panicking isn’t going to fix anything."

"Who’s panicking? I’m not panicking." You were definitely panicking. Not because you were locked in—no, you could handle that. But because it meant you were stuck here. Alone. With Spencer. For God knows how long.

And you were already on edge.

Already warm, restless, caught in some ridiculous hormone-induced haze that had made your brain hyperfocus on things you had no business noticing. Like the way Spencer’s shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealing the lean, tense muscles of his forearms. Or how his hair was just slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. Or the way he smelled—like old books and something subtly sharp, like cedarwood and coffee grounds.

God, you needed to get out of here.

"This is your fault," you muttered, pacing a tight circle.

"Oh, so it’s my fault you got distracted and let the door close on you?" His voice had that smug edge again, laced with something else—something almost amused, like he’d warned you this would happen and was now relishing in being right. It made you whirl on him, irritation flaring hot beneath your skin.

"Yes, actually! If you hadn't been hovering over me like some insufferable know-it-all, I wouldn't have lost my train of thought."

Spencer scoffed. "Hovering? I was doing my job. You were the one lost in your own head, probably thinking about something ridiculous like—I don’t know—lip gloss flavors or whatever occupies that overly cluttered brain of yours."

You gasped, shoving at his chest. "Oh, bite me, Doctor Condescension! Not all of us have an eidetic memory to store every single useless fact known to man. Some of us have normal human brains that get distracted when we’re trying to multitask!"

Spencer barely budged from your shove, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. "Right. Multitasking. You mean twirling your pen and zoning out?"

You opened your mouth, ready to snap back, but the reality of the situation hit you again like a truck. The file room. Locked. No way out. You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

"Okay, genius, how do we get out? Since you're so brilliant and never make mistakes?"

Spencer crossed his arms, the smugness practically radiating off of him. "We wait. Someone will come looking."

You threw up your hands. "Oh, great! Because getting caught in a locked basement with you is exactly how I wanted to end my night."

He rolled his eyes. "You act like this is some unbearable torture."

"It is!" You gestured wildly. "I could be out right now, drinking with Penelope, having a girls' night, doing literally anything else but this! But no, I’m stuck in here with you, arguing over whose fault this is when we both know it’s yours."

Spencer let out a sharp breath, tilting his head. "You’re exhausting."

"You’re infuriating!"

"You’re impossible."

"You—" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "—are the bane of my existence!"

"And yet," he said, voice dropping just enough to send something shivering down your spine, "you can’t seem to stop talking to me."

You faltered for half a second before scoffing. "Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself. If I had any other option, I wouldn’t waste my breath on you."

Spencer stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating in the small, stale room. "Funny. Because despite all your complaining, you never actually walk away."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. This was new. This was dangerous. The air shifted, tension curling like a live wire between you, and you hated that some deep, embarrassing part of you liked it. Too much.

You swallowed, forcing out a breathless laugh. "What, and let you think you’ve won? Not a chance."

Spencer studied you, his gaze flickering down to your lips so fast you might have imagined it. Then, just as quickly, he scoffed, a deliberate shift in his expression that screamed of warning more than dismissal. "See? Impossible. I told you."

Something inside you snapped. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of this situation. Maybe it was the fact that you were ovulating, and his stupid smug face was the only thing in your line of sight. But before you could even process the words spilling from your lips, you blurted out, "God, I hate how much I like you."

The silence that followed was deafening. You barely even registered what you’d said at first, not until Spencer’s entire expression shifted—his usual composure cracking just enough to reveal something startled, something unguarded. His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching just enough for you to catch it.

And then, like a freight train hitting you at full speed, the realization crashed down.

You panicked. "I mean—not like like, obviously. Just, you know, tolerate. Barely. In a work acquaintance kind of way. Like an annoying gnat I’ve learned to ignore, except I can’t ignore you because you never shut up, and—"

Spencer surged forward and kissed you.

The force of it backed you against the filing cabinets, steel biting into your spine as his hands found your waist, gripping just hard enough to steal whatever breath you had left. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was months of pent-up frustration, sharp and heated and all-consuming.

You barely had time to process it before you were kissing him back, fingers tangling in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto. Like letting go meant losing whatever the hell this was.

Spencer pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Shut up, for once."

You would’ve argued. You really would have. But then he kissed you again, and suddenly, there was nothing left to say.

PICK YOUR ENDING

➤ [Ending 1 – Smut]

➤ [Ending 2 – Fluff]

[fortheb0ys]

I wanna dress Will Graham up all nice and pretty just to mess him all up again :3

BROOO YOU GOT ME THINKING!! Give me like two sentences and I could go on and on if I'm feeling it. So I offer you my ramblings🤲

Does anyone remember that one Criminal Minds episode where this lady collects human dolls?!?

Well, make that into male reader insert <(´･ω･`<)

CW Sorry, i realized I don't put these often : reader is a serial killer and will is profiling him, reader views people as objects, reader can't tell what's real and will uses that to his advantage, will refers to himself as a 'sex doll', murder (not too descriptive), reader loses his virginity, sex, stalking, kidnapping, obsessive behavior NOT PROOFREAD ENDING IS RUSHED!

FEM ALIGNED + MINORS DNI

You watched Will from a distance, become fascinated by Will's beauty. His curly hair, his facial structure, his build, his everything.

He haunted you. You saw him everywhere you went.

Will was different from the rest. A body of pure perfection. The others ones in your collection were unamusing, marred in compaison to him.

Once you've had gotten your hands on him, your collection fell neglected. Left on the shelf to collect dust. Disposed of them when they broke.

Will was your prized doll like one of those vintage Christmas Barbies.

Once you've finally gotten your hands on him you noted he wasn't in perfect condition. It was quite clear under closer eyes, a few nicks and scratches. You'd treat him better than anyone else would. You wanted to keep him from farther damage.

At first, Will was a bit hard to play with. His face model was always in a scowl. Brows knitted in anger.

You thought about redoing his face, scraping off the base and painting a new one. Thoughts about the last time you've done it deterred your decision. Their faces had always came out disfigured, never getting quite right.

His hard shell didn't deter your love for him. You treated him gently, bought things for him, making small conversations at your little tea parties. His anger was met with your kindness.

It took a while till Will's shell chipped away. His scowl disappeared, replaced with a friendly smile. Happiness to see you home from you doll hunting.

Soon he became the best doll you've owned. A pleasure to have company with.

His voice box sounded much different from the others. The other doll yelled crude obscenities. Of course, their angry words didn't last long as taking out their boxes quieted them down.

Will was kinder. He was more willing to carry a conversation. He'd let you play with him without protest. Let you play with him, brush his hair, change his clothes. The others were hard to move, their sticky joints refusing to move.

Of course, the hunt for new dolls didn't stop. Once Will met these new friends, he became cold. Back to the old Will.

Will never liked play to nice. Mean and unpleasant words were barked at the others. They broke quicker than anticipated. You'd find Will covered in red, broken dolls at his feet.

He'd plea that he was special. That you couldn't have any other dolls. He was the only one that's supposed to be in your collection. Red, teary eyes begging to be the only doll in your collection.

You pulled him into close embrace, feeling his pounding heartbeat against your chest. Whispered promises as he cried at your every word.

Your precious Will, beautiful yet so broken. You plege devotion solely to him.

Since than you only cared for Will. Every moment was spent with him.

He seemed to enjoy playtime as well. He'd sit quiet and pretty as you changed him. His hands always posed between his legs. His joints bent seamlessly as he shifted in his sit.

One day while picking his clothes for the day, Will made mention that he had working parts down...there. That they'd the react when played with.

He said he was a 'sex doll', that only he's the only one.

He guided you as you were inexperienced. Spoke you through each step. Your fingers nervously stretching him. Your eyes trained on Will's face, looking for any sort of discomfort.

Fingers still he's face contorts. You weren't sure if it was discomfort or pleasure. You weren't going to risk breaking your precious doll by testing which one.

Your hand begins withdrawaling from between him. Before you could do or say anything farther, Will's hand shoots forward to grasp your wrist.

"Don't fucking stop." Will growls as his grip tightly.

His eyes darken, a glint of something beneath them. Like there was a secret to be shared behind blown out pupils. It seems almost sinister.

Your heart skips a beat and your mouth goes dry and all you could do was give him a small nod. Sex brought out this side of an otherwise gentle Will. One you were not willing to challenge.

Once Will felt like he was fully prepped and ready, he made you withdrawal your soaked fingers. With shaking hands gripping your cock, guiding it to his ready hole. A hiss sounding from Will almost made you stop but you wouldn't dare to do that again.

It felt so fucking good. Stinking in inch by inch. His hole stretching to fit your cock. His insides warm and wet. Pleasure consuming your entire being.

Did all dolls feel like this? Why haven't you tried this before?

Once Will completely bottomed out, he gave you a slight squeeze. You had to hold yourself back, nearly cumming after only just a moment.

Your eyes shut tight as your head falls against Will's chest, trying to focus on breathing. Shaking breaths timed with Will's heartbeat.

A sharp kick to your side, a signal that Will wants you to move. Eyes snap open to look deep into Will's. That look still present, now even darker.

"Take it nice and slow." Will spoke sweetly behind a kind smile. He's gentle once again. Will's changes in mood were slightly off putting.

You began to move at a slow pace, sloppy as you tested the water. Thrusts were shallow and somber. Will's hand grip at your hips and begin guiding your movements.

"Follow my lead." He locked eyes while you felt the need to look away.

His hands push you forward establishing a rythm. Pushing in deep to hit something the made Will gasp and pulling out till your tip was the only thing in him.

You tried focusing on keeping the order as you roll your hips into him but everything felt so good your mind went numb. Will's grunts turned into moans as you kept nailing the spot in him that made him sing.

You push your entire weight onto, trying to reach deeper and deeper. Confidence is now yours when Will clenches around you. The heat is suffocating, sweat pools down your back.

One of his hands leaves your hips, guiding yours onto his weaping cock. Your fingers tightens around it, jerking it in rythm with your thrusts. White drips for his tip on his stomach. He's as close as you.

Your thrusts finally lose pace and your thrusts become shallow once again as you feel like the end is near. Will pulls you in a kiss, swallowing your little sounds, cumming together. White paints your bodies.

You pant as you collapse on top of Will. Your eyes fall heavy as you focus on catching your breath.

"Will you stay with me forever, doll?" You plead once the room had fell silent.

"Till time separates us."

You pull Will close, your head against his neck. In that moment he felt real, almost human. Like his heart beat just as yours. Like flesh and bone.

[demonslayerunhinged]

*cw: this theory deals with child sexual abuse and has mentions of suicidal ideation and eating disorders.

*If you or anyone you know is going through this, you can find resources here, here and here as well as a list of international hotlines.

Obanai is probably the second most hated character in the fandom, and just like Sanemi, he’s one of the most misunderstood. I think the hate he gets from the fandom is unwarranted; he’s accused of being a dick, a horrible person, a simp and a character who only exists to be Mitsuri’s love interest. All of which is unfair, sure he’s prickly and unapproachable, but he’s not as bad as the fandom makes him out to be.

So, in my quest to draft a defense for our favorite snek boy, I reread his backstory and in doing so, I realized something sad

Unhinged theory

Obanai is a sexual abuse survivor

Let me explain:

Obanai’s backstory and aspects of his character mirrors that of someone who’s been through sexual trauma. The evidence I'm going to present is a combination of my own knowledge about these matters and information I got from forums and websites for male survivors of sexual abuse. So let's examine them...um spoilers

The snake demon

I believe that the snake demon is a metaphor for a sexual predator. Her inclusion in the family could also be a metaphor for how these predators insert themselves into family units-or most of the time are family members themselves-and abuse the children for years and even generations. Obanai's relatives sacrificing their babies to her could signify the real life actions of families who are unaware or, turn a blind eye to, or sometimes actively participate in the abuse of their children.

The sacrifice in exchange for wealth speaks of how families in real life ignore the abuse of their children to maintain the wealth and status they obtain from being related to and associated with the abuser.

Even her decision to wait, ordering the cutting of his mouth so he would look like her, could be interpreted as her 'grooming' him in a sense.

Even her design has a certain sexual, predatory aspect to it that's different from the other demons.

His relatives

Obanai describes his family members as being 'disgustingly' affectionate and bringing him lots of 'greasy' food that made him sick. Food in media is often used to depict love, affection, connection and sex, and Demon Slayer is no different.

There are plenty of instances where food and the giving of food has been used to denote friendship (Tanjiro giving Zenitsu, Inosuke and Genya meals in an attempt to bond with them), connection (Giyuu wanting to give Sanemi ohagi), love (Tanjiro's love of cooking and the satisfaction he shows when his meals are enjoyed by others) and pleasure (Mitsuri's large appetite). I'll make a post about this later.

With this context, we can interpret their bringing of rich foods, their overbearing attention and affections as them objectifying and even being sexually inappropriate with him.

The sexual abuse

Non-physical.

The first instance of abuse is non-physical, but that doesn't make it any less important. Being constantly visited by the snake demon in his room at night, Obanai described his feelings of terror, being paralyzed and watched. His body would break out in a sweat, and he would be unable to fall asleep.

His descriptions of the experience and his body's reaction to it reminded me of some survivors' stories I read, where they talked about how in the initial stages of the abuse or when the abuser was first introduced into their lives, their abuser would give them unwanted attention, would stare at them in a way that felt creepy, gross and wrong.

Some had their abusers come in to their rooms, maybe under the guise of 'checking in on them'. They described feeling terrified, freezing up with the hopes that the attacker would leave. Some would take measures such as sleeping with the door locked or with a heavy object against it, sleeping with a sibling or parent, sleeping in a hiding spot that the attacker knows nothing about or not sleeping at all.

Physical.

The specific age that the snake demon plans to 'eat' Obanai is never stated, but from what we've seen so far and in the sexual context, we can assume that she's waiting until he hits puberty. Some studies state that the average age of victims of female sex offenders usually falls around 14 years, but there are cases where the female predator waited until their victim reached sexual maturity before they carried out their abuse, like in the case of Mary Kay Letourneau. Here's a video that breaks down an interview she did before her death.

Obanai was 12 when he was dragged out of his cell to be subjected to what I believe is the first physical abuse. He had his mouth slit from ear to ear, with the blood collected and fed to her. The snake demon decided to have him live a little longer, which again, fits into my theory of her wanting to wait until he reached puberty.

Bodily violation, violence and blood are common allegories for sexual assault used in media and in Obanai's backstory we see it being used when his relatives drag him from his cell, literally pin him down, cut his mouth and feed his blood to the snake demon. The act of feeding on his blood could also be a metaphor for the snake demon sexually abusing him.

His escape and the resulting fallout

Obanai managed to escape, and although he was tracked down by the snake demon, he was saved by Shinjuro Kengoku before she could kill him. His cousin's response was to blame him for all that happened, asked why he ran away, and said that he should have 'allowed' the demon to eat him.

This could represent how some victims are rejected, ostracized and criticized for speaking out against their attacker, exposing the abuse to the public and getting help. Their families would say 'you should have just let it happen', 'you destroyed the family', 'why did you run away, tell people?' and place the blame on the victim.

Obanai's reaction

There are three aspects of his characterization that are similar to the common reactions noticed in adult survivors of sexual assault, especially male survivors.

His appearance.

His behavior.

His beliefs.

His appearance

Obanai has a small frame that he hides with his baggy uniform and haori. I can tell it's baggy compared to that of the other slayers because of the width of his pants vs the width of his lower legs. Desexualization or hypo-sexualization is a common response among some survivors of sexual trauma, this usually involves wearing clothes and taking measures to make themselves look 'unattractive'.

'But this side feels more comfortable for me, like the baggy clothes I wear, which hide my body, and the long sleeves which reach past my wrists. I promised myself no man would ever touch me again, and whether it was a moment of triumph, or a moment of defeat, I still don't know.'

'I'm thin, shy. I seem easy to dominate. I've grown a beard. That's helped a little. I dress in baggy clothes, covering as much of my skin as possible. That makes me feel safe.'

This not only helps regain a sense of control and power over their body but also serves as a protective measure against sexual advances so they don't get abused again.

In Obanai, given his history of receiving unwanted, suffocating and 'disgusting' attention from his female relatives, it would make sense that he would want to dress in a way that makes him unapproachable and hides his body from the opposite sex. We can see his attempts to desexualize himself in the picture below:

His behavior

'Iguro has difficulty with girls. Due to his experiences growing up, he was unable to conquer his fear and animosity. Plus, the firls who joined the Demon Slayer Corps often put on brave faces because of their sad backgrounds, so he felt sorry for them, making him uncomfortable in a different way.' - Taisho Whispers, official English translation.

'Iguro-san isn't good with women. Due to his upbringing he has a fear and disgust towards women. (I couldn't overcome it easily. The women who joined the Demon Slayer Corps have painful stories of determination. I felt sorry for them and I didn't get along with them in a way that was different from the way I got along with my family)' - Taisho Whispers, direct-sort-of-shitty translation via Google Translate.

Male survivors who were victims of childhood abuse by female perpetrators often talk about how the abuse greatly affected their relationships with women or lack thereof. Some going so far as to say that they became afraid of women, being around them and how sometimes being touched by women would trigger panic attacks and remind them of the trauma.

Here are some quotes posted in a thread on the Male Survivor forum. Full thread here.

'Once that happened, my genophobia became more intense. I couldn't ware short trousers in summer, could never go swimming, got paranoid if I touched a woman's arm or even brushed against one, would always stand at a distance from female friends, and would literally leave the room if anything explicit was discussed.'

'I have started to have strange, deep discomforting feelings as I remember some of the assaults and I have gotten to a place where touch from a woman makes my hair stand up, makes me nauseous, and gives me chills and feelings of dread.'

Obanai has similar responses when he finds himself in proximity to women. We're only told about it in the main manga, but it's shown in the Gakuen. I know the Gakuen takes place in an alternate universe, but aside from the events, the behaviors of the characters are based on their actual personalities in the main manga, so we can safely say the reactions he displays in the Gakuen is canon to his character.

His beliefs

Adult survivors of sexual abuse often struggle with feelings of guilt, rage, and shame. In the manga, Obanai talks about being held back by the decaying hands of his family members, which could represent the long-lasting effects of sexual abuse and how some survivors carry these burdens all through adulthood or throughout their lives.

There's also the thoughts about himself that echo the heartbreaking thoughts shared by some male survivors.

Guilt:

"As the member of a filthy family, I too was corrupt. My sins were deep, so I could not live a normal life"

Rage:

"With no other outlet, I turned all my rage on demons in a grudge of intense hatred. By risking my life for others, I felt as if I could in some way become a slightly better person."

Shame:

"Unless I die and come back in a different body in which this filthy blood does not flow, I have no right to be with you."

Suicidal ideation(mild):

"By risking my life for others, I felt as if I could in some way become a slightly better person."

"I want to die defeating Muzan." (He's the only character that I know of that outright says this.)

He also kind-of expresses his feelings of being weak during the fight with Muzan:

"I've accomplished less in this battle than anyone! I wish I could deliver a more effective attack."

While this quote isn't exactly definite, a feeling of being weak, or being 'less of a man' is also a common experience shared by male sexual assault survivors.

The scar and It's symbolism

The scar is a physical manifestation of the lifelong effect that sexual abuse has on its victims and the stigma it carries. For Obanai, it's not just a painful reminder of the trauma he suffered at the hands of his family, but also a reminder to him that he's like his attacker, the snake demon. The bandages he wraps around his mouth symbolizes not just his attempts to hide his trauma, but also his inability to talk about it due to shame and fear, which is unfortunately an all too common experience of male survivors.

Another struggle survivors often experience is with intimacy, romantic relationships and sex. For Obanai, I believe that this struggle is represented by his eating disorder. The link between food and sex is a well established belief in many cultures, people with large appetites can be seen as having equally high sex drives while people with small appetites have little or no sex drive.

As he grows older, his little appetite is basically him curbing his growing sexual desire, which he sees as ugly, like the scar on his mouth. But the thing is Obanai wants love, he wants to love and be loved, to be intimate with another person, but he feels he doesn't deserve it, after all he's filthy, shameful and probably a predator just like the snake demon. So he starves himself, suffering in silence with the belief that he was disgusting, that no one would ever love him, that he was destined to and deserved to be alone.

Then he met Mitsuri.

In Conclusion, Obanai is way more complex than the KnY fandom gives him credit for. This is a man that went through immense suffering, and it's really sad to see people hate on him because he isn't 'nice'.

Well, that's just how life is. Trauma doesn't exactly make nice people. We can't all be like Giyuu or Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤), a lot of us are like Obanai, Sanemi, and even Shinobu, a lot of us are angry, and why shouldn't we be?

...

*Phew, ok so this one has been in the drafts for a while because I was scared to post such a dark subject matter and also I needed to be really sure I wasn't just talking out of my ass but after rereading his backstory and analyzing aspects of his character, I'm more confident about this.