#cw: dark content

[asce-of-hearts]

big brother sukuna.. who makes you watch the nastiest porn imaginable with him.. talks about nasty shit like “you ever thought about making a slut scream like that little one?” or “maybe not.. maybe you’d like for nii-chan to use you like that.. huh little one?”

who watches in amusement while u squirm in his lap while calling him gross while he knows thats just code for “yes nii-chan.. wan’ it.. but i’m shy :(“

cw: SIBLING INCEST!!!!

"You're so gross, Suku-Nii." Your words are said with the prettiest pout, so he can't take seriously anything you've said or will say. He grins, allowing you to cling to his neck as you sit over his lap, hiding your face between his shoulder and the nape of his neck, he can feel your breathing, agitated, barely. The screen of his computer is shining bright against the dark room, the sounds of moans and skin slapping against skin coming from inside it making you fluster.

"Mmm, get off then," He purrs, one of his hands coming to fondle your thigh, rough, calloused, nothing like yours. Nails that rake over the supple skin, moments away from leaving red imprints that'll last for days. It grazes your inner thigh, higher and higher until your breath hitches just a bit, enough for Sukuna, your mean older brother, to notice. "Thought you said I was gross, eh? You're all tense now..." He presses an open mouthed kiss against your hair, whispering. "Acting like it's the first time I've showed you somethin' like this... or touched you there. Didn't you said you loved your nii-chan so much?"

"I do, I love you, Suku-nii, You whimper, gasping as his fingers find the hem of your underwear, pulling it slowly and then letting go, making you jump. "Love you so much." You finally look up at him, finding his ruby eyes staring right back with intensity, with lust as he flashes you a predatory smile. He tries to soften his gaze, or his touches, but he finds himself unable just from how beautiful you look while perched on his lap.

"Yeah, baby? Gonna let me use you like that?" His eyes dart to the screen, making you look. The woman getting sprawled open over a counter top, choked as she gets pounded. You shudder. "Gonna let your big brother fuck you like that? Make you scream like a bitch in heat?" You whine when his fingers once again trail over your skin, he's teasing you. You hate him for that.

"Yes, Suku..." You murmur, hiding your face as you feel his finger finally enter your little hole, teasing your entrance.

"Good, that's my pretty, obedient baby."

Sukuna M.List

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[goatgoesmbe]

Stalker!Soap putting hidden camera in your bathroom, expecting to see you all naked and wet for him to wank off to-

Only to see you having a breakdown, curling under the shower and crying-

[lcvkth]

Don’t Cry

Content Warning: NSFW/Smut, Noncon/Dark Content, Yandere male x Female reader

Thinking about Yandere who breaks into your house through the window, quietly making his way through your house observing every detail. Picking up framed pictures here and there, slowly making his way through to your bedroom.

Yandere who slowly opens the door to your room making sure not make a single noise. Yandere who quietly walks around the room making sure not to wake you. Sniffing your perfumes, looking and smelling your clothes, then finally resting his eyes on your asleep body.

Yandere who slowly creeps towards your bed, while keeping his eyes on your asleep frame. Finally reaching your side and leaning in close to place a gentle kiss on your hair, then your neck, going lower and lower till he reaches your thighs. Yandere who looks up towards your face, savoring your peaceful face. Looking back down towards your bare thighs and places another kiss. Going back up to your face and places a gentle kiss on your lips.

Yandere who starts to touch and roam your body with his hands, getting lower and lower with each touch. Yandere who finally reaches your hips and goes to remove your underwear filled with little heart shapes. With each tug lower he stills for a moment to make sure as to not wake you.

Yandere who finally tugs your underwear down and is completely enamored with your bare cunt. You shift a bit due to the cold air hitting your cunt, causing him to pause for a moment making sure you don’t wake. Yandere who spreads your legs over to get a better angle at your cunt. Moving closer to give clit a small but gentle peck. Then licking your cunt languidly to get a better taste of you.

Yandere who decides that isn’t enough and delves straight into eating you out in a messily but constructive way. Yandere who feels his pants tighten around his cock as he listens to your whimpers and small whines as they escape your mouth in breathes. Looking up towards you to see each reaction you give him, smiling into your cunt and finally looks away and continues eating you out.

Yandere who doesn’t realize you’re starting to stir awake up wondering what that sensation is on your cunt. Your eyes flutter open looking around the room then setting down towards him. Your breath starts to pick in quick paces and you go to let out a scream only to be stopped by one hand roughly covering your mouth and the other going to your throat. Yandere who mumbles out apologies and how ‘it wasn’t supposed to go like this.��

Yandere who tells you to ‘stay quiet’ and how ‘this will all be over soon. Hearing these words cause tears to flood down your cheeks and attempting to break free of him, only to be stopped by a hand striking you in the face. Yandere who leans down to you and tells you to ‘stop struggling or else he slit your pretty little throat open.’

Yandere who uses the hand that was once covering your mouth to untie his belt and unzip his pants to let his cock be free. Then quickly using both hands he grabs the belt and uses it to tie your hands above your head. Grabbing your throat with one hand again and one hand to grip his cock he lines it up and pushes himself inside you till he’s fully inside. Tears continue to stream down your face, as well as grunt of pain and whimpers from the painful stretch.

Yandere who begins to thrust at a deep and rough pace. Tightening his hand around your throat he lets out small moans and grunts because of how tightly your warm cunt is squeezing him. Your tits start to bounce with each thrust inside you. Yandere who notices and leans down taking a nipple in his mouth and gently bites your nipple while looking into your eyes as tears continue flow from down. Gently letting go of one nipple, he leans towards the other and does the same then finally letting go.

Yandere who moves one hand down to your clit strokes it in languid movements. Yandere who listens and smiles at the small moans and whimpers that slip out of your mouth.

Yandere that starts to thrust at a rougher and sloppier rate as he gets closer to finishing. His moans and grunts start to get louder, as well as your tears and whimpers coming out more. Yandere who says ‘he’s gonna cum inside’ and ‘fill your sweet cunt with his cum till you’re pregnant.’ Which only spurs more tears to spill from eyes, as well you starting to thrash away from his touch from the overstimulation of his thrusts and him stroking your clit at a faster pace.

Yandere who leaned down to your lips and kiss you roughly in a way that will leave your lips bruised. With one final stroke of his fingers you finally cum in a strangle cry.

Yandere who thrust a few more times before finally stilling inside you and cumming deep inside. Yandere who lays down on top of you and thrust a few more times lightly to push the cum deeper inside you.

Your tears start to slow down as you stare at the ceiling above as you feel him rest his body on top of you. Yandere who looks up to your eyes and kisses you in a deep but somewhat gentle manner. Pulling away he lays his head in your neck giving you few more kisses before whispering ‘that he loved you and you were gonna stay with him forever.’

(Sorry for the terrible ending 💔 and sorry if the smut was bad cause this was my first time ever writing it lol, but I hope you enjoyed 🌺)

[bunnigumi]

─ FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENT

YOU KNOW HOW hormonal teenagers are. Especially the boys. They'll want to fuck anything; even their own sisters.

cw. megumi x reader , incest , porn with plot , reader described with small chest , brief mentions of drinking/smoking , Toji is referred to as dad/daddy (nonsexual) , light exhibitionism , dead dove

an. hi guys!! thank you!! for!! 600+ followers!!!!! i lowkey accidently edged you guys at the end srry in advance i didn't have motivation to write out a full smut scene and i hope theres no typos in this bc ill cry if i see it too late... happy reading ^u^ ^_<

There's a lot of things Megumi can't do when Toji's around. Shower for too long and use up all the hot water, sneak his beers. Get handsy with his sister.

But he seems to do the last one all the time, whether his dad is home or not.

Toji is always too loud watching baseball or horse racing on the TV to hear the noises you make when your brother tries to shove his fingers up your virgin ass for the second time. You chickened out the first because you heard the front door open, your dad coming home for the first time in weeks.

Thought he was going to walk in on the two of you. Ask how your day was, what you've been up to. Something along the lines of what a normal dad would do. All he ever does is mope around. She's dead and you're all grown up.

But Megumi likes to humor you, Let's do it under the covers then.

Especially when you're so irrational, Wanna feel good, right? He won't hear a thing by the time I get my fingers in.

Sometimes he's too passed out drunk to see the bedroom door open with Megumi's hands groping your breasts. They're too small to be properly fondled, but he's always liked girls with small tits. 

You've shared a room since forever. There's only two, one for you and Megumi, and one for your parents. But daddy spends most of the nights on the couch, never makes it a step past the living room.

It probably wasn't the best idea. Megumi started touching you all inappropriately at night, your stuffed dolls from family friends facing away when he fingers you, fucks you, kisses you.

You know how hormonal teenagers are. Especially the boys. They'll want to fuck anything; even their own sisters.

Your brother liked to kiss you a lot when you were younger. Regardless of where you were, who you were with. Simple, fleeting kisses on the lips. Your mom and dad would do it all the time.

Grown ups would fawn over how cute you were as children. How well you two got along. How they wished their children were as well behaved as you two were.

It's not all weird for their age. Shiu said it's just what kids do, kids are parrots, not that he has any. But'chya better teach ‘em it's not normal, or you’re gonna have inbred grandbabies. He says it with a quirked lip, chuckling, and a cigarette in between his fingers.

Your dad, unfazed, gnawed on his own, the sliding door open, summer on your face. Puppy stickers trailing up on the glass that don't make it past the handle.

On a good day, Toji's got a Playboy magazine in one hand, a cold bottle in the other. C'mere, boy. He likes to call Megumi from your room to taunt him. Don't she look just like your sister? Flat out drunk. Well, with that rack, it's more like your ma. See, now this one's more like your sister. Isn't that funny?

He tears out the page, careful to not cut through the model's hips, and tosses it in Megumi's direction. His eyes never leaving the magazine. Not even when he takes a swig of the bottle.

Don't fucking talk about your daughter like that. The hell's wrong with you? Megumi says it partially under his breath. And he says it like he isn't hard in front of his dad, like it's not because of the thought of his sister. 

His face twitches with mock disgust. It's as if he isn't folding the page and slipping it into his pocket when he heads back to your shared room.

It all went through one ear and out the other—television static. Toji doesn't look up, doesn't notice Megumi leave. The daggers stabbed into his hollow head. The hard on his son’s got at the mention of his sister. He never notices anything at all.

And it's whatever. You're waiting for him. You want to show him the new panties you bought when you were out with your girlfriends, the money courtesy of your brother. Not in exchange for sex, of course. He loves you more than to treat you like a prostitue. Plus, you'd do it for free, so that makes you a good sister slut.

Megumi doesn't like his new part time all too much. ‘Part time’ means being away from you, leaving you alone. Government code to keep families apart. Buy whatever you like. You're a people pleaser.

Your dad babies you a lot. He still doesn't understand how teenagers work. Coddles you to death like you're still five when his breath smells like spearmint.

It's about the same for Megumi, that kiddy treatment. Still offers runs out to the nearby store to buy ice cream, loitering for the air conditioning on days when cold baths with you aren't enough to kill the heat. Sticking their faces in freezers, your mom twirling you in circles. Letting you go like a wind up doll, spinning and spinning ‘till the world was dizzy.

You inherited her smile, her upturned eyes when you laughed.

And you hate the way Toji let himself go. The person he became. The safety, the warmth. Detached too early from nurturing. Spiraling all the way down from the tree, the nest.

You, me, your sister. Like we used to.

He never got his ass off the couch. Not for those recreational things at least. Everyone knows that, but Toji still tries.

Not to say that Megumi isn't a fan of tradition. Cold baths with you, having you warm his dick while he washes your hair with strawberry, 3-in-1 kid shampoo. Sucking your little tits and biting down on your tender neck. Rubbing your needy clit in circles, your hips bucking, water sloshing. Suds popping and flying in the air. Soapy residue clinging to tile walls.

Your dad doesn't question why you still do it together when you're in your teenage years, or how you two should have outgrown baths already. It's a win-win situation.

He never has a reason to leave; no wife to nag him about remembering to buy fabric softener at the store with the groceries because he forgot the last time. It's not that important, only sissies need soft clothes to survive.

When he does leave, it's for days on end. And you never really notice when he does until you’re on your way out the door to school in the early morning, and there's no one on the couch, not a note on the counter.

Tugging at the hem of your uniform shirt, slipping on your shoes and leaning on the door handle you’d drill holes into the Toji-shaped spot and the door is quietly shut behind you, your brother still asleep.

He's gotten into the college near home and has been taking on more night shifts. Most of his classes start in the afternoon and you miss walking with him to school.

Megumi's the one paying attention to you more, and even extra attention on nights when dad isn't home and he's back from work.

You can be as loud as you need to be, fuck as much as you want. You've grown to be one spoiled girl, that's for sure.

Toji saw him feeling you up once in the kitchen when he went to grab leftover takeout from the fridge. You thought he wasn't home. Turned out he hadn't left the house since yesterday, passed out in his room. Still smelled like a bar, nicotine, and a skank.

You think it's the first time he actually slept there since, well, you know. 

The hell you kids doing. It wasn't a question. He said it with a yawn, with glaring indifference in the base of his tone. Megumi ignored the way his shoulders were slumped over. How he rested his weight on the fridge handle.

And you could act like it didn't happen, like your older brother wasn't pressing up against your backside, trying to stick his junk inside of you.

Nothing, daddy. It's all in your imagination. Just playing. You've just been watching too many pornos. By the way, are you hungover? Your breath reeks of cumsluts and prostitute whores.

Megumi finds that Toji tends to only register the sound of your voice rather than your words. He'd gotten pretty good at that thing with your mother. When you hit puberty, you started to sound like her.

And it's easy for Toji to turn a blind eye. To forget and be at ease. Megumi could really just have continued to go and fuck you right there over the kitchen counter. You're real good at quick and dirty. There’d be the high pitch of your moans and Toji could care less.

It's what happens when you have a dead mom, a college roommate of a dad, and a touchy brother for a family.

Shiu managed to lure Toji out of the house tonight with the promise of girls and booze. Like a dog hearing the words ‘park’ and ‘treat’. Pathetic, is what it is.

You’re wrapping your hand around your older brother’s cock. Pressing your cheek against his thigh. Pleading eyes staring up at him because you’re unsure of how to start. Red knees on scratchy hardwood floor. It's been a while since you had time for foreplay more than kissing and fingering.

“Suck it like a popsicle. Careful with your teeth,” He says in a low voice. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

You've always been a quick learner. Daddy doesn’t know that. Grey rings on unopened report cards turned coasters.

But your brother sure does. He likes to encourage your learning with a hand tangled into your hair. And he’s not all too strict of a teacher, relenting in his grasp when you dig your nails into the side of his legs. Pulling off with saliva dripping down your chin. Lips pouty and shredded like paper, your jaw aching. Thighs rubbing together, always desperate for something more.

Megumi lifts you up onto his lap so that you're straddling him, and taking the initiative, you throw your arms around his neck—pressing your bodies together, grinding down on him and zealously chasing after his lips.

You love like it's second nature.

Intimately to the ideal of union. Crossing lines just to hear the way they snap, it's more satisfying from the other side. In privileged rebellion; the temptation that comes with this taboo of want.

He can taste himself on you, with notes of sugar from home baked cookies and cheap frosting on your tongue.

Megumi has to force you still, his hands squeezing tight around your waist.

Petulant like a child, a whine leaves your mouth at the halt of friction. He manhandles your position so that your back is resting on his chest. Legs dangling off the edge of the bed, kicking and making a soft thumping noise against its side. 

Lifting up the hem of your shirt, his shirt that you’re wearing, reveals nothing but white panties soaked wet from the way your brother nips at your bottom lip when you kiss, from humping him, the way he loves you, too.

He shoves your panties to the side, smearing your slick all over your cunt with his fingers, onto your clit. He rubs light circles, eliciting breathy moans from you before abruptly stopping to pull your underwear down the rest of the way, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

Resting his chin on your shoulder and marking the dip between your neck and shoulder with red indents of his teeth, the sting of his canines, he slips his middle finger into your cunt. The ring, to stretch you out. Then the index, to see how much you can take.

Facing the open door, no one's on the couch while your big brothers got a hand between your thighs. The other sliding under your shirt, agonizingly slow up your chest in a way that sends shivers up your spine, translating into hunger for your brain.

You don't wear bras at home, but you enjoy wearing frilly, lacy ones. Little white bows on the center of your chest. Dolly and cute to the point it was sexy, but not overly so. In blue and pink pastels bordering white.

Megumi was always poked fun at for hanging out with you during lunch and breaks in middle school. Always badgered by his rag-tag group of friends. 

C’mon, Fushiguro. Hang out with us. Just for today at least. That pink haired one was always so whiny. Cute, maybe, but whiny. Or what about after school? You always go straight home. He got on your nerves. You hated him. 

Only sister fuckers hang out with them at school. The brunette was fairly pretty. Skinny legs, good tits. Glossy lips when she said her snide remarks. You always had this fear that Megumi would leave you for her. Irrational, did he mention? You shot her a glare, and hated her too.

You’d ask Megumi to follow you to the girls bathroom after lunch. Undoing the buttons of your blazer. The first, second, third one of your dress shirt—flashing starstruck eyes with a new bra. Arms pushing your breasts together, offering him a sweet smile. Lustful persuasion.

Then you would leave him for class and he'd have to jerk off to get rid of his boner. In a stall over the toilet, quick so no one hears him. Grinding his teeth together, biting down on his lip, chewing the side of his mouth to muffle the noise until it all hurt.

You’ve always liked to rile him up. To leave him high and dry, no hand holding on the way home, then give him all of you the second you step into the door without so much as a glance to see if anyone's in the house.

You like to tease him, even whenever Toji is near. 

Simulating the tent in his pants with your feet under the table while daddy is smoking with Shiu.

Staring at your brother from across with a glint of mischief in your eyes.

Waiting for his cool composure to break until he’s got only two options: Bend you over the table and fuck you right then and there, or play his little sister’s game, her rules. Puppy dog eyed, exhibitionist freak.

Your hips continuously grind up to meet his knuckles. Clutching his wrist, whispering as he curiously stops his attack on your neck, “More. Want more,” and you hold your breath.

You feel him smile on your skin. Without a word, he flips you onto the mattress, and knows exactly what you want, exactly what you need by the way you hook your legs over his back, locking your ankles together. Pulling him in closer. Effectively caging him in. The world can't have him. You've claimed your stake on him a long time ago.

And the words that leave your mouth feel nothing but natural. Your voice is airy, breathy. This insatiable desire tugs harshly at your heart.

Your lips purse together for a moment, just a single moment before the words seamlessly roll off your tongue. 

“I love you," like you were born to do.

[arlerts-angel]

warnings: DARK CONTENT. power play, piss. humiliation. dubcon (implied but not explicit consent). unprotected sex. creampie. not proofread.

don't like it? don't read it!

fuck okay listen this might only appeal to me but god damn it.

sitting in the fleet's interrogation room being broken down and berated by colonel caleb to the point of pissing yourself and suddenly you see his eyes darken and the corner of his lips tilt into the most shit-eating grin of your life.

his cock is fucking HARD. not only is he enjoying his power at play, but now his sweet little captive darling just opened a door she can't close.

"did you just piss yourself?" he asks, tilting his head to one side.

"'m sorry ca-" you hiccup.

"that's colonel, to you." he quickly corrects.

tears stream down your eyes and your cheeks burn from embarrassment. caleb is reeling, relishing in this moment.

"i always knew you were a crybaby pipsqueak," his voice low in your ear, "but a pissy one? tch."

he knows there are cameras littered around the fleet, and he can't have someone seeing his darling like this. he escorts you to the private bathroom in his office.

after you rid yourself of wet clothes, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and kisses your neck. "since you can't seem to hold it in, i guess i'll just have to let you relieve yourself."

he takes his cock out of the confines of his uniform, his tip warm and leaking precum. he strokes himself just a little.

caleb pulls you in by your waist, groaning together as he pushes himself into your gummy entrance. "ngh, 's like you were made for me."

his grip on your waist tightens as he bounces you up and down on his cock. the room is filled by your wanton moans and wet slapping of skin.

"show me how much of a piss baby you really are, pipsqueak," he growls, "piss on my cock."

you start to object, but are quickly interrupted.

"did i stutter?" he asks, pressing down on your tummy. "piss on my fucking cock. colonel's orders."

"caleb," you sniffle, "m so close. i can't hold it anymore 'm sorry."

he's so fucking turned on.

your bladder tingles each time he fucks into you and your clit grinds against him. a mix of piss and arousal pools at his groin, and the lust bubbles in the pit of your stomach begin to pop.

"there you go, pipsqueak. just like that," he coos, "cum for me. right on my fucking cock like a good girl."

"m gonna cum, y'gonna make me cum caleb fuck," you blubber as your orgasm washes over you.

"take my fucking cum, take it all," caleb groans and fucks himself into you one last time before filling your messy cunt.

you press your head against his heaving chest. "you did so good for me, pipsqueak," he says softly. caleb rests his hand on the crown of your head before pressing a kiss onto it.

"i'll take you back to my place and get you cleaned up, yeah?"

[yanoverload]

Yandere Cow Boy

Beau is my first Yandere Oc ever done. He's a few years old now, and he means a lot to me.

I apologize if the writing seems rushed. I am not a great writer, and English is hard. (Also can you tell the Pearl inspiration? Teehee)

"There are bonds stronger than those made by blood.... Or so granny has told me haha! Do you agree :) ?"

At first glance, you may think Beau is a sweet man that works in the bakery across the street, the one with the grandma that always seems grumpy? 

Well... 😬 

In his universe, a lot of animals have started to turn scarce with human greed. The solution? To make a mix of human and animal of course! So when they proliferate amongst themselves or with normal humans we don't have to worry about the shortage of materials :)

Except a lot of them aren't treated... That humanely.

Beau is a crossbreed experimentation to see if they could have a cow and a bull at the same time. He never met his parents. As soon as he was born he was taken along with his older sister (a failed version of the experiment) to a farm.

Farms that take hybrids receive help from the government, but the authorities don't care much about welfare, just make sure they don't die.

And that was the case. Since young, they milked Beau dry for his unique birth. Milk, breeding, meat? Of course! He is one of a kind after all! He can restore "most" of his organs!

His only shelter was his older sister. Motherly, caring, worried for him. He never understood what was happening at first, but she explained everything to him!

He felt awful about the situation. He didn't care much about himself at first, but he wanted to give his sister a better life as he grew. He made a plan with a new worker at the farm that felt bad for them: he would take both in the delivery cart at night and they would escape.

Or so he thought. The night he was ready to leave with his sister, he went to get her and she wasn't anywhere. Terrified the owners did something, he ran to where he was going to meet the worker to see.... Nothing, no cart, no one.

Well... Except a shotgun at his back.

The owners found out about the situation. But they weren't angry, oh no! His sister and the worker could leave, hell they could take some money too! If they left Beau. His sister was a bother, too much work for not a lot of stuff to sell and the worker talked too much. So they left.

They left.

They left me.

He was in such a state of shock, he says he didn't remember a thing....

The sun was rising, before he even noticed the mangled bodies of the farm owners. They were two old fuckers anyway. 

Oh! He found his sister and the worker not too far from there. The cart was on the side of the road, silent.

Traitors don't talk, after all. And they don't move anymore either.

He leaves on foot, since he doesn't know how to drive, and settles down in front of a closed establishment.

As soon as he wakes up, he sees a grumpy but worried granny, thinking the blood was his own. Her vision hasn't been the same, and we all know how hybrids are treated around these parts.

He can stay for now.... She is a bit lonely, and could use a hand in the bakery.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Some more facts about him! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Beau was treated like cattle, so he doesn't understand human structures and psyche that well. 

He wants to form a new family, have a new beginning.

One of his first meals at Granny was Neapolitan ice cream. He liked it so much he dyed his hair pink, now he is a Neapolitan cow :D

He works in the back, and takes the shippings.

Always raised by women, he likes more feminine things, but still prefers He/Him pronouns.

He has broken two beds because of how massive he is.

He never calls anyone by name, only "friend". Well... Except Grandma and Darling.

Height: 204 cm (6'8 feet)

[kechiwrites]

property lines

dark!steve rogers x neighbour!reader

kinktober countdown: day two (facefucking).

synopsis: your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject.

wc: 2.2k

cw: dark content, non con, oral (male receiving), femme language + afab!reader, pet names, internal victim blaming, pet names (sweetheart), a touch of misogyny

author’s note: day 2 brings us more dark!steve, i fear i may be incapable of writing him sincerely. he’s just a little too perfect. I like to take off a bit of the shine. thank you @katsukikitten u r my muse.

Your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Mostly because you can’t be sure if he’s doing it on purpose or if he’s just overly friendly. Maybe it’s the signals you give off, bringing a plate of thick, sweet, cheesecake brownies over to the recently sold house next door, hoping to make a new connection. Suburbia can be isolating, and with all of your friends shaking ass in the city, you need to branch out. It really isn’t the kind of home you figured a single man like Steven Grant Rogers would buy, but then again, you lived in your suburban palace alone, willed to you by your late grandmother and only in need of a few renovations.

He’d been so bright, when you first met him, with a perfect white smile and twinkling blue eyes. He’d been happy to accept the desserts, even happier to return the plate a day later, extolling the praise he and his poker buddies lauded on you over the taste. You’d shrugged it off, “The least I could do for a neighbour. I’m just glad you all liked them.” 

Secretly though, the compliments had thrilled you, especially once you’d gotten a glimpse at the aforementioned “poker buddies”, the whole lot of them, handsome, built, big. All too happy to fix leaky pipes and paint fences in exchange for chocolate cream pie or a dish of homemade lasagna. But Steven  - “Steve, please”  -  was your most loyal customer, always lending a hand, pausing during his early morning jog to check up on you while you watered your flower beds, asking how your book is going, what you do in that “big old house all by yourself” when you aren’t working on “the next great American novel”, of course (his words, not yours).

It’s fine at first, a little disarming to be at the centre of his white hot attention, burning your flesh like he had you under a magnifying glass on a perfect sunny day. But eventually it’s not fine, eventually Steve Rogers takes more and more steps over the property line of overly friendly and into the front yard of wildly overbearing. Eventually, Mr. Rogers insists on weekly visits, popping into your house by using the spare key under the mat he shouldn’t even know about. Slinging his muscled arm over you during the neighbourhood block party, and your neighbour’s son’s 5th birthday party, and the Fourth of July barbeque. He fixes your car without you asking, brings in your groceries when he sees you unloading them in your driveway, brings your mail to you during his daily jog. It’s helpful sometimes, yes, but it’s also suffocating. And you were going to set him straight. You were! But it’s hard, hard to stare into the face of a suburban god, the literal king of the neighbourhood and tell him no. It’s hard to tell him that he’s making you uncomfortable, that you’d like for him to stop being so goddamn friendly all the time. 

So maybe a little of it is your fault. Maybe you should’ve been clearer on your boundaries. Maybe, when handsome, strapping Mr. Rogers came to your front door to ask you to essentially cater one of his poker nights, you shouldn’t have stayed to serve the food, playing happy little housewife in front of Steve’s friends, bringing them cold beers from the fridge and sitting next to Steve, playfully making faces at his hand, then plating up dessert when he asked you to. But it felt good to have his attention. His favour. So when “the boys” start to head home, laying praise and amazement at your feet, you’re sufficiently buttered up for Steve to ask yet another favour of you. It’s not much, of course. Just a little help with cleanup. Then he’ll escort you home himself. After all, there are some real sickos out there.

So you agree. What’s the harm, right?

The harm, it just so happens, comes quickly after you finish drying the dishes Steve washes. You slide the last plate, towel dried as best you could, into his cabinets, sighing in contentment at a job well done. The harm is when Steve turns you around and presses you against the sink, water soaking into the back of your blouse, making the fabric cling to your skin. You stay there for a minute, not processing what’s happening, ready to laugh off another inappropriate joke from Steve. 

You don’t really get the chance.

Two heavy hands clap down on your shoulders, exerting pressure on you until you crumple to the floor, knees hitting the tile of Steve's kitchen painfully. You yelp, struggling against him, pressing, then beating your fist against his tree trunk legs. 

"Stev-" you choke on his name when your neighbour unzips his trousers before you, undoes the fly of the pair you helped him pick out, with him bent over your shoulder while you held his phone, his front pressed close to your back. Pulls his half hard dick out of pants starched and pressed with the iron he'd borrowed from you because his was "on the fritz" again. 

"Open up." He cajoles, and you pin him with an incredulous, confused stare. No. No. This is all wrong. He doesn’t act like that. Steve Rogers isn’t like that.

The hand he doesn't use to stroke himself grabs your jaw, squeezing until you open your mouth, squeezing til it hurts. A sharp, purposeful punch of his hips is all it takes for him to make use of the opening. All it takes to put every little joke, boundary crossing, and stray touch into startling, horrifying perspective.

“It was the baking.” He whispers above you. “Peggy never baked, which was fine.” He sighs above you like he isn’t pistoning his cock deep into your throat with reckless abandon. “But I missed it, y’know? And you, you bake how angels ought to, sweetheart.” 

Tears stream down your face while Steve uses you, dragging your dazed, crying face back and forth on his hard-on. On a particularly strong thrust, he broaches your throat. Your eyes roll up, until he can barely see the perimeter of your irises, and you warble out a miserable moan, begging, all while wrapped around his dick, for a reprieve. Your head is pinned to the counter behind you, and even though you shove against the muscle of his thighs, Steve brooks no quarter.

“Just take it,” he coos, like he wants you to swallow cough syrup, “it’ll be over soon.” his breath stutters when your lips brush against his balls. Steve moves one of his hands to cup the back of your head, keeping you as close as possible when he comes down your throat, groaning in pleasure while you struggle to swallow stream after bitter stream of his seed, lest you choke on it or fucking drown. 

He finally releases you, and you pull back so fast you bang the back of your head on his pristine white counters. The pain radiates through your scalp, grounding you in the moment, cementing you to the spotless linoleum floor of Steve Rogers’ kitchen. You’re both panting, eager to fill your lungs with gulps of air. 

“Whew.” He sighs, hands on his hips, like that took a lot out of him. “I didn’t mean to get so rough with you, just didn’t expect the struggle.” He chuckles, patting you on the head. “But you settled down quick, didn’t ya?” His tone takes on…contentment? Happiness? 

No. That’s not quite right. 

It’s pride. Steve is looking down at you, your spit and cum slick mouth, the weepy, watery state of your eyes, and the disarray of the hair he’d used as a handle, with pride.

Your stomach roils.

He bends low and you flinch away from him, smacking your head on the countertop again. He cocks his head at the involuntary movement, and smiles at you. A familiar, warm thing. One that made your heart flutter with pleasure, beat fast with your own surge of pride when he accepted a pie, or offered a compliment. Now it does the same, your heart speeds up, your palms itch curiously, and your brain doesn’t know if you’re happy or sad. Doesn’t know if it craves those smiles anymore. 

“Just wanna set you on your feet. C’mon.” He speaks quietly, like he’s soothing a frightened animal, and hooks his hand under your armpits, heaving you up with the same startling strength he'd used to face fuck the fight out of you.

“It’s okay.” You bleat, voice as wobbly and unstable as the pair of legs struggling to keep you upright. And it’s not, it’s far from okay, the taste of him lingers in the back of your throat and if you think about it for even a second more you’ll throw up all over his shiny floors, on those godforsaken pants.

“I admit,” he laughs, ducks his head with that small town charm he does so well, “I wanted to last longer. But you were too good.” He winks at you, like you share a secret. Like you’re in league with each other.

He staring, waiting for you to say something, arches a brow like it’s your line and you’re fucking up the show.

But there it is again, that smile, sunny and open, and so pristine.

“Let’s get you home.” He herds you towards his front door, hand glued to the small of your back, his pinky finger stroking the skin exposed by the riding up of your still wet shirt. The two of you walk into the balmy summer air, and the spaces in between the black night, punctuated with the occasional white streetlight, designate your path home. Some of your neighbours’ houses are still illuminated, their warm yellow windows denoting the presence of life. You wonder what goes on behind their doors, you wonder if someone is having a good night somewhere close to you.

You come across your door faster than you were prepared for, the cheery yellow paint job Steve and James had done for caramel apple pie, mocks you. The way he’d smiled in your face, touched you, laughed. Steve shifts next to you, holding onto your extensive tower of pyrex and tupperware, for an instant your blood runs cold at the prospect of Steve inviting himself in, like he’s done so many times before. Not to bring in groceries or put together a dresser, but to pin you prone to the carpet of your bedroom and smile at you.

“So!” He turns, “Same time next week?” You gawk at him, and when you don’t say or do anything, he stoops and slides your extra keys out from under your Garfield emblazoned doormat. The jingle of two, simple metal keys against the little bell shaped key-chain makes your head pound, your blood boil. He unlocks the door, and gestures for you to take a step indoors. You raise both hands, palms upturned so he can give the keys back, so you can hide them, or melt them, or flush them down the toilet. Instead, you get to watch him slip the key-ring into his pocket, before he places your dishes into your uplifted open palms. “I gotta say, the lemon bars were a hit.” He tweaks your nose between his thumb and forefinger, his compliment tempered by the greedy shine in his eyes. You nearly scratch your own eyes out when you get that pleased, soft tingle in your chest.

He smiles and you salivate. He compliments you and your heart responds. He’s proud and your brain tells you ‘I’m happy’.

Why hasn’t it gone away? Will it ever go away?

“Maybe those brownies again, the cream cheese ones?” His voice is hopeful, soft and pliant, like he’s worried you’ll say ‘no’.

Like there’s a world where he’d take no for an answer.

You nod, a jerky, quick gesture that rattles your brain around in your skull. “Sure. Yeah.” You answer, sweaty hands slipping against tempered glass and plastic lids. “Yes. Brownies.” Steve beams, clapping his hands together, once, loud, drawing your eyes to the brutish width of them.

“Fantastic. I can’t wait.” He jogs down your front steps, and the fist secured around your lungs loosens with every step he takes away from you. He pauses at the side walk, one foot still on your property, the other poised to leave it.

“We make a great team. Don’t we?” He turns to you, and this time, he isn’t smiling. This time, his eyes cut through the night and the streetlight and the foggy haze of misfortune clouding your brain.

And the fear finally comes.

You kick your door closed, and you lock your door, and you drop your pyrex and tupperwear and serving spoons in the sink and you lock your windows and you get into bed, still dressed for a poker night you had no business being at, and you pull the covers up and up and over your face.

But the fear doesn’t go away.

And neither will your neighbour.

god i want him so bad. tomorrow, captain soap.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

support city girls who bought $50 of baked cheesecake today, reblog what you like.

[lordtardigrade]

I’m actually obsessed with john getting a conservatorship over you because you want a divorce, like I will be thinking about this for the rest of my life, but so curious about what he does if you stopped talking to him or sorta just gave up

Anyways it’s absolutely incredible and very haunting 🫶

I’m so glad you like it!! And as far as how he’d react to being given the silent treatment? I think he’d be very careful to give not give you a reaction at all- especially if he thinks you’re doing it as a way to rebel against or annoy him.

I feel like in general, John can (key word: can, he definitely isn’t always) be a pretty patient guy. From the moment he’d been granted that emergency conservatorship over you, he knew there’d be some bumps in the road to getting you to accept it.

When you first start with it, he pretty quickly realizes what’s going on, but he never outright addresses it. The very most you’ll get is a pointed look and a sternly phrased “I know what you’re doing, love.”

But beyond that? It’s a relatively harmless form of rebellion, so he’ll indulge you. He’d much rather you work out your defiance by pouting and glaring than trying to run away.

But while he may tolerate it as a behavior, he’s also going to be doing his best to show that he doesn’t much care whether you’re talking to him or not.

Part of that is even if aren’t responding, he doesn’t let that doesn’t stop him from having conversations with you. He’ll pretty much just talk at you, regardless of how hard you try and make a show of ignoring him.

He’ll tell you about his day, ask you little questions he knows you won’t answer, and he’ll often find himself narrating whatever task he’s doing to you. He can always find something to comment on, regardless of how mundane the situation is. Anything to keep up communication between you two- and anything to show you that just because you’re not talking to him doesn’t mean he’ll leave you alone.

He wants to make sure that you find no benefits in refusing to talk to him, and him continuing to talk to you even if you won’t respond is a part of that.

He’ll let you have your time to pout and mope around, yes, but he’s also going to be very careful not to encourage it- he wants his wife to find her voice again, after all.

Another thing he’ll do is ask questions, giving you options- usually one he knows you’ll hate and another he knows you’d rather choose. He always knows which option you would prefer, but he asks anyways, knowing you won’t answer…. Then using that as an excuse to go with the choice he knows you’ll won’t like.

Usually it’s small things- like what should he make for dinner, whether you want a shower or a bath, or what you want to wear to bed- but occasionally, it’s things he really knows will get under your skin. Really, he’s just trying to taunt you into speaking to him again.

He may pretend not to see/understand any attempts at nonverbal communication you make too. For example, if he asks you something and you nod your head yes or no, he’s only going to acknowledge that if it was the answer he wanted. If it wasn’t, then he’ll just treat it like you didn’t respond at all… which usually means doing whatever he wants- so it doesn’t really matter either way.

However, if your silence seems to be more of a genuine reaction to your situation- like as in you’re dissociating- he may be a bit more lenient. He’ll probably go easy on you and let you use some forms of nonverbal communication, so long as he doesn’t think you’re doing it solely to rebel against him. But in general, he still will be trying to get you speaking again, even if your silence is something you can’t really help.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

prefacing this by saying I have absolutely no information on this period of history, but Rome was sacked and ultimately destroyed by Germanic tribes.

And naturally, the first thing I thought of upon learning that was Invader!König X Roman Maiden!Reader. Similar to your story, I’m thinking he decides to take the Reader as a trophy of war similar to his comrades. You and plenty of other maidens are tied up, thrown across horseback or across shoulders, and dragged off back to Germania. Depending on how dark you want it, König could wait for his little prize to want his cock, or he could have no patience at all and fuck her as soon as he gets a chance. Of course, he’s still somewhat of a gentleman, he’ll make sure she enjoys it, but like it or not his cock’s going in her.

I think this is an opportunity to lean even further into the barbarian König idea, with varying levels of darkness.

Save me dark barbarian!König... 🖤💋

CW: dark content, noncon groping, noncon cuddling, fear of SA, König's idea of hot sex is problematic to say the least, reader's level of enthusiasm/consent is ambiguous

He doesn’t care about your delicate sensibilities or noble background, he’s here to bring your Empire down and your weak men to their knees. It’s about time someone burned Rome to the ground; no amount of foreign perfume can cover the smell of shit in these streets…

But he won’t say no to gold or jewels, they might some day decorate his future wife's neck and wrists perhaps. Neither will he ride homeward without a slave to keep him warm. He hasn’t had a woman in months, the only thing closest to a cunt has been his calloused fist and he’s grown tired of that, nothing can compare with the real deal so a soft little female is exactly what he needs to keep him company when he and his warriors return North.

Your options are either freezing to death or crawling inside this giant’s cloak when he holds it open for you come nightfall, the voyage to Germania bringing with it the first snow and cold winds straight from Hades. You have no option but to go to this man for some body heat, the low rumble in his chest resembling the pleased purr of some untamed beast as he envelops you in wool and a hungry embrace.

He never speaks to you, only talks with his hands that roam all over your body as you cling to him with clattering teeth. Examining the wideness of your hips, the plumpness of your ass and tits, he serves himself a handful and some pinches as if he’s sampling fruit at the marketplace. Rubs your nipples between the pad of his thumb and pointer until you flinch from pain, mutters something pleased when he sees your skittish reaction. He won’t allow you to pull away however, not when you’re finally here, so back to his arms you go as he crushes you against his chest.

He’s amused at your attempts to both huddle closer and squirm away: why are you being so difficult when clearly, you want this too?

He saw how you looked at him back there when he was drenched in blood, that’s the reason he chose you. You’re sweeter than an apple, didn’t even scream when he swept your hair from your face to have a better look at you, you only eyed him with challenge when he inspected your lips, waistline and hips. A scared female would have avoided his eyes and begged not to be killed or worse, but you only lifted your chin and spat on his face, practically begging to get fucked…

And now you’re acting like you don’t want his cock while at the same time, you continue to stare at him like a deer in heat. If you don’t want him to fuck you then you should stop making him hard, but in truth König is only glad that he chose you out of all women. The ride back home won’t be dull with a fiery fox woman like you, he has to be careful that he doesn’t get bitten and bruised… How his men would laugh in the morning if they found out that the vixen he stole has made him hers, little teeth marks decorating his skin and betraying everyone your claim.

He would only be proud of you if you did that; women are quite adorable when they have some fire in them. But make no mistake, he won’t let you go no matter how hard you act like you hate him… Everyone here knows you want to jump on his cock; had he decided to inspect your pussy too while covered in your husband’s blood, he could’ve bet all his fortune along with his horse that you were already wet for him.

He could take you right now on this cold, hard ground, try to see how long it takes to make you wet and pliant. The only thing really keeping him from doing so are his men, no doubt wanting to see how a Roman lady takes their giant leader's cock. But he’s not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you naked, let alone watching him fuck you, he'd have to kill them all afterwards...

So he settles for making his naughty little slave warm, and both of you a little breathless. He can find a more discreet place for you tomorrow, order a break or two to ease the heaviness of his sacks, the aching hard ons he’s had ever since he saw you. He has to be careful not to break you, and remember to kiss you on your neck, he heard that that’s the key to make women wet and willing.

You seem so fragile and frail when you fall asleep, finally surrendering to him, your body yielding and molding against his. In the morning, you whimper sweetly when he squeezes your now warm, plush body, and plants kisses on your face, your neck. You have no idea that the warriors are already mocking him for “making you wait so long”, that he has listened to stupid jokes all morning with you securely tucked inside his cloak. You bite him when he tries to come too close, all the brutes around you burst to laughter as he howls from pain.

Not feeling at all sorry for him when he rubs his neck and looks at you with drowsy curiosity, you rise and spit again on the ground as if you had just tasted something vile. He can’t stifle his smile then, your idea of foreplay is much more fun than what he had in mind…

And you aren’t flung over his horse, but actually get to ride it with him, the arm around your middle like iron as he keeps you as close to him as possible. You don’t know that he’s reluctant to take an unwilling woman, and that this preference makes him the laughing stock of the group. Neither do you know that König has already pictured you inside his hut, baking bread and scolding children like the firebrand that you are, giving him a naughty little wrestle and a fistfight every night before bed... Shuddering from want like you do now on his horse as he exposes your breasts to the approaching winter.

You are about to faint as tiny snowflakes land on your nipples, melting instantly as this man starts to fondle your tits. Slumping against his blazing form, you can do nothing but accept your fate as the horse keeps walking and the men around you shout and whistle at the sight of your breasts. The rough barks of your captor quickly end their excitement upon seeing your exposed tits, the whistles stop and the men turn their eyes quickly away from you.

The man behind you is now perfectly content, riding in the crisp morning air while pawing your breast with one hand and holding the reins with the other, his groin grinding against you with the movements of the horse, making it clear that he might soon stop this torture altogether and take you to the nearby woods for a quick fuck…

[kurokawaia]

❛ The Balance ❜ ─ 01

Yandere!JugramHaschwalth X Fem!Quincy!Reader

WC; 2.6k+ | !MDNI! | TW/CW; yandere themes, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, kidnapping, coercion, reader is a virgin, reader acts dumb/oblivious, kind of an airhead guys so if you don't like that then don't read it, she's shy and timid!

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝑅𝐸𝒬𝒰𝐸𝒮𝒯; Yandere!Jugram kidnaps the reader with the help of the Bambies. The reader becomes pregnant with Jugram's child but wants to abort due to the circumstances and tries to keep it a secret. Jugram finds out, becomes furious, and insists on a coerced marriage. The reader escapes to the human world, but Jugram tracks her down, discovers her plan to abort the child, and forcibly takes her back - @sahara-solaris-solace

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 - m.list | bleach m.list

That day stands clear in my memory.

It's all many years past, but today, it comes home to me most sweetly, for I was at work in my flower shop, putting half-finished bouquets in their vases, when disaster struck our quiet, small town, which now contained but a few of the last holdout Quincies. The peace was shattered, people taken. but it was nobody but me. It was just my bad luck that it happened to be me that was kidnapped at that time.

This will forever be in my mind. Five women-strong, unstoppable-entered my store. Their faces were grim, the intentions obvious to the point of glaring. They took me against my will, the hold not letting up.

I cried out for help, yet not a soul replied to my call. The fear that gushed within me as I yelled for help—none of the villagers came to my rescue. It felt like the world had frozen me.

The first to catch my eyes were the uniforms the five ladies wore. They all had immaculate white trench coats, trimmed with gold. What I saw in those clothes brought out haunting familiarity in my mind. It was the same attire worn by a man who appeared in my shop not so long before this occurred.

Tall, curling lines of blonde hair loosely down over his shoulders. He looked every bit the part of strong authority. He was also in a white trench coat, dark green fur from his left collar going down the front, a dark green belt, and a golden belt buckle.

I couldn't help thinking that he must be of the same group as those women, not otherwise than having inherited the membership from them. But if so, why didn't he just take me himself where and when he would have had a chance? Why send these women after me?

-

I turned back to the gentle tinkle of a bell heralding a would-be customer. My eyes met a man's—tall, pretty, handsome.

He did have chiseled features—eyes of mixed blue-green, almost catching the eye, like gazing at the still sea on a sunny day. With that odd kind of fashion look, I could not take my eyes off him.

I greeted him warmly, with a small smile and a clutch close to my chest where a bouquet was held, almost too carefully arranged.

HIS eyes roved over the scarlet anemones. He began quietly, watchfully look at the bouquet I am holding. But under the surface of that quiet front, just below the call, appeared to me a thin kind of leavening of uncertainty, a flicker of something I could not at once define.

And that was just when I thought I caught a flicker of what had been vulnerability in his eyes, and my heart went out to the man. Surprising was the fact that already I was forming a sense of pity for this stranger who was so obviously mysterious to me.

"Mister, if you would not think me prying," my voice was both soft and genuinely concerned, automatically tilting my head, "but you look lost. Any way I could help?"

The words had fallen gently, laced with true warmth.

He just remained silent, continuing to look at me sharply, as if in search of something.

I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, a wave of unease passing through me at his intentness. Curiosity, suspicion, or something else of the sort—that powered this stare, I didn't know.

I mustered up every droplet of courage and made a suggestion. "If you fall ill," I slowly spoke in a very soft and almost hushed but extremely sincere tone, "my way of herbal and natural remedies and medicine stuff—it may be that I often make stuff that could ease your discomfort."

Then, it was as though my words fell into some uncertain silence as his eyes held mine, an inscrutable look still in the gaze. Nervously, I pressed my mouth closed; the only sound was my held breath, waiting for him to speak.

"What I guess I'd like is some herbal tea," he said, and for just a second, I was taken aback by his request.

"Oh, sure," I said, just slightly dazed. "Sorry, it's just that it's kind of rare when someone asks quite this directly."

I began to unfasten his cape. I focused on what was underneath—the white trenchcoat, equally well-mended, and equally clean, featuring the dark green fur, and the glinting gold belt-buckle which had been the first thing that had attracted my attention.

His uniform was so familiar, but still, I could not place it.

He slightly nodded in response, no expression on his face, but his eyes were dark, which all of a sudden gave me the chills. "The one who says himself that he sure is an exceptional chap at herbs and natural healing technique.", he asked back, his voice now low and measured.

I caught myself swallowing and nodding firmly, taking a brief moment to work very hard at keeping my cool. "Yes, that's right," I replied. "And what ails you? The more specific you can be with your details, the better I shall be able to mix up something that will serve you well."

"Clouded mind," he replied.

"I see," I nodded, with a half-smile reassuringly, though feeling quite ill at ease right now with a gnawing sensation in my stomach. "Please, sit there at that table and chair—and I will mix something up that will help you think more clearly."

I felt his eyes still burning on my back as I turned away and headed towards the store's back room, watching every move I made with an intensity bordering on creepy.

I closed the door to the back room behind me. I slid back against the door and let out a soft sigh that freed my tension from my body, before I then had sunk to the floor in one movement. Still, I held the bouquet against my chest.

That stare of his had been so intimidating—one might even have gone so far as to say a tad creepy—that it had left behind an impression. Shivers went down my spine just from that thought.

I shook my head to rid it of the remains of his overpowering aura and squared myself in preparation for the task at hand. He needed help and it was my duty to provide him with precisely that. I walked toward the shelves that carried the plethora of dried flowers and herbs, each of them selected for explicit healing properties.

Lavender, peppermint, sage, rosemary, holy basil, gotu kola—the only purpose they had now was to come together under my hands. Their smells fanned the room, where I worked in silence. Each herb had its own peculiarity, and in a mighty combination of nature's cure.

Turning my steady hand, herbs got ground into fine powder, and the required amount was put into the pot, which held a little hot water. I could see them swirling in this steaming liquid. It had already settled from boiling in the blink of an eye, and bright colors of the herbs were now laid asleep on the bottom of the pot.

The tea made, I poured it carefully into the fragile porcelain cup, whose brim I raised hot to the touch. And looking into the saucer, with a new cup of brewed tea, I sipped cautiously to check the temperature. It was just right for the man whose return I was getting ready for.

I balanced the tea cup, full of herbal tea on the saucer, into the front region of the shop. Wordlessly, his body relaxed into the chair, although his face was shut down, and I felt a sort of fluttery little tickle in my chest.

I set the cup down in front of him with a gentle clink, giving a small smile that I hoped would seem kind. "Here you go," I offered softly, almost whispering. "I hope this helps."

He nodded a bit, finally looking up to meet my eyes, his features softened. "Thanks," he rumbled in a low.

I sat down beside him and watched, riveted, as he tipped the cup to his lips, the rising steam soft and curly around his face. He himself was expressionless following a small sip, the face focused with narrowed eyes in his effort to sort out all the flavors.

I waited, my heart practically thudding outside my ribcage as he neared the end. Agonizingly silent seconds ticked past, each dragging into eternity as I waited to see if there was any sign of approval or disdain.

Finally, he set the cup back onto its saucer, and his fingers made only light contact with the porcelain when he handed me a warning look. "This is good," he announced, "Thank you."

I felt completely relaxed at that moment for the first time since his arrival. "You're welcome," I replied.

Just as the bell rang, I frowned because of the disturbance at the door. The air had changed slightly, a sure sign that another had entered.

"Sorry," I whispered and lamely smiled before getting up from sitting down— a futile attempt to swallow the discomfort that lived inside me. Though he had nodded in understanding, I still felt the heaviness of his eyes pinned on me.

I had made it behind the counter, trying to distance myself from this newcomer. "{Y/n}!" a voice called out, too familiar, as I found myself forcefully pushing down the rising annoyance.

"Hello," I said, my voice strained as I tried to pretend that everything he did didn't bother me in the least.

Ayame flirted shamelessly, leaning much too casually against the counter, his eyes all aglow with this dreamy look. He was yet another of my regular customers—well, apart from the fact that he didn't come in for flowers half the time.

"I haven't seen you in so long," he replied, his voice smeared with lust, I feel neausious.

"You saw me yesterday," I said, pushing the words at him a little hard because I knew he was going to insist on another round of his insufferable advances, and I was running short on patience.

"Did I really?" he mused, words trailing off into thought with the severity of a self-absorbed hum - grating on my nerves.

"Yes, you did," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper, instinctively stepping back as my eyes were careful to not be too close.

I gasped sharply and was surprised when his hand closed around mine, his grip firm and surprisingly pulling me close to him. My pounding heart raced wild in my chest, but the sudden contact left me speechless.

I nibbled at my bottom lip, torn between pushing him away and not really knowing how to react. Ayame had never been this touchy-feely with me before.

Coming toward us, came the blond one, whose name I forgot, his huge shadow shading the scene.

Ayame's grip on my hand faltered. He let go of me with a sudden bashful apology and laughter that erupted from his face. In exactly the same manner he quickly retreated from that place, rubbing the back of his head nervously, atrocity from his part since he was intimidated by the blonde guy.

I felt relief. He gave me a look that pierced me, unreadable, leaving him in an intimidating air. It was as if he saw through me..

As Ayame ducked out the door, I swallowed a lump in my throat, my heart pounding in my chest as I waited, just waited, for whatever would come next.

"Thank you," I muttered in conclusion.

He whirled away to leave, his figure swallowed up by the sweep of his cloak, and a pang shot through me—a regret that I would never know his name.

"Tea was good, it helped a lot," he said.

"You're welcome," I called after him, even though I couldn't shake the feeling my words were lost in the rush of the wind when the door swung shut behind him.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc.Relogs and like are appreciated.

m.list | bleach m.list

lmk if you want to be apart of the tag list <3

[random-thot-generator]

Simon takes a liking to you, even though you're already taken. A good man would let it go, but Simon never claimed to be good.

cw: MDNI - mature content, dark elements, manipulation, masturbation, dub con- reader has been drinking, sexual content, mild violence, mention of murder

mdni banner: @cafekitsune

Simon is not a good man. He's never tried to be, either.

He doesn't give a shit about most people, could care even less about what they do. So long as they leave him alone and stay out of his way, people can do whatever they please. No skin off his nose.

This is how he feels about everyone, but for some reason, he can't make himself feel that way about you.

You, his sweet, shy neighbor. You, the naive little bird that keeps him awake at night. You, the bloody bane of his existence.

He's tried to ignore you, but it's just too hard, especially when he can see what a bad situation you've gotten yourself into with that mooching chav you call a boyfriend.

Fuckin' Davey.

Sorry little punter takes advantage of your kind nature. Lies about in bed all day while you work, takes off with his mates and stays out 'til the wee hours at night. Simon's seen him around the pubs, chatting up the slags. He has no doubt the filthy minger's having a go at 'em, too.

Meanwhile, you sit at home, alone and lonely. Maybe it's that loneliness that draws you to Simon in the first place. Simon, who is quiet, like you. Alone, like you. You probably fancy him a kindred spirit.

You poor, naive girl.

Shy as you are, you're still desperate enough to reach out to him, in your own way. With a nervous little smile, you quietly ask after his injured leg in the lift. Such a smart, observant lass, Simon thinks. You'd noticed him favoring his left leg, had caught the slight hitch in his step.

His knee is almost healed, but Simon doesn't share that. Not after you offer to help carry his grocery sacks. He hums, relishing that kindness you seem to exude like warm sunshine. He'd be a bloody fool not to accept.

And Simon's no fool.

He knows a good thing when he sees it, and you're a rare find, a real treasure. A treasure worth stealing.

Simon's never claimed to be a decent man, and much like your opportunistic boyfriend, he's more than willing to take advantage of the situation. You need someone to lavish your attention on, and he's more than happy to let you.

He exaggerates his limp as he leads you to his flat, invites you in with as bashful a smile as he can muster. It probably looks more like a death grimace, but you fall for it anyway, your pretty doe eyes lighting up when he thanks you for your help.

He milks your sympathy for all it's worth. At your insistance, he sits at his kitchen table, rubbing his knee as if it pains him while watching you move around his kitchen putting away the groceries. Such a busy little bee and just chattering away. It makes him incredibly hard.

When you comment on all the frozen pizzas and sausage rolls, he puts on a mildly embarrassed expression and shrugs his big shoulders.

"Not much of a cook," he admits, knowing that you are. He's smelled enough of your cooking, has had to listen to his belly growling in hungry complaint enough to know you like to cook and you do it well.

The sympathy practically oozes out of you, like warm, sticky honey, and just as sweet. You eventually leave, but with a promise to bring him over some dinner later, despite his laughably weak protests. You're determined to help him, the poor injured soldier, in his time of need.

Oh, he's needy alright. You're barely out the door before he's got his hand around his cock, visions of you in nothing but an apron cooking dinner in his kitchen sending him over the edge with a choked grunt in just a handful of seconds. Still dazed and panting for breath, he makes a few half-hearted swipes at the mess he made on the lino with some kitchen roll, leaving the floor a little tacky. He'll mop it later.

He can't help but wonder if you can smell the lingering scent of his spunk on the air, noticing the way your cute little nose wrinkles when you return later with his dinner. Flustered as you are, you're ready to leave him to his meal and go back home, but he insists you stay and eat with him, saying he's so tired of always eating alone.

Yeah, he's tugging at your heartstrings, knowing you can't help but empathize. You eat all your dinners alone, too, don't you, sweetheart?

By the time he's cleaned his plate, he's fantasizing about bending you over the table and how pretty you'd look pregnant, and suddenly he hopes like hell you do smell his spunk. Might as well get used to it, lovie. You're going to be getting all of it, if he has his way.

It becomes routine, you popping by his flat every evening with dinner in hand and a sweet smile on your face. Soon, you're offering to clean his flat and do his laundry, too. He humbly accepts, but only if you'll allow him to take you back and forth to work. It's the least he can do.

"Can't stand the thought uh ya ridin' that bus alone, sweet'art. 'S dangerous, a pretty li'l bird like you on y'r own. Know it's not my place, love, but I can't help but worry. Bothers me, thinkin' 'bout some creeper gettin' his hands on ya."

With that fear now firmly planted and festering away in your mind, you gladly take him up on his offer. Soon enough, he's taking you 'round to run errands too, then to the market for your weekly grocery shop. He'll take you anywhere you need to go, love; you can depend on him.

He monopolizes as much of your time as possible, but things still aren't progressing fast enough for Simon's liking. He's tired of watching you leave every night, frustrated when he goes to bed alone. That useless cunt Davey is still taking up space that Simon's meant to fill. Bloody idiot's too self-absorbed to realize there's another dog sniffing around. Perhaps he should be made aware of it.

Simon waits 'til your day off, when he knows you're both at home. Packing up a bag of the food containers you've left at his flat, he heads over to yours and knocks on the door.

Of course, it's you that answers it. Your so-called man is sitting like a lump in front of the telly, too stupid and lazy to be bothered with who's creeping 'round your door. He doesn't protect you, doesn't take care of you, and he sure as fuck doesn't deserve you. It's past time the knob was moving along. Simon just needs to help you see that.

He almost feels bad for what he's about to do. Bless your innocent heart. You've no idea of the shit he's about to stir up.

"Hi, Simon," you greet him, naive smile lighting up your face.

"Sorry t'bother ya, love," he murmurs, all humble and soft-spoken. "Thought ya might need some uh y'r plastic bowls back. M'cupboards packed full of 'em."

"Oh. You didn't have to make a special trip just for that, but thanks." You take the bag, tilting your head at him in that inviting way he likes so well. "Want to come in for a cuppa? Kettle's already hot."

Christ, you were so bloody sweet. He couldn't wait to make you moan his name. "Well— If it's no bother..."

You scoff, taking him by the arm and pulling him inside. "Don't be silly. It's no trouble at all." Your eyes drift over to your boyfriend, who's now staring over the back of your couch. "Davey, this is Simon. He's my friend from next door. Simon, this is Davey, my boyfriend. Have a seat, Si. I'll fix your tea. D'ya want some biscuits with it?"

"Thanks, love, but don't bother. Tea's fine."

Simon can feel Davey's eyes boring into the side of his face as he takes a seat at your little kitchenette table. Tha's right, ya wank. Watch me steal your bird right out from under your nose.

Simon makes a show of mooning over you, going all calf-eyed and adoring. "Y'know, I really owe ya f'takin' such good care uh me while m'knee's been healin', pet. Be glad t'do more'n jus' givin' ya a ride t'work. I'm a good hand at fixin' things. I could fix tha' leaky faucet f'ya," he offers, nodding at your kitchen sink.

Your eyes go wide. "Really? That'd be great, Si. I must've called building maintenance a dozen times, but they keep putting me off."

"Ya never said anything about the faucet t'me," Davey interrupts, frowning.

Your brows tick together at his accusing tone. "Davey, I did tell you, and you told me to call maintenance again, remember?"

"Guess I forgot," he mumbles, glowering at Simon.

Simon blinks at him, innocent as a lamb, then turns his guileless eyes on you. "I don't mind doin' it. Not after ever'thin' ya've done for me, love."

The way you look at him, you'd think he'd offered to kill your enemies instead of fixing a leaky faucet. For you, he'd do both. Gladly.

"Sure," you chirp, then grin. "Hey, how would ya feel about getting a takeaway tonight? Thought we could gorge ourselves on Chinese and watch some more Game of Thrones."

Simon feigns an awkward expression. "Ya don't gotta keep me company if you'd rather spend y'r time wiff Davey. Know it's y'r day off."

You wave off his fake concern. "Davey's already made plans to go out with his mates. That means I can spend time with my best mate." You smile widens. "I have to be there when you watch the red wedding episode, anyway." You give him a cheeky smirk. "Still can't believe you've never watched the show before."

Simon quirks his brow up. "Didn't think I'd like it, but since ya've read all the books, figured I'd give it a try, at least. Now, lookit me. Ya got me hooked on it."

You smile, pleased, until Davey snorts. "Ya actually watch that shit, mate?" he sneers at Simon.

Simon chuckles, winking at you. "Wha' can I say? Y'r lass can be very convincing."

You practically puff up with pride, smiling. You're chuffed because he took your back over such a small thing. "Thank you, Simon." Your gaze flicks to Davey, giving him a perturbed look. "Maybe now you'll watch it with me, hm?"

Davey grunts and turns his attention back to the telly. "Not bloody likely," he mutters, scowling. He side-eyes Simon with obvious mistrust. The dumb shite's finally catching on.

Simon takes a sip of his tea, humming because you've made it just the way he likes it. His sweet girl, always so eager to please for just a little bit of praise.

He smacks his lips. "'S good tea, love. Perfect."

You preen at the compliment.

"Why don't ya take it with ya, then?" Davey mutters, glaring at the telly.

Simon fights a smirk, instead shifting his gaze from Davey to you, brows climbing up his forehead. "Think I better go, pet," he murmurs lowly. "Thanks f'the tea." He pushes the mug towards you.

You push it back. "No, you take that with you, Si. I'll get the mug later, when I come over." You say the last part nice and loud, for the cuck on the couch.

Davey squints a mean look your way, face pinched. You glare back at him, clearly pissed. Oh, yeah. Simon definitely lit the fuse on this powder keg.

You walk him to the door, leaning close to whisper an apology. "I'm so sorry, Si. Don't know what Davey's problem is."

Simon squeezes your shoulder. "Don't ya worry y'r pretty head over it, lovie. I know 'm not ever'one's cuppa tea," he jokes, holding his mug up and smirking.

You roll your eyes and grin, but he can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface. Ol' Davey boy's about to catch hell.

Simon says his goodbyes then hurries back to his flat with a wicked grin on his face, eager for the fireworks to start. He doesn't have long to wait.

The argument starts up almost immediately. You light into Davey for being rude, and Davey fires back a demand that you stop hanging out with Simon. You tell him in no uncertain terms that you will not stop seeing Simon, because he's your best friend, and at least he likes spending time with you.

It quickly devolves into a yelling match from there.

Davey ends up accusing Simon of trying to get in your knickers (because he is), then he insinuates that maybe Simon already has (he bloody wishes!).

And that sends you right off the rails. If that's what he thinks, you reply in a quaking voice, then he can get the hell out of your flat!

Simon pumps his fist in the air. Phase one accomplished. Operation Divide and Conquer is a go.

There's a lot of stomping and banging around after your declaration, Simon listening closely to make sure Davey doesn't get physical with you. Having a row is one thing; you can hold your own in that, but if Davey so much as lays a finger on you, Simon will put his boot up the sorry fucker's ass.

Simon hears your door slam soon after, Davey cursing at you as he leaves. Simon will deal with him later for that, but right now he needs to go check on you. He can hear you crying on the other side of the wall.

In no time at all, Simon's sitting with you on the couch, letting you cry it out on his chest as he rubs your back and coos comforting words in your ear. He ends up going back to his for a bottle of bourbon then pours you a stiff drink while you vent, listening like the dutiful friend you need.

An hour goes by. Now you're nestled in his lap, a fresh drink in your hand, eyes going a little hazy, your words coming slower, sweeter.

"I don't know what I'd do without ya, Si," you slur softly into his neck.

Soft and pliant from the bourbon, you're in the perfect frame of mind for him to start phase two of Operation Divide and Conquer. It's time to plant his flag on this hill.

With a pained expression, Simon confesses all. He's had feelings for you for a while now. It's been eating him alive, love, but he respected you too much to admit his feelings while you were still with Davey. He didn't want to put you in such an awkward position, because he knows you're a good girl, loyal to a fault.

"I couldn't risk losin' ya," he admits, gravelly voice full of longing. "Wouldn't be able t'bear it. Even if we're jus' friends, I'll take wha' ever y'r willin' t'give me. Ya mean too much t'me, sweet'art "

And you melt for him, just like he knew you would, turning into putty in his hands. As soon as his lips touch yours, you're done for, not making a peep as he herds you into the bedroom and strips you bare.

Simon takes it easy on you, since you've been drinking and it's your first time with him, but he makes sure to stake his claim, leaving his teeth marks on your body and his load dribbling out between your legs.

To make sure you understand you're his, he does it again the next morning. It's like a choir of angels singing when you wail his name at the ceiling. He leaves you dozing with his cum still inside you and goes to make you breakfast.

Operation Divide and Conquer is a success.

By the time Davey returns with his tail tucked between his legs, Simon's already got his clothes hanging in your wardrobe, his boots by your door. When the knock sounds, Simon pats your bum and tells you to stay in bed, then goes to the door in nothing but a pair of joggers and a satisfied smile.

Davey's contrite expression morphs into an angry scowl when Simon opens the door and smirks. "Can I help ya, mate?"

"Where is she?" Davey hisses, then opens his mouth to shout your name.

Simon's hand is around his throat in an instant, rushing him back until he's pinned against the opposite wall, his toes scraping the floor. Simon's grin is feral as he watches his face turn a deep shade of crimson, veins standing out. He leans in close, letting Davey get a good look in his cold, flat eyes.

"She's mine now, an' she's gonna stay tha' way," he mutters low and deadly at his ear. "Leave now, an' I might let ya live, but if I hear ya been sniffin' around her again..." He tsks, shaking his head. "I'll carve ya up like a Sunday chicken, mate. Nice an' slow." He rumbles out a sinister laugh. "Hell, they'll be findin' pieces uh you from here t'bloody Glasgow."

Whatever Davey sees in those dark, seething eyes, it sends him scurrying off as soon as Simon lets him go. Simon grunts and goes back inside your flat, bolting the door.

Shucking off his joggers, he slides back under the covers with you, pulling you back into his chest. You stir awake, peeking over your shoulder at him.

"Who was at the door, love?" you ask in a drowsy voice.

"Someone at the wrong flat," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "Go back t'sleep, sweet'art."

Simon feels you drop off to sleep while he decides how best to deal with Davey. He doesn't trust the little minger to stay away. He'll try to worm his way back in, play on your sympathies, take advantage of your kind nature. Simon knows that's what Davey will do because that's what he would do, if the situation was reversed. You're too forgiving for own your good, pet. Too easy to sway. Simon can't let that happen. You're his now, love. Losing you is not an option.

Despite what he told him, there's no way Simon is going to let Davey live. He'll hunt him down like the rat he is and get rid of him, once and for all. A good man might let him go, but that would be a better man than him.

Because you see, Simon is not a good man. He's never tried to be.

But he'll pretend to be good.

For you.

-

@herdarkangel I thought it would be reader who got caught in Simon's web, but I think he ended up getting caught, too. Anyway, this one's dedicated to you. 😉

[goatgoesmbe]

Oh, you want both fuckboy but Muslim!Gaz Hc? I gotchu

He'd take advantage of the ruling about being allowed to court more than one pretty bird at once.

And so he did, even though it was just an excuse to be flirtatious, admiring their unveiled beauty, only for him to say that he changed his mind.

Leaving them with a smile and a promise to keep the secrets of what he had seen and heard during their times together.

It was never serious.

Until he met you.

He never felt this before. The longing to have someone to be his for the rest of his life and after- to be tied with sacred vows. Bearing the responsibility of each other. Of having you.

Who.. unfortunately had heard about his reputation. Rolling your eyes when you noticed him showing his interest.

Avoiding him at all cost.

He chuckled. That's cute.

Didn't mind it, he likes the challenge.

EDIT: THIS IS LITERALLY THIS SONG

[eevees-hobbies]

Your Killer Client - NSFW (Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou)

Synopsis: You need to ask for a raise because not only do you regularly have to deal with tom-foolery as a sports agent to egoist soccer players like Shoei Barou, but he also moonlights as a murderer. Girl, send the invoice now! Wait, you're into it...?

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou. DEAD DOVE WARNING. If you are uncomfortable with disturbing themes like murder, you should not read this. Murder w/no remorse & def. Not taken seriously by Reader (you and Shoei are NOT normal), Knifeplay, DubCon to be safe, Deification (treating someone as if they are a God), Unprotected Sex. Cursing. Minors Do Not Interact. || Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: Heavily inspired by American Psycho, Scream, and Hip to Be Scared by Ice Nine Kills, so some quotes are nestled in there! This is for the "No, You Hang Up" Kinktober Ghostface Collab event. Reblogs & comments always appreciated.

Banner by me. Divider by @sister-lucifer

Why do all my clients have to live on the top floor of skyscrapers? I’ve been on this elevator for seven fucking minutes!

As one of the top sports agents in the industry, you’ve grown accustomed to the eccentricities of your clients: lavish penthouses, all-weekend sex parties that end up with a few broken hearts–never your clients, of course, and some not-so-flattering stories in the tabloids.

But right now, your focus is on the most unique client on your roster: world-renowned striker Shoei Barou. Sure, he often refers to himself as a “King,” which is odd and speaks to a deep-rooted ego problem, but the man is a force on the field. The endorsement deals never truly stop–being the villain is currently en vogue–and he pays really, really well. So to you, it’s all hail King Barou every fucking day.

As you step into his condo using your personal key after giving a few warning knocks but getting no response, you aren’t met with a simple hi, a gruff hello, or even a measly fucking grunt. No, you’re met with something far more exciting for a Wednesday!

“I fucked up bad.”

“I fucked up real fuckin’ bad.”

Shoei has his face buried in his palms; his bare shoulders are hunched tightly at his neck, and dried blood coats his hands and lower arms. 

That can’t be good for his posture, you think to yourself as you take inventory of the scene. Tipped-over cans of beer litter the pristine carpet, pizza boxes lay ajar, and the half-eaten pies are on the brink of becoming inedible as they sit out and harden from exposure to the cool air in the condo.

The mess is unlike him, but even more jarring is the body that’s splayed out, thick pools of dark-red blood coalescing around the nobody–god, you’re internal monologue sounds like Barou–and staining his pristine carpet. He doesn’t even let you wear shoes in his condo, but bleeding all over the place is fine apparently. 

“Y/N, you know I’m a bit fucking psychotic, but I’ve crossed the line, and I don’t think I’m going to get away with it this time.”

This time?

You find yourself oddly at peace with the scene. Sure, RIP to the poor sap laying in his own guts on the floor, but you’re actually more surprised Shoei hasn’t hurt someone sooner with his temper, and truth be told, you’ve seen much worse from some of your other clients. 

A sudden sniffle breaks you out of your thoughts, and you turn your head to the Barou, who looks so pitifully tiny hunched over as he sobs into his hands. “You aren’t crying, are you?” 

Your tone is rather harsh, and you mentally chastise yourself for your blunt delivery, but it’s too late–the question is already hanging laboriously in the air. Regardless, this is Barou! He curses you out practically every day and sends you a check with an obscene amount of dollar signs the next week! 

Barou peels his face out of his hands, his expression shifting between disturbance and disgust at your question.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who committed murder, not me.”

Shit. Maybe that was a beat too far because Barou rises quickly, his muscles rippling under his skin, tension coiled dangerously as he moves toward you with his hands clenched into tight fists. 

You don’t move because well, if this is your time to go, this is your time to go–you always knew it would be one of your clients, but you had clocked Ryusei as the one who was going to end you, not Barou. 

Huh, the universe is funny like that.

But Barou doesn’t swing or wrap his large hands around your throat; no, instead, he stops in front of you and sinks to his knees, those same hands that were used to take a man’s life grip at your dress in desperation.

“Please. I don’t want to go to jail. I still have championships to win and people to destroy.”

Of fucking course.

But fuck, seeing him on his knees like this stirs something in you–maybe it’s that you want to protect him or maybe you want to demand he lick a long stripe from your inner thighs to the seat of your panties since he’s already down there.

Focus.

You reach a pretty pedicured hand down, your nails digging into that well-defined jaw that’s justifiably earned him a full page spread in GQ magazine, and tilt his head upwards.

For a moment, you bask in the feeling that he’s looking up at you as though you’re someone to pray to–someone who can grant mercy and absolution for his sins. It’s fucking intoxicating being in this position and feeling like you hold his life in your hand because you undeniably do.

“Do you see what I am for you?” you whisper.

Crimson eyes stare up at you–big, pleading, desperate.

“I’m salvation,” you breathe in finality with only yourself, Shoei, and the dead nobody to bear witness.

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks up at you. “You can help…?”

You give him a sideways glance, knowing that you’ve got him right where you want him. “Oh, I can do more than help, sweetie. I can fix it.” You let the word ‘fix’ sit weighty in the air, a silent understanding passing between you as he sighs, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll give you a massive bonus if you can, well, you know.” He motions to the body, his eyes darting away quickly.

You, being a person who takes initiative, are already reaching into your pocket to make a call to a ‘cleaner’ that you keep on retainer. But as your finger hovers over the call button, you spot something peculiar not too far from the body. When you came in, you thought it was a tarp, Shoei’s poor attempt at cleaning up the evidence of his crime, but as you croon your neck to get a better look, you realize that it’s too small to be a tarp. 

On the floor, discarded but an obvious eyesore in the perfectly curated space is a cloak, a knife, and a….what the fuck? Is that a mask?

You walk over to the discarded costume, being careful to step over the body because you’ll be damned if you’re implicated in this mess, and nudge the mask with the toe of your heel. It’s a fucking Ghostface mask. How….macabre.

Shoei must feel the judgment flowing from your pores because he’s instantly sneering and hovering near you, his arm brushing against yours in what feels oddly intimate, considering the circumstances.  

“I didn’t want to kill him and get his blood all over my clothes, so I put on my Halloween costume to finish him off.”

“Do I want to know what you fought over?”

“Would it matter?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you pause because you realize that it doesn’t matter–even though you’re standing over a dead body and unreasonably close to his killer, you’re also painfully aware of the heat emitting from Shoei, the scent of his sweat–because killing someone is undoubtedly hard work–and the soft node of his cologne as it fills your nostrils.

And strangely, you’ve never been more turned on.

“What was it like? Killing him, I mean?”

Shoei turns to you, a flicker of surprise and something else–lust, perhaps–shining in his eyes. He pauses for a beat, studying your face to gauge your intentions before he answers. 

“I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.”

As he continues to speak, you notice the way his jaw clenches slightly, his adams apple bobbing as he recounts how he felt during the murder, and the distinct tent growing in his sweats.

“I thought being the king on the field, crushing people’s dreams and making them realize that I’m actually the main character in their own pathetic lives was fucking amazing, but slicing him up and seeing him choke on his own blood as I fucking finished a slice of pizza was the best I’ve felt in ages.”

And to the best of your knowledge, Shoei isn’t a liar. That answer was so honest that it was almost endearing.

Your eyes wander to the knife at your feet. The blood is thicker than what you’d imagine it to be–not that you spend time sitting around imagining blood-stained weapons. You bend down, pick up the knife, and examine it, holding it only inches from your face.

“It’s heavier than I expected,” you muse aloud. You bring the knife up to your neck, holding the blade to your throat, tilting your head back to avoid any knicks but still enough to feel the sticky, cold liquid smudge against the thundering pulse located in the column of your throat.

“That’s not how you hold it. If you aim the blade too high, you risk hurting them, but they won’t bleed out. You gotta hold it down; it gives you the best chance for a clean kill. Let me show you.” 

He wraps his hand around yours, guiding the knife in a way that does make sense–the new angle gives you a far better grip, and you realize that if you move even an inch, you risk cutting yourself.

“You know an awful lot about cutting throats, Barou.” 

He stiffens behind you. In that moment, something in the room shifts–as though the mask of sanity he was wearing, and has always worn, has slipped off to reveal something far more dangerous.

Shoei’s lips press against the shell of your ear, and his husky purr reverberates through your very bones. 

“Maybe a little.” 

You feel his other hand travel to your hip as he removes the knife from your palm and holds it in front of your face. It doesn’t exactly feel like a threat, but just as much as Shoei’s pulse beats slow in high-stress situations, so does yours because you’ve always been a bit different, too.

Your phone still in your hand feels like lead, heavy but useless, as he pulls it from your grip and tosses it to the couch. 

“I don’t think you understand how much I like my freedom, Y/N. I don’t think you understand how important it is to me that you appreciate the sanctity of our relationship and not make any assumptions about what I have–or haven’t done–before.” He brings the knife closer to your lips, smearing the blood across them as if you’re wearing candy-apple red lipstick.

“Discretion is my specialty,” you whisper, tongue darting out to taste the blood.

Shoei groans, his large frame pressing into you as he guides you to the arm of his couch, bending you over and splaying a large hand across the small of your back. 

“You’ve always been so good to me. Why have we never…?” As he speaks, he’s hiking up your skirt. His touch feels strangely reverent, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the nature of your relationship or because you now know way too much about each other. 

Shoei’s eyes narrow as he spots your underwear–a pesky barrier he plans to eliminate in the most efficient way he knows how. He brings the knife up to the cool cheeks of your ass, dragging the tip of the blade against your skin and leaving red whelps that threaten to bleed if he uses a bit more pressure.

“We’ve never fucked because you’re kind of a dick.”

“True,” he mumbles as he pulls the fabric of your panties and cuts through them until the garment sits against your skin but no longer covering any inch of you that matters. 

You let out a breathy moan as you can feel the tip of his cock nudging against the ring of your cunt, stretching you out deliciously until he snaps his hips, fully sheathing himself into your heat. His hand reaches under you as he presses at your pelvis, feeling where he can feel himself pushing inside of you.

He’s not gentle as he takes you, but you don’t need him to be. You want him as he is: perfect, godly, everything. 

“You’re not going to scream? Most people would call me inhuman for what I’ve done.”

“No, I actually think you’re more in touch with your humanity than you think, Barou. You’re just capable of doing what others can’t because you’re a God.”

And you’re not just saying that because there’s an alleged–because innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz–serial killer deep in your guts right now. You’ve known it for some time–that Shoei is everything that he says he is–a king, a God, the main character in everyone’s world, including yours.

You can’t take your eyes off the body on the floor as Shoei guides your hips in the way he likes–angling his own to drag his cock against your walls, verbally praising your cunt for how she’s gripping him. “You’re a fucking freak. You’re so fucking wet; I’m not going to last long with her sucking me off like this.”

His fingers thread through your hair, forcing your head back so he can look at your face as he molds your cunt into the shape of his cock. “Fuck, look at you taking care of me like a good little sports agent.” He throws his head back with a low, guttural moan, lost in the feeling of you and how you make him feel–powerful.

His thighs tense, his abs flexing as he gets closer to the edge, but at the last minute, he pulls out warm thick ropes of his cum, shooting onto your ass. After a few low groans, he smacks your ass and tucks himself back in his pants.

“So, you going to call those people to come and fix this?”

“Yeah,” you say as you stand up, straightening yourself out. “But I’m going to need another bonus for that.”

@interstellar-inn @pixelcafe-network @hayatoseyepatch

[arlerts-angel]

note: idk. been gone for ~5 days and wrote this with my pussy 👍 everybody give it up for me

warnings: dark content. 18+! mdni. dubcon (coercion). sacrilege/blasphemy. fem reader. unprotected sex ("accidental" creampie).

s.....soaking with church boy armin.

"mmm... don't worry – it's okay...i-it's okay!" he coos, wiping a tear from your cheek while slowly pushing himself into your sweet and sticky cunt. "it's okay because i'm not gonna move."

you squeeze your thighs together and armin inhales sharply, jerking back in a half-assed attempt to keep himself from cumming inside you.

"ngh...just a little bit... i-i need to move a little – just a little okay?" he asks, but doesn't wait for your answer before he slowly pushes and pulls his cock in and out of you.

you feel so good he could cry.

the sound of his skin slapping yours, the sloshing of your soaked cunt, and your breathy whining and moaning removes all reasoning within him.

"i can't stop," he breathes, "can't stop 'm sorry.... you're so...feels so...g...i can't... oh god... 'm sorry fuck i'm gonna cum i'm sorry 'm so sorry i'm cumming 'm cumming..!" he babbles, impaired by the orgasm and the feeling of dumping his load inside you.

god, it never felt so good to sin.

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[ang3lfluids]

Jeff fucking into your mouth, loving the way your body jerks and your makeup drips down your face as he pushes your head down. Him cooing at your pathetic attempts to free yourself to breathe. Smacking at your face as he makes you gag and spit around his dick. Droolssss

[sambi-bambi]

this may be sensitive but fucking blood play of the brothers it's just like grahhh(canon)

no like ur so real.

in my brain it’s demon blood junkie sammy getting found out by dean, who is so so mad and so so jealous

cuts his own palm and smears it over sam’s face, trying to force it into his mouth while shouting at him. why would sam need some bitch when dean was right here? why would he not ask dean first? it shattered the baby brother image dean was trying to fit sam into and he would, in a mimic of john, get angry and try to aggressively shove him into that again

he’d cut shallowly over sammy’s sternum and mix their blood—crazy risk of infection—or he’d cut right at his hairline where it bleeds a lot and do the same thing. he’d tell him they were one, to look at them, to look at it, that he didn’t need ruby, that he could have dean

but it wasn’t really sam having dean, now was it? it was all about dean having sam, bonded first by familial blood and yet— it wasn’t enough. dean would always want to have more. he would want him obsequious, forever adoring, he would want him romantically so sammy only ever looked at him, he would want him lustfully so sammy only ever touched him, he would want his blood in him so he could claim him down to his core

anyways that’s my take 🩶