#darkfic tw

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

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[bakugoushotwife]

𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 // 𝖘𝖚𝖐𝖚𝖓𝖆 𝖝 𝖋𝖊𝖒!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

↪↪↪ cw: minors dni, dark content ahead. each chapter will come with its own set of specific warnings. true form sukuna, yuujikuna, timeskip/reincarnation themed. heian era into the modern storyline. gore, murder, cannibalism, weapons, blood, slight blood/knife play, reader is lowkey crazy, made up technique for you, very selfship coded at that, pregnancy, death of characters including reader but we come back, miscarriage/infant loss, i'm just making up sukuna lore, smut, uh he's sukuna please be serious, proceed with caution!

↪↪↪ summary: you welcome the feared sorcerer ryomen sukuna into your settlement, hoping he'll spare your village from his conquering streak. what you—and he—did not expect was a wedding two weeks later. sukuna never does anything halfway, and marrying you is no exception. he is a doting husband and then expecting father, until you unexpectedly pass away...the grief turns him from a raging sorcerer into a scheming and scorned widower. he can't stand the idea of anyone living if he doesn't have you. he comes up with the idea of turning himself into a curse on his war for revenge, and patiently waits for his time to return—to burn the world down forever. one thousand years later, his energy sings to life again, in a miserable excuse of a sorcerer—a boy named yuuji itadori. sukuna is ready to enact his plan, to exterminate everyone and hopefully find you somewhere on the other side of things when it's all over. what he didn't account for was you; again. he doesn't believe it at first—but yuuji's best friend was...you?

↪↪↪ notes from the author: hi hi!! i have been dreaming this dream for a while now, and i get to live it every day thanks to my beautiful and amazing roleplay partner and overall wifey extraordinaire, @suguru-getos . we've played with this idea when we wanted to figure out a way to give sukuna and myself something to stand on because in all reality he'd likely squash me like a gnat if he met me so this was something fun we came up with. i love the idea of sukuna the human having some redeeming moments and knowing love and pure happiness and for that to be a driving force for him to become a curse! once again this will have dark content so proceed at your own risks and read the individualized content warnings for each chapter!!

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝖊𝖗𝖆

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖊𝖓

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓…

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖓 𝖊𝖗𝖆

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓...

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖛𝖊: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓...

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖎𝖝: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓...

↯↯↯ comment to be tagged!! banners are by @/cafekitsune

[lena-after-dark]

Pairing: Dark!Namor x Reader

Prompt: "I'll follow you to the ends of the earth. No matter where you run, I'll catch you."

Requested By: Anon

Warnings: Stalking, obsessive behavior, obsession at first sight.

You were on vacation the first time you felt him near. Of course then you didn't know what it was that haunted you through the waters.

The warm waves of the Atlantic washed all around you as you swam from the beach. You went as far as you felt safe to go, pausing to enjoy the sunshine and to sneak a peak at the marine life below. You were unsure how long you were in the water before you felt it. You knew there was a presence near you. You felt the pressure shift in the water, closing around you. Upon inspection, you saw nothing that would cause such a disturbance. But each time you stepped into the sea, you had the feeling that something was there - watching you.

That looming feeling of eyes upon you didn't let up, even after you were home. Though it was gone for a while, it came rushing back one rainy evening. It was enough to make you double check the locks on every door and window in your home. You peered outside and saw nothing. Always nothing. Except when the lightning flashed and there was a figure seemingly floating in the air. You only saw it once, and shrugged it off as your imagination.

Always when it was raining. That's when you'd feel it. That's when you'd see things. It was maddening. The figure only appeared when you were home - and when it was dark. Never when you could find proof that something was there.

Until you started receiving gifts, that was. Handcrafted jewelry and ornate shells appeared at your doorstep. And once on your windowsill - inside. That was enough to make you leave your home. And once again, the occurrences halted - for a time. Then you saw it again, not long after you'd moved. The figure floating in air. The shape of a man. You tried to capture an image, but it was gone before you could.

You had to get out of town again. This time to the mountains. The snow was a welcome distraction.

"Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

You were alone on the balcony of the lodge - sipping a hot drink and enjoying the setting sun. Something about him seemed familiar, though you didn't think you'd met him before. The glare of the sun obscured your view slightly.

"Yeah, it is. You're staying here as well?"

"Not exactly." The rich timbre of his voice was soothing. And yet something felt off. "Just visiting. It's very quiet around this lodge. You're the first person I've seen. Forgive my intrusion. I'm... Namor. May I ask your name?"

You told him your name out of compulsory politeness. He turned to face you, repeating your name with a smile. You could see him clearly now. He looked out of place - as if he were uncomfortable in the clothing he was wearing. Nothing in the style of his sweater or hat matched his earrings - and they unnerved you at the sight of them. They looked to be the same craftsmanship of the jewelry you'd been receiving. Or perhaps it was just a coincidence. You complimented them, testing the waters.

"You like them? Perhaps I'll have to get you a pair." You let out a nervous chuckle. It was time to leave. You made up a quick lie about needing to go and stood, noticing that he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"I'll see you again soon," he said as a goodbye. He sounded so charming. But there was something dark in the phrase. It was a promise. You dared a last glance at him and saw that he hadn't taken his eyes off of you. That familiar feeling was back tenfold.

Namor kept his promise. When you returned home, a pair of green earrings was waiting inside. You weren't delusional. This man - or whatever he was - was following you. Could he fly? What was he? There were so many questions, and no answers to any of them. And now that he'd appeared before you, certainly things were going to escalate. You had to leave again. You moved only when it was bright and dry as a bone outside. You were careful - leaving no trace of where you might've gone. You installed a camera, extra locks, everything you could think of.

You thought you were rid of him. Through stormy nights you didn't see or feel anything out of the ordinary. No gifts were left for you to find. No figure floating outside your window.

Apparently he just needed time to find you.

Your face to face meeting had made him bolder. You saw him again - hovering outside your window as the rain fell. This time he didn't disappear. This time he flew to the glass, placing his hand against it as he looked inside at you.

You scrambled away, trying to alert the authorities. It didn't matter if they didn't believe you. You needed to know someone was on the way to you.

Namor was inside before you could give dispatch your address. He was behind you with his hand wrapped around yours, pulling the phone from your ear and ending the call. The other was around your mouth, preventing you from yelling. He shushed you when you yelled into his hand - as if he were attempting to soothe you.

"I have to admit, I am enjoying our game of cat and mouse."

You pulled away from him, and he let you. When you faced him, a grin had spread across his lips.

"Did you like the earrings," he ended his question with something in a language you didn't understand. Most likely a term of endearment.

"Get out. Now. The cops will be here any moment." He chuckled at that, and paid the thin threat no mind.

"I think I'll keep our game going a little longer," he said as he stepped closer. You instinctively stepped back, and he continued forward until you were against a piece of furniture and couldn't retreat any further. He reached his hand out and ran his knuckles against the side of your arm. The touch sent shivers down your spine.

"I'll give you two weeks this time before I look for you again."

No matter what you said, or what questions you asked, he had no interest in elaborating. Whatever his intentions were in the end, he kept them from you. He wouldn't tell you why he was there, what he wanted from you, nothing.

“I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. No matter where you run, I’ll catch you.” 

He left through the window, flying into the darkness so quickly that he barely looked like a shadow across the sky.

Buy Me a Coffee?

[the-modern-typewriter]

ive been obsessed with your work and i honestly just can't get enough of them! Could i make a request please please please! Supervillain captures hero and tortures them for months until they suddenly get bored of them and ask villain to get rid of them. Villain doesn't know that it's hero he was ordered to kill by supervillain and when he enters the cell where hero was he becomes shocked by what he sees and can't get himself to kill hero. Please continue this however you like im so excited!!

The villain stopped in the doorway of the cell.

It would be wrong to say he stopped dead, given being dead was supposed to be a relatively peaceful thing after the horror of it all.

(The hero, surely, wished that they were dead.)

The villain's mouth worked, but no sound would come out at first. He felt like he'd been punched in the windpipe. In the stomach. In all the vulnerable, gasping places.

(The hero, surely, would find that laughable given the state of them. They would love to only have the air knocked out of them.)

They lay in a broken heap in one corner of the otherwise pristine cell - no chance of infection or disease ending their suffering early, oh no. They were a blot of colour against the white of it all. Bruises yellow and purple and green. Blood red. The glint of bone where no bone should be visible.

Perfectly clean, glossy hair. Intricate, shiny restraints untouched by the violence around them. No clothes.

"Have you come to kill me?" the hero asked.

Their voice was raw, raspy, whether from disuse or screaming he couldn't be sure. It was impossible to miss the most tentative note of hope in the hero's tone.

The villain swallowed. Hard. "Yes," he said. Then, "I've been ordered to. I -" He swore. "I didn't know you were here. I didn't - oh god. How long have you been here?"

He willed down the nausea. What right did he have to be nauseous?

It was impossible to miss the hope and, abruptly, equally impossible to fulfill his task.

He crossed the room in one swift movement, kneeling at the hero's side, flailing to pull off his jacket. To cover the hero with something soft and kind against the bitter chill of the dungeons.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay? It's going to be alright."

He didn't want to bring a blade down on the hero's ruined flesh, he wanted to offer soothing creams and bandages. He didn't want to invite the hero to drink poison, when he could give painkillers. How could he destroy? All he wanted was to fix.

The hero's gaze finally moved over to him, with seemingly great effort. There was very little behind their eyes. Everything except desperation had been carved out, leaving them some hollowed thing with their innards dumped like garbage on the side.

The villain was reminded of Halloween pumpkins and husked-out dolls, rabid dogs too exhausted to do more than froth and whine.

"Please," the hero said. "Don't."

Once upon a time, the hero had never pleaded. At least not without a glint in their eyes, a mocking twist of their bright mouth, like pleading was a favour, an inside joke that they were both in on.

"You don't want to get out of here?" the villain demanded.

"I don't want to wake up here again tomorrow."

"I won't let that happen."

"Like you didn't let this happen?"

The villain flinched. There was nothing he could say to that, was there? He could beg forgiveness, but the hero didn't even say it like accusation. It was just a matter of fact. Resigned.

"Finish it." The hero closed their eyes, apparently done with the conversation. "If you ever cared about me. Just...just finish it. You need to finish it. Please."

The villain pulled a knife obligingly from one of his many sheathes. He'd seen a lot of dead bodies. His hand wavered, utterly unable to imagine the hero as one of them.

"No," the villain said. His shoulders squared. "No. You're right, I let you down. God, I let you down. But I - I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix this."

Maybe it was selfish. He'd never claimed to be an altruistic man.

He stepped out of the dungeons some twenty minutes later, gently cradling the hero's body in his arms.

He stopped a second time.

The supervillain lounged against the stairs leading up, eyes glittering, a delighted grin upon their face.

The villain's mouth dried. He glanced down at the hero, who tensed, but did not seem surprised.

They seemed...guilty.

The villain's stomach plunged icy.

"Oh, you failed," the supervillain crooned. They pushed to their feet. "I really wasn't sure which way it would go. We had to have a little bet."

"You-"

The supervillain attacked with monstrous swiftness. Both hero and villain cried out as they hit the floor; the sounds impossible to distinguish from each other. Everything rang sickening with pain.

The supervillain caught hold of the villain's hair, yanking their head back. In an instant, the villain felt their powers sweep over his body, locking every joint and muscle in place. Rigid. Rigor-mortis.

"Good job," the supervillain said, to the hero, in the tone of one promising a lollypop to a toddler. "As promised, you can go now. Crawl away if you can. The front gate locks in one hour! You know what happens if you don't make it."

The hero choked on a sob.

The villain and the supervillain both watched them, agonisingly, try to move. They managed a mere inch. Dragging themselves, with bloodied-nails, across the polished floor.

Then the supervillain turned their attention, dismissively, back to the villain. They tightened their grip, dragging the villain's body back towards the cell, the way they'd come.

"Ah well," they shrugged. "That's a them problem."

"No." It came out a wheeze, barely audible through the villain's frozen lips. "[Hero], please, what-"

"This," the supervillain declared, throwing him down where the hero had been. "Is going to be so much fun. Traitor."

[caroldantops]

I HAD THOTS, DARK ONES, AND THIS IS ALL OVER THE PLACE BUT LISTENNN..

pretending to still be asleep for a few nights in a row though you’ve woken up to sweet gf vanessa who has only ever been gentle and caring with you and she’s just whimpering mostly incoherent ramblings to herself, touching herself pressed up behind you and getting off to the thought of raping you because she’s just so needy when you look so compliant “baby i’m trying so hard not to hurt you but you’re just too pretty”, you think it’s just a fantasy that maybe she’s too ashamed or embarrassed of to talk about and that she would never really wanna hurt you so you ignore it..

until she does finally fuck you in your sleep, panting “i know it hurts, i know but you’re such a pretty little slut i knew you could take it, be a good bunny for me” into your ear when you wake up from the roughness, pinned down under her so you can’t move

warnings: darkfic, smut (18+ only), noncon (rape), somnophilia, breathplay, masturbation, vaginal penetration (reader receiving), pet names (baby, bunny)

vanessa can't help herself.

you look so peaceful, so sweet, so innocent as you sleep next to her. it makes her want to kiss you all over, worship your entire body until you're dazed with pure fuzzy bliss.

and it also makes her want to take that sweet innocence and absolutely ruin it.

she kisses your shoulder softly from behind, spooning you as she does every night, listening to your steady breathing. she imagines what how your breathing would stutter if she were to wrap her hand around your throat, silencing any complaints as she eased her fingers or her strap into your wet cunt.

god. that cunt.

always so fucking wet for her. dripping. she's so sure that even if you were pushing her away begging her to stop, your pussy would still be soaked for her. even if you ever forgot that you were hers to worship and fuck and torture, she knows that your cunt will remember.

the image of you struggling underneath her makes her ache, and she sighs as she slips her hand between her thighs. her panties are wet with her slick. she pushes under them, two fingers stroking her clit as she presses herself as close to you as possible.

her breath becomes labored as she works herself to a slow climax, staying as quiet as she can. she mumbles under her breath, "fuck, baby, you make me insane." as she comes down from that high.

this keeps up for weeks. she makes love to you, all soft touches and sweet nothings, and then after you fall asleep she gets off imagining forcing herself on you instead. telling you how pathetic you look as she has her way with you, completely powerless to stop her.

one night she finally breaks. you go to bed wearing one of her shirts and nothing else but a cute pair of panties underneath, and she can't stop herself from running her hands up your body and groping you.

"pretty, so so pretty baby," she whispers too low for you to stir awake completely. she pinches your nipples, groaning as she feels them harden between her fingers. "fuckkkk, your body wants me so bad."

she moves quickly after that, unable to resist these urges any longer. she rolls you over, tugging your shirt up over your chest and wrapping her mouth around your nipples. you start to stir, so she moves quickly, hand pushing your panties aside.

she groans as she feels the wetness painting your inner thighs.

"just like i thought bunny, always ready for me..."

your eyes groggily blink open as you suddenly feel full. you look up, dazed and confused as you make eye contact with your girlfriend. "nessa?"

"shhh, bunny," she revels in how you look as you piece together what's happening, what she's doing to you. she shoves three fingers inside you. you jerk, not nearly wet enough to comfortably take that many so quickly. "you can take it. you'll take it."

"vanessa, what are you--"

"just let it happen baby, it'll be over soon."

[pfhwrittes]

oh god here we go. alright read the fucking warnings. 

18+ ONLY

TW: noncon, somnophilia, male masturbation, spit, facial, alcohol mention.

pairing: john “soap” mactavish x female reader

word count: 966 words of smut.

AN: this is @kaadaaan's fault. also i wrote this all in one go with minimal editing because my brain was being rotted and i needed to get it out. poor grammar and typos are likely, for that i apologise.

-- johnny is your friend, he’s been your friend for a long long time and as such he has a key to the door to your house to use and your blessing that he can just drop in whatever time he likes when he’s on leave. it’s not uncommon for you to come downstairs in the morning to find him sprawled out on your sofa wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, one foot planted on the rug under the sofa and the other hanging off the armrest. 

he’s larger than life, your johnny. the other half to your brain sometimes. jokingly referred to as your brother from another mother. you love him, but only as a friend. despite that, he’s got a key to your house and a piece of your heart because you know he’ll never do anything to hurt you.

johnny on the other hand doesn’t love you like a sister. he loves you with a capital L and something feral behind his eyes. his smile always goes a little too sharp whenever you crack that “joke” that you love him like a brother because he knows if you knew the way he’d been thinking about you for years you’d have locked up your heart and house tight instead of inviting the wolf to stay. 

-

that obsession is how he ends up in this position, just like he has countless times before, standing like a sentinel at your bedside. the only light to see your gorgeous face is the streetlight that curls probing fingers through the thin curtains of your bedroom window. you’re beautiful like this. he honestly doesn’t know how his gaze hasn’t woken you yet, surely you can feel the way he traces every shadow and highlight on your face. surely you can feel the way he stares at your open mouth, driven to madness by the slight spit at the corners of your mouth. fuck it’s almost too much for him. but still he stands frozen, just watching. never touching. not until tonight.

you’d both been drinking. johnny had switched to water part way through the night, you hadn’t and so with johnny’s help you’d stumbled up the stairs to your room and passed out flat on your back. not terribly unusual, he’s seen you do it before when you’ve been drinking. he’s heard your snoring through the walls before. but tonight is different. 

later, when he creeps down the stairs to slump onto the sofa, he’ll blame the lingering buzz of alcohol in his blood for daring to do what he’s thought about for so long. but right now, he’s staring at your open mouth watching a faint glimmer of light hit your wet pink tongue and fisting his cock over your sleeping face. grateful for the fact that you always sleep like the dead when you’re drunk and nothing except the world ending could possibly wake you. 

despite the reassurance that you won’t wake - can’t wake - the sound of his hand moving over his cock is loud in his ears. he’s sure the slick noises are drowning out even the gentle open mouth snores you offer into the air. he positive that in mere moments your eyelids will flicker open and you’ll look up at him, your corrupted sentinel, to see the way he’s gripping his cock desperately. his hips jerking in aborted thrusts as he thrusts into the tight fist he’s made around himself.

a groan slips through johnny’s gritted teeth as his thumb swipes another bead of precum over the flushed head of his cock. 

fuck. 

if he doesn’t slow down he knows without a shadow of a doubt he’ll end up coming on your sleeping face. a spurt of precum dribbles from his cock at the thought. oh fuck. he wants that. he wants to come on your face. he wants to let the thick white ropes coat your cheeks and chin. maybe even cover your open mouth with some of his come so you wake up with the taste of him on your tongue. 

johnny’s hips jerk forward as his orgasm blindsides him completely. his eyes roll back into his head and he whines desperately through his nose, teeth sinking into his lower lip to trap the moan that's burning his throat. 

moments or maybe aeons later, his vision clears and he looks down at you. 

“fuckin’ hell” it’s whispered, part reverence for the sight that greets him, part fear of waking you prematurely. 

your face is covered. johnny’s come drips from your cheeks. it slides down the curve of your jaw onto your neck where it pools, glimmering in the low light, before dribbling onto your pillow. a pearlescent string clings to your top lip and then - and johnny swears he feels his cock twitch out another dribble at the sight - you lick it off.

johnny takes a step backwards from you on shaky legs. he needs to leave, now. if he doesn’t, christ he doesn’t know what he’d do to you. he doesn’t want to find out how far the depths of his depravity go. he doesn’t want to know if he could get away with scooping some of his come off your chin and pushing it into your mouth. he doesn’t want to know if that would be enough for the taste to linger in the morning when you wake up.

with one last lingering look at your face he tucks himself back into his boxers and leaves you. covered, marked, his. 

-

in the morning you wake with blurry eyes and a thick head. god you’d really had too much to drink last night. you smack your lips together and frown at the taste in your mouth. it’s sour and slightly musky. 

oh well, you must’ve fallen asleep with your mouth open again.

--

here be kink taglist: @kaadaaan ; @waves-against-a-cliff ; @acenby-weirdo ; @greatstormcat

[sister-lucifer]

Talk About a Mind Fuck

Tim Wright/Masky x Ticci Toby 

A COLLAB WITH @cryptidcircuswrites ! PLEASE CHECK OUT HIS VERSION HERE! 

Genre: Gore smut 

Summary: A mission goes awry and Toby is shot straight through the skull. Tim decides to take the new hole for a spin, and Toby is more than happy to let him have it. 

Content/warnings: OHHH MY GOOOOD DONT FUCKING READ THIS IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, Toby literally gets his brain fucked, bullet hole wound fucking, explicit gore, I cannot emphasize this enough STRAIGHT UP PENIS IN BRAIN SEX, brain creampie, guns/shooting/etc, age gap but everyone is a consenting adult, fake out death, Toby vomits a little at the end, cum leaking out of face holes it should never be in, mirror sex, rough dom top Tim, Tim bullies Toby for his trauma regarding his physically abusive father, use of homophobic language/slurs, degradation, just general nastiness, very mean spirited. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. THIS IS AS DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT AS IT GETS.

A/N: if you skipped the warnings on this one or didn’t read them all the way, go back and fucking look at all of them, otherwise don’t read. 

Breaking and entering. 

It’s a routine for Tim and Toby at this point. 

Tim can brute force open any door, Toby can pick any lock, and both of them have long since shaken off any qualms about taking a life. They’re skilled at it now, neither of them ever leaving the cabin without their weapon of choice. In a line of work like this one, after all, you can never be too prepared. 

This was supposed to be easy. 

Three people in the house, a couple and their third wheel squatting in an abandoned vacation home. Bare bones interior, probably no weapons. 

Probably.

A lot of good ‘probably’ had done them. 

Toby had gone in while Tim stood watch in the doorway, just in case one of their targets tried to run out. His revolver fit into his palm like a glove, his grip confident and ready. He’s done this a million times before. 

Tim can only hear the altercation going on in the back rooms of the house, but he has a good idea of what’s happening. 

The sound of a hatchet coming down onto a throat. 

One down. 

A woman screams. Something knocks over, a shelf or a table. A splatter. Silence.

Two down.

A man cries out. Something hits the wall. Rogers swears. There’s a struggle. A gunshot rings out. 

…A gunshot. 

A gunshot?! 

Footsteps.

Fast, frantic footsteps coming down the hallway. 

Tim readies himself, aiming towards the dark hall with a hand that is far too steady. He’s holding his breath. The steps are getting closer. 

In a split second’s time the last target emerges from the shadows, Tim’s gaze zeroes in on the whites of his eyes and the trigger of his revolver is pulled by a swift finger one, two, then three times. 

The shots ring in his ears as the body falls limply to the floor, devoid of life in an instant. 

Three down. 

But still one bullet unaccounted for. 

“Rogers?” Tim calls into the hallway, stepping over the body without looking down. 

No answer.

“Rogers!” He says again, with more authority this time. 

Nothing. 

That little fucker runs his mouth like an engine at all hours of the day, but now he’s quiet? 

A stabbing pain of fear twists in Tim’s gut. 

Their ‘boss’ won’t let them die, he knows that. The pseudo immortality they’ve been given keeps their bodies functioning and regenerating even after some of the worst injuries one could imagine; he knows that, he’s felt it, and yet… 

This silence is sickening. 

He can’t stop himself from rushing into the makeshift bedroom, heavy boots on the creaky wood floor announcing his presence before he calls for his partner again. 

“Answer me, dammit, Rogers!” 

He looks around the room, scanning the blood splattered walls. Two bodies are slumped against them, opposite to each other, one with its neck severed and the head hanging on by a thread of viscera, and the other with half of its innards thrown to the floor. Neither are Toby, he knows that in an instant. 

Then his gaze trails to the center of the floor. 

The cold washes over him so suddenly he feels faint. He can feel the color draining from his face as he lays eyes on his partner, face down on the ground, a thick splatter of blood painting a moonlit halo around his head. 

Or what’s left of it, anyways.

A hastily fired bullet has carved a path through the boy’s skull and out the other side. 

Clean through. 

Tim’s body seizes with shock, disgust, grief, and everything in between, tensing so suddenly and so harshly he nearly passes out. A hand clamps over his mouth as it opens in a silent scream, a gasp that can’t escape because he can’t breathe. He rushes to the body before he can stop himself. 

“Rogers?! Rogers, get up!” He demands, but the way his voice cracks and trembles shows his true fear. He shakes his partner’s still body harshly, desperate to jar him into consciousness.

There’s no movement. 

Not a sound. 

Tim’s eyes start to wet behind his mask. He shakes harder, even bringing a fist down on his shoulder blade. 

Nothing. 

“This isn’t fucking funny, Toby!” Tim screams, landing a few more punches on his back, “I’ve seen you take worse than this, get up!” 

Not even a twitch. 

The realization settles in like splinters under Tim’s skin. 

He backs away from the body, the room spinning around him. He grasps at his face under his mask, his lungs starting to expand and restrict so fast it’s painful. There’s a searing panic burning the back of his skull and threatening to engulf his entire body. He stumbles back and falls onto one of the now bloodied mattresses their targets had been sleeping on. 

This isn’t happening. 

This isn’t happening. 

He’s not really gone.

He’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone— 

A sudden noise makes Tim jump out of his skin, his eyes shooting up to find the source of the sound. 

Was that a…cough? 

He looks down at Toby’s body. 

It hasn’t moved. 

Maybe it was just air escaping, or some other weird thing bodies do after death. If he didn’t get up already, then he must be…

Tim nearly screams when Toby suddenly splutters and hacks, his body jerking as he fights for air. Tim is frozen in place as he watches the partner he thought was dead slowly struggle to get up, managing to get on his hands and knees. He coughs again, spitting onto the ground and groaning at the unpleasant but not unfamiliar sight of blood. 

“Yeugh…god, it’s in m-my nose,” Toby mumbles with a sniffle, wiping his face with his sleeve. He doesn’t notice Tim as he sits up on his knees, inspecting himself in a way that is far too casual.

…He has no idea what just happened. 

Tim can feel his eye twitching as he stands up slowly, his frenzied gaze trained on the younger man as he approaches. Toby looks up at the sound of the footsteps, and Tim has to stop himself from reacting to the sight. His body trembles as he forces himself to stay still. 

Toby’s right eye is completely gone. There’s not even a shred of the eyeball left, only a pulsing, bloody cavity he instantly recognizes as the entry hole of a bullet. 

Toby blinks up at Tim with his remaining eye. 

“S-Shit, I must’ve passed out when—bitch!—when h-he hit me, heh. What, you-you thought I was—grrrk!—d-dead for real?” Toby asks with a head tilt and an amused giggle. Tim’s eyes narrow. 

Slowly Tim turns his head, following the imaginary trail the bullet would have made based on where Toby fell. 

Right there, lodged into the decrepit wall right next to the doorway. 

The first bullet. 

Clean through, and out the back. 

Toby follows his gaze, squinting in the dark to see whatever it is his senior partner is seeing. 

“…O-Oh shit,” He mutters, “Talk about a-a close—don’t listen!—a close call—c-call—call me!—hehe…”

Tim stares back at him with a look in his eyes that says ‘You have no fucking idea.’

“…W-Why are you looking at me— a-at me like that?”

Tim looks around. For some reason, he’s not sure how to answer that. 

That is, until he lays eyes on a conspicuously mirror shaped object draped in a sheet and pushed into the corner.

Yeah, it’s easier to just show him.

Tim shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he walks over to the mirror, trying not to rush. He’s annoyed with Toby for scaring him like that and nearly bringing him to tears, even if it’s not really his fault. Maybe startling him a bit will take the edge off that embarrassment. 

Toby’s eye follows him closely as he walks, then watches as his hand slowly raises to grasp the sheet obscuring the mirror. His brow raises, curiosity piqued. 

The sheet is pulled away in an instant. The cloud of dust that results makes Toby cough, trying to wave it away from his face. He squints through the grimy mist, struggling to make out his own reflection in the mirror.

“L-Look, Tim, I don’t know what it-it is that you n-need me to—suck it! fuck you!—see, but I-I don’t— Oh my fucking God?!”

There it is. 

Toby crawls closer to the mirror, his remaining eye wider than Tim had ever seen it and the hole where the matching one would’ve been stretching gruesomely. 

Tim winces. Toby can’t feel it, even if he could feel pain normally all that nerve damage would make it numb, but Tim can’t stop imagining what it would feel like. 

“…Jesus Christ…” Is all Toby can manage as he looks at what remains of his face. He feels around the wound, getting far too close to touching the exposed insides for Tim’s comfort. Toby stares at himself for a long few moments. Tim can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

Then Toby turns to his partner, and to Tim’s surprise, he’s sporting the widest, most lopsided grin he’s ever seen, his crooked teeth stained with blood on one side where it runs down his cheek from the wound. Tim holds back a shudder. 

“The fuck you cheesin’ for?” Tim growls, walking around behind Toby to see him in the mirror, “You nearly got half your damn face blown off!” 

“Relax, o-old man!” Toby replies without missing a beat, “In a-a few days there won’t e-even be a— b-be a mark…”

Tim rolls his eyes behind his mask. That’s true, yes. An injury this extensive will take a bit to regenerate, but it’ll grow back like nothing happened. Still, Toby doesn’t even seem mildly disturbed. He practically saw himself die, and here he is giggling to himself and moving his face in odd ways just to see the horrid wound contort in the mirror. The quiet squelching noises it makes nearly bring Tim to vomit. 

“…You’re not even a little put off by the fact that…you know. You’re missing half your fuckin’ face?!” 

Toby lets out a sharp laugh at Tim’s outburst, amused by his clear discomfort. 

“Don’t be s-such a—bitch! bastard!— baby, I-I think it’s—asshole!—I think it’s k-kinda cool. Besides…”

He turns to look up at Tim, yellow teeth glowing in the moonlight that leaks in through the busted windows. 

“…I-I got a brand new hole f-for you to try out.” 

Tim gasps in disgust. Before he can think a hand comes up to smack Toby upside the head, though he immediately regrets it when a splatter of blood is thrown to the floor as Toby rocks forward. 

“Don’t say shit like that, you dirty fuckin’ pervert!” 

Toby nearly breaks out into hysterics at that, grabbing his sides as he laughs like a maniac. His tics increase tenfold at the sudden rush of energy, his fingers flexing unnaturally and tearing at his sweatshirt.

“H-How can I not?! You m-make it so f-fucking—fuck! funny!— fun, haha!” Toby replies, his voice cracking as his head jerks involuntarily in all directions.

Tim crosses his arms, huffing in annoyance but not sure what to say. He can feel his cheeks getting warm under his mask. He hates when Toby laughs at him. It pisses him off like nothing else. 

He stares daggers into Toby’s restless reflection as he leans into the mirror to inspect his wound again, mumbling to himself endlessly and doing his best to stay still. 

Toby’s rambling starts to fade out as Tim glares at his mirror image. He can feel something dark bubbling up inside of him, its vines sprawling out and over his body as he marinates in his thoughts. 

He thought he was gone. 

For a second there, he really thought he’d lost Toby for good.

And now here he is, without a care in the world, looking at his own fucking gunshot wound like it’s a new tattoo. 

Someone oughta teach this kid a lesson. 

Tim’s not sure what comes over him, but something, a nagging little thought has settled into his brain and taken root there. It thumps in the back of his skull like a heartbeat under the floorboards. He pulls one of his hands from its glove, looking down at his bare palm. 

“…You think this is all some joke, don’t you?” Tim mutters, forcing the words through gritted teeth. Toby doesn’t even turn to look at him. 

“W-Why are so damn u-uptight, old man? It’s not—grrrk!—it’s not like I d-died. Psuedo-immortality, r-remember?”

“But you could’ve. You know at the end of the day you can’t really trust anything that monster gives you. It would kill you in an instant if it felt threatened or betrayed.” 

“T-The fuck is your— i-is your problem?!”

Suddenly Toby isn’t all smiles anymore. His head jerks to the side violently, pulling a sickening pop from his neck. Tim is used to these mood swings, but that doesn’t stop the heavy tension that settles over the room. 

“Y-You’re always on my back about something, a-aren’t you old man?!” Toby hisses. Tim’s ungloved hand squeezes and flexes at his side. 

“You a-always got something to say about m-me, or what I—fucker! shit!—what I-I think, you can never j-just let me—“ 

Toby is cut off as a high pitched cry is violently forced from his throat, making his body spasm as it dissolves into an animalistic moan like neither of them have ever heard. It feels like every nerve in his body is seizing, splitting apart and contorting under his skin. He almost screams at the feeling, but he can’t manage it. He’s choking on nothing.

There’s a sickening squelch as something is ripped from the back of his skull, and he falls forward onto his hands, dizzy and struggling to breathe. 

“W-What…what the f-fuck…was…”

He can’t even finish the sentence between his inability to process the unnatural sensation that just overtook him and the indescribable feeling still rippling through his body. 

Slowly he cranes his neck to look back up into the mirror. Instantly his eye is locked onto Tim’s, but he isn’t looking back. He’s staring at something else. 

He follows Tim’s gaze down slowly, swallowing thickly with a sudden nervousness. His eye widens as it falls on the thing that has captivated Tim‘s gaze: 

His ungloved hand, the middle and ring fingers now dripping with blood and viscera not his own. 

No. Fucking. Way.

“Did…d-did you just…”

Tim doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to. 

For the first time in a long time, Toby is still. His twitching and jerking ceases, his face halts its uncomfortable wrenching; He’s still, and soundless. 

There’s a beat of silence where they both just stare at Tim’s bloodied hand, neither of them moving an inch. It’s like time has stopped in this instant. Toby can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his brain. Something in his chest is twisting and turning with a burning emotion he can’t quite place yet. 

He doesn’t even have time to process the sudden movement before Tim has plunged his fingers into the wound once again. 

This time Toby is forced to watch his reflection in the mirror as Tim violates the gorey cavity, thick digits rooting around inside his head and shooting a new sensation through him with every touch. His entire body stiffens, his mouth falling open involuntarily as he loses control of it. He can feel his senses being reduced to mush as he groans, the endless sound falling from his lips in unintelligible waves. It’s mindless, desperate babbling, but he can’t do anything else. 

Toby watches the depraved scene in the mirror until his eye starts to roll back in his head, further than it should be able to. Tim watches the hazel iris recede until only white is left. Only then does he finally give some reprieve, yanking his hand back and shaking off the chunks that come with it.

Toby’s head bows towards the ground as he catches his breath, his entire body rocking as he heaves desperately for air. He’s too preoccupied to notice the way Tim is leering down at him, his breathing now hot and labored. 

“…How did that feel?” 

Toby sneers at the question, not looking up. 

“H-How did it feel?! You’re d-digging around—shhhh!— in m-my fucking brain, d-dipshit, how do you— d-do you think it f-feels?!”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I know it doesn’t hurt, so how does it feel?” 

For some reason, Toby doesn’t have an answer to that. He wants to snap back with something witty and biting, to tell him it feels like Hell and back and if he doesn’t stop he’ll scatter his brains next, but…

That wouldn’t be the total truth. 

“…It…I-It feels…” He stammers, unable to find the words. He sits back up on his knees, locking eyes with his partner in the mirror. Tim is silent. He’s anticipating the rest of that sentence. Toby thinks for a moment, a series of tongue clicks in an odd rhythm sounding as he pauses. 

“…It…I-It wasn’t bad, if that’s w-what you’re looking for.” 

Tim’s breath hitches. 

Only Toby could hear a sound so small, yet so telling. 

He has to push this further.

“A-Actually it was kind of…k-kind of good, y-you know? I-I don’t know—rrrngh!—how to explain it, but i-it just…it’s like n-nothing I’ve ever f-felt or imagined, I-I—“

Toby cuts himself off with a gasp as Tim grasps his hair tightly. His other hand moves to his belt. The sound of the metal buckle makes Toby shiver. 

Tim leans down a bit, speaking lowly to his partner. 

“Keep talking.” 

Toby’s stomach flips. 

Tim’s not giving him a choice.

“I-It’s like…fuck, it’s l-like every muscle in my— in my b-body is spasming like c-crazy,” Toby continues, watching with crazed eyes as Tim slides the belt from its loops. He grits his teeth as it clatters to the ground. 

He doesn’t want this to stop. 

He has to keep going. 

“I-It’s like f-fire under my skin, b-but I can’t feel t-the burn…” 

Tim’s hand moves to the fly of his jeans. 

“…I-I lose all control of m-my body, I can’t—fuck off!—I-I can’t even think, i-it just all turns i-into gibberish…”

Tim tugs down his zipper, and Toby can see his twitching bulge straining against his boxers. 

“…It’s l-like I can feel myself l-losing my mind, and I c-can’t do anything— d-do anything about it, I c-can’t even p-put—put it back! put it back!—put together a sentence…”

Tim hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers. He starts to push them down. 

“…F-Fuck, Tim, I-I wanna feel it again.” 

Toby clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the moan that threatens to break free as he watches Tim’s erection spring free from the confines of his clothes. He’s thick and uncut, throbbing with rabid need. Toby shudders as his partner lets out a relieved groan, breathing hard under his mask. 

“S-Shit, Tim…y-your—your cock! your cock!—n-no! I mean you’re—your cock! your cock! fat cock!—dammit! I-I didn’t mean to s-say that—!”

“I’m taking you up on your offer, Rogers…” Tim growls, cutting off Toby’s attempt to explain himself. He grabs Toby’s head with both hands, fingers digging into the front of his wound on one side and the gash in his cheek on the other. This time Toby doesn’t bother to stop the moan that crawls up his throat as he feels Tim’s cock rut against the back of his head.

“…I wanna give this new hole of yours a proper fucking. What do you say?”

Toby can’t see Tim’s mouth, but he can tell he’s smiling from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners behind his mask. Toby groans at the thought. He can’t stop the crooked grin that spreads across his pale face like butter on a hot pan.

“P…P-Please, Tim,” He whispers, and he knows he’s hit a nerve when he feels Tim‘s grip tighten for a moment.

“…Please what, Rogers?” 

He figured he wouldn’t get it that easy. 

“Please, Tim,” Toby continues, sucking in  a breath and swallowing his pride, “I-I want you t-to fuck me, please—“ 

Tim ruts against the back of his head again, barely brushing his wound. He wants more.

“P-Please, fuck, I-I’m—need! give it!—I’m begging you! I need it, I-I need you to fuck m-my brains out, please!” 

Tim shifts his hips. He’s lining up at the opening. 

It’s working. 

“Please, please, p-please, Tim, I-I want you to f-fuck my brain! I n-need to—fffuck! fuck! fuck!—I need t-to feel it! Please, dammit, j-just fucking—!”

Toby doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. 

Tim shoves himself inside the bloody cavity without warning, forcing Toby’s brain out of the way as his cock enters. The scream that rocks Toby’s body is as lustful as it is carnal and gruesome. He reaches up on instinct and grabs Tim’s wrists, not trying to pull his hands away but holding on for dear life before he loses the ability to move at all. 

“You broke so easy,” Tim sneers as he bottoms out, talking over Toby’s uncontrollable moaning, “What would the others think if they saw you begging for dick like a whore on the street? Huh?!”

He punctuates his sentence with a sudden rut of his hips, making Toby yelp and his body jerk. His nails dig into Tim’s arms, and the pain is delicious. 

Tim studies the scene before him in the mirror. 

It’s disgusting. It’s horrid. He can see the tip of his leaking cock resting inside his partner’s skull. 

He doesn’t want this to end. 

He’s going to relish this opportunity, every sickening moment of it. 

“What would they think…”

Tim starts to pull back, breath trembling at the slick noises from the movement.

“…If they knew I had you whining for me like a dirty fuckin’ sissy?!”

He pushes back in with even more force than before. Blood is forced out the front of the wound, dripping down Toby’s face and onto the floor, leaving a red trail on his skin. His meaningless babbling is music to Tim’s ears.

Again Tim pulls back, faster this time, and pushes in again. He watches Toby’s face in the mirror as he finds his rhythm, completely enamored as it contorts with overwhelming sensations that no human should ever experience. His mouth is hanging completely open, his tongue limp and lying against his chin as he pants and wails desperately like a dog in heat. He’s starting to drool from the lack of muscle control.

There’s something about watching Toby quite literally lose his mind at his hand that makes Tim feel like God. 

“You know, I like you a lot better when you can’t run your mouth,” Tim says with a chuckle. He digs his fingers into the front of the wound, groping around in the cavity and feeling the pulsing meat shift under the pads of his fingertips.

“You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell anyone about this, not gonna tell the others you’re a nasty fuckin’ faggot who’s so desperate for dick you’d take it in your brain…at least someone’s finally making use of the lump of meat in your head, eh?!”

He pulls Toby’s skull back on his cock hard and fast, fucking into the hole with more fervor than he thought possible. His arms are bleeding now from where Toby’s nails are digging in, his knuckles locked up as his motor function is ripped to shreds. 

Tim’s eyes trail down the reflection as he thrusts, down to Toby’s body and stopping at the tent in his pants. There’s a painfully obvious stain on his groin now where his erection is straining against the denim of his jeans with wretched need. His precum is leaking through the material in viscous waves, a constant stream of shameful arousal. It looks like it hurts, like his zipper is about to burst, but Tim has no interest in granting him even that small mercy of freeing his hard-on. 

“Damn,” He mumbles to himself, watching the liquid pool where the tip of his partner’s cock pushes against his pants, “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re not just tolerating it to see how far I’ll go, you’re getting off on this shit! You’re a dirty fuckin’ boy slut!” 

He’s getting mean, meaner than he really needs to be, but he doesn’t care. Toby might not even be able to hear him, and even if he can, Tim’s not going to waste this chance while his partner can’t snap back. 

He ruts his hips more intentionally, trying to hit every spot he can. He’s catching on to patterns, that certain touches here or there make Toby twitch or jerk or yelp involuntarily. His eye has rolled back in his head almost completely. It looks agonizing, and it only makes Tim thrust faster. 

“Then again, in that messed up little mind of yours I bet this is nothing. You’re so used to gettin’ beat on this practically soft to you, ain’t it?! Or did your old man slam your head into the concrete too many times for you to know the damn difference?!” 

Tim’s practically screaming at him now, drool running down his chin and neck as he loses himself to the pleasure. It’s unbearably hot under his mask, but he can’t bring himself to release his death grip on Toby’s head to take it off. 

“I should’ve put you in your place a long time ago, lord knows you’ve needed it for who knows how long!” 

Tim angles his hips upward a bit, brushing against a certain spot that makes Toby tense and cry out suddenly. The thing Tim notices most, though, is the way Toby’s cock twitches in his pants. It spurts just a bit, not climaxing yet but getting dangerously close. The stain on the front of his pants is only growing with each passing second that Tim violates his brain.

“Oh, you really are disgusting,” Tim huffs, “You’re really about to cum in your pants, and I haven’t even touched your cock? That’s pathetic, Rogers.”

Tim angles his hips up again just to watch the precum gush from his partner’s tip, his stomach flipping in his gut at the thought that Toby is so, so damn close, but he can’t beg for more or touch himself or even move at all. 

“Nngh…Like hell I’m gonna let a little bitch boy like you cum first, though.” 

He takes a moment to adjust his grip. He’s preparing for the last stretch. 

The speed of his thrusting increases tenfold, completely losing all sense of rhythm. He can feel the pleasure taking him over, melting his resolve and screaming at him to go, go, go, just keeping going, go until you can’t anymore, and that’s exactly what he intends to do. 

“You better take all of my cum, Rogers,” Tim growls through gritted teeth, “Though I ain’t exactly giving you a choice, am I? You’ll take it whether you like it or not…” 

He hasn’t looked away from Toby’s face in the mirror. The sight of it twitching and frozen in a state of screaming ecstasy is like a horrific work of art. Tim’s never going to forget it. He won’t forget any of this. Every second is burned into his brain, and he’s more than happy to keep it that way.

The gory cavity is carved into the shape of Tim’s cock by now, each thrust only feeding the growing puddle of blood and viscera on the ground below Toby. That stain will stay there forever, Tim thinks. A permanent reminder of the debauchery the two of them are so gleefully partaking in. The idea of someone else finding this old house scattered with bodies, walking around and not even knowing the half of what these walls have been subjected to…

God, that’s good. 

The knot in Tim’s stomach starts to tighten. 

He can’t hold on for much longer. Neither can Toby. 

Tim angles his hips in that special way again, hitting that sensitive spot over and over and over again with each frenzied thrust. Toby’s practically soaking himself now, so close to the edge but not quite close enough to fall off, though he runs the risk with each passing second. It’s barely a matter of time. 

Faster, faster, faster, that’s the only thing Tim can think. 

More, more, more, that’s all he can think about.

Faster, faster, faster, more, more, more, more, more more more moremoremore—

“Shit!” 

Suddenly Tim throws his head back with a wild noise, his cock releasing without warning into the bloody cavity he’s been so graciously desecrating. At the same time he brushes that spot again, and it’s finally enough to give Toby his release, too, only a second later. His cum soaks the front of his now completely ruined jeans, the shameful stain running down his groin and thighs. The scream he lets out as his climax rocks his body will haunt Tim’s dreams. 

Tim’s thrusting doesn’t slow to a stop until it feels like his balls are empty. Only then does he finally go still, allowing himself to breathe. He looks up at the ceiling as he pants, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment as his orgasm gradually washes away.

Finally Tim allows his fingers to unfurl, releasing Toby as he pulls his cock from his ruined skull. It comes back soaked in blood and sticky with viscera, taking a few chunks with it. He tries to step back, but Toby’s still gripping his wrists.

He manages to shake him off, only for Toby’s body to go completely limp and fall forward, face first onto the dusty wood floor and into the puddle of mixed bodily fluids. He twitches a bit, but doesn’t move or show any signs of life beyond that. Anyone else would think he’s dead. 

“I’m not falling for that again,” Tim mumbles with an eye roll, using his discarded glove to wipe off his now flaccid cock before tucking it back into his boxers and zipping up his pants. 

He crouches over Toby, grabbing his hair and forcing him up from the floor back onto his knees. All Toby can manage is a pathetic groan. Tim studies his partner’s fucked-out face in the mirror for a moment, watching as the blood and seed lazily roll down his cheek and chin. He can’t help but chuckle to himself.

“…Anything to say for yourself?” Tim asks teasingly, shaking him a bit.

The only response he gets is the sound of gagging as Toby retches. Tim barely moves back in time to watch him cough up a horrible concoction of blood, cum, and God knows what else without being in the splash zone. 

“Goddammit, watch it!” Tim scolds cruelly, “If you hurl on my new boots I’m leaving you like this.” 

He at least has the decency to let Toby finish before scooping up his limp, helpless body. He carries him under his arm like a log, not taking any care to be gentle.

“I’ll get you back home to Eyeless,” Tim mutters, “He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he’ll patch you up good ‘til you’re all healed…” 

Tim tries not to think too hard as he carries his partner out of the house, away from the crime scene and into the endless wooded darkness. 

All is quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Tim’s heavy steps on the dry leaves. That is, until what Tim thinks is a muffled giggle sounds from his partner. He stops and looks back, but there’s no more noise. 

Dammit, he thinks. 

Neither of us are going to be forgetting this. 

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Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

[queenie-the-court-jester]

If there will be a part two for yandere online friend, once I found out im pregnant, I will cause a miscarriage on purpose and blame him for the lying, the cheating, the drugs, EVERYTHING. Tormenting him for his betrayal, because it’s not fair that he messed around with another girl while I was there for him when his own family wasn’t.

(I know i was aware high school love wasn’t gonna last but i love being petty and holding on grudges brings me joy.) 🥰💅

you're more fucked up than me dawg 😭 but at the same time it's understandable?? In a way?? But then again that isn't any better than the yandere... This will be the first, and last darkfic I will ever write

Tw: self abortion, guilt tripping, toxic relationship, mentioned non-con, this whole fic is a warning in itself, self harming, suicide. readers be warned,dead dove do not eat

🥀no no NO! WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS!? WHY WOULD YOU RUIN EVERYTHING HE WAS SO CLOSE TO ACCOMPLISHING?? you were supposed to love the baby.. all in all, he goes into hysteria when he sees you on the floor of the bathroom. Blood all over the tiles and toilet

💔calling 911 and breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably as they load you onto the stretcher and go to the hospital. When you wake up, he expected you to call the police or scream for help. But you just.. stared at him? No emotion..

🥀you stayed in the hospital for a week, he stuck to your side like glue. The nurses always commented on how much of a loyal boyfriend you had, but they were met with silence. It unnerved them a bit but they just brushed it off as you processing the miscarriage

💔when Damien took you back to his house, he boarded up the windows and doors. Adding multiple locks all while looking like he was hyperventilating. Images of you bleeding flashing through his head. the doctors said it was a miracle they even managed to save you

🥀he froze when he finally heard you speak for what felt like the first time in weeks.

"this is all your fault. You did this to me."

"d-darling please! Let's not go there.."

"you're a worthless pathetic bastard. I hate you."

💔he slowly goes back into his old destructive habits, cutting his arms and smashing solid objects against his thigh or legs. Making himself feel the pain you must've felt, always crawling back to you. Bloody and bruised, begging to be forgiven

🥀he starts making up stories. Saying the girl pushed herself onto him, or he wasn't thinking straight when it happened. He'd be so unstable you could even manage to get him to off himself if you pushed him farther, taking his money and leaving his bloody corpse in the shitty house he called a home. Did he seriously expect to raise a family here? Pfft, what a weirdo..

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter Three) (Finale)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Physical Abuse, Domestic Violence, Attempted Homicide, Physical descriptions of gore, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3) A/N: The final chapter of Marionette's escape

How do you kill the person you love?

You’ve bathed in the blood of dozens, possibly hundreds. The violence Makarov has wound into your veins is inherent to your soul. Poisoned, your heart is dyed in ink, pulsing in glinting obsidian. If there was anything pure in you before he turned you into what you are now, it’s been swallowed by the years spent under his control, in his arms, drinking in his breath as if it were your own. The lives you’ve taken for him are a mere chill compared to his searing warmth. It burns against your skin in the light of the truth, but the pain is a bittersweet addiction you can’t release.

You know a hundred ways to kill an enemy, but you know none to kill Makarov.

It’s getting hard to maintain this farce of yours, your tender, relieved smiles at his presence, your soft sighs into his shoulder. Every time he echoes the name he’s bestowed upon you “Marionette.” a vile, sour thing twists inside you with a scream of something wrong.

He knows.

He knows, he sees through your farce, but he pretends like nothing is wrong. He presses gentle kisses to your forehead and you don’t let him see the pinch of your expression with how it hurts- the way something inside you longs for him even now. There’s a distant temptation to sink to your knees before him, confess and plead for mercy. You’re his, you’ve always been his. He loves you. He’ll forgive you, even if it means you’ll never see your friends again. If he forgives you, at least you’ll still have him, and there’s a part of you that still thinks he’s all you ever needed.

Has he engraved that into you too?

You dance around each other in this vain, feckless game of yours. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, and his velvet eyes soften in return. Accepting your docility, as if he doesn’t see your feral nature lurking just below the surface. He embraces you, holds you tight to his chest, and you feign willingness, knowing the fatalistic gaze of him as he gazes past you. He’s playing you just as you play him, both of you waiting for the other to crack and end this macabre waltz you revolve in just like the ever-changing axis of stars above.

You’re running out of time.

You try to imbue yourself in the memories of your allies that have surfaced inside you despite his control over your mind. You think of the curling smoke of Price’s cigar, the sly sparkle of Gaz’s eyes, the bark of Soap’s laughter, the curve of Simon’s smile in the rare moments without his mask. You think about the clink of glasses in a dimly lit pub, the boxes of takeout that litter the coffee table in the rec room. You think about the despair in their eyes when they saw the thing you are now, and the scrawl of Johnny’s handwriting in the letter you wish you still had to give you strength.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re away from him.

Be patient, stay alive.

Come back to us.

Please, hen.

You think you may be dead by the time they rescue you. You think they might die trying to free you.

and you think about how cold Makarov’s blood will feel on your hands.

Maybe you can catch him while you lay in his arms in the blue light of his bedroom. Maybe you can pilfer a weapon and conceal it. Maybe you can breathe in his final, shuddering gasp when you drive the blade between his ribs, whisper a useless apology for the sin of loving him.

Maybe he’ll kill you with a kiss before you can try.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He’d told you. You know he’ll never let you leave alive.

You need to go home, and once more something secret inside you whispers that you are home.

He wakes you on a cold March morning a week after your breakdown, and as you blink slowly up at him he smiles, that gentle, heart tugging gesture that used to be the light of your entire life. Now, it makes you want to burst into tears.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He coos ever so gently, and you manage to not shy away from his touch as he smooths a hand across your bare shoulder. “Get dressed, I have somewhere to send you.”

No.

You’re not ready. You don’t know what it is, but something inside you twists in sickening apprehension at his words. Even so, you offer him a complacent smile, murmur something about coming back to bed for just a few more minutes.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Within the hour you are dressed in a dusk-colored coat and bundled into the back of a black van with two other men, both of them armed. Anxiety takes a foothold in your chest, and it takes effort to appear calm and composed even as the car pulls away and Makarov fades behind you.

They take you to a warehouse in a town just outside the city. It looks abandoned, but you know it’s merely a concealed location for something nefarious. Smuggling, storage, planning of logistics, a black site that doesn’t even exist on the map. You wonder if these are your executioners, if they’re taking you to a quiet, hidden spot to dispose of you. They won’t even dig you a grave, not with the ground frosted over by winter. The men at your back escort you inside, through empty corridors, down a set of stairs into a dark cellar. Every muscle inside you coils tight, ready to fight, claw your way to freedom through a path of blood.

Yet when the door to the cellar opens, all you see is a friend.

Alex.

He’s tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied. There’s a welt above his left eye that you want to smooth over with a delicate touch, fall to your knees at his feet to undo the ropes that bind him. His head hangs on his chest, but when he looks up at you he startles, eyes wide before his expression falls into abrupt sadness. He calls your name and it takes all your strength to stand tall, to stay composed. Blank eyed, obedient. The puppet he wants you to be.

“What did he do to you?” He rasps, brow pinched in distress. He flexes his arms at the ropes, and they don’t budge. He calls your name again and it’s desperate. A sound of despair.

Movement beside you. A knife pressed into your palm.

“Do it.” Your handler murmurs in Russian. “Kill him.”

You tremble now, trying to keep your expression passive despite the looming panic rising up your chest and threatening to choke your air.

It’s a test. One you’re designed to fail.

You can kill him, watch the light from Alex’s eyes fade and his blood drain down your wrist. You could buy yourself just a little bit more time before Makarov decides to test you again, and again, until one day your usefulness to him expires and he tosses you aside.

You step closer, feel the phantom whisper of him in your ear, hands pressing your back into his front in a sinister embrace. His palms cover your eyes, blinding you.

“You don’t even have to look, darling.”

The knife shakes in your grip.

Alex turns his face to you, and the grief there makes something inside you splinter, crack and unspool in tormenting agony.

He’s your friend.

“It’s me.” He whispers sadly at your thousand-yard stare. “You know me. It’s Alex.”

“Do it.” The other handler snaps impatiently. “Prove yourself to our cause.”

“They’ll never take you from me.”

You won’t do this. Not anymore.

“No.” You whisper as something inside you finally changes along with the light of hope unfurling in Alex’s eyes. “I won’t.”

The two men behind you are silent for a moment, looking at each other, before one of them sighs.

You know the movement is coming before he lunges towards you, and easily you sidestep him, seize his arm and twist in a brutal grip. Something snaps. He screams.

The blade in your hand turns red with his blood.

As he gurgles a death moan on the ground, the other tries to raise his weapon at you. You force his hands up to the ceiling as he fires, and the bullet lodges itself in the damp wood. Two quick movements. A slash to the chest, under his bulletproof vest, and as he chokes a gasp you stab forward into the side of his neck, rip from one end to the other. Warm wetness coats your hands, and as the man slumps it drips from your fingers onto his stricken, frozen face.

You turn to Alex, and see in his eyes that he looks afraid. Afraid of your brutality, of your violence. Afraid of the weapon you’ve become. Afraid of the thing Makarov has made you.

The knife cuts away his bindings, and you drop it in favor of trying to touch him, reach and help him. You jolt when you realize how your skin has turned scarlet in the act of taking more lives. Yet Alex’s hands close over them, holding with a tight grip as if to anchor you from yourself.

“They, Price and the others, they sent me to find you.” He tells you hoarsely, rushing through his words. “They needed to know you were alive. That-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“Where are they?” You ask, gaze still bent to your hands. Soft, almost demure. Numb to the act of taking lives.

“A two-hour drive. We can make it before reinforcements come.” He declares, and suddenly you’re being pulled up the cellar stairs, past the empty corridors and into the overcast morning.

You gently pull your hand away from him. Alex looks at you, eyes stricken.

“No.” You whisper quietly, eyes full of hurt for what you are about to do. “I can’t.”

Alex blinks, and then he turns to grab at your shoulders, gripping you. “What are you talking about? This is your chance. You can escape!” He pauses, fingers clenching into your wool coat before he softly adds: “You can come home to us.” Your face pinches, you shake your head in a quick gesture that silences a growing sob.

“They’ll find us before we make it out of the city.” You tell him softly. “Makarov won’t let me go that easily.”

You feel that new, fragile thing inside you clench with the hurt of your words, how desperately you want to follow him. “I can’t get you killed for this. You- you go. I’ll distract them, make sure you get to safety.”

Alex’s grip softens, but his voice remains hard. “I’m not leaving you.” He declares with unwavering conviction. “We’ll find a way. I can’t just-”

“Go.” You gasp, cutting him off. “I need- I need to go back. I need to end this.”

You look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. The truth of what you need to do aches in your bones, a sorrow that grows tenfold at the devastation in your friend’s eyes.

“I need to kill him.”

Alex blinks, swallows.

“He’ll try to kill you.” He whispers.

You nod, and at last resignation settles into your soul with a sigh. “I know.”

Yet then you manage to smile past your tears, head tilting and eyes fond.

“I’ll follow you soon.” You tell him softly. “Don’t wait up.”

Alex holds you to his chest, red hands pressing your face to his shoulder. You can feel his rigid frame as he tries to contain his protests.

“Be safe, sister.” He tells you in Arabic. “Come back to us.”

“I will.” You promise, eyes closing and swallowing down a sob. “I will.”

---

As Alex makes his escape, you find yourself once more throwing yourself into the jaws of the lynx.

The drive back to Makarov’s safehouse is quiet, almost peaceful. The scant brightness of the winter sun glints off your dull-eyed gaze. The blood on your hands and clothes dries by the time you pull into the garage, hit the button to the beautiful, pristine apartment that overlooks St. Petersburg. You close your eyes, swallow down the howling voice inside you that screams in anguish at the sin you are about to commit against the man you once loved, and somehow have been taught to love still.

There’s no guards at Makarov’s door, and it makes you falter unexpectedly. Even so, you cautiously tread inside, the knife in your grip concealed in the sleeve of your blood splattered coat. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen, and as you step inside you see him at the stove, tending to something mouthwatering. It’s only then that you catch sight of the set table, the flowers in a vase, the fine silverware and white napkins set just so.

“Welcome back.” He tells you without looking at you, and you notice how nicely dressed he is, pressed shirt sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “Go change. There is a dress for you in the bedroom.”

You don’t move, caught entirely off guard by this...this display of romanticism he never once has offered in the time you’ve known him. It’s sinisterly amorous, deceptively charming in a way designed to unsettle you. It finds its mark, because something inside you squirms with abject, growing discomfort, knowing something is wrong.

It’s then that you see the pistol laying beside him on the counter.

Soviet era, semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He tells you blankly, still not looking at you, as if he doesn’t even consider you a threat.

The water runs pink in the bathroom. You try to find a way to conceal your knife on your person, but the dress he’s set for you offers little excuse to hide your weapon. Red, the color he adores you in, and your hands fumble as they try to drag the zipper up your spine. When the bedroom door opens you can’t contain a flinch. Yet Makarov is silent as he crosses the room, bare hands sliding the zipper up your spine in a slow, suggestive gesture. When he’s finished, his arms snake around to hold your hips, nose descending to the exposed flesh of your shoulder and tracing along the skin. He breathes in your scent, and you can’t help but ease somewhat at the sinister seduction he offers to you.

“Come eat.” He whispers breathily. “You’ve had a long day.”

His grip on your shoulder is unrelenting as he escorts you to the immaculately set table, popping his chin on his hands as he sits across from you with slow blinking eyes.

You look down at the steak on the fine china. Your stomach clenches in disgust. Poisoned, your mind whispers.

“I’m not hungry.” You whisper, your voice sounding more fearful than you’d hoped.

Makarov huffs a little sound that sounds almost amused.

“Do you think I’d stoop so low as to poison you, Marionette?”

You freeze.

As you look up from the steak to Makarov, as horror dawns across your expression, you realize he knows.

Makarov tilts his head and observes you with a slow, cruel smile.

“My greatest prize.” He purrs. “Come to kill me? How ironic.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. The apartment around you seems to spin dangerously. Heartbeat hammering, you look quickly to the steak knife beside the plate. Yet Makarov follows your gaze, and before you can grab for it he reaches forward with a disappointed little sigh and takes it from your grasp.

“Please, Marionette.” He tells you with false sincerity. “We’re trying to have dinner.”

“Is that what this is?” You ask hoarsely, throat dry. “I could have sworn this is you taking your time to gloat before you kill me.”

“Kill you?” He laughs, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Why Marionette, you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, shoulders rigid, and Makarov’s eyes glimmer like the stars above.

“I’ve known about this farce of yours for a while, beloved.” He tells you, and the low timbre of his voice makes your chest tighten with an aleatory mix of emotion. “I was willing to overlook it as long as you did your job correctly, performed as you were meant to. After all, I’m so very fond of you.”

You spit a curse at him in Russian, and Makarov doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, now that your friends are getting close to finding us, it is time to look at different options.”

You stiffen impossibly further in your chair, sitting elegantly in your lovely red dress, blood still under your fingernails, staring at the man holding you prisoner with noxious dread.

The smile Makarov gives you is ominously affectionate.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Marionette.” He offers silkily. “I’ll let you live. I can promise no harm will come to you. I won’t make use of your skills, and I won’t force you to kill your allies. You can stay, and you will be safe.”

“Under what conditions?” You ask quietly.

Makarov observes you, unblinking like the lynx painting that hangs above your dreams.

“You will never leave my side again.”

Your heart cracks against your ribs.

Stay with him. Protected, not forced to murder anyone, beside him always.

It’s what you’ve always wanted.

To be at his side, to walk beside him, not two steps back like the weapon he’s made you as. To fall under the wing of his protection and be his, only ever his. To be not his puppet or his tool but as his. Perhaps...even to be loved by him in the way you’ve wanted since the moment he found you.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why spare you? Why keep you beside him when he knows you want to take his life? Why take the risk?

You blink, and suddenly his words make sense. Why else? To keep you only as a shield, as insurance against your allies hunting him down, trying to kill him. Not as his weapon, no, but as leverage. The second Price and the others step too close he’ll hoist a gun to your head, force them to lay down their arms for the cost of sparing you.

In your dream, Price and the others look upon you with despair beyond the sights of the pistol in your grip.

“Stay with me, Marionette.” He purrs, head tilted at you with fixated intent. “Give in, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You swallow, feeling sandpaper scrape at your throat. “As your hostage?” You ask, voice trembling.

Makarov smiles. It looks almost kind.

“As my beloved doll.” He returns sweetly. “Perfect and beautiful just the way you are meant to be.”

You can imagine it. Just as he says, you’d be nothing more than a prize sitting amongst his trophies of war. Clad in beautiful clothes, pristine, at his side as a display of his power over you. Nothing more than a puppet, a captive, his marionette. You’d sit like a lachrymose dove in his golden gilded cage, staring up at the stars and wanting desperately to fly. Wings clipped, you’ll slowly rot until you once more become an empty shell whose only purpose is to love him.

An empty, soulless existence. Worse than the one you’re living in.

Makarov is silent as he waits for your answer, and you look upon him, this man you had once existed for. You remember his passionate embraces, his claiming kisses and soft strokes along your bare body. You remember a time when all you had ever wanted was for him to confess his adoration for you, tell you how beloved you are to him.

You look upon him now, and you see the man who offers a beautiful cage.

“I’m leaving.” You tell him, voice trembling with the strength it takes to speak. “I’m going to leave you, Makarov, and when I do, I’m going to learn to live without you.”

The light of false kindness in his eyes slowly fades to a blank, detached apathy.

“Darling.” He whispers, words low with threat. “You’ll never leave me.”

He reaches for the pistol.

You react entirely on instinct, shove the entire table towards him so it hits him in the stomach. Makarov catches it, but not in time, and he grunts as his features morph into a scowl. You stand so the chair topples behind you, lunge for him just as his hand closes around the gun. You manage to hoist it high and away from you, eyes wild as every instinct inside you roars to life. The skills he’s carved into you, the lessons of the weapon he’s made you, now turn against him in a desperate bid for survival.

Makarov curses at you, and as you follow his motion he drags you across the table, knocks a leg so it falls. You find your footing anyways, use his imbalance to shove him against the too-large windows that overlook St. Petersburg. Makarov rams his head against yours, and it sends you reeling for a moment, grip loosening on his wrist. He shakes it loose, but before he can fire you yell, plant a strike to his arm to buckle it. A shot rings out, and it goes wild, shattering the vase of roses on the kitchen counter.

Makarov grapples for you, his hand closing around the lower half of your face as you pin his arm to the curtains. You bite down so blood fills your mouth, raise a leg between you so you can kick out one of his legs. Makarov falters, and as he does you twist, reaching for the gun once more. Yet Makarov anticipates your movement, and as he rapidly adjusts you manage to only knock the weapon from his hands. It slides across the tiled floor, well out of reach.

In your surprise he catches you off guard, and the world spins around you as he snarls, hoists you and throws you through the glass table.

The impact makes something crunch inside you, broken glass slicing your skin as you fall on your side, pain blossoming brightly in your ribs. It stuns you, the hurt fracturing outwards and robbing the breath from your lungs. The impact rattles you from head to toe, and even as you are winded you try to roll and push yourself up, to face him once more.

Makarov’s hands find you before you get the chance.

He forces you violently onto your back, chest heaving as he leans over you, hands snaking up to grip your neck in a strangulating hold. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but when it does you struggle, choking in pain at the suck of air that doesn’t reach your lungs. Makarov’s thumbs press into your airway as he straddles you, ignoring your flailing hands as they try to scratch at his face. He grabs at them with one hand, struggling for a moment before he hauls both far above your head. It gives you only a moment to breathe before the choking hold returns, starving you of air.

You trash, flail, but with every movement Makarov’s hands seem to press down harder. His eyes stare down above you, mouth a grim set line as he watches the horror and desperation transform your expression.

Black dots threaten your vision, and you feel your strength beginning to fade. The only thing left is the constellations in his eyes, glimmering darkness that you once had looked upon with adoration.

“Vlad...imir-” You wheeze, tears falling.

He blinks, expression faltering.

At your fingertips, a piece of glass.

You stab it into the meat of his palm, loosen his hold as he cries out in pain. He relaxes his grip on you, and without thinking you surge upwards so the killing edge finds its place in his throat.

Blood coats your hands.

Makarov reels backwards, grips at the wound where blood rushes forth. He falls off you, and as he does you suck in a desperate gasp of air, filling your lungs with oxygen and coughing at the crack of your ribs as they seize. Glass digs rips at your dress, embeds itself into your flesh, and even as you rise you cut yourself further still, whimpering until at last you brace beside Makarov’s form.

There’s a wet gush of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the shard of glass dyed red as it does nothing to stem the flow of blood that stains his collar, puddles on the floor. His hands weakly try to stop it, but he too seems to realize it’s too late. It’s over.

His eyes find yours. Confused, for a moment, but then blinking in a distant realization you don’t understand. He’s weak as he reaches for you, and you expect him to try and grab at you in a last-ditch effort, to take your life so you both tumble down to the fires of hell together.

Instead, his hand strokes a gentle, scarlet path onto your cheek.

You blink down at him, horrified, and Makarov’s eyes blink at you once, twice...

A slow exhale. His hand drops to the floor.

and slowly, the constellations fade.

The divine stars turn dark.

-----

It’s dark when the truck pulls up to the cabin.

Gentle hands shake you awake, coaxing you out of dreams. Your head lolls in your fatigue, but it lifts at the careful encouragement spoken in soft Russian. You yield to it, allow yourself to gently be helped from the passenger seat and onto your feet. There’s a thick blanket tucked around your form, and as you steady yourself you hug it tighter to keep the frigid cold at bay. Your too-large clothes hang loose from your form, and as you take a step forward you sway unsteadily.

Nikolai’s hands land on your shoulders, and you sag into his safety with relief, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

He keeps you pressed into his side as you’re escorted forward, murmuring in Russian.

“Careful, Солнышко. Easy, I’ve got you.”

You don’t say much, glassy eyes focused more on your socked feet than where you’re being led. You can feel the way Nikolai’s fingers grip you, know from his touch alone how much it pains him to see you as a mere shell of your former self. It hurts somewhere deep inside you, a distant pain hidden by the numbness of the thing you’ve done.

A few more steps, and a door bursts open. You lift your gaze to take in the brightness that spills from the cabin, but it’s overshadowed by the rapid motion of figures quickly moving towards you. There’s a shout, a cry of your name, and the next thing you know you’re being passed from one set of arms to another, pressed into a smothering embrace.

“Soap.” You hoarse.

“Thank God.” He rasps, voice muffled by the blanket surrounding you. “Steamin’ Jesus, hen. We thought, we thought-”

He tenses in alarm as you abruptly sag into him, the strength in your legs giving out. Yet then there’s a second set of arms, and you lift your face towards the scent of cloves and gunpowder.

“Gaz.”

Gaz bends so he can look at your half-lidded eyes. You think you see tears.

“That’s right doll, it’s me.” He tells you, and a hand strokes your face. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Snow crunches under footsteps. A smoke-laden voice. “Get her inside.” Your captain murmurs softly, voice muted. Resigned.

“Price.” You try, twisting to look for him. You see him just off to your side, and his eyes are caught between bitterness and heartbreak, an anger and sadness that you wish you could comfort. You reach for him, but all you manage to do is put yourself off balance, the pain in your hip flaring as you stumble. Gaz yelps as you sink downwards.

A larger set of arms, skeletal gloves. Ghost’s hands scoop under your legs and haul you upwards. You whimper at the pain from the movement, and you feel him gentle at the sound.

“You’re alright, pet.” He offers softly, and you somehow find it in yourself to nod, relax into his hold.

There’s murmurs as you’re carried into the warmth of the cabin, and you hear Price ask something to Nikolai in a low, grave voice, to which Nik merely shakes his head in disbelief.

You’re set near the fire, and the flickering glow warms you though. Someone tucks another blanket around your shoulders, pushes a steaming mug of tea into your hands. You look down at it hazy-eyed, shell shocked and numb, trying once more to tell yourself you’re safe. You’re home.

At last, you look up at them.

“He’s dead.” You announce hoarsely. “I killed him.”

The group is silent. There’s no cheering or cries of triumph. It’s a victory, but it has come at a great cost. Instead, their eyes are sad, bitter, staring at you like looking at an empty, lost soul.

Soap crosses the room first, sits beside you and hauls you gently against his side. It’s a wordless gesture, and you know it’s because there’s nothing he can say. Instead, you lean into him, feel your throat clog with the emotion of finally being held by someone you trust.

“Is Alex safe?” You ask in a wavering voice.

Price nods. You swallow down a sob.

“He came back.” Gaz tells you softly, reaches forward to take the mug from your bandaged, shaking hands and sets it atop the woodstove. “He told us what you did, that you went back by yourself. We...we thought...” He trails off, and you see the pain in his eyes, the way they’re glassy with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers then, voice cracking, his hand on your shoulder bunching the blanket in his grip. “We should have tried harder, we should have never stopped looking for you, we-”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny.” You tell him gently, with a weariness that sits heavy on your soul. Johnny grows silent, but after a moment he sucks in a breath, rubs at his face vigorously to erase the tears there.

“Johnny’s right.” Ghost offers sorrowfully, and when you look up you see the full extent of his emotions play out across his bare face. “I should have grabbed you in Minsk. I shouldn’t have let them take you.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, and you want to tell him it’s not his fault either, that he was just trying to figure out a way where you both made it out unscathed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Price murmurs grimly, bent forward in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks defeated, head drooping towards the floor. There’s no declaration of triumph in his voice at killing the man they’ve been hunting for years. Not when you’ve come back to them like you are now. He stands, gently pads over to kneel at your feet. You feel something dull stifle your chest as he turns his heartbroken gaze to you. “What matters now is that you survived. You made it out, and you came home to us.”

Home.

Your real home.

It breaks the dam inside you, and you feel your face scrunch before you suck in a gasp, begin to cry with fat, hot tears rolling down your face. Price hushes you, drags you into his arms, and you fold into him with a gasping wail of relief, of grief, of emotions you’ve yet to name. Johnny tucks into you from behind, followed by Kyle, and soon you feel the added weight of Simon wrap around you as well. They hold you, your brothers, listen to you shudder and weep in their arms. You feel them cry with you, grateful and grieving for all that was lost, and the price it cost to return you to them.

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels as if you cry for every single day you were caged, weeping for the time you lost with them, and the things you were forced to do in the time you forgot them. You weep for the lives you took, for the bruises you earned, for the words you believed, and you weep for the thing inside you that will forever remain changed because of it all.

Exhaustion takes hold as you empty yourself of cries, and you’re gently carried to a bed further inside the cabin, where a body, then another, lay down beside you and let you curl into their warmth. You drift to sleep, safe in the arms of those who love you.

As you rest, Nik relays to the others the story you told him- of how you escaped.

You’d taken the pistol Makarov gave you, shot the guards that had come to his rescue, and had driven far out to the other end of the city. Injured, bloodied, in nothing but the dress Makarov had given you, you had run for the better part of a day before finding a way to contact Nikolai. He was the one who had found you collapsed in the dark bushes of a park, hidden amongst the branches like a nestling fawn. There, you’d collapsed into the snow, gripped the spent pistol Makarov had tried to use on you, allowed frostbite to take its hold, and prepared to die.

Instead Nik collected you into his arms and brought you to a safehouse. It was there that he tended to your wounds, to your broken ribs and injured hip from being thrown through the glass table. Bruises litter your right side, a circling of dark coloring around your neck, a welt across your forehead, all things you earned in your bid for freedom. He’d removed the shards still sticking from your skin, had cleaned and dressed your cuts and taken your dress to burn it in his stove. You’d stayed awake throughout, told Nik of the thing you had done. You cried into his arms as you confessed your sins, begged for a forgiveness he could not offer.

He’d held you, kept you safe, and he brought you home to them.

You don’t dream as you sleep in the arms of your brothers.

The rest of the story comes slowly over the next few days as you rest and recover. You’re never left alone, scarcely without someone to lean into, to be held by, and for this you are grateful. Grateful you are too, of the gentleness your friends give you as they care for you. Warm food, hot tea, a place by the fire, clean clothes, and tender hands that redress your wounds. They listen to you as you tell them the story from the beginning, from the day you woke up without a name to the day you earned it back. You tell them of the one named Marionette, the beautiful puppet held by his strings. You tell them of a life that was not yours to control, and of how you escaped.

Johnny sleeps by your side, soothes your restless slumber. Gaz pushes food into your hands and reminds you to eat, to earn your strength back. Ghost gently re-wraps your ribs, murmurs soft praises as you bite down on complaints. Price tucks you into him as you sit on the couch, listening to him read novels you don’t care to know the names of, until you fall asleep once more. You’re cared for, tended to, and the beloved touch of them slowly eases the wounds on your soul.

They cry for you, your friends. Soap weeps into your lap and sobs apologies for being unable to rescue you. Gaz holds you in his arms and cries for the things Makarov did to you, of the ways you were changed by his machinations. Simon looks upon you with tears when you forgive him, forgive all of them for not coming sooner.

When you cry into Price’s arms, finally confess to him that you once loved the man you killed, you feel his silent tears stain your shoulder. He’s quiet, angry, and you know it hurts because it wasn’t him that killed the man who took you from them.

In the days that follow you slowly regain your strength, and you know it will take many months to come before time gently washes away the things you can allow yourself to forget. Your family will stand beside you, protect you and shelter you as you find yourself again. They’ll hold you when the nightmares try to drown you, when you hear his voice in your thoughts and grasp desperately for them. They’ll stay with you as the pain slowly fades, as you learn how to smile again. They listen to the sound of your laughter and scarcely conceal their tears of joy.

It takes days to secure a safe path out of Russia with Nik’s help. In that time you hear how Makarov’s death has changed the world. Without their Copernicus, Russia’s ultra-nationalists flounder. Nik holds you with a soft smile when the others aren’t looking, and thanks you for doing the thing nobody else did. You think maybe you’ve earned an ounce of forgiveness with Makarov’s death.

You dream of him.

In the blue light of his bedroom, with the lynx painting, of soft words in Russian, of how his smile never reached his eyes. You dream of his final act- gently stroking your face, and of the hesitation in his gaze when you called his name in a breathless cry.

It’s a gentle dawn the day you leave Russia. You stand outside swaddled in the borrowed clothes of your friends, looking at the soft blue dawn that draws over the horizon. You think of that morning in St. Petersburg when you asked him how he would die.

“With glory. For Russia.”

You wonder if he loved you, at the very end.

There’s something inside you that remains a fragile, brittle thing. It’s changed by the time you spent with him, by the way he hollowed you out inside. Someday it will heal, will be filled once more by the beloved laughter of those you love, and the tender embraces of those who care for you.

You know that some things will forever remain the same, with the memories that you keep of him.

To the stars, you pray for the day to come soon when his engravings will finally fade.

Taglist:

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus @warenai @ggeveryone99 @justmare @merkitty49 @darkstars-14 @lostagoodcigar @gazs-blue-hat @siilvan @bucca2 @franticallyfanning @danjo-ao3 @scatter-mind001 @lonesome-doves @thriving-n-jiving @bucketbunny @secretliteradite @anatweyen @imagineswritersblog @bucca2 @sae1kie @preciouslittlecreature @allbark-littlebite @theallpowerfulrosami

---

Thank you for reading Engravings.

[darlingdarkly]

New Year, New You Part 9

Johnny MacTavish x f!reader

Personal Trainer AU

4.2 Words

CW: dubcon!, dark fic, dark content, obsessive behavior, dirty talk, explicit language, E rated, NSFW, smut, 18+, mature themes, gaslighting

Part: 1, 8

You awoke, not to the bray of your phone alarm that you’d carefully set before climbing into bed, but to the languid pass of Johnny’s tongue. Like gentle brush strokes they covered the canvas of your inner thighs, drawing ever upward towards the apex of your sex. It was a slow and gentle rise from the depths of slumber, much more pleasant than being violently torn from your deep sleep into the waking world like you’d grown begrudgingly accustomed to.

Your hands slid down from their warm beds and under the covers where they found soft purchase in the length of his Mohawk and skimmed down the shaved sides, fingers cutting through the buzz like snakes through grass. “Johnny.”

He spoke no words, communicating solely through different pitched hums against your skin that sent tingles up your spine, lighting your nerves and slowly setting them aflame. Now that he knew you were awake he tugged at the fabric of your panties on either side of your hips, pulling down one side before the other and marking each bit of freshly gained territory with a kiss like planting his flag to claim it as his.

You slowly open your eyes as he lifts your legs up and over his strong shoulders like tying a bib on before a particularly messy meal. “Johnny, I’ve got to go to work.” You say it even as you know the light letting in through the windows isn’t quite right, it’s much too dark to be eight thirty.

He doesn’t even bother acknowledging your poor excuses with a response. He’s built his breakfast, now he’ll eat and instead just leans forward and lets you feel the flat of his tongue as it slowly runs up your slit, from hole to clit and you can’t help the breathy moan that leaves you, the first of many you’ll sing to give rise to the sun.

He hums against your clit and your head falls back against the pillow, giving up and giving in. It must please him because he finally speaks, though it’s unclear if he’s addressing you or your pussy.

“Sweet little thing.” You don’t so much see as you feel him lean forward and wrap his lips around your clit, gently sucking as his fingers toy at your entrance, pushing just the pad of his finger in and feeling you clench around it, not quite succeeding at pulling it in.

Your hands push his head closer and you feel him smile against you as he takes your hint, one finger slipping in to just the knuckle as he laps up the juices that seep out around it. You moan his name, a slow soft plea that makes his cock twitch as it carries sweetly to his ears.

He works his finger in and out of you slowly, nothing about what he's doing is rushed or urgent, just content to ruin you as thoroughly as he can at his own pace. You arch a little, pushing yourself closer, chasing the sensation, but any movement in the opposite direction, like when he sucked hard on your clit and you tried to scoot back away from the intense sensation was futile. His arms held you steady, no budge, like some kind of giant living Chinese finger trap.

He pulled his finger out and pulled his tongue away from you long enough for you to catch your breath. You could hear him sucking on his finger under the sheets, followed by a moment of silence. He didn’t leave you waiting for long as you felt his tongue on your clit once again followed by an even greater stretch as he pushed two digits into you, drawing out your long high pitched moan with deep, dragging thrusts of his index and middle finger.

Your hands grasped and pulled at his Mohawk as his fingers hit your sweet spot and it only spurred him on as he worked to amplify all of your little noises until you were nearly shouting. He kept on like that, fine tuning his ministrations based on the intensity and pitch of your wails until with a final piercing cry you succumbed to the pleasure. You struggled in his grasp, shaking and pulling away from the last passes of his tongue as he cleaned you up and savored the taste.

You felt the grip of his hands on your hips cease before his head poked up out of the covers on top of you as he rose from the crook of your thighs, your first sight of him grinning and glistening in the pale morning light. He unceremoniously wiped the wetness from his chin and fell like a monolith onto the bed at your side.

He pulled you close, sweeping you into the nook by his side. Cuddled there warm and sated, the tempting embrace of sleep threatened to pull you under once more. His fingers carded through your hair gently and it was beyond you to fight it anymore. You fell willingly into the open arms of morning slumber. Fools gold in the way it draws you in, shining with promise but really only skin deep, its fragile surface easily marred at the faintest sound or shift of light.

Despite this, you awoke, seemingly much later, this time like you had initially expected to. You reached for your phone on the nightstand and rubbed your eyes as you silenced the alarm and checked the time. The room was bright but the bed beside you was cold. You suddenly realized you had no idea what his schedule looked like. His little early morning snack could have been his way of saying good morning and goodbye and you suddenly felt guilty you hadn’t spoken to him more, too lost in the haze to be considerate.

It wasn’t until you got out of bed and made your way towards the door that the smell became evident. You gently pulled the door just open enough to stick your head out and see him, his back was to you as he stood in front of the stove in his boxers and nothing else. You stood watching him as he flipped something in a pan, his shoulder blades flexing and shifting, the subtle movements in the back of his triceps ascended from spry flicks of his wrist.

You caught yourself ogling him and pulled back, gently shutting the door and grabbing your bag from its place just inside the closet. You stepped into the bathroom and began to strip, pulling off your nightclothes and turning on the stream. You stepped under and began to bathe as your mind drifted towards the day ahead, as much as you’d like to ruminate in the memories of the last twenty four hours you had a day of work ahead, the vacation was over.

But it soon became less about the work and more about seeing Nancy again. Of course she’d want to know what happened, probably had a story of her own to tell, at the very least you’d get a recount of the evening's events from her point of view. You wondered how helpful it’d be in figuring out who was behind your drugging and the theft of your ID, a long shot but maybe she saw something.

You were startled from your thoughts by Johnny’s voice beyond the shower. “Morning, lass. How’d ye sleep?” It never failed to surprise you just how quiet and sneaky he could be. “Ahh! Jesus Johnny, you scared me.”

He snickered and you saw him through the frosted glass pane of the shower door as he stepped fully into the room and up to it, the outline of him becoming clearer as he drew near til it was blurry but opaque.

“Didnae mean to scare ye, ah’m cookin’ breakfast but ye already ken, heard ye peek your head out tha’ door.”

Your eyes widen behind the glass. So he had heard you, you were almost certain you hadn’t made any noise, how attuned was he? You apologize, though you aren’t really sure why or for what.

“S’ok lass, ye were only curious. Though ah am a bit disappointed ye did nae come get me before ye jumped in fer a shower. Could’ave helped ye wash yer back.” You shiver at the implications, head suddenly filled with images of him and you naked, wet and entwined.

“Johnny-“

“Still could ye know. S’not too late tae make ye late fer work.”

Your hand drifts towards the door, you could. And you have half a mind to let him but then remember he’s cooking. “Johnny, but the food.”

When he speaks next his voice is thick and strained and it sounds like the last of his self control is the only thing standing between you and him, that and the thin, frosted pane of glass and you see his own hand drift towards it, ready to rid himself of the last physical blockade. “Donnae give ah fuck. Ah’ll let it burn, let tha’ whole place go up in flames just tae have ye again.”

Maybe it’s the candid quality of his words, complete honesty and lacking any kind of filter, he’d never been bashful before that’s for sure. But while you’d known him to say things just to rile you this felt different somehow, a genuineness that felt like he was itching for you to dare him but was completely prepared to make true on the promise. As crazy and irrational as the statement was, you believed him.

The words make an almost unbearable need puddle in your stomach and you have to actively seek the will to resist it. The only thing truly stopping you is the thought of facing a crew of burly firefighters in perhaps nothing more than a bath towel. You swallow thickly and then refuse him, promising to be out in a minute. He doesn’t say anything or move for a moment and you wonder if maybe he’s considering stepping in with you anyway. An executive decision you knew you’d find mighty hard to resist if made, you find yourself considering facing the firefighters stark naked if he’d be there beside you.

Before you can fully consider the possibilities he turns and leaves making you bite your lip and curse for cockblocking yourself. Frustrated and undeniably horny, the trancelike quality of the shower had dissipated and so you quickly washed off and stepped out. Toweling yourself dry before dressing up for work and going to meet him for breakfast.

When you entered the kitchen you were momentarily glad you’d turned down his offer as the smell of breakfast wafted to your nose but when he’d come back into the kitchen out of the tucked aside pantry and his hungry eyes met yours, you realized your little escapade this morning had been all you focused and you knew he had more on his mind than food.

You made a mental note to make it up to him later and sat down at the place he’d set for you. He sat across from you, grinning and gorgeous with his elbows propped up all improper on the counter. As you both dove into your meal he asked you about work and what you had planned for the day.

You told him while you probably weren’t swamped, you still no doubt had some catching up to do and you’d wanted to make some time, maybe have lunch again, with Nancy to talk to her about what had happened. He visibly paused at Nancy’s mention and it made you look up curiously. He looked, just for a brief second, deeply troubled. But then as soon as it’d dawned it disappeared like it never had been and he changed the subject to his work.

Going into detail about what he had planned at the gym. As you cleared your plate something he said made your ears prick up. “And I’ve got a new regimen in mind fer our next session. Ah’m gonna start havin’ ye do laps ‘round the pool at the gym, work on yer cardio in a different way an’ work some of those muscles ye jus’ cannae get tae any other way. Ye can swim, can’t ye lass?”

You set your fork down and looked across the counter at him. “Johnny, I can’t do that.”

He looked up from his plate for a moment, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Ye cannae swim?”

You shook your head and furrowed your brows. “What? No. Yes, I can swim. I meant I can’t go back to the gym.. I can’t afford it.” You had to drop his gaze on the last sentence, so he really must’ve been asleep last night when you fessed up. You had expected nothing but maybe awkward silence to fill the space behind the confession, but he just laughed instead, making you regain eye contact as you looked up at him, curiously.

“Let me worry about that hen, I’ve got-“ You immediately cut him off. “No, Johnny. You’ve done enough, I can’t possibly ask you to do that on top of everything else.”

“Donnae worry, lass. I’ve already got it all sorted. Jus’ let Johnny handle it.” You gave him a wary look but he traded it with one firm and set, there was to be no more argument over the subject so you dropped it.

You both finish breakfast and you get up to start on dishes even though he protests, you insist upon contributing in some way and he heads into the bedroom to get dressed while you work. When he comes out he’s wearing black athletic shorts and a tight, form fitting blue tee. He looks good, real good and you curse yourself for the second time for not taking him up on his shower offer.

“Ready to go?” A good question but one that was rhetorical, it didn’t really matter, you had to go to work so you nodded and smiled as he ushered you towards the door. The ride to your office was short and sweet and when you pulled on the handle to let yourself out you found it locked. You turned towards Johnny to ask him to unlock it only to be pulled into a slow, soft kiss. It was gentle and un-urgent but melting in its intensity, he pulled away reluctantly and you realized you didn’t really want to get out of the truck, could have been just as content to let him pull away from the curb and call in sick two days in a row.

Instead you waited for him to unlock your door before stepping out onto the sidewalk and heading into the building. He waited for you to get into the elevator before pulling away and you wondered just how your life had managed to change so drastically in the last two days, hell the whole year had gone totally tits up in regards to the woman you’d been when you stepped out of the building following what should have been an ordinary Christmas party. It was like you’d slipped into someone else’s shoes, they were more like the shoes of a married woman instead of the chronically single one you’d been.

The elevator doors slid open and you walked casually to your cubicle as you always had, there were no raised heads, no hushed murmurs from your co-workers, Nancy wasn’t even at your desk like you had assumed she would be, but why would she have been? It’s not like this was the first time you’d called in sick after a disastrous night out. So you sat down and got to work and when lunch rolled around it was you who approached her and invited her out for a bite to eat.

It wasn’t until you’d been seated and your orders taken that you spilled the shorthand version of the events of the last twenty four hours to her, her eyes widening in response as your tale grew and grew in length and absurdity. When you were finished she gave her two cents.

“Oh my god. I am so sorry.” An apology hadn’t been what you were expecting and when she put her hands to her face and looked like the waterworks might start at any moment you reached a hand out to her and began to backpedal.

“Nancy, no. It’s ok. It’s not your fault!” But she was already shaking her head. “Of course it was! If I’d have been paying more attention, if I’d have been right there with you instead of preoccupied all night this never would have happened. I’m the one who convinced you to go out in the first place. Oh god, I feel so awful!”

“Nancy, please. Really, it's ok. You never could have known, and nothing bad happened to me. I’m fine, see?” You smiled at her to make your point as she wiped her eyes with her napkin. “So he found you outside? Thank god he just happened to be there, did he see anyone? Any shady guys around you?”

You shook your head no. “And they stole your wallet? Oh my god, what are you gonna do?”

“Well for the time being I’m staying with Johnny. I guess I’ll have to move out of my place, I don’t wanna have to constantly look over my shoulder all the time. I still have a half a year before the lease is up and in the meantime I’ll start looking for somewhere else to stay. I don’t know how I’m gonna afford it, but I’ll figure something out.”

Nancy reached across the table top and squeezed your hand. “I am so sorry.” You assured her it was alright and tried to lighten the mood by regaling her with your tale of yesterday, how the two of you had spent the day together and how nice it was, how courteous and attentive Johnny had been and the more you gushed the better you began to feel about the whole ordeal.

Nancy had cheered up by the end of the tale and you found yourself looking back over it fondly, even a bit in disbelief as you both regarded how lucky you had been that he’d turned up when he had. But with it all out you still had some questions. “Nancy, I need you to try and remember what happened last night. I can’t and I need to know if you saw anything out of the ordinary. Did I talk to anybody? Dance with anybody? I can’t remember a thing.”

She thought it over a minute but ultimately shook her head. She explained that you’d arrived, had a few shots together that she’d ordered, gone out on the floor to dance and then that’s where you’d met the twins. The mention of the twins rang a bell but nothing definitive came to the surface. She’d explained they’d come up to the pair of you on the dance floor and came onto both of you, you hadn’t been interested but she was rather taken by Ian, even exchanging numbers before she’d left the club that night. Then she went on to explain that it couldn’t possibly have been either of them as they’d been with her the whole rest of the night and your twin had been glued to some redhead he’d met by the bar.

You still couldn’t remember any of it but she offered to text Ian and see if he or Andrew remembered anything that could help. You declined, you doubted they’d seen anything anyway, especially if you’d turned down your twins advances like she said you had and moved onto another girl. It was probably a hopeless situation you’d never find the answers for. Your lunch break was over and you both headed back to the office to finish the day's work.

You spent the rest of it kind of doddling around at your desk, starting reports but leaving them half finished and thinking about your situation. Your watch pinged and you looked down to see a text from Johnny saying he’d be there to pick you up in five and realized the day was over. With a sigh of relief you began to shut your computer down for the evening and cleaning up your desk. You stepped out of the elevator minutes later and saw Johnny’s truck parked on the curb. He got out and opened the passenger door for you again, stopping you before you could climb in to wrap you up in his arms in a crushing bear hug, the strength of which there was no escape until he finally relented and released his hold, catching curious glances from some of your coworkers to your embarrassment.

You shuffled into the passenger seat and waited for him to climb in and pull away from the building before breathing out a sigh of relief. “How was yer day, bonnie?” You set your purse down at your feet.

“Un-productive. Both work and situation wise. He looked interested but not surprised. “Yeah? I’m sorry, hen. Nancy didnae see anythin’ then?”

You stared out the window and missed the long curious gaze he threw your way before averting his eyes back to the road, after a minute you spoke. “I don’t know what to do, Johnny. I don’t think I’ll ever truly know what happened to me that night and I don’t think I’ll ever know who did it. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

His hand settled on your thigh and you turned away from the window to meet his gaze. “Dinnae worry, lass. I’ll keep ye safe, I swear it. Ye can stay with me as long as ye’d like, ye’ll never ever have tae go home again, I’ve already got it alllll figured out hen.”

And the way he says it, the total confidence in his voice has alarm bells ringing in the back of your brain. “Johnny, what are you talking about?”

“S’already taken care of. I’ve hired a few movers tae pack her stuff and bring it over tae my place tomorrow afternoon. Ye’ll never have tae set foot in yer apartment ever again.” Your eyes widen, he’d arranged to have all your stuff moved to his place? Without talking to you about it? At all?

“Johnny, what the fuck?!” He doesn’t even look the least bit stunned. “S’fine, lass. I ken ye couldnae jus’ leave all yer belongings behind, Ye’ll be all settled in in no time an’ there’s plenty of space fer ye tae put yer stuff where ever ye’d like. We’ll make a whole day of it, jus’ you an’ me. Donnae be fashed, hen. Johnny’s got it all taken care of. Ye wouldnae want tae let this guy see ye movin yer stuff out, he’d jus’ follow ye tae mah place and ken yer livin’ there an’ then he could follow us tae yer work an’ get ya while I’m nae there tae stop him. S’better this way.”

Before you can register any of it fully he’s pulling the truck off the road and coming to a stop. You look out the window and realize you’re not back at his place, you’re currently parked in front of the gym.

“Johnny, what are we doing?” He pulls your gym bag out of the backseat and sets it down on your lap. “I told ye I’d find a way tae get yer subscription reinstated an’ ah did. Come on.” For once he doesn’t open the door for you and you step out, gym bag in hand and follow him into the building. It looks the same, the lobby still packed with people coming and going. He has you go up to the kiosk to sign in while he walks further into the building for something.

You can hardly believe you’re back here, signing in and getting ready to work out again, you thought when you left that it’d be the last time. You type your info into the tablet but no matches come up. You double check the spelling of your name but it’s all there correctly, you figure they must have deleted your profile when your trial ran out and you’d have to make a new one. You were about to start the process when Johnny came back. “What are ye doin’ hen?”

“My names not in the system, they must’ve deleted my profile, I’m just gonna make a new one.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Lemme see tha’.” You hand him the little stylus and he checks back over your work before tapping a few buttons and typing something in. You lean over to see what he’s done.

“What’d you do?” He just flashes you a sly smile and explains. “Had tae change yer name tae get ye reinstated. Yer good tae go now, lass. Jus’ remember yer under this name when ye sign in from now on.”

You take a peek at the screen as it flashes the words you’ve seen a couple dozen times before, only this time slightly different.

“Thank you for signing in! We hope you have a very productive workout Mrs. MacTavish!”

You turn to look at Johnny but all he has for you is that same toothy grin, wolfish and sly. “Ready fer yer next session?”

[amielot]

Relearning touch.

I am SOFT FOR THEM.

 inspired by this fic. (darkfic! mind the tags)

[lena-after-dark]

Pairing: Edward Nashton x Reader

Prompt: "It's been so hard to love you from the shadows."

Requested By: Anon

Warnings: Stalking, delusional thoughts, surveillance, restraint.

Hyper vigilance was something anyone in Gotham had to practice to stay safe. Keys between your fingers when you walk to your car, or a taser at the ready. Never distracted, always focused on those around you. Some might consider that paranoia, but anyone who lived there knew that that was how you survived.

Eddie admired that trait. Especially when he watched you – so focused on looking out for criminals. Not that he'd let anything happen to you, of course. He was always watching, even if you didn't know it. He wouldn't blame you if you didn't notice it. Eddie thought of himself like background noise. Another face among many in the crowded streets. It was a good thing, he thought, to blend into this sea of nobodies that you had to pass through to make it home. If you didn't see him, then neither would anyone hoping to harm you.

Then one day his thoughts turned. Perhaps you knew he was there; your silent guardian. Always a few paces behind. Always in the shadows when you stopped for dinner, or to meet with friends. He liked your friends. They were funny. They made you laugh. They watched your drink when you'd leave the table. Did you know he was there, too? He felt hopeful. Then your eyes met his for one shining moment and he knew. You were aware of him all along. Eddie had to cover his mouth to keep from making a scene. Others couldn't notice him – not like you did, anyway, or you wouldn't be safe. You knew he was there. You knew he was following behind. You knew he watched from outside your home. And he knew that if you wanted him to stop, you would've made him. After all, he saw that you were always prepared for some criminal or thief to bother you. You hadn't turned that taser on him. You wanted him to follow you.

You looked at him again when you stopped for breakfast on your way to work two weeks later. A smile. A secret smile only for him. It was different than the polite smile you would grant passing strangers. He could tell. You meant to smile at him. You knew him. Your guardian. Your shadow. Your Eddie.

He took it further, then. He left you surprises and treats; sometimes in your mailbox, or in front of your door. You knew they were from him, he was certain. He knew what you liked. He knew your favorite color, favorite snacks. He knew what you wore to bed, and what type of toothpaste you used. He knew when you were running low on something, and started to replace things. After all, he'd already made a spare key for himself. He knew that you left your keys visible to him so he could do so. And the cameras, too. They were secret, but how could he keep you safe unless he knew what was happening around you at all times?

Maybe he crossed a line when he started leaving things for you inside your home. You sounded panicked while you were on the phone with a friend. Did he not make it clear enough that it was from him? It was time. Eddie had to take things up a notch. It wasn't enough to be behind you. He had to be beside you now - to reassure you that there was no danger. It was only him. It was your Eddie taking care of you.

He rushed over; staying hidden until he was inside. He was very practiced at moving silently. He brought some things with him - tape and rope and the like. He knew he wouldn't need it, but it was already in his coat. That's what he told himself, anyway. He waited for you to notice him - to see him standing just out of sight. He didn't want to frighten you, so he waited. He expected relief, and joy. When you reached for something heavy, telling him to get out, he was confused.

"Y/N..." he whispered softy.

It was tough for him to restrain you. He didn't want to cause you any harm, but the more you fought him the more angry he got. He didn't understand the things you were saying, or the way you swung at him, ready to hit. Why would you do that? You were being irrational. He had to calm you down.

He got you, at last, tied sloppily to one of the kitchen cabinets. It wasn't ideal, but he needed you to hear him. To understand him. He was straddling your legs to keep you from kicking. You'd been yelling, but he didn't want to cover your mouth. He had a plan. It was fine if others heard you.

"It's been so hard to love you from the shadows," he whispered as he leant in close, a trembling hand reaching for your face.

"Who are you?"

Buy Me A Coffee?

[crisiscutie]

Sorry for not clarifying! The darling's yandere son. Thank you! 😊

Okay! Looks like Mother Darling has quite the challenge!

Content Warning: DDDNE. Yandere Sephiroth. Mommy Kink. Curvy Darling. Dubcon.

Yandere Son Sephiroth musings here.

༻❁༺ Your son's clinginess hadn't gone unnoticed by you, especially since you two are planning on leaving Mideel soon. You planned to take him to AVALANCHE HQ.

༻❁༺ Through, it could've just been him wanting to make up for the lost time. But no matter, it's best for him to start building a life of his own.

༻❁༺ It was good that you two lived separately, at least, but he still visited you constantly.

༻❁༺ It was so difficult to pull away from your sweet boy every time he hugged you or tried to cling to you, or even when you told him no. You felt his hurt and disappointment, especially in his kitten eyes. Despite this, never stopped showering you with affection.

༻❁༺ Sephiroth himself felt his heart breaking. He didn't want to think that you were rejecting him, but it felt that way. He dropped everything from his past life. He had nothing left but you. The mere thought of the last thing he had abandoning him was unbearable.

༻❁༺ To address his clinginess, you introduced the idea of him finding a special woman to fall in love with.

༻❁༺ He clearly wasn't interested in such a prospect, even when you tried to nudge him toward certain women who appear reserved and respectful (not fangirls) in town.

༻❁༺ ...Perhaps it wasn't helpful when you embarrassed yourself and him at the town market, loudly asking what he thought of the cute, shy cashier that rang up your groceries.

༻❁༺ Despite the attention from everyone else, Sephiroth wasn't fazed. He just had no interest in the woman or anyone else. While he looked bored, you blushed and covered your mouth as you two walked away.

༻❁༺ As you were giving up on that idea, something surprising happened later on. He asked you for more advice about it!

༻❁༺ You gladly shared your thoughts/expertise on how to impress a lady, using yourself as the lady and him as the man as examples.

༻❁༺ You even taught him how to tango, and he seemed to really enjoy it. Throughout the final week at Mideel, he asked you more and more for advice, which you happily gave him.

༻❁༺ Sephiroth planned to wait on using the same advice you gave him and revealing his epiphany to you. But when he secretly watched you bid subtle farewells to your friends, the orphans, and everyone else in Mideel, dark emotions raged like a storm inside him.

༻❁༺ He came to your house later, with a gentle smile on his face as he watched you destroy some useless files you didn't need.

༻❁༺ He couldn't help but felt his hard cook straining against his pants as he noticed the sweet white dress you were wearing. The dress accentuated your squishable tummy, which had a subtle jiggle as you moved.

༻❁༺ He hugged you tightly, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Mother, are we ready to leave tomorrow?"

༻❁༺ You nodded at him, kissed him on the cheek, and kept destroying the files. He laid his head on your shoulder, almost kissing your neck. That is, until his slit eyes glimpsed a file that mentioned the JENOVA project, prompting him to swiftly take it from your hands.

༻❁༺ You stared at him worryingly, knowing that the file itself contained little information. The project was unfamiliar to you, as you were forced into it as a guinea pig. Your memories of it were hazy too. You couldn't even tell your son who his father was.

༻❁༺ You were ready for Sephiroth's interrogation, but he surprisingly set the file aside without uttering a single word about it.

༻❁༺ "Mother," he whispered into your ear, his voice dripped with honey. "I had an epiphany..." He traced circles on your palm while using his other hand to massage your back.

༻❁༺ You stayed in place. A part of you yelled at yourself to move away from him like you've been doing lately, but you didn't. It... felt good.

༻❁༺ "That special woman you told me to find... I think it's you," he whispered, his hands caressed your curves and then squished your tummy. He loved the way your body felt. It's like a stress ball filled with motherly love. It was one of the many reasons he needed to hold you so tightly.

༻❁༺ He focused his attention on your thick thighs, giving them a few squishes too. But those are just the appetizers... The main course he wanted? Your cunt.

༻❁༺ He was so eager, he knelt down and turned your body around, almost ripping your lace panties to get access. He watched your erected clit tremble, giving it a brief lick while his fingers toyed with your juicy labia.

༻❁༺ He then used both hands to spread your meaty cunt, stretching it wide. With his slit eyes beaming in amazement, he found himself lost in a euphoric trance.

༻❁༺ It's a moment of pure wonder as he stared at the lovely orifice that birthed him. He gave your clit a brief kiss before forcing two fingers into your wetness.

༻❁༺ He forced his fingers deeper into your needy cunt, wanting to explore more and feel more of your juices trickle into his hand. Everything he's doing... It has felt incredibly right for both you and him, even though it was undeniably wrong.

༻❁༺ "Does it feel good, Mother?" he whispered. His warm breath grazed your gushing cunt while you unraveled before him. He wanted you to say it. If necessary, he'd rip those words out of you.

༻❁༺ Your walls gripped his fingers tightly as he scissored you. His mind happily deliberated over what he'll do to your cunt next. Fuck it savagely? Keep worshipping its holiness?

༻❁༺ Thankfully, some self-control came back to you in the last moments as you removed yourself from his fingers, holding yourself back from climaxing in front of him.

༻❁༺"I-I... I need a moment," you stammered, quickly making your way to your bedroom.

༻❁༺ He stood there, staring at your juices on his fingers while a wicked smirk played on his lips. When he looked up, his pupils dilated at the sight of those same juices trickling down your pillowy thighs as you closed your bedroom door.

༻❁༺ Oh, how much he wanted to kick your door down and fuck you into your bed... But he managed to restrain himself, unleashing a chilling chuckle afterwards.

༻❁༺ The next day, the two of you left Mideel for good. You and Sephiroth pretended as if nothing happened the day before, though the obvious tension still lingered.

༻❁༺ He doesn't understand why you wanted to deny the obvious love between the two of you, but that's okay now. Along with seeking vengeance on Shinra, he'd make you accept his love, no matter what. He will start by figuring out who or what this JENOVA is…

Well well, she's in for a fun time. 👀

[darkroomkisses]

Teacher’s Pet (Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader)

A/N: Woooo I'm back with a little CollegeAU fic feat. Bully!Rafe Cameron. <3

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON/ DUB-CON !Read at your own risk!

Words: 3.1k / Proofread once!

Banner by @straywords 🥀

Summary: Bully!Rafe Cameron and you get paired together for a class project. This gives Rafe the opportunity to fuck with you in the worst way yet.

Rafe languidly ran his hand up and down his cock. His thoughts possessed with images of you. The Cameron's Estate was quiet, it was late. Rafe was lying in bed. He imagined you on your knees kissing his cock from his tip to his balls. Flicking your tongue over his most sensitive spots. He hated how you consumed his thoughts almost every day. 

He would never admit how much he wanted you. It made him livid; he despised you since you were in high school. Now you were in college, sitting in the same classroom as him. His hate morphed into something dark. He had fantasies of having you under him and under his control. He knew you thought you were better than him, you walked into class everyday ready to conquer the day.

He thought it was pathetic and meaningless to care so much as grades and being elite. He stroked harder, biting his lip to keep quiet, his thoughts overflowing with putting you in your place. 

Finally, you’re not in control, wedged in a situation you can’t get out of. Rafe imagined your eyes wet with tears, throat tightening, hollowed cheeks as he forced himself deep in your wet mouth. His strong grip on your hair, keeping you in place. His stride speeds up ready to release. An image of you looking up at him nervous and damaged, makes him explode, panting hard he lets out a sigh pleased but not satisfied. He was still aching because he desired the real thing and couldn’t wait much longer. 

The next day gave Rafe the opportunity he’s been waiting for. Rafe watched as you walked into class, your head held high, beaming with excitement for the day. He was annoyed already, what did you have to be so bubbly about? 

You greeted Mr. Bennett, smiling so sweetly in his face. Rafe knows that fucker would love a chance to play with an innocent little thing like you. You were so naïve. Mr. Bennett was one of the younger teachers at the school. Bright eyed new teacher who didn’t have the years of experience wearing him down yet. He had dark hair, a solid build. Rafe would admit that, but Rafe knew he was better than him. He was richer and hotter, what’s the competition? But the way he touched your shoulder made his blood boil. He hated the way Mr. Bennett interacted with you. He clenched his fists. You made your way to your seat in front of rafe, Not even sparing him a glance, but his eyes don’t leave you. 

*

“Can anyone answer my question?” Your teacher looks around the wide classroom, full of students with bored expressions and heads down. Your hand shoots up and you answer correctly. 

“Very good dear.” He smiles at you then continues the discussion. 

You hear a scoff behind you. Your heartbeat quickens, feeling your skin prickle. You already know that it’s no one other than Rafe Cameron, your bully. Your number one tormentor. 

You don’t turn around or make acknowledgement that you notice it. He leans forward, his scent invading your personal space. 

“Fucking teacher’s pet. Probably fucking him too.” He hisses at you leaning back into his seat. You shudder at his words. You’re angry at yourself for letting such juvenile words get to you. You sit up straight, pretending to not give a fuck. 

Mr. Bennett announces “Okay, students” He claps his hands together gathering everyone’s attention. “I’m assigning partners for our next project.” 

You try not to let your face drop. The class breaks out in groans. Mr. Bennett laughs, calming the class down. and calls out the pairs. You nervously shake your leg waiting for your name. Tapping your fingers on your laptop. “Alright, Rafe Cameron and Y/N L/N.” Your heart sinks. That familiar scent fills your nose again. 

“Looks like were partners, teacher’s pet.” 

The feeling like you just got punched in the gut hits you hard. The rest of the class goes by in a blur. Your mind racing with ways to get out of this. Mr. Bennett dismisses the class. You stand up quickly, ready to bolt. Rafe is right behind you, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Of course, I get paired with the fucking nerd, fuck it.” He sighs dramatically. 

“My house. Tomorrow at 5.” Rafe says impudently. 

You gape at him taken aback by his words, you try to force a smile, ignoring his insults. 

“Oh um, I thought we could just meet at the library or something. Coffee shop maybe?” 

Rafe looks at you with disgust like you just said the stupidest thing ever. 

“What did I just say? My house at 5.” He bumps your shoulder on his way out the door. You clench your jaw. You take a deep breath and make your way out the door. 

*

You’re standing outside the front door on the massive Cameron's estate. Uneasiness fills your body; you take a deep breath before your fist raps on the door. You hoped no one would answer, and you wouldn’t have to face the darkness that is rafe cameron. The door swings open quickly, startling you. A beat passes you don’t move or blink. 

“You just gonna stand there looking stupid or come inside?” Rafe stares down at you as you shift your feet, trying to will yourself to move. He looks at you expectingly, you slowly walk past him standing in the doorway watching you. You stand in the hallway in awe from the beauty of his home. It’s quiet and clean and massive. You clear your throat when you hear the front door close and lock. 

Rafe makes his way to the couch; your eye catches the open beer on the table and the half smoked joint. You twist your face at that. You follow him sitting to the far side of the couch. Rafe moves closer to you, enclosing the little space keeping you apart. 

Rafe looks you up and down, you were wearing shorts and a short sleeve shirt. The heat making it impossible to really cover up. His eyes lingering on your bare thighs and moves up to your chest. You were distracted from rummaging through your bag taking out the study materials. 

Rafe couldn't care less about the project, but thankful this gave him an excuse to be alone with you. He shifts in the seat and his thighs pressed harder against yours. He feels himself getting worked up by the slightest movement. He was dying to touch you. Your laptop sits on your lap, explaining the work you started, Rafe barely gives you more than a few grunts of acknowledgement. 

“So, you see this is the conflict and we need to offer a more detailed explanation and-’’ You stop taking when you feel Rafe’s fingers lazily brush your bare thigh. Rafe’s eyes are low. He wasn’t listening to a word you were saying. Too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Your eyes flashed to the beer; it was long gone. Your stomach dropped. 

“Rafe.” You said making him look at you. 

“Don’t…” You try to push his hand off you. The way you said his name set fire to Rafe’s grip, making him grasp firmer. He took his other hand to touch your face, he was looking into your eyes.

“What the fuck-’’ You were cut off quickly by Rafe roughly kissing you. You used all your strength to push him back. 

“Get the hell off” you demand, instinctively wiping your mouth.

Keeping him away at arm’s length. Rafe looks at your mad expression. 

“So, you’ll let that dick Mr. Bennett touch you but I can’t?” Rafe spits out, anger lacing his words. You looked confused, not understanding his rage. He stands up, pacing back and forth.  

“He’s-he’s our teacher Rafe, that’s all.” You move the laptop to the table.

“Fuck that. I see the way he looks at you. I bet he dreams about bending your smartass over his desk and fucking you stupid.” Rafe says crudely. He was in front of you now. Close. Too close. 

You sit stunned for a beat. You’re perplexed and a little frightened. Why was Rafe Cameron trying to kiss you? and why was he jealous of your teacher? It was all too much. You manage to spit out some words. 

“What? Mr. Bennett is a great guy and not a sick weirdo like you like to imagine. You’re acting fucking crazy Rafe!” 

That did it. 

That was it. 

Rafe’s fingers were tight on your jaw in an instant. You let out a little squeak. 

“Don’t ever call me crazy, ya hear me!? I’m not fucking crazy!” Rafe yells in your face making you flinch hard. You hate being yelled at; you can feel the tears escaping. 

“I’m sorry” you try to utter despite being Rafe still having his hand on your jaw. 

“Aw you’re sorry?” Rafe mocks your pitiful apology. 

“You should be sorry; you walk around all high and mighty. Like you don’t give a shit about anything or anyone but your stupid fucking grades. Its fucking boring.” Rafe cruel words stabs your heart. He lets go of your face. 

“That's not true! and I know I shouldn’t call you names, but you really said some fucked up stuff.” You try to placate him, trying to get him to ease up. 

“Don’t be a fucking baby, you try to act all innocent, I bet your panties get soaked when that loser touches you. When he compliments you. I bet even when you get a fucking ‘A’ on a test you’re soaked” Rafe obscenely says licking his lips. Sinking to his knees in front of you.

You gulp down. His words and movements make you nervous, even though there is little truth to it. You do find Mr. Bennett attractive, and that makes you feel guilty enough, he’s your teacher, not a peer. Now Rafe is calling it out? Like its written all over your face. 

“No” you shake your head hard. 

“Rafe, just forget it and let’s get back to work yeah?” 

He ignores you. 

You feel his hands on your thighs now. You try to back up and free yourself but can’t move back any further. 

Nowhere to go. 

You’re trapped between the couch and Rafe, his hands explore your thighs, reaching closer and closer to the top of your shorts. 

“Hm, how about now?” Rafe wonders out loud, more to himself instead to you.

“Huh?” you manage, confused at his words. 

“Let’s see if you’re wet. Maybe you like being treated like this. Not being in control. Having someone telling you what to do. Make you do shit you would never do freely?” 

You don’t say a word, a little afraid of what will come out. Your thoughts were so jumbled in this moment.  

You’re scared yet you feel your skin flush. Rafe comes closer to you and hooks his fingers in the sides of your shorts. His teeth connect with the zipper on your shorts pulling it down slowly. You hand flies over your mouth, keeping your whimpers locked inside. Rafe pulls your shorts down and it pools to at ankles. Rafe takes a moment to stare at you sitting in front of him just in your panties and shirt. He pulls your legs apart, spreading them wide. 

“Rafe” your voice quivers. 

You want him to stop but your body desperately wants to be touched. You hated the fact it was Rafe doing it. He hated you and wanted you at the same time, it was twisted and wrong, but he made something spark inside of you. Something you haven’t felt before. You feel out of control and self-conscious. You can feel your wetness dampen your panties. You knew Rafe could tell by the grin that molded on his face. 

“I knew it” he breathed out like he was proud of you. 

“Little little slut” he shoves his hand between your legs, feeling up your panties, the wet spot becoming more obvious. He strokes his fingers on your slit making you tense up; you try to close your legs, but Rafe prevents you. 

“Don’t be shy now…I thought you liked being the center of attention?” Rafe remarks sarcastically, playing with your folds through your panties. You tremble from his touch, you let out a little gasp when your panties are pulled to the side.  

“Fucking hot, better than I imagined” Rafe murmured. Your eyes bug, shocked by his confession. 

“Touch yourself” Rafe rasps, his breathing heavy. 

“What? No, I can’t” you blurt out. That was not what you were expecting.

“Don’t tell me you can’t. I want to see you touch yourself, just like I was doing to you” Rafe stands tall now, his figure looming over you. 

There is little room for argument, you shakily run your hands over your wetness, coating your fingers. You tease yourself lightly, Rafe is watching you closely. 

“Hike your legs up.” 

You almost whimper at his demand. You slowly bring your knees as close to your chest, you’re in a squatting position, spread wide for him. You try to close your eyes and forget he’s there while you do as you’re told. 

“No no, keep your eyes on me” Rafe runs his hands over the tent forming in his shorts.

 You try to keep eye contact with him. Your brain feels like its short circuiting, you want to stop, make him stop. You’re smarter than this. You know this is some sick game Rafe wants you apart of. Another way to fuck with you like he’s been doing since high school. 

“Keep going, don’t stop touching yourself baby” Rafe purrs. He drops his shorts, standing in his underwear. 

Baby

Your breath catches in your throat at that. You let out a moan feeling dizzy, you are close.

Rafe was so satisfied with how you pleasured yourself in front of him, for him. It was almost too much, he wanted to fuck you so bad. But he needed you warmed up for him. He probably wouldn’t get another chance, why not make it good. 

“That's right baby, I want you to cum for me, cum on your fingers looking up at me” Rafe was on edge he was stroking himself slowly, trying hard to stay cool. The look on your face wasn’t making it easy, he can see you were fighting it, he wanted you to let go. 

“Fucking cum for me, cum for me” Rafe practically begs, his own movements losing rhythm. 

You do just that. You feel electricity shooting through you, you jerk against your fingers, your wetness coating them, you let out a broken moan, riding your fingers for a little longer. you try to even your breathing as you come down. 

“Good girl” Rafe praises. You try your best not to sob, you drop your legs and cover your face, feeling embarrassment wash over you. Rafe stalks forward and takes your hands from your face. Knocking you on your back and pins your wrists against the couch, above your head. 

“Rafe, wait please” You sob for real now, not ready to give more, you feel spent after your climax. 

Rafe lets out a scoff and rips your panties down your legs. He pulls your shirt over your head to expose your chest to him. 

“Always knew you had a great rack under all those ugly baggy clothes you wear” Rafe takes your bra pulling it down to cup under your boobs. You let out a groan when Rafe’s teeth meet one of your nipples, he carefully grazes against it, then sucks hard on it, you almost scream at the sensation. When he repeats it on the other side only rougher, you let out a scream, arching your back.  

“Stop, that hurts” you whine, panting feeling overwhelmed by pain and pleasure. Rafe laughs 

“I love hearing you cry baby, it’s so sexy” Rafe groans. He brings his mouth over your clavicle and bites unforgivingly, probably leaving a mark. You sob out, squirming under him. Rafe leaves kisses over your collarbone, then drags his tongue tenderly over your skin from left to right. 

“Rafe, enough please” Your begging falls on deaf ears. Rafe is too lost in the pleasure to stop himself now. 

“Look at me. Now” Rafe commands you look in in the eyes, holding his gaze. Rafe runs his tongue over your lips ever so lightly. He brushes his lips against yours before crushing his them hard against yours, rolling your lips with his. With you distracted by his kiss, he takes this moment to burying himself into you. You plead at him, begging to slow down but Rafe grunts into your mouth losing himself inside you. 

“Fucking Christ, you feel so good, too good.” Rafe rasps. 

He hooks one of your legs over his waist to give himself better access. Rafe lets go of your wrists; you feel the bruises coming. Rafe nuzzles his head into your neck. You try to push him off, to get some space, just to breath for a minute but it’s impossible. Rafe is too far gone, it’s like trying to move a boulder.

You pull on Rafe’s hair, he doesn’t move. He groans loudly while his hips rut into you harder and harder.

“Fuck yes, God you’re fucking wet for me” Rafe moans, his movements become frantic. He’s hungry for you and your fight only makes his desire intensify. You feel defeated you can’t take much more; you’re losing to the intoxicating feeling of Rafe’s cock splitting you open. You dig your fingers in his shoulders hard, he’s growls, and brings your hand to his neck, he squeezes a little too hard not caring about your comfort. 

“You made me like this, it’s all your fault.” Rafe rhythm gets sloppy his climax approaches. You feel him pulsing inside of you. 

“I’m gonna fucking cum baby, deep in you.” Rafe can’t hold back any longer, you plead with him to pull out. You beat on his shoulders. 

“Fuck fuck fuck” Rafe’s hip jerk against you, he goes still inside you. His hand is still around your neck. When he finally lets go you cough, trying to catch your breath. You couldn’t get out from under him fast enough, you push past him, grabbing your clothes. 

“What the fuck! like actually, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” You’re seething and you have tears in your eyes, you wipe them away quickly. Rafe is still hazy post his orgasm, it takes him a moment to get his bearing. He stands up, gathering his clothes that were discarded. 

“Not so perfect now, are ya? Now we are equals. There’s shit in this world you can’t control, just thought I’d show you first.” Rafe smirks wickedly at you. You’re speechless. Stunned. You huff and frantically grab your belongings. Ready to run the hell out of there. 

“Oh, and we better get an ‘A’ on this project, teacher’s pet.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you slam his front door. 

[sassuguru]

Stepdad Mori Ougai(bsd) x fem stepdaughter reader? Reader burst into meeting room by accident that port mafia members had and she than got punished by mori (smut)

Thank you<3

NAUGHTY GIRL — DEAD DOVE : DO NOT EAT

brochure etiquette get notified! — ao3

26. 02. 2024 stepdaughter!reader — stepcest, dub-con?, age gap ( obvi ), nicknames : "papa" + "baby" + "good girl" + "little girl," exhibitionism, praise, mention of death, mentioned — mori's large influence over r!, implied — safeword, p in v, spanking, pussy slapping. "b4 u talk, no, i don't support hiz actions. but i got daddie issues 'n he's my papa 4 da moment. (yall should tots read ma story on ao3). i need more dark content asks. 'niewho, ty 4 da ask!" the artist says, "made da mum di cuz i hate cheating. if u wan mi 2 change sumthin like da nicknames jus' tell me!"

To no one's surprise, your mother's first marriage didn't last as long as ideal marriages, a.k.a, the marriage you were born out of.

They were both young, no where ready for marriage, the responsibilities that come, and the baby your mother discovered some random night after one too many signs of pregnancy. You couldn't really say that your parents were best, nor were they the worst. They weren't evil people, just premature ones.

You can't call them deadbeats nor active, but one thing you can say, is that your father left first.

It took quite a while for your mother to get into a stable groove for you both, you helping as much as possible so the two of you could at least sleep under a roof of your own. Your mother was gloomy and depressed, you feared she'd collapse one day and leave you alone, until there was a beaming smile on her face.

The cause was a man. A handsome, older, and sophisticated man at that. One interested in her for some strange reason.

Logically, you thought it to be untrue. A rich and hot guy coming to turn around your lives? Impossible! That is, until you find yourself standing in the doorway of his expensive and private villa for a summer vacation, a sparkling ring on your mother's finger.

He's a sweetheart in your experience. Being a standard gentleman: opening doors, paying for items, hand kisses, and sweet words. Though, there's something about him that always threw you off. Ever since you moved in with him when you were 16, and your mother, some age.

Perhaps it was the way he'd subtly suggest things to you and your mother. Like your clothing. Black and Green just so happened to be your color. Then a soft sentence came from his lips during a shopping spree, "Mm, darling, I think you'd look great in pink! Try that one!"

He'd suggest and buy, whispering how cute you were wearing the clothes he bought you. He'd specifically point out things that were extremely girly; ruffles and short skirts galore.

Hed comment how "positively adorable" you looked in that shirt skirt, meant to catch the guys at your school. It often threw you off how many frilly things he bought you, almost everything has ruffles. Then he bought an assortment of bows and headbands. The clothing he suggested you wear reminded you of that of a child, it struck you as odd—though, it didn't seem too big of deal. Hence, you ignored it, and listened. Partially because the clothes did look good on you, and because you started to feel like you wanted his attention on you.

Perhaps it's the healthy need for attention, or maybe it's because he's hot of daddy issues.

It wasn't beyond Mori's notice. He could you longed for his attention, he thought it was cute. Especially the way you snuggled under him during movie nights, or hung tightly on his arm when going about.

And to him and observers, it seemed that those actions increased after your mother's death. It was sudden and confusing. The cause of death being ruled "natural causes," though there was nothing wrong with her (to your knowledge).

Mori didn't seem to be as upset as you thought he would be, though you assumed there was a difference in coping. And soon, just like he did your mother, he spoiled you to no extent. He'd often send you and Elise to shop together with a budget far too high for a "child" and an irresponsible 19-year-old.

He sighed when he saw the receipt, though it was no one's fault but his. You were practically 20, and still spoiled by him. "You are quite lucky I love you, little girl," Mori playfully glares at you as rock back and forth on your heels.

"Mhm! Thank you, Papa!" You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and run off with Elise to out on the outfits you bought.

Just like you skipped away then, you really hope he'll let you skip off this time.

Perhaps it was because of his attitude towards you that you thought you were invincible to his wrath, Mori ponders. His eyes locked on your nervous frame standing at the doorway of the two large doors. Your happy-go-lucky attitude stripped from you in a matter of seconds.

It seemed that you have forgotten he has a meeting this evening.

Without a knock, you burst into the dark meeting room where all of the Port Mafia executives were. You were aware that Mori did something illegal for work even if he constantly made sure you were seperated from that world; however, that didn't stop the surprise you held when weapons were quickly pointed towards you.

The two ginger adults stood, the man with a dark aura surrounding him, the woman with a gift in the shape of a demon woman, a sword in its hand.

"Kōyō, Chūya, you may relax, along with the rest of you," Mori speaks calmly, "This forgetful girl would be my stepdaughter. There will be no animosity towards her."

"Yes, sir," they spoke as Kōyō and Chūya sat down. There was silence in the room, not a sound being heard.

"Papa—" You attempt to speak before he holds a finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet. You stand timidly in the doorway.

There were only certain situations that you are involved in where his expression is hard to read. He always made sure you could understand him through his expressions. And when you couldn't, that was when you got scared. You gulp, as his eyes harden.

He's thinking of something, probably a punishment, you muse.

Mori hums, making a motion for you to come to him with his finger. "Close the door and come here," you flinch at his tone of voice, but you obediently obey, cringing at the eyes on your back as you stand in front of their boss.

Mori's silent as he looks up at you, only making your nerves worse.

"I told you I had a meeting today," he speaks, "Forget?"

You avoid his gaze at all costs, pursing your lips as you nod. "Yes, sir," you whisper. Mori hums at your words. He snaps his fingers, "Look at me."

Your eyes flicker to his, worry embedded in your expression. "What did I tell you about bursting in like that?" He notices you start to play with your fingers, electing to ignore it. "To knock," you mumble, eyes falling.

"Look, at me," he says sternly, "Speak up."

A whimper leaves your lips at his tone. "To knock," you speak louder. Mori hums, "Did you knock?" You shake your head, "No."

"Mhm," he hums, "Do you know what that means?" The executives lock worried eyes at the display. "Yes," you nod. "Yes, what?" Mori questions. "Yes, papa," you whimper. The man hums, his hands slide up the back of your thighs.

How cute, he thought, conviently wearing a skirt before you get punished. "Pull off your panties," he orders, smiling softly as you obey. "Sir—" one of the executives tries to speak, though he wasn't paying attention to which one it was. "Silence," he interrupts in a whisper, gladly grabbing the panties you just took off.

"Over my leg."

You carefully lay your torso over his thighs, one of your hands gripping his pant leg before he's even done anything. "You know the deal, count. If you mess up, I start over, yes?"

A premature sniff leaves your lips, "Yes, papa."

His hand runs along the underside of your thigh, cupping the flesh of your ass as he pushes your skirt up. A hum leaves his lips when he runs his thumb along the slit of your vulva, "Hmm. Wet already?"

Without warning his hand lifts and strikes the bare skin of your ass. You whimper, body jolting at the action. "O-One," you whisper. His hand smooths along the irritated flesh. "Good," he whispers. You can feel your eyes already swelling with tears from the sting. Shutting your eyes, you desperately hope there's only 10 spanks this time.

You attempt horribly to think about anything other than the many people watching Mori discipline you. There's another harsh smack to your unhurt cheek, throwing you out of your thoughts.

A mix of a howl and a whimper leave your lips out of surprise. "Two!" You whine.

"Good girl," he coos, soothing rubbing his hands on the sore skin. As his thumbs spread your ass he can see the glossy look of slick entangled in the small hairs around your folds. A happy hum leaves his lips before he lands a harsh slap onto your ass, ending your short reprieve. You sniff, tears now spilling from your eyes. "Three," you whisper, a crack in your voice.

His harsh slaps continue, your pathetic voice whispering numbers becoming his favorite sound. "E-Eight," you stutter and moan.

Mori hums, smiling at your sticky eyelashes, the black mascara running down your cheeks. "Oh, shh. No more crying," he whispers as your feel the tips of his fingers ghost along your pussy, "If you had been a good girl, this wouldn't have happened."

"'m sowy, papa," you whine, sniffling on his lap. The man chuckles, "Oh I know you are." He hums, softly rubbing your skin. "Despite my distaste of you getting off to your punishment like a whore...Because you've taken your punishment so well, you get two more. Make sure to count correctly, little girl."

You feverishly nod, a string of 'mhm!'s leaving your lips. You take a deep shaky breath to prepare for the last two strikes, unaware of the growing stiff tension in the room.

The mental preparation for the last two strikes didn't serve any benefits as his hand had moved. Instead of the already sore skin he'd assaulted, the palm of his hand dips between your thighs, landing harsh smack to your pussy. A loud and strangled moan leaves your lips, though to the (unfortunate) observers it sounded more attuned to a scream. "Papa!" You whip your head to look at him wide-eyed in shock.

"What's the number?" He asks, ignoring the expression he knows serves as a question for him to answer. "P-Pa—" he interrupts your words, firmly speaking again, "The number."

You sniff, and lay back on his thighs, "Nine," you whimper. Mori chuckles, "Good." His hands separate your plush thighs that are squeezed together. His eyes take in the twitch of your clit when he spreads your folds, his tongue swipes along his bottom lip as he hears the disgusting and loud squelch paired with the sight of the bubbly, clear liquid spilling from your cunt, and his thumb rubs against the entrance of your vagina, teasing it. "What a cute little thing," he comments, spreading the strings of slick along the curled pubic hair.

When his hand lifts from your skin, you brace yourself for the incoming pain. Your fingers grip his pant leg harshly, teeth clenched around the fabric of his pants aswell; the material stuffed in your mouth, your drool burying itself in the fabric, creating a darker-colored patch.

One of his hands glides down your plump ass, fingers stationing themselves at your folds. Your eyes widen when you realize what's to come, the fabric falling from you mouth to create a desperate plea of "wait!" that was too late as his palm slams down against the bundle of nerves.

A loud and pathetic moan leaves your lips. Mori watches with a smile at your expression; eyes rolled back, toes curled, with your lower half twitching, release coming over you quickly from the stimulation.

Little huffs leave your lips as you cum, feeling his hand delicately rest against the sensitive and puffy area as if he were to collect your release upon his hand.

You soon come down from your high, though your thighs still twitch from your sudden orgasm. Despite the atmosphere, relief washes over you, knowing your punishment was over and he'd hopefully let you leave, though not without embarrassment and shame. You rest your cheek against his thigh, drooling onto the fabric of his pants.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Mori tuts, sending alarms off in your head. "Did I tell you, you could cum?" Your eyes widen and you lift your head. "And you've ruined my pants. And thought you were finally being good," he shakes his head, "I suppose I'll have to dish out another punishment, hm?" He watches you practically wip your head towards him. His eyebrows raise in amusement as your glossy, wide eyes look up him in a silent plea for a break, to not suffer humiliation any further. There's silence as he looks at your face, seemingly contemplating whether or not he should. There's hope in your chest that he'll let it be until later, though it seems you have terrible luck. Your face drops when laughs at your expression.

"Stand up, sweetheart," he whispers. He clicks in tongue, a "sympathetic" whisper of 'Awww' leaves his lips as he sees your bottom lip tremble.

You stand up like he orders, pressing your thighs together as if it would hide the mess you've made of yourself. Mori remains seated in his chair, though he makes a circle motion with his index finger, signaling you should turn around.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as you turn around, clamping your eyes shut as not to see the looks of his executives. You suck in a breath when you hear him rise from his seat. You feel him press against you, then his hand lightly pushes your head down on the desk. Your teeth catch onto your bottom lip as your feel the stiffness of his crotch against your bare skin. "Breathe, baby," he coos, a light chuckle in his voice as separates your ass, smiling at the glistening of your pussy.

His thumb glides down the slit, "Oh, you look so cute."

A whimper leaves your lips as his index finger teases your entrance before pushing in. "You should be ashamed at how wet you are," he tuts, easily slipping in a second finger. His free hand his planted firmly against the back of your neck. His eyes remain trapped on the way his fingers pump in an out of you.

Your lips fall open as you feel a second orgasm coming, though that feeling stops when he retracts his fingers.

A sharp huff leaves your lips, clearly upset at the constant teasing Mori's doing. His chuckle reverberates throughout the silent yet tense meeting room. "This is why you're in trouble. Your lack of patience," he hums, the feeling of his tip between your folds appears.

Mori grunts when he pushes inside of you. His eyes flutter and his breath stutters at the feeling of you. His violet eyes watch how your eyes close when he pushes in. A thoughtful hum leaves his lips as his hips move in a slow pace to get you used to him. He loves you, even if this was a punishment, he'd never hurt his sweet girl. There's a snap of his fingers next to your ear. "Up, up," he says with a bright smile. "You interrupted their meeting. Look at them, apologize."

Your eyes widen at his words. He coos at the temble of your bottom lip. You sit up and turn your head towards the rest of the table. "I-I'm," you shakily start, eyes flicking anywhere, but the prying eyes of the executives.

And somehow, Mori was able to tell you weren't actually looking.

His hand curls it's fingers into your hair. He directs your head to face the boy ginger, Chūya. "Look at him, apologize."

Chūya gulps, tensing at the sudden attention. He attempts ( horribly ), to ignore the straining against his pants. Sweat rolls down his temple, nails digging sharply into his pants. Your expression only seemed to make his state worse. Mori's pace had increased, the loud and lewd slapping of skin echoed throughout the room. Your face was sinful. Eyes unfocused—almost crossed, tongue lolled, and drool leaking onto the pristine table. "S-Sorry," you whine, though you clearly don't mean it.

Mori yanks onto your hair, the burn of the pull only adding onto the pleasure. "Say it like you mean it. You know his name."

Mori smiles at your pathetic whine. "'M—I'm sorry, Chūya! 'm sorry I ruined your meeting!" You hiccup; Chūya almost cums right there, and that bastard of a boss he has can tell immediately. It's wrong, but he almost creams at the way you say his name, damn that bastard.

"That's my good girl," Mori coos, "One more time. Tell all of them you're sorry."

You feel his hand press against your back, forcing a deeper arch, which only makes his cock feel deeper. "aw, fuck! 'm sorry for— for— for ruining your meeting," you sob as force words from your lips as your glossy eyes looks around the table at the stiff figures of the executives.

"Uh, uh, uh," you whine at each thrust, mumbling "sorry, sorry, sorry," whiner and whiner each time his tip rams into into your g-spot. Your neck feels weak as your head falls onto the table. "Good job," he coos, "That's my girl." The loud squelching of your cunt is music to his ears, the warmth of your walls squeezing around him has his eyes fluttering, a pleased smile appears on his face as you absent-mindedly rock back in time with his thrusts. "That's it, baby. Your doing such a good job," he praises, only making you squeeze harder around his length.

He hisses at how tight you feel, the stimulation driving him to an orgasm. "Papa!" You whine, "Papa!"

"Yes, sweetheart," he whispers, "You can cum. Go ahead."

His words were enough to push you to the edge as your pussy spasms around his cock. A creamy white ring forms at the base of his length as he continues his thrusts, though they get sloppy before they stop completely; his tip nuzzling deep inside of you as he cums.

A satisfied sigh leaves when he pulls out, a light chuckle filling the air as he watches your hips twitch as you come down from your high.

Mori's hands massage your sore ass and his lips kiss the back of your neck. "Mm, you did so good," he whispers. He tucks his softening erection back into his pants before he carefully scoops you up and into his arms. The room is tense, soft grunts coming from some of people in the room, cheeks red with embarrassment and arousal, yet not a word is said from any of the executives.

"Well—! That was a productive meeting, of course we have other things to discuss, but that will have to wait," Mori breaks the silence in the air with a cheerful tone, "Let's finish this next week, yes?"

The others in the room stiffly nod, mumbling, "Yes, sir."

Mori smiles, "Good." With you in his arms he walks out of the meeting room and to his own chambers. "Let's clean you up, hm? I'll even give you a reward for taking your punishment so well. Is that good enough to cheer you up?" He whispers, wiping stray tears from your cheeks.

Both satisfied and embarrassed, you nod agaisnt his shoulder. "Yes," you huff, taking on a bratty tone.

Mori chuckles, "Very well."

FINALLY FINISHED THIS OML, IT TOOK 4EVER. again, don't condone his actions, dis iz fiction.

[theredofoctober]

Runt: an Omni-Man x Gender Neutral Reader Darkfic

TW: noncon, violence, blood, humiliation/verbal degredation

Synopsis: Reader's mother, the superhero Firebright, has gone into hiding. Omni-Man brutally interrogates Reader as to her whereabouts.

Reader is a Young Adult, Gender Neutral, appearance not specified

Read after the cut

✂️ ✂️ ✂️

"Where is your mother?"

There is something wrong with Omni-Man, frigidity in the barrens of his pale eyes. He stands at the door like an omen of shadows to come, his bulk filling its narrow confines immovably.

You gaze up at him, and the ice of his derision glares back.

“I asked you a question,” says Omni-Man. “Where is Firebright?”

His air of perpetual and mildly pompous congeniality has fallen away from him, perhaps had never truly been.

He's a stranger, now, come to your house with some hard purpose.

"My Mom?" you repeat, faintly. "She's out cleaning up after some crime, I think. I don't really know."

A lie, which you had promised you’d keep, come what may.

Your mother, a heroine of fire-wielding prowess, has informed you that she must go into hiding, from who or what threat she wouldn't say. You’d believed—without knowing its source—in that danger.

Now Omni-Man is at your door, and you think again of your mother's hands, how they had trembled. How thin she’d looked, and how afraid.

"I'm sorry, Nolan," you mumble. "I don't know when Mom’ll be back. She didn’t tell me."

"I don't believe that's true," says Omni-Man, and he steps forward, extending an arm to prevent you from closing the door against him. "I need you to tell me where she is immediately."

His face is handsome and severe, the jaw like a pane of white glass. The tension in it speaks of unshed violence and disdain, of loathing kept like a spider in an upturned jar, poised on release.

Fear draws you down in its dizzying pulse, and suddenly you're quite glad that your mother kept her location from you, that you can’t spit it out even under duress.

"I have no idea, really, I don’t," you say, and Omni-Man steers you back across the living room, his cloak whisking the backs of his thighs like a wind of blood. "Nolan, please. I swear I can't help you. What’s happening right now?"

You’re up against a wall, vulnerable and so very human. Unlike your parents, you’ve never developed powers of any kind to protect you or those you love, and Omni-Man knows it.

He’s been good friends with your mother since you were young, and has long comforted her with the suggestion that your abilities might one day arise. You’ve been no more a threat to this man than a moth to the devil, and yet you’d never once feared him, till now.

"Ellen must have given you some way to contact her," says Omni-Man, his mouth a joyless line beneath his moustache. "Call her immediately. Stop wasting my time with your blabber."

"I don't understand,” you say, avoiding the order. “Is something wrong?"

A gloved fist strikes the wall above your head, shaking down fragments of plaster upon you. Thinking how simply your skull might have bowed into a cave of bone beneath such pressure you cry out, a sound entirely too feeble to be called a scream.

Omni-Man looms over you, his eyes the blue of long dead flesh.

"Stop asking questions about things that have nothing to do with you. Either you hand Firebright over, or I show you what happens to those that get in my way."

There is, in a drawer in the house, a remote you could press, for the times in which your mother is otherwise unreachable. You could go to it, call her back from whatever bunker protects her from harm.

But as Omni-Man's stare bores through your anguished expression you understand, with a chilling clarity, that he means to kill your mother, and that only your stance against him preserves her life.

Gulping, you say, "Whatever you think my Mom did, she couldn't have done it. You know her, you're her friend, Nolan—"

Omni-Man’s fist grinds into the wall, his arm cutting through it to the shoulder.

"Don't use my name as though you mean anything to me, you pathetic, powerless runt. Look at the way you turned out: a snivelling weakling, not even a spark at your fingertips. No wonder your father left. You’re a disgrace to him and your mother. I'd be ashamed to have you as my child.”

Only shock halts the tears that burn behind your eyes, a wounded magma.

"Please don't say that to me,” you whisper. “I— I've always looked up to you. I love you, Nolan."

For a moment you think you see a flash of the old, kind feeling across Omni-Man’s chiselled features.

Almost at once it dies away.

"Too bad,” he says. “I don't love you, brat. Now tell me how to find your mother before I rip you into pieces."

Putting your hands on Omni-Man’s chest, you gaze up at him with beseeching eyes.

"Nolan, Nolan, tell me what happened. I’ll help you figure it out. Whatever it is, I know Mom had nothing to do with it."

Something of your gentle touch, your cringing innocence, provokes him.

"Alright,” snaps Omni-Man. “You had your chance."

In a spurt of nauseating speed he drags you upstairs by a sudden grip on your throat, your breath smacked from your lungs as you hit your bed and roll across it, head over heels, like a fallen acrobat.

Omni-Man looks about him, scoffing at your room’s dated, childish decor, the tattered stuffed animals still poised in glassy-eyed rows on your dresser.

"No wonder you don't have any powers,” he sneers. “You're stunted in every way."

His hand makes a lariat of your shirt collar, briefly throttling you until your feet kick out in twitching throes. Then he rends the cloth down the middle, repeating the act on your lower garments before you’ve enough air to protest.

You’re so stunned that you don’t think to cover yourself, only stare, jaws parted, hot from cheek to toe with shame, with horror.

A beating was the furthest you’d expected from the interrogation: the intent behind the night cliffs of eyes upon you seems, even now, quite impossible, an absurdity plucked from some sticky summer dream.

"No,” you say— you speak in a low, flat sort of murmur, as you’d address a beloved dog that turns and shows its teeth. “Omni-Man, please, please, you're like family. You can't do this to me.”

"Of course I can,” he snaps. “And I'm going to do it over and over until you tell me where Firebright is. Daily, if I have to. I'll break you down until you're no better than a drooling animal. Not that you're so far from that now."

A devastated moan spills from your tight throat as Omni-Man leans over you, his pale suit straining across his bulk. He pauses with his face close to yours, every vein in his eyes standing out like streaks of flame.

"Now, talk,” he says. “I don’t want to waste any more time here than I have to.”

Tears make glazed glass of your cheeks as you turn your face aside, unable to look at him any longer.

"This isn't like you, Nolan."

Omni-Man’s mouth is a razor’s wound across his white teeth when he answers.

"This is more me than you'll ever know."

He pins you to the bed with an abrupt and frightening strength, opening the groin of his suit with his other hand to jerk the flesh that rises through it.

"What about Debbie?" you blurt out, and Omni-Man stills, a red glove closed over the throbbing evidence of his anger.

"Don't talk about my wife!" he barks. “You’re not worthy.”

Your eyes return to his face, drawn to its savage rictus in wretched fascination. How long has Omni-Man—the husband, the father, the friend—been so twisted with this private hatred for you?

Interpreting the question from your fearful look, he answers, his hand still at work on his cock.

"I always knew you had an embarrassing crush on me. Following me around every event with puppy dog eyes, always asking if there was anything you could do for me. Degrading yourself at every turn. Laughable.

“And I ignored you. Debbie made jokes about you. Even then I knew you were just a fragile, weak-willed child, craving the adoration your father never gave you."

"Stop it,” you say, inching back across the bed on the heels of your palms. “Stop it!"

A hand traps your ankle, snatching you back under the colossus of your new enemy. His body is a cage of rigid musculature, even the smallest tendon able to kill.

"You brought this on yourself by defying me,” says Omni-Man. “Did you think I'd just walk away when you refused me information? Take pity on you?"

"Nolan—"

He cuts you off with a blow that near claims your sight in its ferocity.

"You whine like an infant. Why didn’t you ever grow up?”

You’re still attempting to process the pain across your eye socket as Omni-Man forces your legs apart around him, handling the joints with scornful disregard of their mortal delicacy.

“Where is Firebright?” asks Omni-Man again, and you can only shake your head, mumbling in a breathless stream of false denial.

“I don’t know, I don’t remember where she said she was going—”

Omni-Man’s lip curls in bald disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Well, let’s see how much you remember now.”

Your attacker opens you to him with rough, clothed fingers, tearing tight flesh ajar up to the knuckles, three of them deep. He draws them in and out of your hole like a blade across a whetstone, watching you flail and gibber beneath his merciless use with a stern and unflinching malice.

Then, as you scream Omni-Man’s name in abandoned repetition, he rallies his member to its furthest solidity and runs you through, all agony and annihilation, and you think as he does it that you may well die of his rage.

The floorboards moan with his rutting, its obscenity a crime of war. This is as much a degradation of Earth’s piteous race as a whole as of your person, your naked flesh symbolic of that which many alien societies covet to rule or else destroy.

That any human being has borne this and lived seems miraculous, yet you know it has been done and enjoyed for Debbie Grayson to stand by him. To love him.

You cry out, aware as you do so that you’ll only invite further pain.

“Really,” mocks Omni-Man. “I’m barely trying to hurt you. If I did, I'd rip you in half.”

In a jolt of violence he drags you up against a wall, the friction skimming a leaf of skin from your back as he stabs deeper in. Your breath comes in asthmatic chokes, punched from your chest by very force of his fucking.

Some wet stream warms your thigh, of what matter you don’t care to know.

“Give me the name of your mother’s location or I keep on going,” says Omni-Man. “You’re already bleeding. Your feeble body surely can’t take much more.”

His cock is a farrier’s tool, cutting with its every wrenching motion. Its length and girth alone would make you weep, but it is his wielding of it that is a thing of horror to you.

You feel Omni-Man’s hands shut about your wrists, testing the fragility of the bone.

���Aren’t you even going to fight me?” he taunts. “Go on. Show me what you’ve got in you, if anything at all.”

Closing your eyes, you try with all the force of strength and concentration in you to summon the flame you’ve long envied in your mother, and have never once achieved.

There is nothing, nothing, still, only an icicle of sweat down your brow.

Omni-Man laughs shortly, pulling you further up across the wall in another volley of thrusts.

“Just as I thought,” he comments. “Wasted genes.”

As he lets go of your arms you throw one of them forward in a weak strike across your attacker’s cheek. A mite star of fire bolts from your palm, and you yelp in both fear and surprise at the sight of it, at the thought of retribution to come.

Omni-Man rubs his face, which remains, as expected, quite unmarked.

“Is that it?” he asks. “You’re barely warm.”

“I’m not a superhero,” you cry out, as he returns to his mean handling of your body. “I’m just a human, okay? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The blue eyes, once so lovely to you, roll in disgust.

“Of course there is. You could have been so much more. Take a look at yourself.”

Omni-Man flies you to your floor-length mirror, yanking your head back so that you might see yourself split apart on his atrocity.

How small you look, a flailing rag against the beast's taut muscle. His cock works in and out of you with the efficiency of some extra-terrestrial vehicle on a jaunt that will not end.

The sound of it is slick, explicit.

“You’re lucky that this is what I’m doing to you when I’m capable of so much worse," says Omni-Man, watching you arrogantly in your reflection.

“This is wrong,” you insist. “This isn’t you, Nolan.”

“I’m a Viltrumite,” snaps Omni-Man, and he flattens you to the bed again with a force that snaps the frame beneath it. “This is what my people are. You should be on your knees, thanking me for sparing your life.”

He turns you onto your belly, snarling as he stabs through your form from behind.

“This is the last time I’ll ask before I really injure you,” he says. “Where's Firebright?”

Only the lasting thought that you must save your mother from something more awful than this prevents you from delivering his answer.

Omni-Man grips you by the throat until your eyes stream and your pain barks from between your lips in a coughing spume of blood.

In frantic hope you turn one hand backwards, thinking to strap his hips in a band of fire.

“You think you can hurt me?” asks Omni-Man, squeezing your forearm until you sob and relent. “I don’t feel a thing. This is more humiliating than if you were entirely without powers. What use are you to your planet?”

“Nolan,” you croak. “I’m begging you to stop this.”

Somewhere in the catastrophe of sensation there is the start of pleasure, your body’s weary attempt to salve its bullied entrance. You lie quite stiff and still, praying that in doing so you won’t provoke that last ruination into being.

“You know how to end this,” says Omni-Man. “But perhaps this is what you prefer: to be shown your place by your superior. If I’d done this a year ago you would have presented yourself to me, ready and willing to be of use.”

To your despair his hand ventures to your tortured sex and makes full display of his knowledge. His strokes are coarse, efficient, in time to his cock’s quick barbarity. You smell cologne, and the fabric of his suit, and hair oil; your nose, your throat, is full of him.

Perhaps your soul will absorb his evil too, through osmosis.

Clenching your teeth across your tongue you steer back the piteous little whines his taunting abuse of your weakness brings.

“Part of you is still willing, I see,” Omni-Man comments. “Let’s see how long it can hold out against me.”

You cry, and hiss, and squeeze shut your fists until the stench of smoke greys the air between you. Still your orgasm is wrenched out on hand and cock like an eldritch birth, another plundered reward for his collection.

“Barely a minute,” jeers Omni-Man. “And all that mess. How humiliating.”

He ponders, hips grinding against yours with the approaching threat of his own end.

One of his fists arcs back your skull, forcing your tear-raw eyes to his again. What was handsome in him now seems only the frightful visage of a warlord, all pillage and pursuit of valour.

“I’m responsible for you finally developing your abilities,” says Omni-Man. “Why don’t you thank me for it?”

You stare up at him in terror and distress, your tongue swollen to near uselessness at the roof of your mouth. Omni-Man’s hand slams beneath your chin, pinching some nerve there until your vision blisters into an abomination of light.

Through blood-stringed teeth you answer.

“Thank you, Omni-Man.”

“You’re welcome, runt,” he leers, and with a gloved palm against your gut he flattens you to him, having you feel every pulse of his triumphant finish within you.

He holds you there for some time, your bare, bloody back staining the white of his suit and complimenting the red. You daren’t roll out from under him, remain, panting shallowly, adhered to your attacker by his spend.

His moustached lips scuff the back of your neck, more threatening than intimate.

“I’ll find Firebright,” he says, “whether you tell me where she is or not. But next time I drop by I expect you to be more talkative. Do you understand?”

---

Tagging @hewwokitti3 so you can find this 😇