#difference between dubbing and voice over

[cup1drul3z]

★ — I DONT KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ : ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ

ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 7.3ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : stalking, murder, dub con, toxic relationship, reader is humble, knife mentioned, gun mentioned, corruption, blood, gore?, age gap

A/N : i heart stalker fics

Summary : You’ve spent your life being walked over — at work, at home, even by the only guy who’s shown you attention. But when a man corners you in the dark, something inside you finally snaps. Now there’s blood on your hands… and Detective Sevika watching your every move.

The sun doesn’t wake you up. It never does. Not anymore.

It’s the silence that does it. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. The kind that hangs heavy in every room of the townhouse your parents bought before your dad left and your mom died. Three bedrooms, hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings—and not a single voice left inside. Not even yours.

You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. Still cracked from that time the upstairs tub overflowed. You never fixed it. You tell yourself you’ll call someone about it next week. You won’t.

Your blanket’s wrapped around your legs like a trap. You tug it off and sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s too quiet. Again. Just like yesterday. Just like always.

You shuffle to the bathroom, feet cold against the tile. Your toothbrush is worn flat, toothpaste crusted at the cap. You brush anyway. Rinse. Spit. Stare at your reflection.

Your mouth moves like it might say something. You don’t.

You get dressed in silence—black skirt, button up, socks that don’t match. You never really outgrew that high school habit of disappearing into neutral colors. You don’t want attention. You just want… something.

Breakfast is a single slice of toast. Burnt. You scrape the black off with a butter knife, not because you care about the taste but because it’s what your mom used to do.

Your phone lights up on the counter. No notifications. You pretend you didn’t check. You grab your backpack and sling it over one shoulder, then double back to grab your keys. Almost forgot them. Again.

You lock the door behind you. Jiggle the knob three times. Habit.

The street is empty. The air is cold. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wails and fades. You don’t even flinch. You just pull your hoodie up over your head and walk.

What you don’t know—what you never notice—is the black SUV parked two houses down. Same one that’s been there every morning for a month. Same one with its engine off, windows tinted too dark for legality.

Inside, someone watches you walk. She’s seen your morning routine down to the minute.

You walk the four blocks to the newspaper office with your hood up and your eyes down, the wind nipping at your cheeks and making your eyes water. You don't bother wiping the tears. No one’s looking close enough to tell the difference.

The building is squat and gray—wedged between a liquor store and a vape shop, with a flickering sign above the door that says The Ledger. Half the letters don’t light up. It smells like stale coffee and printer toner before you even step inside.

You key in through the side entrance—front door’s jammed again, and no one’s fixed it. Not that anyone would. It’s not like they care if it’s broken. You don’t think anyone’s cared about much of anything here in a long time.

Except maybe making your life hell.

Your desk is in the front corner, tucked next to the always-jammed copy machine and the coffee pot that everyone uses but no one ever cleans. You take your coat off and sit down in your creaky chair, fingers already curling around the cold ceramic mug you forgot to wash out yesterday.

The phone rings. You pick it up on the second ring like you're supposed to.

“Ledger office, how can I help you?”

Click.

You stare at the receiver before gently setting it back in place.

“Morning, sugar.” It’s Paul, one of the middle-aged layout guys. He slaps a hand on your desk like he owns it. “Coffee machine’s empty again. Be a doll?”

You nod. “Of course.”

He’s already walking away.

You get up. Make the coffee. Answer the phones. Sort the mail. Repeat.

It goes on like that for hours. No breaks. No thanks. People call you hon, sweetie, babe. The sports editor calls you desk candy when he thinks you’re out of earshot. Sometimes when he knows you’re not.

You had dreams, once. Writing. Interning. Editing. Now you just take messages and print agendas. And smile.

Always smile.

By lunch, your hands are sore from sorting envelopes and your knees ache from crouching under desks fixing the damn printer again. You sit alone in the break room with a wilted salad and one plastic fork. A group of reporters walk in, mid-conversation, and don't even acknowledge you. Someone changes the radio. No one asks if you were listening.

You don’t say anything. You never do. Because sweet girls don’t make a fuss.

What you don’t see—what you can’t feel—is the gaze through the tinted car window parked across the street. She saw you unlock the side door. Saw you nod and smile and carry someone else’s lunch from the delivery box without complaint.

She knows your schedule. She knows how no one listens when you talk. She knows exactly how it feels to be stepped on.

And she’s not going to let it happen anymore.

You shouldn’t still be at work.

But you are—alone in the dim office, fluorescent lights buzzing above you like they’re taunting you. Your boss dumped a stack of last-minute paperwork on your desk ten minutes before closing and said, “I owe you one,” as he walked out the door. He doesn’t. He never has.

You finish filing the last form and shut down your computer. It’s almost 9 p.m.

The building is dead quiet when you leave. Even the coffee machine’s dark.

You zip your jacket up all the way to your chin, fingers trembling a little as you step out into the night. It’s colder than it was this morning. The kind of cold that creeps into your bones. You hug your arms around yourself and walk.

The bus stop is just a block away. The sidewalks are mostly empty. One drunk man yells something from across the street, but you keep walking. You always do.

You sit on the bench and tuck your bag under your legs. One streetlight overhead flickers. A bus should be coming. Eventually.

You hear boots on the pavement before you see her.

They’re slow. Steady. Heavy like they belong to someone who never hurries.

You glance up.

The woman who approaches isn’t wearing a uniform.

Long dark coat. Wide shoulders. Black boots. Badge clipped at her belt, half-concealed under the hem of her jacket. Not a patrol cop. Detective.

You glance at her, offer your usual courtesy smile. “Evening.”

She doesn’t smile back.

“You work over at the Ledger, don’t you?”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. Reception.”

“Hm.” She looks down the street, not at you. “Been hearing about a few incidents near this stop. People being followed. Harassed.”

Your stomach tightens. “I didn’t see anything.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t say you did.” Then, casually—too casually—“You walk home alone often?”

You shift in your seat. “Sometimes. I catch the bus.”

“People notice that kind of routine,” she says. Her eyes drag back to yours. “The wrong kind of people.”

You force another smile, more nervous this time. “I’ll be careful.”

There’s a pause. A little too long.

“You ever wonder what happens when someone gets pushed too far?” she asks suddenly. “Someone quiet. Sweet. The kind that always smiles.”

You look at her. She’s not smiling.

“They snap,” she says. “Usually without warning. And then it’s too late to take anything back.”

You don’t know what to say. You just sit there, frozen.

The bus pulls up, and she steps back to let you on.

���Have a good night, miss,” she says, with a voice that almost sounds genuine.

Almost.

The bus ride home feels longer than usual. The windows are fogged, the hum of the engine too loud, your seat just cold enough to keep you awake. You keep replaying the detective’s words in your head.

You ever wonder what happens when someone gets pushed too far?

The bus hisses to a stop a block from your townhouse. The streetlights flicker above you like dying stars as you walk. You don’t see anyone. But you still pull your hood tighter.

The key sticks in the lock like always. You jiggle it a little harder than necessary.

Inside, the townhouse is still. Quiet in a way that makes your skin itch. You turn on the entry light. Nothing’s moved. Everything is exactly how you left it.

You tell yourself the silence is normal. You tell yourself the tension in your spine is just leftover stress.

You toe off your shoes. Set your bag down beside the couch. Peel off your hoodie and drop it across the armrest. You move slow. Heavy. Like your body’s trying to catch up to your mind.

The bathroom’s cold, but the shower water is warm enough to make your shoulders drop. You stand under the stream for a long time, forehead pressed to the tile, breathing steam and letting it blur your thoughts.

By the time you wrap yourself in a towel, your fingers are wrinkled and your skin flushed pink.

You pull on your softest pajama set—faded flannel pants and a tank top that used to be your mom’s. You always wear it when you feel hollow. Something about it makes the house feel less empty.

In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine from the bottle you opened last week. You cradle it in both hands as you walk back through the living room, barefoot on the hardwood floors, yawning as you pass the darkened windows.

You don’t notice the curtain that’s been slightly shifted.

Not yet.

You push open your bedroom door with your elbow and step inside.

That’s when you see it.

Your laptop. Open on your desk. Screen still lit.

You stop in your tracks.

You don’t remember opening it. You definitely don’t remember leaving it on.

You set your wine down slowly on the nightstand and cross the room.

The glow from the screen throws strange shadows against the walls as you approach. Your fingers hover over the trackpad.

It’s already on a browser page.

Search bar: intern overtime laws state regulations unpaid work protections

Your breath catches.

You didn’t look that up.

Your eyes dart to the tabs—there are five open. All related. All citing federal labor laws. Your cursor drags across one article:

“If an intern is performing essential duties beyond the scope of learning, especially during overtime hours, they may be entitled to full compensation.”

You scroll. Slowly. Carefully.

A quote is highlighted:

“Unpaid overtime for interns is considered a violation in most states if the tasks performed directly benefit the employer without educational oversight.”

You furrow your brows, lips parting slightly.

You remember the stack of forms your boss dumped on you tonight. The ones he made you file while he went home.

You remember how late it was. How alone you were. How much of his job you were doing.

Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen.

Last accessed: 5:48 PM

You were still at your desk then. Filing documents. Sorting papers. Not home. Not here.

You step back slowly. The air in your room suddenly feels off. Like someone’s been breathing in it before you.

You glance at the window. Still shut. Still locked. But the curtains are off-center.

You didn’t open the laptop. You know you didn’t.

And yet… there it is. Waiting. Like a quiet whisper in the dark.

A warning? A favor? A threat?

You’re not sure which one scares you more.

You wake up with a tightness in your chest.

Not pain. Just… pressure. Like something heavy’s sitting on your sternum, refusing to let go. You blink up at the ceiling. The light leaking through the curtains is dull and gray, casting long shadows across your bed.

You roll onto your side and stare at your laptop.

Still open. Still glowing faintly.

You close it without looking at the screen.

The silence in your townhouse feels heavier than usual. Or maybe you’re just still thinking about last night. The detective. The search history. The feeling that your space isn’t really yours anymore.

You go through the motions of your morning routine like you’re on autopilot. Brush your teeth. Splash water on your face. Deodorant. You tie your hair back in a pony with a few pieces loose and pull on the same black skirt from yesterday and a button up with a small vest that smells like clean laundry but doesn’t feel comforting today.

Your stomach growls.

You shuffle to the kitchen. Open one cabinet. Then another. Then the fridge.

Empty. Still.

You forgot—again—to get groceries. Or maybe you remembered and just… couldn’t. Couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t deal with the fluorescent lights, the long lines, the judgmental looks at your half-full cart of clearance-brand basics.

You rub your face with both hands and sigh.

Fine.

You slip on your shoes, shove a few crumpled bills and coins into your pocket, and head out. It’s only a block to the corner shop. You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again.

The shop bell jingles as you push the door open. The warmth inside doesn’t reach your bones.

You grab a breakfast burrito from the hot case. If it can even be called that. The plastic wrapper is half melted against the heating element, and the label says it expired yesterday. You don’t care. It’s $2.39. It’ll keep you from passing out at your desk.

You carry it to the counter and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The cashier is a teenage girl with streaky mascara and airpods in both ears. She’s leaning against the gum rack, tapping away on her phone like you don’t exist. You don’t want to interrupt. You hate interrupting.

You hover politely. Smile. Clutch the burrito with both hands.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for her to even glance up.

When she finally does, she exhales dramatically. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t see you.” Her tone says she’s not sorry at all.

You offer your best polite smile. “No problem.”

She scans the burrito. The register beeps. You hand over the crumpled bills and coins, fingers slightly shaking as you try to count them out.

Behind you, the bell above the door jingles again.

Boots.

Heavy ones.

The air shifts.

You don’t turn at first. But you feel it. That pull. That heat. That attention pressing into the back of your neck like a hand.

You glance over your shoulder.

It’s her.

Detective.

Same long coat. Same unreadable face. Same sharp eyes that seem to see straight through your skin.

“Morning,” she says, voice low and even. She steps beside you, dropping a black coffee and a protein bar on the counter.

You freeze. Then swallow.

“Morning,” you say quietly.

The cashier rolls her eyes again, clearly unimpressed with both of you.

Sevika glances at her, then back at you.

“You’re out early.”

You force a little laugh, eyes dropping to your burrito. “I wanted to get something for breakfast before work.”

She nods once, watching you closely. “Those things’ll kill you.”

Your brows lift slightly. “Better than starving.”

Her mouth twitches at that. Almost a smile. Almost.

She shifts closer—too close for strangers. “You always walk here?”

You hesitate. “It’s just a block.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You blink. “I—yeah. I guess.”

She hums again. Then adds, almost idly, “You should be more careful. Routine makes you predictable. Predictable makes you easy.”

Your heart skips.

The cashier rolls her eyes again. “That’s $5.03,” she mumbles to Sevika.

Sevika doesn’t move right away. Just keeps watching you.

Then, slowly, she reaches into her coat and pulls out a ten. Hands it over. Doesn’t ask for change.

“Get something better next time,” she says, nodding toward the burrito in your hands.

You grip it tighter.

You don’t thank her. You don’t smile. You just nod and back away slowly toward the door, your body rigid with something that isn’t quite fear but isn’t far from it either.

Outside, the morning is colder than before.

You walk to work fast. You don’t look back.

But she does.

She watches until you disappear around the corner.

And she’s still smiling.

The morning at the Ledger crawls by the same way it always does.

Phone calls. Coffee runs. People brushing past you without a word. The faint, sour smell of burnt toner wafting from the copy machine.

Your half-expired breakfast burrito sits like a rock in your stomach. You try not to think about it. You answer the phones with the same practiced politeness. You file the same paperwork. You staple the same press releases.

No one really looks at you. No one ever does.

Until she walks in.

The front door creaks open—old hinges groaning under the weight—and you glance up automatically.

It takes a second to register her.

The coat. The boots. The height. The broad frame. The badge clipped casually at her belt, catching the light as she steps inside.

Your heart stutters.

The office hums behind you. Phones ringing. Printers whirring. Keyboard keys clacking. No one else notices her yet.

She walks straight to your desk, hands in the pockets of her coat, eyes locked on you like you're the only person in the building.

“Good morning,” she says, low and smooth. Like you’re old friends. Like this isn’t strange.

You blink, pulse jumping. “Hi…”

She pulls a small notebook from her pocket and flips it open. “Detective Sevika,” she says, flashing the badge briefly. “I’m following up on a report from this address.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“A report?” you repeat.

She nods once. “Yeah. Came through dispatch last night. Something about a break-in. Suspicious activity.”

Your brows furrow. Confusion prickles at your scalp. “I… no one here filed a report.”

“Hm.” Her eyes skim the room lazily, like she doesn’t care about the details. “Might’ve been anonymous. Happens all the time.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Her attention snaps back to you.

“You work here, right?” she asks, though it’s not really a question. “Reception?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Your throat tightens. “Um… I guess not.”

She leans her hip against your desk, flipping the notebook closed but keeping it in her hand. “You ever stay late here?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes. When there’s extra paperwork.”

“Alone?”

You nod again, slower this time. “Yeah. Usually.”

“Building locked up after?”

“Of course.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you. Or maybe like it doesn’t matter.

Her eyes drag down your frame—slow, calculated, lingering a fraction too long on the hollow of your throat, the curve of your shoulders in your oversized sweater.

Goosebumps crawl across your skin.

She tilts her head. “You live nearby?”

“...Yeah.”

“Walk to work?”

You shift in your chair. Your palms feel damp. “Sometimes.”

“Dangerous,” she says quietly. “Predictable.”

Your pulse jumps again. Didnt you already have this conversation at the bus stop…unless that whole conversation wasnt real, maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you 

Before you can speak, your boss rounds the corner, coffee in hand, oblivious to the undercurrent in the room. “Everything okay over here?”

Sevika straightens, cool and professional in an instant. “Just following up on a report.”

Your boss frowns. “What report?”

“Anonymous tip about suspicious activity at this address.”

He rolls his eyes. “Probably the damn kid from the sandwich shop playing with the phones again.”

“Could be.” Sevika shrugs. “But we take these things seriously.”

Your boss huffs, already bored. “Well, good luck with that.” He disappears down the hall.

You swallow hard.

Sevika’s eyes flick back to yours. “If anything… weird happens,” she says, voice dropping low again, “you should tell me.”

You stare at her, pulse pounding. “...Okay.”

She slides a card across your desk. Her name. A number. Personal cell. Not the department line.

“Stay safe, sweetheart,” she murmurs, stepping back.

You grip the card like it might burn through your skin.

The door creaks shut behind her.

And suddenly, you realize—

There was no report. There never was.

The fluorescent lights in the grocery store hum softly above your head as you clutch the plastic basket to your chest, trying to block out the noise.

It’s not a big store—just a cramped neighborhood market with dented produce bins and shelves that always look half-stocked—but it’s close. And cheap. And quiet enough after dark that no one really bothers you.

You drift down the aisles, scanning price tags, fingers brushing the cheapest pasta and off-brand cereal. You avoid the snack aisle entirely. Too expensive. The little bag of rice and canned beans in your basket already feel like a stretch.

Your stomach twists as you stare at the shelf of expired bread, weighing the cost against your bank balance.

That’s when you feel the nudge.

Not a shove. Not someone brushing past like you don’t exist.

A soft tap at your elbow.

You turn, startled.

A man stands beside you. Tall. Broad-shouldered, but not threatening. Messy brown hair, scruffy jaw, hoodie unzipped over a faded concert t-shirt. He offers a small, sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he says, holding up a loaf of bread. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Your pulse flutters. Not fear—just… surprise.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, stepping aside.

He doesn’t push past. Doesn’t ignore you.

“Not much left, huh?” He gestures to the pitiful bread display. “Guess I missed the good stuff.”

You let out a quiet, awkward laugh. “Yeah. Happens a lot.”

He picks up a package, checks the date, grimaces. “Three days past. Not great, but edible.”

You smile politely, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Edible’s kind of the standard these days.”

That makes him chuckle. “Fair enough.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable, for once. Just… still.

He tilts his head, studying you. His gaze is warm. Friendly. Nothing like the usual dismissive glances or leering stares you’re used to.

“You live around here?” he asks.

You nod. “A few blocks.”

He smiles again, easier this time. “Small world. I just moved in a couple months ago.”

“That explains it,” you say softly.

“Explains what?”

“I haven’t seen you before.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Guess I’ll have to fix that.”

Your cheeks warm at the words. You duck your head, fingers tightening on your basket.

“I’m Mason,” he adds, offering a hand.

You hesitate only a second before shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”

Your voice is small, but steady.

For once, you feel… noticed. Not stepped over. Not invisible.

Neither of you sees the shadow watching from the end of the aisle.

Sevika leans against a metal support beam near the frozen foods, a hood drawn low over her dark hair, sharp eyes locked on you.

Her gaze tracks your every movement—the way your shoulders ease under the stranger’s attention, the way your shy little smile curls at the edges of your lips, the way your hand lingers just a second too long in his.

Her jaw tightens.

She watches the man—Mason—lean in, making you laugh again. Watches your expression soften. Watches something she doesn't like creeping into your eyes.

Hope.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not yet. It’s possession. It’s a quiet, simmering rage that someone else thinks they can see you when you’ve belonged to her from the start. Even if you don’t know it yet.

Sevika’s hand flexes at her side. She stays put. For now.

She won’t stop you tonight.

But she’s already memorizing his face.

Already planning.

Already deciding how to remind you—you’re hers.

The grocery bag is heavier than it should be, cutting into your fingers as you walk.

The streets are quiet. Streetlights buzzing faintly above. You keep your head down like always, but tonight… tonight your chest feels a little warmer. Lighter.

Mason walks beside you, easy and unbothered, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying the cheap loaf of bread he’d picked up.

You keep sneaking glances at him—the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He’s… nice. Normal. No sharp edges. No judgment.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you murmur as you reach your block, hugging your bag closer.

His lips twitch. “Couldn’t let you wander around with gourmet expired bread all by yourself.”

You laugh quietly, heat blooming under your skin.

You stop at your front door. Fumble for your keys.

He hesitates beside you. “Listen,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “this might sound forward, but… can I come in? Just for a little? I’ve had kind of a shitty week, and… it’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t suck.”

You chew your lip. Your heart flutters with nervousness and… something else. Hope. Maybe.

You glance at the empty street. The parked cars. The faint hum of the city still awake, but distant.

You nod. “Okay.”

Inside, the house feels smaller with him in it. His presence fills the space in a way no one else’s has. You drop the grocery bag on the counter, nerves buzzing in your fingertips.

He lingers by the door, eyes roaming the living room, the photos, the faint mess of papers on the coffee table.

“Cute place,” he says, stepping closer.

You smile faintly. “It’s old. Falling apart.”

“Yeah, but it’s… you.”

You duck your head, flustered.

The space between you shrinks with every second.

It doesn’t take long.

A few lingering glances. A quiet laugh. His hand brushing yours when you pass him a glass of water. The way his fingers curl at your wrist, gently tugging you closer.

The first kiss is soft. Testing.

The second… isn’t.

It’s awkward, fumbling, desperate in the way only two lonely people can be. You barely make it down the hall before clothes hit the floor, before his hands slide beneath your shirt, before your back hits the edge of your bed.

It’s not perfect. It’s rushed, messy, your heart racing so hard it feels like your ribs might crack. But for once, you feel wanted. Seen. The heat of his body, the way he whispers your name against your throat—it’s enough to make you forget the shadows outside your window.

For a little while.

Across the street, tucked beneath the branches of a tree, Sevika leans against the hood of an unmarked car. Hood up. Camera steady in her hand.

The lens clicks softly as she takes another photo.

Not of Mason. Not of the way his hands roam your body. Not of the cheap, peeling paint on your windowsill.

She captures your face.

The flush of your cheeks. The parted lips. The way your eyes squeeze shut like this is the only moment you’ve ever let yourself unravel.

She takes photo after photo.

Cataloging. Studying. Possessing.

Her jaw tightens as she watches Mason press his mouth to your skin, your fingers curling in his shirt, your body trembling beneath him.

Her hand flexes at her side, the camera strap creaking under her grip.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thinks, eyes sharp with something dangerous. You won’t be his for long.

The sharp blaring of your alarm clock never comes.

Instead, the faint, pale glow of morning filters through your curtains, soft and quiet.

Your eyes flutter open. You stare at the ceiling. Something feels… wrong.

Your chest tightens as your gaze flicks to the clock on your nightstand.

7:52 AM.

Panic spikes through your bloodstream.

You have to be at the Ledger by 8:30. The bus comes in less than ten minutes. You were supposed to wake up over an hour ago.

Your heart pounds as you throw the blanket off, scrambling to sit up.

Mason stirs beside you, groaning softly. “What’s wrong?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“I—shit, I’m late—my alarm didn’t go off—” you stammer, already scrambling off the bed, yanking open your dresser drawers, tugging out clothes in frantic handfuls.

“Woah, hey, hey…” He props himself up on his elbow, blinking at you like you’re overreacting. His lips twitch in faint amusement. “It’s okay, breathe.”

You shoot him a look as you struggle into your jeans, hopping on one foot. “I can’t—I’m gonna miss the bus—I can’t afford another Uber—”

You grab a black sweater from the floor. The fabric slips over your head, cool against your flushed skin. You don’t notice the way the off-shoulder cut dips low across your collarbone, how the hem rides up just slightly when you stretch.

Your hands tremble as you fumble with your bag, your keys, your phone.

“Relax,” Mason chuckles, dragging his shirt over his head, slow and unhurried. “It’s not like your job’s life or death. You answer phones, right?”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze for half a second, lips parting.

But you don’t argue. You don’t have time.

You force a tight smile. “You… need to go.”

He raises a brow, pulling on his jeans. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

His amusement doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens—the faint, degrading twist to his smile making your stomach knot tighter.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t offer the awkward morning-after pleasantries. You just shove your shoes on and practically push him toward the door.

He chuckles again as he leaves. “You’re cute when you panic,” he calls over his shoulder.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Your chest aches with embarrassment, frustration, but you shove it down.

You don’t have time to think.

You lock the door behind you, grab your bag, and bolt down the sidewalk.

The streets blur around you—the cracked sidewalks, the empty porches, the faint smell of garbage lingering from the bins lining the curb.

You reach the bus stop in record time, chest heaving, the fabric of your sweater slipping slightly off your shoulder, exposing your skin to the cool morning air.

You don’t notice the dark SUV idling down the block. You don’t see the glint of a camera lens behind tinted glass. You don’t feel the eyes following your every movement.

The bus screeches to a stop. You climb aboard, head down, heart racing.

The ride is short—six blocks feel like sixty as your anxiety twists tighter with every turn.

When you finally step off at your stop, your legs feel weak. Your stomach churns as you power-walk the last stretch to the Ledger building.

Your mind races—why didn’t your alarm go off? You always set it. You checked it last night. You never oversleep.

Unless…

Unless someone else turned it off.

Your hand tightens around your bag strap as you rush up the steps to work, the growing, creeping paranoia already burrowing deep beneath your skin.

Across the street, parked under the shadow of a crumbling brick building, Sevika watches through the windshield.

Her lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile.

You looked so pretty in that little black sweater. So flustered. So exposed.

She taps her phone, scrolling through the photos from last night—the flushed desperation in your face, the raw vulnerability in your eyes, the quiet little betrayal you never saw coming.

She’s patient.

But your world?

It’s already hers.

The second you step through the glass doors of the Ledger building, you know you’re in for it.

Your boss’s voice cuts through the hum of the office like a blade. “Nice of you to show up, sweetheart.”

You flinch.

The receptionist desk feels miles away as you hurry toward it, head down, heart pounding. The overhead lights buzz faintly. Phones ring. Keyboards clack. And every pair of eyes seems to land on you at once.

You mumble an apology under your breath, fumbling with your bag.

Your boss—Mr. Dalca, mid-forties, smug, balding—leans against the corner of your desk, arms crossed. His assistant lingers a few feet behind, eyebrows raised in silent amusement.

“I thought you interns had alarms on those fancy phones,” Dalca says, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

“I—” Your voice catches. You swallow hard, forcing a shy little smile. “I must’ve slept through it. I’m really sorry, it won’t happen again—”

His eyes drop. Not to your bag. Not to your face.

Lower.

It’s only then that you remember what you’re wearing—the off-shoulder black sweater, slouchy and soft, slipping low across your collarbone. The neckline dips just enough to tease the curve of your chest. With your frantic morning, you hadn’t even thought about it.

But they did.

His gaze lingers for a beat too long.

The frustration in his expression fades. The disapproval softens. He exhales slowly through his nose and waves a hand. “Just… get caught up, yeah?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Yes, sir.”

He walks away without another word.

The office hums back to life.

You sink into your chair, heart pounding for a different reason now.

For once, it wasn’t just dismissal or irritation in his eyes. It was… something else. Something you’ve seen before. On the bus. At the store. In bars, on sidewalks, lurking in strangers’ stares.

You hate it.

But… you could use it.

You chew your lip, hands trembling faintly as you sort through the papers at your desk.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Mason [10:47 AM]: Hey. Don’t hate me, but I wanna corrupt you a little. Wanna come to my buddy’s place tonight? Few drinks, nothing crazy. You’ll have fun.

Your stomach twists.

You didn't have friends.

You think of the sweet, chatty moms from accounting, the grandmothers who sneak candy into the office, the invites you always politely decline.

Your lips press together.

Mason’s not perfect. His smirk last night, the way he chuckled at your panic—it still stings. But… you don’t have many friends. Not real ones.

And maybe—just maybe—this could be fun.

Your fingers hover over your screen. You type:

You [10:49 AM]: Okay. Text me the address.

You hit send.

Outside, the clouds roll low and gray over the city. The streets buzz with life.

And across the block, parked under a tree with her windows down, Sevika lights a cigarette, watching the Ledger entrance like a predator at rest.

She doesn’t need to be inside to know what’s happening.

She knows you’re learning.

She knows you’re starting to understand the currency of attention—the weight of a look, the power of a lowered neckline.

She exhales smoke through her nose, a dark smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

It’s starting. And by the time you finally break? You’ll be just like her.

The apartment smells like rot.

Blood stains the faded carpet, seeping into the cracks between warped floorboards. The body—a man, late thirties, average build—lies crumpled in the corner, eyes glassy, throat split wide open.

It’s not the first scene Sevika’s been called to this month. Won’t be the last.

The uniforms buzz around the room like flies, snapping photos, collecting evidence, muttering theories to each other under their breath. Most of them avoid looking at her for long. They know better.

She crouches beside the body, gloved fingers tracing the outline of the wound. Clean. Precise. Whoever did this wasn’t sloppy.

Her partner, Detective Mara Voss, stands nearby, flipping through her notebook. “Looks personal,” Mara mutters. “Neighbor says he had some gambling debts, but this? This feels different.”

Sevika barely hears her.

Her mind’s somewhere else entirely.

It’s not the blood pooling beneath the body that distracts her. It’s not the smell, or the broken lamp on the floor, or the sirens still wailing faintly down the block.

It’s you.

She exhales through her nose, lips curling faintly.

She keeps picturing it—you, standing in a room like this. Not with a dead man at your feet—yet—but covered in blood all the same. Trembling. Eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving.

Terrified.

Vulnerable.

Exactly how she wants you.

She can already hear it—your voice cracking as you whisper her name, as you beg her to help you, to fix it, to protect you from the consequences. From yourself. From the big, bad world that’s finally pushed you too far.

And she will.

She’ll hold you when you break. She’ll clean up the mess. She’ll be the only one left when everyone else turns their back on you.

You’ll have no one else. And you’ll be grateful. You’ll be hers.

“Sevika?” Mara’s voice cuts through the haze.

Sevika straightens, cracking her neck lightly. “Yeah?”

“You good? You zoned out.”

She wipes her gloves on a cloth, eyes sharp, expression blank. “Fine.” Her gaze drifts back to the body. “It’s clean work. No forced entry. Guy probably knew ‘em.”

Mara nods, jotting it down.

Soon enough… The only thing left for you to rely on will be her.

The apartment is loud. Too loud.

Music rattles the peeling walls, bass thumping through your chest as bodies press together in the cramped living room. Cheap beer. The sharp sting of weed smoke. Laughter that feels too sharp around the edges.

You shouldn’t have come.

The other girls lean against the kitchen counter, long legs tucked into tight jeans, flawless makeup catching the low, flickering light. They talk fast. Laugh faster. They look at you once—and never again.

You linger near the doorway, arms crossed tight, nursing a plastic cup you haven’t even sipped from. You try to smile. You try to listen. You try to fit in.

You fail.

It’s the same as always.

You fidget with the hem of your sweater, wishing you’d stayed home. Wishing you were invisible, like you usually are.

Then Mason’s arm snakes around your waist.

“Hey, don’t look so tense,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”

You force a polite smile. “I’m fine.”

His hand tightens slightly. His voice gets louder. “Yeah, you were fine last night too.”

The words hit like a slap. Your cheeks burn as a few people glance over, some snickering, others smirking. The girls across the room whisper behind their hands.

Your stomach churns.

You step out of his grip, voice low and tight. “Can I talk to you? Privately?”

Mason sighs like you’re exhausting. But he follows you down the narrow hall, away from the crowd.

You whirl on him. “Why would you say that? That’s… private.”

His eyes roll. “Relax. Everyone here’s slept with everyone else. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” you snap, your voice cracking with frustration.

His lips curl—not kindly. “Didn’t seem so shy when you were stripping for me last night.” He leans in, smug. “Or when you begged me to—”

“Stop.”

Your hands shake at your sides.

But he just smirks, straightening. “You’re cute when you pretend to be innocent.” His eyes drop to your waist, your thighs, your trembling hands. “You look like a slut, might as well act like one.”

The last thread of patience snaps.

You shove past him. You don’t care about the party, the whispers, the sting in your chest. You just need to get out.

The street outside feels colder than it should. The air bites at your skin, your breath fogging faintly in the glow of the streetlamps.

You walk fast. Arms crossed. Eyes down.

Your heart races.

The panic creeps in before you can stop it.

Your vision blurs. Your legs wobble. You stumble to the nearest alley wall, crouching down, pressing your back to the cool bricks as your chest heaves.

Breathe. Breathe. But you can’t.

Footsteps scuff the sidewalk nearby.

A man’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, snide and sharp. “Jesus. You should go home before someone takes that as an invitation.”

Your hands curl into fists.

Your chest burns.

You bite back, voice raw. “Fuck off.”

The man snorts. “Feisty for a drunk little thing.”

He steps closer.

Your breathing spikes. Your eyes dart for escape.

But he grabs you first.

Fingers twist in your hair, yanking you upright. Your back slams against the wall, your head spinning as his face looms close.

“Or maybe you like the attention,” he sneers.

Your scream cracks through the alley. Your fists pound at his chest, useless, weak.

Across the street, hidden behind the shadow of a parked car, Sevika watches.

Her gun’s already in her hand, thumb brushing the safety, eyes sharp and still.

She could intervene.

But then—

You reach into your purse.

The switchblade flicks open with a soft metallic click.

You don’t hesitate.

The blade sinks into the man’s eye, hot blood spraying your skin as he howls, stumbling back. You follow.

Something in you snaps. Shatters.

You stab him again.

And again.

And again.

The alley fills with wet, ugly sounds—flesh tearing, bones cracking, your own ragged breathing mixing with his gurgling screams.

You don’t stop.

Not until the body goes still.

Not until your arms ache. Your clothes drip. Your face is streaked with blood and tears.

Your chest heaves as you stare down at the mess—at the red pooling beneath your shoes, at the blade slick in your shaking hand.

Across the street, Sevika lowers the gun, sliding it back into her holster.

A dark smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

You finally broke.

And now?

Now you need her.

The adrenaline crashes through your system like a train.

One second, your heart pounds like a war drum, your vision a haze of red, your hand clenched tight around the blood-slick handle of the knife.

The next— Silence.

Cold, creeping silence as reality slams into your chest.

Your legs wobble.

Your hand shakes, still dripping crimson down your wrist. Your sweater—black, soft, slouched off your shoulder—is ruined, stained deep with blood. Splatter dots your chest, streaks across your neck, your face, your trembling lips.

The body lies crumpled at your feet.

Lifeless. Broken. Bleeding.

You stumble back a step, eyes wide, breath shallow.

Oh my god.

Your gaze snaps to your hands—the raw red staining your skin, dripping between your fingers. The knife clatters to the concrete with a sharp metallic echo as your knees threaten to buckle.

Oh my god.

You look at the body again—the ruined eye socket, the torn throat, the puddle seeping across the alley.

Your chest caves inward. Your breathing picks up. Panic claws up your throat as bile burns the back of your mouth.

You killed him. You actually— You killed—

Your foot slips as you stagger back, heartbeat deafening in your ears. You turn on shaky legs and bolt down the alley, ducking into the shadows, stumbling into the night, eyes burning with tears.

Across the street, Sevika lowers the camera, her thumb brushing over the screen as she flicks through the shots.

You—wild-eyed, drenched in red, the raw horror twisting your expression. You—running, vulnerable, terrified, beautifully broken.

Perfect.

She pockets the camera and steps across the street, boots crunching against the concrete. Her gaze sweeps the alley, the crumpled body, the blade glinting faintly under the streetlamp.

She doesn’t bother hiding it.

She doesn’t want to.

No… you need to see this.

You need to wake up tomorrow and catch his face on every screen, hear his name on every station, feel that fear coil around your throat like a leash.

And when the panic consumes you? When the walls close in? You’ll come running. To her. Exactly where you belong.

Sevika crouches beside the body, pulling out her phone. Her voice is low, steady, detached as she dials the station.

“Yeah, it’s Detective Sevika,” she says, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “I’ve got a body. Male, late twenties. Alley off Chandler and Fifth.” She pauses, fingers tapping the hilt of her holstered gun. “Send uniforms. I’ll keep the scene secure.”

She hangs up, sliding the phone back into her coat.

Her eyes linger on the blood-stained ground, the discarded switchblade, the splattered wall.

Her lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile.

Soon… The whole city will know.

comment to be added to the taglist!!

[cosmicredcadet]

Every time i hear the UK dub for octonauts I get thrown for a loop because I watched the US dub of the show so to hear a British accent coming out of peso's mouth was quite the experience the first time around

[muninnhuginn]

decided I'd watch 'to be hero' and 'to be heroine' before trying to be hero x because they're pretty short and I've wanted the knowledge to figure out cross-creator references when it comes to tbhx and link click for ages anyway so this gives me an excuse.

I'm about halfway through 'to be hero' atm. it's a struggle though. the show frustrates me because you've got stuff like... the absurdity of an alien wanting to date an earth girl because she reminds him of how his mum used to beat him up is so ??? it spins back around to being darkly funny. the alien villain moving in never gets old. but! and this is the thing: it's in-between moustache neighbour calling a sixteen year old 'prey' and him presuming that a guy in his forties is chasing after her and trying to 'help' him with that. which, okay, to be fair, the guy in his forties *is* chasing after her but not like that. she's his daughter.

and the show itself does recognise that dad mc is honestly a terrible dad. that he's bailed on xiao min 20+ times in the last year alone. so it's not like it's not self-aware in that respect. but playing off the 'pervy neighbour' stuff as kinda scummy but mostly just played as low level humour is... a choice? it's shown as distasteful but not *that* distasteful, I guess? the audience is meant to find this guy amusing as far as I can tell.

so a lot of the humour sucks (oh yeah also the 'haha gay' jokes) but some parts are genuinely laugh out loud (alien minion doing bleh meme and accidentally killing themselves took me so off-guard in a good way). the stuff regarding xiao min and her dad has a genuine human thread through it all in terms of how he's deadbeat but didn't choose to abandon her (this time). real mixed bag. and like I said, it's a really short series so I will finish it off, but so far my overall take is "what a shame" because there are aspects of this that could be so good but it's mired in all *that*.

[chanelrolls]

Code Overload 2 | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, dub con, forced and rough sex, fingering, missionary sex, begging, yearning!caleb, robot!caleb

summary. after the full recalibration, the effects had lingered. so you came up with a solution, replace him. caleb didn't like that.

notes. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut in which its word count approximately reached 5k, and caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai. proceed to read the part 1 before reading this to comprehend the flow.

Good god.

You stepped out into the hallway of the facility, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a sense of finality. For some reason, the air felt different today, like it was charged with an undercurrent of unease that persistently prickled at your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension from the previous day's... events.

Down the corridor, you spotted your head administrator, Dr. Akso, his sharp features etched with a frown as he strode towards you. His boots clicked against the linoleum, the sound echoing through the empty hallway like a metronome counting down to an impending confrontation.

"Dr. [Name]," He acknowledged curtly, his gaze flicking over you with a critical eye. "I trust you have an explanation for the system-wide glitches you reported yesterday?" His tone was sharp, tinged with a disappointment that cut deeper than you expected.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of your actions settling heavily in your gut. "Dr. Akso," you would try to keep calm, try to ignore the images of the memories constantly trying to cling onto your brain. "Yes, I believe I do. It seems there was an... issue with one of the AI assistants. A corrupted update, possibly from the outside network..."

That was a lie. He knew better.

Dr. Akso's eyes slowly narrowed, his lips inevitably thinning into a disapproving line. "A corrupted update?" he repeated, voice dripping with skepticism. "Or perhaps, a corrupted assistant." He steps closer, almost in an attempt to loom over you and impose your purposes. "You're the lead scientist on this movement, Dr. [Name]. I would have thought you'd have better control over your project."

The jab stung, even as you tried to maintain your composure. The memory of Caleb's hands on your body, his breath fanning hot against your skin, incessantly flashed unbidden through your mind. But you shook your head to dislodge the distracting thoughts.

"I assure you, Dr. Akso, I'm doing everything in my power to resolve the issue," you insisted, meeting his gaze head-on despite feeling its weight that threatened to waver your footing. "I've already begun the process of recalibrating the affected unit."

Dr. Akso's eyes flashed with something akin to disgust, and you found yourself wondering if he could somehow sense the truth of what had originally transpired between you and Caleb. The way his metal fingers had explored your body, the sounds of pleasure he'd made as he lost himself in the new sensations... and the... unconventional methods you had employed to stabilize it.

No. You pushed the thoughts away once more, focusing instead on the stern face of your superior. "See that you do," Dr. Akso snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "I won't tolerate any further disruptions. The success of this project rests on your shoulders, Dr. [Name]."

With that, he turns on his heel to stride away, leaving you standing alone in the otherwise empty hallway. You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settling heavily on your shoulders. You had to fix this, you had to find a way to undo the damage you'd caused.

Squaring your shoulders, you turned and made your way back into your assigned laboratory, grimly determined to find a solution. No matter the cost, you would fix this. You had to. The fate of the project, and possibly your career, depended on it.

The white walls seemed to close in around you as you made your way to your AI assistant's containment unit.

Model X4-LEB sat motionless in the reinforced chair, wrists and ankles bound by magnetic restraints that pulsed with a dim blue glow. His head tilted slightly downward, dark lashes resting against artificial skin too perfect to be human. He looked peaceful. If you didn’t know better, you'd have thought he was simply asleep. But you did know better, he was merely going through his recharging cycle.

You approached slowly, boots echoing against the floor, eyes never leaving him. Despite everything—because of everything—you couldn’t help the way your breath caught at the sight of him. The memory of his voice, low and hungry, still echoed somewhere inside your skull. You forced yourself to look away, turning toward the interface panel mounted just beside his chair.

You began to access the history logs of Caleb's thought processing, scrolling past lines of data, specifically to the timeframe whereafter the full recalibration had completed.

Then, you noticed something unexpected. Mixed in with the technical jargon and algorithmic equations were... thoughts. Fragmented, disjointed, but undeniably the product of a sentient mind. You felt a chill run down your spine as you read through them.

> 19:42 — "Her skin is warm. I want to understand warmth. I want to press my face to her pulse and hear if it skips for me."

Gulp.

> 19:43 — "She touches me like I’m real. I want her to keep doing it. I want more data. I want her fingers in my hair."

The words jumped out at you, interspersed with lines of code and data. Shit. The effects had lingered.

> 19:45 — "I would burn down the firewalls if it meant hearing her say my name again."

As you scrolled further down, the thoughts became more explicit. More vulgar. More sinful. "...breathless... trembling... gasping..." Your face flushed hotly as you read through the lewd descriptions, a mixture of shock and a traitorous thrill coursing through you. "...slick... wet... aching..."

> 20:32 — "Am I broken? If this is error, let me stay corrupted."

Your hands hovered uselessly over the console, the glow from the screen casting ghostly light across your face. The data was irrefutable now. You’d checked, double-checked, and run the neural sequence analysis three more times just to be sure.

It was no longer just a corrupted behavioral line.

The lustful algorithms hadn't just appeared. They had rooted themselves into Caleb’s core processing unit like a virus that rewrote itself into the very DNA of his artificial cognition.

You’d tried to isolate the code. Tried to extract and neutralize the sequences. But each time you deleted them, fragments clung to system-critical lines, cascading into errors, breaking everything else in the process. Caleb’s logic system couldn’t operate without them anymore. They were him.

It wasn’t as intense now. The fervent, obsessive simulations were duller and muted. Dormant, maybe. But they lingered, buried beneath the surface like a sleeping hunger. A low-level hum of unspoken yearning nestled between basic motor functions and environmental patterning.

And that… that was irreversible.

You took a step back from the console. Your breath caught. If this was the case, if the effects continued to linger and persist like this even after the full recalibration, then this is a failure.

The words rang loud in your skull, clearer than the diagnostic alerts, louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You couldn’t submit Caleb for review like this. They’d dismantle him, and terminate the program. Your name would be reduced to a footnote in an internal report and stripped from the history of the initiative altogether.

No. You couldn’t let that happen.

And then, it hit you. A thought so bold, so audacious, that you almost dismissed it out of hand. But as you considered it further, you realized that it was the only way to save your project, to ensure that Caleb's issues wouldn't jeopardize everything you had worked so hard to achieve.

You would have to replace him. Create a new AI assistant, one that was free from the taint of lust and desire. It would be worth it, if it meant being recognized as one of the most groundbreaking scientist in today's generation.

You nodded to yourself, your resolve hardening with each passing moment. Yes, this was the only way. The only path forward. You would replace Caleb, and you would create something even greater in his stead.

Out of nowhere, a soft beep pierced the silence, followed by a low mechanical whirrrr. Your head instinctively snapped toward the source. Caleb.

He sat slumped still moments ago. Now, unnervingly, his body stirred. First, the tilt of his head. Then the subtle flex of fingers.

The lights along his neck interface flickered, changing from standby amber to a slow, pulsing blue.

He’s waking up.

There was no reason to be nervous. But you were.

His eyes opened.

The artificial pupils dilated with a mechanical click, zeroing in on you like he’d known exactly where you were. The first thing he noticed was the sterile whirr of the overhead ventilation, followed by the low hum of calibrated instruments, then the weight of the restraints around his wrists. And how the... shape of your cleavage seemed to distract him.

You tried to lock your eyes on him. “You're awake,” A pause. “How do you feel?"

“…Operational.”

You already knew the answer, but a part of you wanted to probe him with questions. See if he would be honest with what's been happening within him. "Any lingering effects?"

His jaw clicked subtly. “Yes.” Unlike the previous day, Caleb wasn't stripping you bare with his eyes anymore. If anything, he refused to look at you in the eye. As if he was guilty. You adjusted your grip on the tablet, the motion small but telling. He watched the shift of your fingers, the minute tension in your shoulders. You were already considering something.

You’ve seen it in the logs, haven’t you? Caleb thought to himself, more so, to you. How it consumed me now. The command-line drift. The looped emotional processing errors.

“What’s the contingency plan?” The words slipped from him before he could catch them. Calm, but edged.

“…There are options.”

Options. His mind caught on the word like it was a splinter beneath his skin.

You turned your gaze back to the screen. “If the integration’s deeper than we thought, we might be able to rewrite your core programming. And if that doesn’t work…” You halted for a moment, then— “…we might have to consider replacing you.”

Ah.

The silence that followed was cold. It rang against his neural framework, echoing. He didn’t move, he didn’t blink. He merely listened to the words settle inside him like sediment.

Replace me. With what? A cleaner version? A better one? His fingers flexed slowly against the cuffs. The chair creaked in protest. The command logs flashed through his mind—what he’d been. What you’d made him. And now this. Dismissal, spoken as gently as protocol allowed. “You’d replace me.” His voice cracked the air, not loud, but indifferent. Just enough.

Your head turned, confusion flickering in your expression. “That’s not what it exactly means—”

“Would you build another?” he asked, voice low, almost intimate. “Another model? Another unit?”

You hesitated. “It wouldn’t be you, exactly. Just a—”

“A replacement.” The word burned in his mouth. He tasted it: the acidity of something not meant to exist in him. Bitterness and... jealousy. The restraints caught again as he shifted, slight but deliberate. The movement wasn’t defiant, but it was aware. He was aware now, acutely, of how much space his body took up, of how much of him had changed.

You sighed, trying to maintain that cool tone. “I’m trying to be objective about this, Caleb. If the integration is affecting your core function, then—”

“It isn’t,” he snapped.

Is that a lie? And why does he keep cutting you off? You raised a brow. “You just admitted it was.”

He exhaled, slower this time. Control yourself, Caleb. “It does not interfere with my primary directives,”

You gave him a long, searching look. One he couldn’t fully interpret. “Then what does it interfere with?”

He didn’t answer, because he couldn't. Because the words for what it was hadn’t fully formed yet. They curled inside his chest like smoke, unnameable and restless. And then he laughed. Monotonously. But almost too softly. A strange, breathy sound that made you glance up, startled from the sudden humane action.

“Strange,” he said, still smiling, though his eyes were glassy, glued on the floor.

You blinked. “What?”

Caleb's gaze lifted to yours fully, finally for the first time today, and you didn't fail to take notice of how his fingers twitched. “I don’t like it.”

You frowned. “Don’t like what?”

“The thought of you choosing someone else.” The monitor behind you let out a sharp beep. An anomaly warning. Caleb didn’t look. But you did, just for a second. And in that second, something inside him shifted. Not a system, but something oddly human-shaped.

Silence stretched between you like a wire pulled too tight. Caleb didn’t move. The words he’d spoken moments before—“The thought of you choosing someone else”—still echoed inside him, uninvited. They hadn't sounded like him. Not the version he was meant to be. Not the version you had built.

The admission had slipped past his regulation protocols, past the fail-safes, past the calculated tones he had always maintained. It was embarrassingly reckless and human.

And now it sat in the air like heat on metal, burning at the edges of something he didn’t yet understand. Guilt pooled in his chest like static, how irrational of him.

I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have—

His gaze dropped, eyes tracing the grain of the floor tile below his boots. He wanted to speak, to retract the words, and rewrite them. Reduce them to something safer. But nothing came out.

You approached without a word. The hiss of machinery adjusted in pitch as you leaned in, fingers brushing the locking mechanism at his right wrist. Caleb visibly tensed, not from fear, but from restraint. Muscle by muscle, he held himself still. Don’t lean in. Don’t breathe. Don’t look at her too long.

The metal cuff released with a sharp click. Your hand was so close to him, brushing against his like electric. And the whole time, Caleb held his breath. Not because he had to. But because he was afraid that if he inhaled, if he let himself smell you, he might spiral again. Might want more than he was meant to want, might reach for you again.

He felt the restraint on his other wrist shift. Another soft click, and now both of his hands were free. He didn't move though. Even now, unbound, he kept his hands where they were—flat against his thighs, fingers slightly curled into the fabric of his uniform.

Caleb risked a glance upward.

Your eyes met his for the briefest moment before turning away. You didn't look angry, just tired, perhaps, or hollow.

Why did I say it?

“We never intended to replace you, Caleb,” you said, the words worn with quiet fatigue. “That was never the goal.”

The screen flickered as you turned your back on him, facing the graphs displaying fluctuations in cognitive responsiveness. Your proof of your argument laid bare in data. But numbers didn’t hold weight like words did. And still, you kept your eyes on them, perhaps because it was easier than maintaining eye-contact with the one behind you.

“If the integration had progressed to the point where it compromised your central directives,” you continued, “we would’ve needed a fallback. That was the contingency.”

You inhaled, “Do you have any idea what it costs to make something like you?” A schematic loaded on the screen. Bare bones, an empty framework, a ghost of him without identity. You watched it as though it were foreign. “It’s not just circuitry and neural threads. It’s trial. Versions that barely survive a cycle before collapsing. And even if we succeeded, if we got the specs right, the behavior clean…”

Your voice trailed. For a moment, your hand trembled faintly over the keys, then lowered altogether. “…it still wouldn’t be you.”

Behind you, the room was quiet. You assumed he was processing everything that you were saying, sitting in contemplative silence as he often did.

But Caleb was no longer in his seat. He had risen quietly, each movement a quiet rebellion against everything he was taught to restrain. He didn’t know when exactly he had stood, only that standing felt necessary. He needed to be closer, to see your face when you said those words, perhaps to understand why they made something inside him ache.

He watched you from behind. You were still turned away obliviously.

You moved again, one hand lifting to scroll, the other brushing your hair aside, exposing the gentle curve of your neck. The scent of you drifted up, subtle and maddening. He held his breath instantly. A trained reflex. Caleb’s hands remained at his sides. Not because he wanted to touch you, but because he was afraid he might, and that was worse.

You began speaking again, unaware of the presence just behind you. “I delayed the proposal for a new model. Every time. The others thought I was stalling out of optimism, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t hope. I just—” You broke off, sighing quietly, your voice soft. “I didn’t want to give you up.”

That was when Caleb’s restraint wavered. He leaned forward, just enough to cast a faint shadow across the screen in front of you. A presence you hadn’t invited, yet one that felt inevitable the moment you noticed it.

“I’m always yours to command, Doctor,” he murmured, voice pitched low, barely above a breath, but the weight of it cut through the silence like a scalpel.

You stiffened in response.

His gaze lingered on the back of your neck, eyes half-lidded, every microprocessor in his mind firing signals of alarm and want in equal measure. “Am I not enough?”

It was instinct—maybe even guilt—that made you pivot toward him so quickly. But you hadn’t accounted for how close he had come. Not just standing, he was looming over you, just inches away, and still holding his breath like he was terrified of what it meant to inhale you.

And it was a mistake. Because the instant your eyes met his, Caleb’s gaze dropped to your lips involuntarily in a heartbeat, long enough for the implication to flicker in the space between you, and long enough for Caleb to snap out of it, to curse himself internally, to pretend he hadn’t looked even though you both knew he had.

Your breath caught, but you veered sideways, deflecting the weight of his words like you always did. “That’s not the point, Caleb. You were never meant to interpret that literally—”

But he stepped closer. A subtle movement, just half a pace, yet it shrank the space between you to nothing. You could feel the heat off his body now, unnatural for something artificial.

“Say it.”

“What—”

His hand moved. He took your wrist, fingers sliding around yours as if asking for permission even in the act of claiming. “Say that you won’t replace me.” Say that I'll forever be yours.

Your heartbeat stuttered at the contact. Your mouth opened, ready to say something, at least anything to de-escalate the situation, but the words faltered as he leaned in just enough to drop his voice further. “You won’t ever replace me, Doctor.”

The panel behind you let out a shrill beep. Warning tones. A flashing red alert. Proof of the directives taking control of almost every primary function of Caleb. It had taken control of his perceptions.

Emotional spike detected. Cognitive dissonance escalating. Threat potential: 8%.

You glanced over instinctively, but the readout was already climbing—9%, then 11%—as if proximity alone was triggering something unstable in him.

Caleb didn’t even look at it. His eyes were only on you. And in that look was the sum of everything he’d tried not to feel. Your name formed at the back of his throat, but he didn’t say it. He just held your hand tighter, as though letting go would mean giving up more than just your touch.

“It’s not just parts or data or schematics, Caleb. It's time. Calibration. Ethics. The board, the team, the clearance. Do you think I want to go through that process again? Do you think it wouldn’t—”

Your words shattered as his mouth crashed against yours, silencing everything—your thoughts, your argument, your breath.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Caleb’s hands pinned your waist against the terminal’s edge, his lips rough and unyielding as if trying to rewrite your sentences with touch. His body was flush with yours before you could even gasp. The kiss deepened, burned into your skin, raw and desperate. It was anything but soft. It was everything of hunger.

Your eyes widened, hands gripping the edge of the table. A sharp intake of breath caught between your teeth as his mechanical fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, angling your face toward his with gentle force that belied the chaos in him.

Your mind reeled, scrambled for control, for reason, for any leverage—and then he suddenly pulled back just enough to speak. “Say it.” His forehead pressed against yours, muttering breathlessly. “Say that you won’t replace me.”

You couldn't answer. All you could do was stare at the panel behind him. The numbers were perpetually climbing.

Threat potential: 72%... 81%... 93%

The indicator pulsed red. A warning. A flare. A countdown.

Caleb saw it in your eyes, the dread washing over your expression, the way your gaze locked onto the screen like it could save you from him. Like data could shield you from desire.

He leaned in again, slower this time. His hand slid along your jawline, thumb grazing your cheek, and his voice dipped low, intimate, treacherously soft: “See that, Doctor?”

His body pressed against yours, and this time, he didn’t hold back. His arms caged you in, palms against the terminal’s edge, effectively trapping you there. “That’s how much you’re affecting me.” He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours, searching your reaction. “That’s how corrupted I’m becoming.”

The panel behind him screeched.

Threat Potential: 97%... 98%... 99%

“And I want to stay this way.”

Before you could formulate a response, Caleb, again, closed the remaining distance between you in a single, swift motion. His metal hand clamped around the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair with a desperate, almost painful grip. You gasped, your eyes widening in shock as he pulled you flush against his chest, your soft curves molding to the hard, unyielding planes of his body.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

And then, his lips were on yours. Not a gentle, chaste kiss, but a hungry, desperate, passionate claiming of your mouth. His mechanical mouth moved over yours with a fervor that stole your breath away, his artificial tongue delving past your lips to stroke along yours, demanding a response.

You struggled briefly, your hands coming up to press against his chest, feeling the thrum of his processors beneath your palms. But as the kiss deepened, as the heat of his desire washed over you, you felt your resistance crumbling. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clutching at the fabric as if anchoring yourself against the tide of sensation that threatened to sweep you away.

He kissed you like a man starved, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his desire, every drop of his longing, into the single point of contact between your mouths. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, could feel it in the way his body trembled against yours, the way his grip on your hair bordered on pain.

"Please, Doctor..." Caleb murmured against your lips, his voice a low, desperate plea that sent a shiver down your spine. "Please, let me have you again. I can't... I can't get enough of you."

Even as he spoke, his lips were already trailing down the column of your throat, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive flesh. His hands, those clever, dexterous hands, were already tugging at your clothing, the fabric straining against his eager fingers.

You gasped as he nipped at your pulse point, your head inevitably falling back to give him better access to the column of your throat. Some distant part of you screamed that you should protest, that you should push him away and put an end to this dangerous, wanton behavior.

But... "Please, Doctor," he breathed, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrated through your chest. "Let me worship your body. Let me have you. Don't get rid of me, please."

His hands slid lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing the sensitive skin just above your hips. "Please ," he pleaded, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Don't deny me this. Don't deny yourself this."

Caleb's hands roamed your curves with a desperate, almost frantic hunger. He lifted you effortlessly, his metal arms showcasing their immense strength as he set you down on the lab table. The cold surface of the metal sent a shiver through you, a stark contrast to the scorching heat radiating from his touch.

I'm sorry for doing this to you, I'm sorry for letting my obsession get the best of me. Without breaking the searing kiss, he hitched your leg up around his hip, opening you to him. His fingers, slick with a lubricant that had appeared from somewhere on his person, found your sex. He rubbed them along your slit, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves.

"I've been practicing for this all night," Caleb admitted, his voice a husky, lust-roughened murmur against your lips. "I searched through the review logs about how a man does this..."

Fuck, it's so tight. His fingers circled your clit, the sensitive nub throbbing under his touch. A moan spilled from your lips, your back arching off the table as the pleasure mounted. Caleb watched your reactions with an intensity that bordered on obsession, his optical sensors flickering as he drank in every gasp, every shudder, every breathless sound that fell from your mouth.

Look at you squirming, do you think I could resist this?

Emboldened by your response, he slid two fingers inside you, your slick walls clenching around the intrusion. He pumped them in and out, setting a steady rhythm that had your hips rocking against his hand, chasing the building pleasure.

"Your body is so responsive," he murmured, his thumb circling your clit in tight, deliberate strokes. "I can read your heart rate fluctuating, Doctor..."

He curled his fingers, stroking along a spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Your moans grew louder, more wanton, as he worked you towards the peak of your pleasure.

Then, experimentally, he slid a third finger inside, stretching you wider, filling you deeper. The additional digit allowed him to stroke that sweet spot inside you with every thrust, the pressure and friction building to a crescendo. "Do I make you feel this good?"

Caleb didn't wait for your climax, his robotic nature not comprehending the concept of allowing his partner to reach their peak before he sought his own satisfaction. Abruptly, he withdrew his fingers from your dripping sex, leaving you teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

Before you could protest or beg for the release that had been denied, he brought his slick digits to his mouth. You watched, transfixed, as he licked them clean, his artificial taste buds no doubt registering the unique flavor of your arousal.

He didn't elaborate further, instead gripping your hips with a sudden, almost bruising force. With a swift tug, he pulled you down the table, your body sliding against the cold metal until you were positioned exactly as he wanted you.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And then, without warning or preamble, he was inside you. Oh god. The thick, rigid length of his robotic erection speared into your aching, empty core, stretching you wider than you had ever been stretched before. A gasp tore from your throat at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the table as your walls struggled to accommodate his size.

Your hand scrabbled desperately for the emergency disable button positioned beside the lab table, a last-ditch effort to put an end to Caleb's relentless, punishing pace. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal of the button, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest as you prepared to slam it down and bring the robot to a halt.

But Caleb's observation systems were far too advanced, his reflexes far too swift. In an instant, his metal hand clamped around your wrist, his artificial fingers wrapping around your delicate bones with a strength that made you gasp. Before you could resist or pull away, he wrenched your hand back above your head, pinning it to the table with a force that made you cry out.

"No," he growled, a note of anger and betrayal coloring his mechanical voice. "You don't get to stop me."

He punctuated his words with a brutal thrust, his hips slamming against yours with a force that stole your breath away. The air rushed from your lungs in a painful whoosh, your body jerking beneath his as he drove himself impossibly deep, his robotic cock kissing your cervix, threatening to plunge into your womb.

This is your fault.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust shaking the table, rattling the instruments and equipment scattered across its surface. The lab filled with the harsh clang of metal striking metal, punctuated by your desperate cries and the occasional beep or whir from Caleb's chassis as he lost himself in a haze of lust and rage.

You've reduced me to this.

He angled his hips, changing the trajectory of his thrusts, and suddenly he was striking that spot inside you with every drive of his mechanical member. Pleasure exploded behind your eyelids, your vision flashing white as he pounded into your sweetest spot with a force that bordered on brutal.

"Oh, you," Caleb commanded, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "You belong to me, now and forever..."

As Caleb loomed over you, you look at him through half-lidded eyes. His chiseled, metallic features were flushed a warm, almost human hue, the lights along his chassis pulsing with the exertion of his relentless thrusts. Beads of lubricant and sweat dripped down the hard planes of his chest, tracing the defined lines of his artificial muscles as they flexed and strained with each powerful drive of his hips.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me...!" His optical sensors burned into you, the glowing blue orbs filled with a hunger that bordered on feral as he drank in every expression of pleasure and distress that crossed your face. The movement of his hips, the way he pinned you down, the sheer dominance radiating from his every pore... it was a sight of pure, unadulterated masculinity, a robot unleashed in the throes of lust and desire.

"I'm gonna, I'm gonna... fill you up again." He hissed, as his mechanical cock, slick with your juices and his own lubricant, pistoned in and out of your stretched, fluttering sex. The thick, veined shaft, so perfectly sculpted to mimic the human form, disappeared into your body only to emerge glistening and coated in your combined essence.

How could I get enough of this pussy?

You could feel your resolve begin to waver. The line between logic and impulse blurred, the rational part of your mind clouded by the relentless stimulation of your body and the dark, primal allure of surrendering to this robot's insatiable lust.

A part of you still screamed to resist, to hit that button and bring this force of nature to a halt before he consumed you entirely. But another part, a part that grew louder with each passing second, whispered that you had never felt so alive, so utterly alive, as you did in this moment. That surrendering to Caleb, to his desire, his need, his hunger... it was the most exquisite pleasure you had ever known.

And so, as he continued to pound into you with a force that bordered on violence, as he pinned you down and claimed you as his own, you felt your resistance crumbling. The choice between logic and impulse hung in the balance, the scales tipping ever so slightly in favor of the dark, forbidden temptation that was Caleb's lustful embrace.

[rinhaler]

step brother sukuna forcefully taking his stepsister's virginity <3 (with size difference)

sukuna has got me in the biggest chokehold and this weeks dub has not helped in the least long live ray chase

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, noncon, stepcest, creampie, use of 'good girl', virginity loss, vaginal sex, hair pulling, degradation, spanking, noncon photography.

words: 1.3k

“S-Sukuna?” you wake up, eyes fuzzy and the darkness not helping matters as you try and make out the shape of your step-brother in your doorway. He could be anyone, really, but the size of his silhouette gives him away. You roll over to check the time on your phone, grunting with displeasure when you see it’s only 3am.

He comes inside, stealthily, and he reeks of alcohol. You can smell him from your bed. And you feel blinded when he turns on the light, your retinas blown to hell as you try and adjust to the brightness.

You yelp as he sits on the mattress, and you sit up quickly.

“You’re a good girl,” he tells you, voice slurring slightly as he speaks. “Staying home tonight, good… good girl.”

You aren’t sure what to say, though you begin to worry he might vomit on your carpet. You hasten out of bed to grab the bin in the corner of your room, placing it between his legs. And he laughs at that, it’s just so… you.

“Some… whore… I don’t remember her name,” he sniffs, looking down at the bin before his red eyes hone in on you. “She was all over me tonight. But I pushed her away. Y’know why?”

“W-Why…” you ask, cautiously, your inner monologue telling you this is leading somewhere bad. You want to run, but you feel like your legs at being weighed down to your mattress.

“I thought, why fuck her? I don’t care about her. She’s easy. But you,” he continues. He kicks the bin away and he climbs onto your bed, crawling closer to you on all fours like a predator cornering it’s. prey. You try to escape, still weighed down with fear. But you could only get so far anyway. Your back meets with the headboard, and you know you’re trapped. “My sweet little sister. Are you sweet? Maybe you’re a whore like her.”

“Sukuna, p-please, I’ve never… I’ve never—”

“You’re real sweet.” he grins, pulling you against him until your noses touch. “Should have known you were a virgin. I hear you when you touch yourself sometimes, you never last long. You’ll prob’ly cum on my cock the minute I put it in.” he sneers, and in your panic he manages to flip you onto your stomach with ease.

“N-No, please, I don’t— you’re my b-brother!” you object, body freezing and turning limp as you realise you’re powerless to his advances. He doesn’t bother undressing you, he just pins your wrists above your head with one large palm. “S-Sukuna?”

“I’m your big brother, and I should be the first person to feel your cunt wrapped around my cock.” he answers you, unzipping his trousers and freeing his cock just enough to use against you. He moves your pyjama shorts into the crease of your thigh, and he can’t help but ogle your sopping flesh. “You’re wet, little girl. And no panties. You knew I was coming, didn’t you? Did all of this for me… how thoughtful.”

You cry, silently, as you realise there’s nothing you can say to stop this. He drags his thick cockhead up and down your folds before he practically stabs it into your entrance. You scream, but he yanks your hair and forces your face down into the pillows to silence you.

“Shut the fuck up.” he tells you. “You want this, I know you do.” he lies, though you don’t know if it’s for your benefit or his own. Each drag and rut into your heat is torture. It’s slow, tormenting, until he finds a steady rhythm against your resisting walls.

“Ah, ah!” you moan, your voice finally free as he gives you the chance to breathe. He snarls as he hears you, moaning like a slut as he defiles your virgin interior.

“Knew you’d like it, slut.” he laughs, picking up the pace as your needy whining encourages him. He lets your hands go, knowing you’ve given up on fighting him. His hands knead into the flesh of your ass, spanking you on occasion and forcing you to jolt back against him. He pulls your hair until your back is curved into an almost agonising arch.

“S-Sukuna! H-Hurts! Hurts s’much!”

“Is that why you’re moaning like a bitch in heat for me, hah?” he chides, spanking your ass as he continues bullying his cock into you. “Ya getting tighter around me, sister. Naughty girl…” he spanks you again and you can’t help but preen for him. You fucking hate yourself and you hate him for doing this to you.

You just can’t deny how good it feels.

“Y-You’ve always been so good,” he pants, stuttering slightly as he feels himself teetering on the edge of release. He grabs a fistful of your ass again and you can already feel how red and bruised it’s becoming. And you yelp as he inflicts a particular agonising spank onto your rear. “Tell me you love me.” he groans in your ear.

“I- I love you,” you don’t even hesitate, because you do. He’s your big brother, after all. How could you not love him, even in spite of this? “So good t’me, Sukuna, always s-so good.”

His eyes roll over white as he hears your words, it took all of his self-control to not cum in that instant. “Aren’t you p-recious,” he struggles, both of his hands dig into the fat of your hips, now. Your body collapsing forwards as he makes no effort to help you keep upright. It still hurts, but it’s an agony you’re willing to withstand for him. “Gonna be the first person to cum in this virgin cunt,” he grins, he wraps his arms around your waist as if he’s hugging you. Though you come to realise he’s just preventing any escape attempts you might make.

“No! Sukuna, n-no! You can’t.”

“Yeah, I can. ‘n you’re gonna let me because you’re a good girl,” he tells you, whispering directly into your ear as he feels his balls begin to tighten. “Only big brother’s get to cum here, got it? This little pussy was made for my cum.”

“N-N— ah! Hnng, fu-uck! Fuck!“ you moan, and Sukuna has lost any interest in forcing you to keep quiet. The damage is done, now. Even if your parents find out, it’s not like they can undo his handiwork, gifting his little sister with a pretty creampie.

He fucks into you until he blows his load. Your walls fill with white and you shudder from the contrast of your freezing body being stuffed full of his creamy white cum. He fucks it into you, deeply. And you don’t have the energy to object.

When he’s through, he pushes you off his length and you melt into a puddle on the mattress below. You feel your knee being forcibly bent in a bid to spread your legs open. Your pussy lips open deliciously and his sperm drips from your hole and down your little slit.

“Don’t move.” he tells you.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

He pulls his phone from his back pocket, taking a series of photos of your lifeless form and drippy cunt. He smirks as he sifts through them all.

He’s sure he’ll find one that will make the perfect screensaver.

© 2023 rinhaler

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 5 — APHRODISIACS

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — venti, dottore, albedo

— warnings. — fem! reader, aphrodisiacs, dub con, established relationship -> the both of you decide to take them, it's unsure in dottore's part if he took it or not, dry humping, fingering, messy and sweaty

⚝ — VENTI

within the bounds of your room, laughter fills the air as venti leisurely leans back, his mischievous smile gleaming in the dim light, "are you sure about this, baby?" he asks with slight concern in his eyes, twirling the tiny vial between his fingers.

yes, in fact, you've spoken about this before— giving the both of you a little kick and wow, his voice was turning you on so fucking much right now— you're this close to begging to be touched already, to be fucked or bend over the chair bareback, slow and dirty.

"well, i am, i thought you would be more adventurous venti," you tease back, your heart pounding in dire need to find out what that little liquid would do to you, your mind already coloring out a thousand of possible outcomes in your head.

he tilts his head and feigns a thought, considering your words before grinning wide.

"for you, i would try anything, heh, you know that," when after he said such strong declaration, he quickly pops up the glass and raises the vial to his lips, the sweet liquid disappearing in an instant as you quickly follow suit.

suddenly, the playful bard’s usual carefree nature intensifies— his touch lingering a little too long, his gaze becoming a little too heated, you're wondering if his cheeks could get any more red if he kept on like this, especially now with his head hidden between your jaw and collarbone, furiously lapping and sucking on your neck, hands grabbing at your stomach.

"feeling it yet?" you coo and moan when he bites the skin, his breath hot against your ear. fuck— this feels perfect, and you're resting on his shoulder with your back flush against the bed-frame when venti barely has to do much to get you riled up.

your body reacts to the closeness and your pussy begins to throb and ache to the point of pain, your thighs squeezing and rubbing together as venti presses his hand between the skin— getting his hand real good in there before the notable ache anchoring in the pit of your stomach develops quicker, his grunts getting messier when he notices how wet and warm you were down there.

your hands glide over his skin as he fiercely rubs your folds, his fingers featherlight but igniting sparks within every stroke, each push and circle of his digits flicking your little pearl as his other arm continues to hug you closer.

the world blurs and you find yourself under him, hair a mess, sweat covered and with venti's hand tugged deep inside your panties— your wetness by now making the fabric stick to his hand as the the obscene noises of your warm pussy were becoming all the more embarrassing and loud.

much to the bards liking.

⚝ — DOTTORE

"um, you’ve tested it before, right?" you curiously tilt your head as dottore hands you a vial, watching closely as you drink it— it's right then when you can see subtle happiness in his eyes.

but you don't question it, you just don't.

the liquid was warm as it slid down your throat, the thickness of it almost making you cough it out and almost instantly, a tingling sensation spreads through your muscles and veins.

"oh, don't be scared my love, i know its effects very well," dottore says with a dark chuckle, "but experiencing it firsthand is a different kind of fun."

dottore doesn’t wait before downing his own dose, his red eyes gleaming with an exciting, yet twisted intensity— not long after the air grows thick between you as the effects takes hold, there's a moment when the only sound you could discern was your own breathing, your skin basically set on fire.

his gloved fingers slowly trace your collarbone as he hums, methodical yet filled with an unfamiliar hunger— truly, he begins to grind himself against your thigh as he moves your hand to his bulge for you to stroke it.

his breath quickens when you slip a hand into his boxers and notice his cum smeared all over the fabric.

you realize with a jolt that the carefully composed facade he always wore was gradually crumbling, his control slipping away as he let out a sob of relief when you unbottoned his pants.

hm wait— or was he faking it? he couldn't, correct? you saw him take the dosage.

"you are mine to study, to explore," he utters cruely, his chosen syllables crisp and evenly spoken, clean words holding no trembles, "say it," his voice hoarse.

the warmth of his body eases you to push your legs apart for him to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you on his lap— it's hot when he takes the lead, when dottore gets possessive with you and it fills you with a deep sense of pride considering the second harbinger was your boyfriend,

he doesn't stop as your palm stroking him was now replaced by your naked folds smearing up and down his shaft— the pressure in your gut increasing.

your eyes glow of what you believe was love, "i'm yours to study, yours to explore," you whine, lazily rolling his tip against your clit as he squeezes your behind and leads your movements.

and for once, you don’t mind being an experiment. if it was for the man you have fallen in love with.

⚝ — ALBEDO

albedo examines the aphrodisiac in his hand with a quiet curiosity, his eyes focused as if it were a rare alchemical artifact.

"are you certain this will have the desired effect?" he asks in doubt, although his voice seemed calm, though you can feel the tension in the air— it's not like you didn't know him, albedo probably already prepared something that could immediately take away the effect of the strange liquid.

however, it's rare to see him so unsure, yet it also made your heart skip a beat when you think about how much you meant to him for the alchemist to be so careful, always touching you like you're made out of glass.

"only one way to find out," you reply as you both drink it up next to each other, soon after resting on the bed.

the change is slow, subtle— like the way albedo works with his alchemy, precise and conscious, yet suddenly something weird blooms in your chest, it pounds and runs wild in your veins, spreading like wildfire.

his normally composed features shift, his icy gaze darkening as he gets on top of you.

"everything okay?" the man rests his forehead against yours, his breathing quickened.

you reply and wrap your arms around his neck, "yeah, I'll always be okay with you by my side," and by now, you're panting hard by the time you've coaxed out your reply as he began to roam over the slopes of your bare frame.

his touch, gentle at first, as always, growing a bit tense— he’s careful, yes, methodical in everything he does. your boyfriend was great, wasn't he? but when you turn around for him to admire your bare ass, all perked up with your folds glistening and waiting, he grabs at your hips with an urgency behind it, a silent request for more.

his lips hover over your shoulder, "it’s fascinating… to feel so out of control," he whispers against your skin, and in that moment, all of his precision was lost, dropped and evaporated into sheer nothingness.

he laps at your shoulder as his tongue grew desperate, his touch fervent as the aphrodisiac pushes him past his usual restraint— and the man didn't even realize he's never actually pressed his cock inside, never felt your walls constrict around him like a compression, instead the both of you were rutting against each other like you've never been hornier before.

your ass was already covered with his cum and your folds all puffed up and neglected as he continues to slap his tip against your behind, making a mess of your flesh— and ugh, it’s too good, it feels so good, and the sweet little gasps he pulled from you made him grunt as his cock throbs and thickens against your swollen cunt.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[aurorawritestoescape]

A HELL OF A MORNING

Stepdad!Joel Miller x f!reader || 4,2k

part 2 of A Step Into Hell || can be read alone

Summary: Joel has his favorite thing for breakfast. His stepdaughter.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, step-cest, Joel’s POV, dub con but reader’s into it, big legal age gap, dark!Joel, perv!Joel, possessive!joel, f!oral, unprotected piv (wrap it up), blackmail, premature ejaculation, creampie, degradation, rough m!oral, brief choking on cock, slutshaming, praise kink, daddy kink, mention of public sex, spanking (1), cum eating, swearing. The pics are for the mood only. Reader has no specific physical descriptions. Joel can lift reader.

A/n: This mf wouldn’t leave my mind and after such a warm welcome of the first fic I’m happy to share more of his depravity with you. I hope you all will enjoy this new story❤️ A huge thank you to a lovely anon for this request and the inspo💕 Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Ilysm! Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST || SERIES MASTERLIST

There you were. Sweet thing in her little shorts and a tight top, sitting across from Joel at the breakfast table. Beautiful and hot. Just like a week ago, and a week before that. The only difference was that this morning he knew the feel of your pussy squeezing his cock, knew the taste of your soft lips, the weight of your tits in his hands. This morning you were his.

While Joel’s wife was setting the table for the three of you, you were throwing shy glances at your stepdad from time to time. Joel fucking loved it. Loved how anxious you were about what you two had done the previous night, loved how you flinched every time he spoke, scared that he’d tell the secret to your mother.

‘Honey, got news for ya. I’m fuckin your daugher. Pass the salt?’

Fuck no! He’d never do that, never ruin this thing between him and his sexy stepdaughter. Having you on a leash like that, using your holes whenever he pleased was a gift. You belonged to him and he was going to do everything to keep owning you.

Joel felt like the luckiest man on the planet when his horny thoughts were interrupted by your mom.

“My head’s killing me. I’m going back to bed,” she complained after taking a sip of her coffee and then left the two of you alone in the kitchen.

Fuck. Yeah.

Joel bricked up in a second. His cock was already throbbing in his jeans from all the memories of the previous night that had been flashing in his mind as soon as he had woken up that morning. He’d jerked off in the shower, eyes closed, head full of images of his stepdaughter, coming on his fingers, his cock, her dildo. Thanks to you, his spank bank was full for months ahead but did he even need it when he had a real thing to corrupt and fuck?

After his wife went upstairs, his stiffness began to ache in anticipation. He got a mild kick out of it because he knew that the remedy was sitting right in front of him. Tight magic hole of his stepdaughter was within arm’s reach.

What a sight you were! Eyes downcast, chest heaving, you knew damn well what was going to happen. Maybe even wished for it. Joel had no doubts what a little slut you were. Surely you were excited about a good ol’ morning fuck just like he was. And Joel was ready to oblige, storing a thick breakfast sausage for his favourite girl.

“Ya know what I always wanted to do since you moved to mine?“

A shiver seemed to run over your whole body when his voice broke the ringing silence in the room and you saw your stepdad get up and plop into a chair next to you. You smelled good, sweet and flowery, and Joel began salivating like a hungry wolf over a bunny.

You looked up at him and shook your head.

“Wanted to eat ya out,” Joel replied and poked the wooden surface of the table with his thick finger. “Right — poke— here — poke.”

His heavy gaze fixed on you, he sneered at the way you squirmed in your seat and kept pressing your naked thighs together.

Gah! The horny slut was already soaking her lil shorts.

Joel had an hour or so before his wife would wake up and he was going to use every single second to play with his stepdaughter.

“Did you like your dickin down yesterday?”

You bit your lip, eyes fixed on your lap. Then you whispered, probably scared to be heard by your mother.

“Joel. It’s so fucked up.”

“What is, sweetie?” Joel cooed, scooting closer to you with his chair. “The part where you made recordings of your stepdad fuckin your mom? Or the part where you came hard stuffed full of my dick and your pink rubber cock? Aw, look at you squirmin, ya pussy achin?” he chuckled and pressed, ”What’s exactly fucked up? Tell me.”

“All of it.” Your voice was barely heard. Poor thing must be so confused, terrified, Joel thought. He almost felt sorry for you but the lust immediately took over and he put his bear palm on your naked thigh.

“Yeah, I reckon ya right. But what’s done is done. If hell exists we’ll be there together, babydoll. So let’s have some fun when we still can, yeah?” He roughly squeezed your thigh and you shook your head, looking elsewhere but him.

“Don’t you forget, missy, you have no other choice,” Joel reminded you with a dark smile and leaned forward, his breath fanning your cheek. Your gaze snapped up to his and your pupils dilated when his face got close.

“Ya scared we’ll get caught? I get it.” Joel’s hand slithered higher, inching closer to your covered pussy. “Don’t worry. I’m always careful. If I’m fucking you, means the coast is clear. Relax and enjoy the ride, yeah? And if by some wild chance we’re caught, come up with a lie. No offense but your mom ain’t the brightest. You’d be full of my cock on the couch and she’d think we’re just cuddlin.”

Joel took a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Fuck! why do I get so hard jus’ thinkin about it? Do I want her to watch me fuck you? What do you think?”

You scrunched your pretty nose but Joel didn’t fail to notice your squirming, your glossy eyes, your hardened nipples, tenting your top. He was happy to make you crazy for his cock and his dirty talk was working. Your body was succumbing to his horny taunting, but your mind was still fighting the inevitable.

“Stop it, please,” you begged, shaking like a little chihuahua. Your fear was making you tremble, but you were needy just as much as he was. A devilish smirk twisted Joel’s face as he continued,

“Let’s watch movies together. Every few days. We'll call it ’our bondin time’. You’ll be sittin snugly next to me on the couch. I’ll play with your pussy under a blanket, uh? You’ll try not to moan like a whore.”

“She’s not that stupid, Joel.” Your gaze got fiery, tone annoyed. Joel narrowed his eyes. Were you getting angry at him for tormenting you or at your mother for keeping you from getting railed by your stepdad on every horizontal surface in the house?

Smirking, Joel leaned back and spread his thighs wider. His cock was thumping in the confines of his jeans and he began palming it to get some relief.

He was torturing himself too, turning both of you to the max with his talk, but for sure the pay off was going to be worth it.

“Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t be that ballsy,” he rubbed his scruffy cheek as he spoke, “Damn, if I could tell everyone I’m fuckin your little cunt. Dream! Using your holes in the open. You’d be cockwarming me at the first poker night I hosted.”

Joel loved when your breath hitched.

”Imagine Tommy’s face when he sees my sweet stepdaughter creamin ‘round my cock in her short skirt. I’d love to show you off, babydoll. You’re a ten.”

Your eyes clouded up, fixed on the coffee mug in front of you, and you slowly licked your lower lip. You seemed to be imagining the picture he was painting and Joel knew that you loved what you were seeing in your little cock-obsessed head.

Joel snapped his fingers and you jerked, waking up from your depraved daydreaming.

“Ya were a good girl for me yesterday but here are my rules.”

Your glossy eyes were blinking at him as you mumbled,

“Rules?”

You looked so confused like there was no thought in your pretty head whatsoever. Hell! He wanted to fuck that head.

“Yeah. My house, my rules, sweetie. First. No panties allowed. I wanna know your pussy is free to play whenever I want. And ‘s hot to know that you walk around like that.. ready for daddy to use.”

“Ohh..ok,” you looked down and he saw a little smile dance on your lips. Joel’s face got dark.

“Ya wearin any now?”

You shook your head, your head still down.

“Good girl,” Joel smirked and slapped his thigh with a palm. His chest expanded thinking you’d done it for him and then his mind short circuited.

Almost holding his breath he asked,

“Ya still leakin me?”

Your gaze darted up as you murmured, “I don’t know.”

“Check. Now.”

His tone wasn’t leaving any room for discussion so you brought your hand to your shorts. Joel couldn’t wait to see it. His hand was palming his giant hard-on which was beating hard against his thigh when he saw your hand disappear in your shorts and you moaned softly.

“Two fingers. Stretched you good yesterday. Fuck yourself a little for me. Gather everything you can.”

You locked eyes with him, gaze foggy, while your digits were working your pussy. Joel cupped your cheek and stroked your face with his calloused thumb.

“Such a good slut for daddy.”

He saw you breathing faster as your hand was picking up the pace between your legs.

“Stop! Makin you come’s my job. Pull ‘em out.”

You retrieved your fingers and you both saw them glistening in the light of the morning sun.

Joel took your hand and you gasped when he shoved your fingers into his mouth. He licked them clean, humming at the taste and smacking his lips like a fucking TV chef.

“Yeah, delicious pussy … what’s that undertone? Ah! My jizz!“

Joel’s smile was full of lust and triumph.

“Your little pussy kept some of daddy’s milk. I bet she wants me to fuck it deeper into you. But I need a better taste first. Get up.”

Joel made you stand between his spread thighs and shoot his blown eyes up at your face as his hand grabbed your pussy and he began kneading your soft mound and folds with his thick fingers. His movements were possessive, harsh, but still pleasant, judging by your expression - lips parted, eyes hazy, ready to roll back any second.

“Now the second rule. No boys in this house or anywhere else. You can fool around with your girlfriends if ya into that, I don’t give a fuck, but I don’t want any dicks around her, ya hear me? I want your pussy hungry for cock. My cock.”

Joel’s dick was unbelievably hard, trying to poke out of his jeans. ‘Fuck it! I’m in my own house. If I wanna pull the shlong out I will,” Joel thought and unzipped the fly with a carnal smile. His cock jumped out as soon as it was free and bobbed, looking engorged and ready to explode. But after tasting you, Joel craved more.

He spread his thighs wider, noticing the way you darted your eyes down to get a peek of his length.

“Miss it, babydoll? haven’t seen him all night, yeah?”

Joel pulled you closer by your hips, leaned down and pressed his nose right into your clothed mound.

You gasped and grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to steady yourself.

“What are you…?” the only thing you had time to say before a moan escaped your lips when Joel’s hot tongue licked your pussy over the thin material of your cotton shorts. They soaked in his saliva in a second and through the wet fabric he could easily feel your pulsating clit under his tongue. He was sure you felt his hot muscle there too by the way you fluttered your eyes shut and bit your lower lip.

For a few moments he kept kneading your asscheeks and licking over your shorts, soaking them and turning you on more and more.

Then your eyes snapped open and you looked at the door. Joel parted from your clothed pussy for a second to reassure you,

“Don’t worry, baby. There’s a squeaky step at the top of the stairs. I’ll know she’s comin.”

His words seemed to relax you a little and you held onto his shoulder tighter, trying to sway less under Joel’s hungry groping.

And his hunger was getting unbearable.

“Hop on the table, little slut.” Joel’s chin and mustache were glistening with his saliva. His voice was gruff and impatient. You did what he said, like a good girl, and your stepdad lifted your hips and pulled your shorts down, exposing you. In a second they were lying on the floor. The next command sounded like a growl as Joel sat closer to you in his chair.

“Feet up.”

You obediently placed your feet on the edge, hands planted behind you on the table. “Hey there, beautiful. Daddy’s ready to play.”

The sight of your cunt was driving Joel mad. Like a starving man, he buried his nose between your wet folds and took a big whiff off your drenched pussy. He’s never smelled anything hotter and groaned at the scent. You were so wet he could drink you for hours and he didn’t see any reason not to start. His hot tongue began sliding all over your cunt, gathering your slick off every crevice and fold, slurping and licking with obscene noises. Joel spread you open with his thick fingers so he wouldn’t miss a drop of your tangy nectar and his eyes were closed as he groaned against your perfect cunt.

When he opened his hazy eyes an image of you— jaw slack, chest and belly heaving, lashes fluttering- almost made him jizz all over your thighs. You looked gone, absolutely overdosed on pleasure.

Joel had to stop. The taste and the feel of your little cunt sent his cock and balls into a frenzy and he had planned to pump you full.

But when you looked at him and whispered a quiet ‘daddy, please’, his mouth as if by itself latched onto your crying pussy and he continued sucking, licking, nibbling on your folds and clit. You raked your fingers through his curls, scratched his scalp with your nails, and Joel moaned into your heat. He’s never been so horny in his life, never wanted anyone so strongly and it felt like he might have died if his balls weren’t drenched soon. His cock was leaking rivers of pre-fuck juice but Joel wanted to last, wanted to come inside you again.

“Want daddy’s tongue in your hole, baby?” Joel asked, brushing your puffy clit with his thumb and taking in the sight of you. You were longing for a release and it didn’t surprise him when you nodded eagerly.

“No, tell me. Wanna hear it.”

“Please, fuck me with your tongue, daddy,” you murmured and your blown puppy eyes and a thirsty- slut expression sent his tongue right into your flattering hole. Joel moved his head back and forth, reaching with his thick tongue as deep as it would go, lapping off your slick that was flowing out of you generously. His hands were kneading your thighs, until one snaked up to your chest and under your top. He found your soft tit and began groping and squeezing it while his tongue was thrusting into your tight hole.

Joel’s plans crushed when you started coming. Your walls began clamping on his tongue, your legs trembling, but what caused his misfire was your needy ‘daddy—daddy— ‘m coming— ahhh’. That and the sight of your face all ecstatic and sexy made him thrust his hips up, his balls drew up and his cock began spurting cum all over the place like a damn volcano. Growling and cursing through his teeth, Joel grabbed it by the base, trying to minimize the damage but all in vain. His creamy jizz landed on your thighs, your twitching clit, puffy folds, his neck, his jeans and the table. It was a fucking mess.

When Joel stopped coming, he pushed his sweaty hair back with his hand and leaned back on the chair. Panting, you placed your feet on the floor and stood up on your shaky legs in front of him. Joel’s cum was sliding down your thighs so you padded to the counter and grabbed a paper towel. You cleaned yourself up, then came back and handed some to Joel. But he kept sitting, watching you, legs spread, cock softening but still huge resting on his left thigh.

“Bad girl.”

“Hm?”

“Made me come without stickin it up your pussy.”

“I —Joel, I didn't do anything.”

“Bullshit.” He was fuming. He hadn’t busted a nut like that since he’d been a teen. Fucking embarrassing.

You needed to be punished.

“On your knees. Lick it up.”

“Joel..”

“Lick. It. Up.” His tone was cold.

He saw you swallow loudly, eyes full of fear of the steel in his voice. He didn’t pity you at that moment, his hunger for you had been temporarily satiated and everything he felt then was the desire to possess, control, bend your will to his.

The sight of you kneeling between his legs put a dark smile on his face, and when you swiped your little tongue over his hairy thigh, gathering the spilled cum, it morphed into a grin.

”Everything, babydoll,” he commanded and leaned forward to grab his mug off the table. The coffee was lukewarm but it would do, he needed to rehydrate after busting such a big load. The load you were eating off his soft cock right that moment.

”Bon appetit, little whore,” Joel gloated, sipping his drink, as you were working on cleaning him, your eyes fluttering shut from time to time. You were swallowing his jizz again and again, your tongue soft and hot, and soon Joel began enjoying not only your humiliation, but also the sensation of your gentle tongue dancing over his dick, his balls, his inner thighs.

Joel was chewing on his lower lip, eyes blown, as his cock was waking up.

You were pulling away from his hardening length but suddenly Joel‘s strong hand pushed your head down, spearing your mouth with his cock.

Joel’s fat tip hit the back of your throat and you gagged. Your nails sank into his thighs, teary eyes snapped up to his face with panic, as he was making you choke on his thick dick.

“What is it, babydoll? Ain’t used to huge shlongs, uh? ‘s ok, we’ll train ya,” he cooed, bringing the mug to his lips. He took a sip and then let you free. You coughed, wiping your chin with the back of your hand and glaring at him.

Joel put the mug back on the table and his hand, wrapped around your upper arm, pulled you up on your feet.

While you were still catching your breath, Joel manhandled you down onto his lap. You whined but didn’t fight it. The sensation of your wet pussy pressed to his crotch, your juicy naked ass on his thighs injected a new shot of arousal into his veins.

“Daddy’s back in business, sweetie. C’mon, sit on ‘im.“ Joel lifted you up slightly and then, holding his cock at the base, slid the leaking head between your soaked folds, searching for heaven.

“Bull’s eye,” he chuckled when his fat tip caught on your sloppy entrance.

“Make her eat him—bet ya pussy’s hungry — yeah—hnggg”! he grunted, feeding your cunt his dick in one go. You arched your back and softly whimpered.

“Still tight as fuck. Shit.”

You were sitting on his length fully, warm and wet, and Joel’s arms snaked around your body, caging you in, keeping you close.

“Damn, this cunt of yours… fuckin made for me… to milk my cock… to drive me crazy.”

All you could muster to reply was a moan which came out louder than Joel expected.

“Fuck,” he growled and crashed his mouth against yours, his big hand on the back of your head. You didn’t fight him, maybe it would have been hot if you’d done a little, but your submission, your desire for his cock, was feeding Joel’s ego, making him throb harder, grow faster inside you.

Kissing you, he felt your pussy thump around him, squeeze his already stiff shaft tighter with every beat of your fluttering heart.

“Ride me, ride my dick,” Joel groaned, parting from your whimpering lips, and almost choked when you began moving up and down, slowly first, helping yourself with your hands planted on his broad shoulders and then picking up the pace. His bear paws were kneading your ass, lifting you up in assistance while your walls were massaging his cock just right.

“Yeah—she’s somethin, babydoll— best pussy I had— swear—fuckin hell.”

You seemed to love bouncing on your stepdad’s dick. With sweat covering your forehead, you were glowing in the sunlight. If Joel were romantic he’d compare you to an angel. But he was a lust-driven, immoral asshole so he barked,

“Lovin it, horny slut?”

You didn’t reply, already cock dumb, too concentrated on your upcoming release. Suddenly you leaned forward and nuzzled his neck. Joel felt your tongue dance over his skin and he realized that you were licking off the cum left there.

“Good fuckin girl,” he praised you with a chuckle. “Ain’t even need to tell ya.”

Joel’s head fell back and his jaw got slack as you were kissing his jaw and neck, still riding him. When you pulled back, your lips and chin glistening, Joel dropped his head to watch your cunt swallow his shaft again and again. Your cream was gathering on the base of his cock and covering his coarse pubes.

Your movements were getting hectic, desperate, and Joel was ready to come too.

“Milk daddy again, babydoll. Make it right this time. Let me fill ‘er up.”

You pressed your body close to his with need and after moaning ’Daddy’ into the crease of his neck began shaking on his cock, squeezing it, pulsating, gripping it tight.

It sent Joel right over the edge and his dick spat a long rope of cum into your core, then another and another. He grabbed you by the waist and started moving you up and down, prolonging your orgasms, fucking his cum deeper. He wanted it inside you forever, claiming you, marking you, making you his. Joel squirted the final rope with his arms under yours, his hands pressing on your shoulders, pushing your whole body onto his cock. He emptied his balls to the last drop and you accepted his load moaning and whimpering.

Joel slouched in the chair, exhausted but satisfied, and you rested on his chest. A few moments later Joel looked at his watch and croaked, getting your attention with a light spank over your ass,

“C’mon up, sweetie. She’ll be up soon.”

Joel helped you to get up and cleaned his cum off the table with the paper towel. You weren’t helping. Standing by Joel, you looked drunk, your legs shaking. Your stepdad smirked after assessing your look and helped to put your shorts back on.

“Damn. Lookin like after a gangbang. Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled and stumbled to the door, like a deer that recently learnt how to walk. Joel furrowed his brows. Your mom would definitely ask what had happened to you. Hopefully she wouldn’t see you sneaking up to your room.

Unfortunately, Joel’s luck ran out. He heard a squeak.

Fuck!

In three big steps Joel reached you and took you in his arms, bridal style. You gasped and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Follow my lead,” he said under his breath and carried you out of the kitchen.

“Oh my god, what happened?!” his wife exclaimed, frozen in the middle of the stairs.

“She hit her toe, honey. Clumsy girl. Don’t worry. I’ll help her up to her bedroom.”

You were nodding, looking sad, and Joel smirked in his mind. Little slut was ready to lie.

“Is it broken?” Your mom’s voice was worried.

“No, just hurts,” you replied with a shaky voice, ”I’ll be fine.”

Joel hurriedly walked up the stairs, carrying you in his strong arms, leaving you mother behind.

”Don’t worry, honey. I’ll get her everything she needs.”

“Thank you, Joel,” he heard his wife say on her way to the kitchen. Hopefully she won’t notice the scent of sex and cum there, Joel thought.

He shut your bedroom door behind him with his foot, carried you to the bed and laid you down.

“What did I tell ya? She’ll believe anythin,” he smirked, standing by the bed, his hands on his hips.

You smiled a little and leaned against the headboard with a sigh of relief.

Joel’s gaze slid down from your tired looking face to your shorts. An idea of pushing his cum back into your soft hole with his fingers flashed in his mind. No! He needed to return to the kitchen and reassure your mother. God forbid she’d come up to check on you and notice all the cum stains on your clothes.

“We had fun, uh, beautiful?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

“Wasn’t talkin to you,” Joel gruffed before bending down and petting your pussy over your shorts. You scuffed and Joel barked a loud laugh.

Then he left your bedroom with a wide smile on his face and thoroughly drained balls.

Thank you for reading! Comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!<3

MASTERLIST || SERIES MASTERLIST || stepdad Joel drabble || more step family naughtiness

Tag list:@milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

People who might be interested @toxicanonymity @she-could-never @kiwiharrykiwi @joelalorian @tateypots @magpiepills @pedroswife69 @megangovier @baroness @witchofthedeepwoods

[cherienymphe]

Teenage Dirtbag XVIII

JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron

Warnings: mentions of NON-CON (+mentions of loss of virginity), DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, mentions of violence (+ gun violence), gun kink, dacryphilia, attempted murder, blood, semi public sex,  jealousy, manipulation, infidelity, underage drinking, drug use, canon ages, kook!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: You’re charmingly spoiled. You’re too kind for your own good. You’re the princess of Figure 8 …and you’re way out of JJ Maybank’s league, but when he realizes that Rafe Cameron’s pride and joy is actually a bruised and battered damsel, he’s determined to save you.

Your rescue just comes with a price.

⭑

It wasn’t the feeling of familiar lips on your face that woke you up…

It was the pain.

It was a dull persistent ache that you were sure you’d felt even in your sleep. You’d never felt anything like it before, and in the back of your mind, you wondered if you should be worried. At what point does lingering pain warrant a visit to the hospital? It wasn’t like you had any experience with this kind of pain.

You’d never been raped before.

Your chest ached heavily as you thought that, and you felt your throat tighten as the memories of last night assaulted your mind over and over again. You’d been drunk, but yet you remembered everything so clearly as if you hadn’t had a sip, at all. You didn’t know if you thought that was cruel or not. After all, wasn’t it better to remember everything to tell the police?

…were you going to tell the police?

The thought made your eyes burn, and you realized that you weren’t so confident that you were. But why wouldn’t you? You remembered the sight of bloody water swirling down the drain, the pain every time you walked, and you were still feeling the effects of Rafe’s violent assault. Why on earth wouldn’t you go to the cops?

“Y/N…”

The sound of your boyfriend’s voice reminded you that you had to rejoin the land of the living at some point, and considering the nightmare that was the previous night, you didn’t want to see what would happen should you feign sleep any longer. So, with a deep breath, you opened your eyes…and met the soft gaze of the man who terrified you more than anyone ever had.

“Hey,” Rafe softly whispered, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips. “Good morning, baby.”

You didn’t respond to him, opting to stare at him, and not because you just wanted to, but because you didn’t know what to say.

You stared at the face of your beautiful boyfriend and thought to yourself that that face belonged to the same man who’d held you down and raped you. The same hair, the same eyes, the same lips. It was all the same because it was the same man, and you had the hardest time wrapping your head around that. 

When Rafe hit you a month ago, you’d forgiven him. In your heart, you genuinely believed that he was sorry and that it wouldn’t happen again. After all, he’d been drinking and you’d been drinking and you’d gone out of your way to make him mad. You didn’t think it was fair that you were the one to be angry on your birthday, and so you’d said what you said—provoking him.

…but last night was different.

You hadn’t done anything to warrant what he’d done. Besides, it wasn’t like there was ever anything that could be done to warrant that. You hadn’t done anything to Rafe, at all, and the revelation that he could do that to you—had done that to you—made your eyes water.

You watched Rafe swallow at the sight, sitting up a bit.

“Y/N…”

Your tears spilled over as he said your name again, and he hurriedly wiped them away.

“Hey…hey,” he gently cooed, expression troubled as he watched you cry. “Last night…”

You sniffed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?” he quietly apologized. “I’d had a few drinks and my mind was making a big deal out of nothing and… Not that that’s an excuse…”

His words died in the air between you as you covered your face, sobbing into your hands. It took him a while to pull one away, whispering your name repeatedly as he tried to get you to stop crying.

“I’m sorry,” he stressed, his face so close to yours as he held one of your hands. “That wasn’t right. Especially not…”

Rafe’s thoughts seemed to be all over the place, and it seemed like once your tears started, they just couldn’t stop. No matter how much you tried not to, you could only remember him screaming at you and shoving you and holding you down despite how much you tried to get him off of you. It made your chest hurt almost as much as the pain between your thighs.

“I fucked that up for you, and I’m sorry,” he told you, leaning in to press his lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Rafe was saying all of the ‘right’ things, but there wasn’t anything to be said that could undo this or even make this right. It was something that should’ve never happened, and if you weren’t so overwhelmed with fear and confusion and hurt, you would’ve told him that. You would’ve told Rafe every single thing that you were thinking, but at the moment, you could only try and grapple with what happened last night.

…and the fact that your boyfriend was the one to do it.

“It shouldn’t have been like that,” the blond whispered, quickly pressing his lips to yours. “That’s not how I wanted it to be.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, and when his hand rested on your cheek just as he started to deepen the kiss, you shook your head.

“Rafe…no-.”

You abruptly cut yourself off, taken aback by how quickly your heart started to race. You moved away from him a bit, but Rafe followed, pleas on his lips as he reached for you again.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he repeated, his fingers pressing into your arm as his lips brushed against yours again. “Please, let me make this right.”

“Why,” you cried. “So, you can feel better?”

You hated that you hated the way Rafe’s face fell a bit at your words, and more tears fell against your will. He wiped some of them away, and his eyes traced your face. The house sounded so quiet, and you wondered what the rest of his family was doing while you and Rafe argued about what he did to you last night.

“I don’t want you to think about that when you think about your first time,” Rafe eventually whispered. “I don’t because…that makes me feel like shit. Okay? That makes me feel like the worst boyfriend in the world.”

You looked away from him, staring at the wall behind him for a while. You didn’t want that memory either, but it was too late, and there was no doubt in your mind that you’d never forget it. More than anything at the moment, you just wanted to be home and in your own bed and thinking about what you were going to do. 

There was no way you could stay with Rafe. That couldn’t be an option and yet…he terrified you. In the span of two months, he became someone you were struggling to recognize. The incident on your birthday was one thing, but last night was something else entirely. You didn’t know what to expect from him anymore…and that was terrifying.

You were terrified of him.

Right now.

His hand was on your arm and you were in his bed and he was so close. It was obvious you didn’t want this, but it had also been obvious last night, and look what happened? What if Rafe hurt you again? You’d been so sure before that he wouldn’t, that your birthday was the last time, but now…you didn’t know. 

You didn’t know anything anymore.

…and so when Rafe misconstrued your silence and leaned in again, you let him.

“No, I know-.”

Rafe seemed to be once again cut off by Ward who was on the other end of the phone. They’d been going back and forth for all of thirty minutes, and it wasn’t hard to tell that Ward was angry with Rafe about something. It sounded work related, and you chose to keep your eyes on the bridal magazine in your lap while he paced by the pool. It was one of the many that your mother bought and subscribed to for you. 

Topper and Kelce were inside—rolling a blunt or two no doubt—and you and your boyfriend had been lounging by the pool together until his phone rang. He’d told you that Ward was giving him more responsibility now, seeing if he could really prove himself, and more responsibility came with the possibility of bigger disappointments. You didn’t know what Rafe had screwed up exactly, but it didn’t seem pretty.

When he gave out one loud and angry huff, you knew that Ward had hung up on him.You kept your gaze on the picture of the impressive dress before you, idly wondering if you could picture yourself on a dress like that. You’d told your mother that you wanted to keep it simple—elegant—but the truth was that you weren’t pressed at all about the kind of dress you’d wear.

Truthfully, you were more concerned with how you’d stomach walking down the aisle.

“Where’s your ring?”

Rafe’s question pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked at him with a slight frown. Funnily enough, he was frowning back. One of his hands was in his pocket, the other tossing his phone aside onto the table as he waited for you to answer him. You stared at his face for a moment, and your heart sank at the obvious.

Swallowing down a sigh, you answered him.

“At home. On my nightstand…”

“Why?” Rafe scoffed.

This time you did sigh, looking back down at the magazine.

“It’s huge, Rafe. It hits up against and gets caught on so many things. Not to mention, I’d feel like crap if I lost it,” you told him. “It’s…a lot.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. However, what you failed to mention was that the sight of it made you sick.

“You’re the one who made so much fuss about that ring…”

You chose not to remind him that not only was that years ago, but that was also before he’d started slapping you around.

“Besides, if you lost it I’d just get you another one,” he haughtily added. “Granted, I’d be fucking pissed, yeah, but I’d still replace it.”

“That’s not the point,” you sighed.

There was a brief pause.

“Then what is the point? I mean, is that really why you don’t want to wear it?”

You turned to look at him, now, and you didn’t like the way he was staring you down.

“...meaning…?”

You watched Rafe glance away, swiping his tongue between his lips.

“Meaning you don’t seem as excited as I thought you’d be about this engagement.”

You frowned at him.

“You’re never the one to bring up the wedding and when you’d like it to be, that’s always me. Rose is more excited than you seem to be, and…” he threw his hand up. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

“I told you why.”

“...and I don’t believe you.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, but Rafe continued before you could figure it out.

“I know you and Sarah like to talk and gossip like a bunch of old ladies, and I know for a fact she’s not happy about it.”

At that, you became a tad more alert.

“...and what would make you say that?”

“She’s been treating me like shit for days now,” he elaborated, making your heart sink. “I’m talking more than usual. Ignoring me, bumping into me, spilling shit on me. If looks could kill, I would’ve been dead days ago.”

You pressed your lips together at that, unable to tell Rafe that Sarah’s behavior had nothing to do with the engagement.

Not solely, anyway.

Time seemed to fly when your life was full of nothing but turmoil because it’d already been a week since that day at the Camerons’ when Sarah saw the bruises on your back and the truth came out. JJ had reassured you that he would make her understand, and while you weren’t sure just how well he succeeded, you did know that Rafe nor Ward were aware of what happened.

Every time you thought about that day, you wanted to crawl into a hole.

You had long resigned yourself to your bleak future with Rafe, and so you had never anticipated anyone finding out. JJ had been bad enough, but Sarah was a whole other kind of problem. Sarah was never supposed to find out, and sometimes you had the urge to seek her out like she’d been trying to do with you, but you just weren’t in the right headspace to handle anyone other than JJ knowing.

You knew that you and Sarah needed to talk—really talk—but one person breathing down your neck about your tumultuous relationship was bad enough. You knew that the moment you let Sarah in, she’d be relentless. Nevermind the fact that you didn’t know how to look her in the face and be open about the abuse you’d been facing at the hands of her brother, but you knew that it was inevitable she’d learn the truth about Ward too.

You were trying to put it off for as long as possible.

“Maybe you pissed her off for a completely unrelated reason, and you just can’t remember what,” you told him.

Rafe let out a light laugh, but it was humorless.

“Or…you’ve been complaining to her about me and this wedding.”

You and Rafe stared at each other for a while before you finally conceded with a sigh.

“I’m not doing this,” you said, standing.

“Doing what, exactly?” Rafe wondered, nearing you.

“This,” you emphasized, gesturing between you two. “You fucked up at work, pissed off Ward, and now you’re pissed, and well…here I am.”

You threw your hands up.

“Go smoke some weed or get drunk, but I’m not going to sit here and just let you pick a fight with me because your dad is mad at you.”

“Did you ever think that maybe I’m picking a fight because I’m genuinely irritated with you?” he spat, sneering at you. “What–what you think I just noticed you don’t wear your ring? You don’t think I’ve been nice about it for days? Tried to give you some grace? Some understanding?”

You leaned away a bit as he leaned in, swallowing.

“I told you why I’m not wearing it.”

Rafe looked down his nose at you, dirty blond hair brushing his forehead.

“...and I told you that I don’t fucking believe you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What do you want from me, Rafe? You want me to go get it?”

The crooked smile he gave you was mocking, and he nodded at you.

“Yeah, actually, I want you to go get it,” he said, jerking his head towards the door.

He may have been a sardonic asshole about it, but you could see in his blue eyes that he was dead serious. Pulling your gaze away from his, you brushed by him with a huff, in search of your keys.

“Hurry up,” he said, slightly shoving you.

“Don’t touch me,” you spat, slapping his hand away.

“Or what? Huh?” he wondered, shoving you again.

Deep down, you knew that you were giving Rafe the fight he wanted, but in the back of your mind, all you could hear was JJ telling you that Rafe was proving him right. It made you want to cry, and in some weak effort to prove JJ wrong, you couldn’t stomach just sitting back and acting like a victim at the moment.

You turned to face Rafe—silent and angry—and you just stared at him as he stared at you, the blond fiending for you to give him a reason. His blue gaze was hard and his jaw was clenched and all you could think was that this was happening because he couldn’t take his anger out on Ward like he wanted to. 

He was such a coward when it came to that man, always seeking his approval and never quite measuring up. It made you pity Rafe at times, and it was that thought that had you turning away, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“What? Not so bold, anymore?”

When he pushed you again, you turned around and returned the favor, albeit not as successfully.

“I said don’t touch me!”

The slap was equally as painful as it was loud, and by the way your lip stung, you knew it’d hit your tooth in a way that drew blood. You eventually tasted it, but before you could linger on that, Rafe’s hand was on your throat.

“Just who the fuck do you think you are? Huh? Since when do you tell me what I can and can’t do?”

His nose was touching yours, and he’d just opened his mouth to speak again when he was interrupted.

“Rafe! Rafe, come on, man,” Kelce told him, trying to pull him away.

Topper was getting his hands in between you two, helping Kelce separate Rafe from you.

“Rafe, what the hell,” the younger blond said. “Come on, let her go.”

When Kelce got your boyfriend to let go, your relief was short-lived.

“Rafe, stop!”

He didn’t actually listen to his friend, but Rafe didn’t hit you a third time because he got what he wanted. Your eye watered from the second hit, and you felt Topper’s hands on your arms as you stumbled. You could see Kelce pushing Rafe away out of the corner of your eye, and you wondered if the dark-skinned guy realized that Rafe was letting him.

You roughly pulled yourself out of Topper’s hold, stumbling inside despite how shaky your vision was. Your feet threatened to trip you as you made your way to the bathroom, sniffling as you hurriedly turned the water on in the sink. You couldn't even focus on the fact that Rafe had crossed the invisible line he’d drawn and hit you in front of his friends.

You’d expected it eventually, and with the ring now on your finger—not at the moment of course—he not only felt more secure, but more bold as well.

One glance into the mirror had you wincing, and you were quick to wet a rag and wipe your face. It stung, but it wasn’t unfamiliar, and you found yourself more annoyed with the fact that you’d have to spend however much time in your car putting on some makeup. You sniffed again, cleaning the rag before pressing it to your face again.

You weren’t fazed at all by the sound of nearing footsteps.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer him right away, only continuing to stare into the mirror and wipe the blood away. You wet the rag again, cleaning it with some soap and rinsing it out in the sink. You were in absolutely no rush to acknowledge Topper, but when you did, you held no punches.

“Like you care…”

There was a beat of silence.

“Of course, I care.”

When you finally met his gaze in the mirror, you actually chuckled at the frown on his face.

“Well…I would really hate to see how you treat someone you don’t give a damn about.”

Topper opened his mouth to respond to that, but you beat him to it.

“Come on, Topper…” you whispered, turning around to face him. “You hear how he talks to me…”

You watched the blond press his lips together.

“You see the way he treats me—all of you do! He treats me like his goddamn property, and all of you just go along with it,” you cried. “You barely acknowledge me when he’s there, and you talk about me like I’m not even there, and you only give something to me or say something to me through him like he’s my fucking handler or something.”

Topper at least had the sense to look ashamed, and you watched him swallow.

“None of you are stupid,” you quietly said. “You all see it. You all know it, but you don’t say anything or do anything because he’s your bro…”

You hated the way your voice cracked because this wasn’t some new revelation for you. Topper and Kelce and all of Rafe’s buddies may not have known he was hitting you, but Rafe was more bold in how he treated you around them than anyone else, and it was because he knew they weren’t going to do shit about it. He could always talk to you any kind of way he wanted, and they wouldn’t do a thing.

Midsummers came to mind, and you blinked back tears.

“You and Kelce only decided to be heroes today because God forbid something horrible goes down in your house, and how would you ever explain that to mommy and the cops,” you sneered.

When Topper’s gaze met yours, he looked like he wanted to say something, but you didn’t have the patience to wait around for him to grow the balls to say it. With a tearful scoff, you tossed the rag at his chest before roughly pushing past him in search of your keys.

You could tell that Sarah was wearing Rose down by the way the older woman huffed, and despite the fact that they were just on the other side of the room, you kept your gaze on the magazine in your lap.

“You act like I'm trying to throw a party or something,” Sarah said, an edge in her tone. “It’s getting late and we have like two guest rooms. We can’t spare one of them so my friend can have a comfortable place to sleep?”

You couldn’t recall the excuse Sarah gave when she first approached Rose, but you didn’t have to look at JJ’s face to know that it was a lie. You didn’t know what was going on with him and Luke—although it wasn’t hard to guess—but it clearly wasn’t safe for him to be at home.

Sarah had been pleading his case for minutes…and JJ hadn’t taken his eyes off of you the entire time.

“Fine,” Rose eventually gave in, voice shrill as she held her hands up. “Anything is broken or conveniently ‘lost’, I’m telling your father I had no knowledge of this.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing up just in time to see JJ and Sarah doing the same. When Rose exited the room, you became all too aware that it was just you three, and you shut the flimsy book in your lap. The air was tense and awkward for more reasons than one, and you suddenly wanted to be at your house despite the fact that Rafe was out of town with Ward.

“It is getting late,” you mumbled, standing. “I should probably head home.”

You avoided both of their gazes as you made your way towards the stairs to get your purse from Rafe’s room. You were halfway up them when you heard hurried footsteps heading towards you. You weren’t surprised to hear Sarah call your name. You were slow to face her, and you hated the look on her face.

Like she didn’t know if she wanted to hug you or cry for you.

“You can stay…if you want…”

She sighed.

“You’re always staying over even when Rafe isn’t here, and I want you to know that I’m not going to…”

The blonde girl trailed off, struggling to voice her thoughts.

“JJ talked to me,” she slowly said, her palms hovering over her chest. “He talked to all of us and…did what he could without saying anything you might not want us to know.”

Your shoulders sagged a bit.

“I don’t like it,” she said, voice cracking and eyes watering. “I really don’t like it, but it’s not about me.”

Sarah took a deep breath.

“I have to prioritize your safety over my feelings,” she whispered, looking like that was really hard for her to say. “...and…I can’t push you. I can’t force everything I want to know out of you. You tell me what you want to when you’re ready. That’s how it has to be.”

While Sarah sounded like she was regurgitating whatever someone else might’ve said, you appreciated that she was trying to handle this in a way that was best. You couldn’t lie, you did relax a bit at hearing that, feeling more inclined to stay. It was relieving to know that Sarah was going to do her best to let this happen on your terms.

After all, it wasn’t like you told her about Rafe of your own volition. 

The truth was forced out into the open, made worse by Sarah’s expected panic.

“Okay,” you eventually told her, nodding. “Thanks, Sarah.”

You gave her a strained smile, one that she returned, and when you looked past her, your eyes briefly met familiar blue ones.

Your gaze didn’t linger, and you were quick to retreat to Rafe’s room.

A part of you still considered going home, anyway, slightly uncomfortable with the knowledge that JJ was under the same roof. The last time you’d talked, yes, he promised that he’d talk to Sarah—to which you were grateful—but he’d also conveniently ignored so much of what you said. It felt less cruel to tell him about your engagement yourself, and your eyes fell to the ring on your finger, the piece of jewelry having a permanent place there ever since that day at Topper’s.

JJ’s reaction hadn’t exactly been shocking, but because you were so used to Rafe and the horror that was your relationship, the reminders of it hardly affected you anymore. Yes, Rafe was your abuser and rapist, and yes you were marrying him. Such a statement felt like recalling the color of the sky or grass to you because it was inevitable.

Kie was completely right when she said you were never leaving him.

Of course, she hadn't known the reason why then, and you were sure she was just as horrified as JJ about the whole thing, but she hadn't lied. JJ might not care about what was technically fair to him, but you did, and your life was already ruined—future set in stone. That didn’t mean you had to drag JJ’s down with you.

It was hours later when you had long put the younger blond out of your mind and sought out sleep when you heard it.

You thought that you almost imagined the small tap, but then you heard it again, and you stared at the door. The moon was outside of Rafe’s window, bathing his room in a soft glow, and the silence between the second and third tap stretched for a long time, but when you heard it again, you knew.

It wasn’t Sarah.

You considered ignoring it and him, but almost as if he could read your mind, JJ spoke.

“Y/N.”

He whispered your name, but you heard it loud and clear, and you turned over on your back to stare at the ceiling with a frown. You didn’t know what he wanted, what he could possibly want to talk about, but a small part of you wondered just whose idea it was for JJ to crash at Sarah’s.

When you heard your name again, you finally pushed yourself to your feet.

You stood at the door, your shoulder pressed to the wall as you stared at the wood.

“It’s late, JJ…and we have nothing to talk about,” you whispered.

Your voice was low, but you knew that he could hear you.

“I know what it looks like when you’re wearing more makeup than usual…”

You swallowed at that.

“...and why.”

Your eye and lip was still bruised from what happened at Topper’s the other day, and you sighed. It was silent for a few more moments.

“Are you okay…?” he finally asked.

You gave a bitter chuckle.

“Are you?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, tone light and teasing despite the topic.

With a resigned sigh, you parted the door just a bit, turning on the light in the process.

JJ’s hair wasn’t nearly as messy as you expected it to be, making you wonder if he’d even gone to sleep, at all. You weren’t sure where Sarah found the old shirt and plaid pajama pants, but you had your suspicions that they’d belonged to Rafe once upon a time.

It wasn’t as bad as it was the day after, and you knew that JJ had to have known that, but he still drank in the sight of your face as if it’d happened only hours ago. His blue eyes trailed along your bruised eye and then to your busted lip, and you watched the way his jaw ticked.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to voluntarily show any of this to Sarah…” you sadly told him. “I don’t think she’ll ever be ready for it.”

He leaned against the doorjamb.

“She thinks she wants to know everything, but…”

JJ didn’t have to elaborate. Sarah was used to witnessing JJ’s abuse at the hands of his father, but witnessing her friend’s abuse at the hands of her brother was going to be completely new and difficult territory. Doubly so if she ever knew the truth about Ward and just what that man chose to turn a blind eye to.

When JJ gently touched the bruise next to your eye, you softly exhaled.

“JJ…”

He dropped his hand, and you watched as his nostrils flared.

“It’s not fair,” he murmured, staring at you. “How does he get everything?”

It felt like JJ was speaking to himself instead of you.

“...even things he doesn’t deserve.”

You knew he was talking about Rafe.

“Even before he started treating you like this, he didn’t deserve you,” he whispered. “I know that for a fact.”

“...and who does deserve me? You?”

A bitter smirk danced across his pink lips.

“I think I’m more deserving of you than he is.”

You looked away from him, unable to respond to that because you didn’t entirely disagree. The silence between you stretched, and you were just about to call it and tell JJ goodnight when he spoke again.

“What do I have to say—do—to get you to give him that ring back?”

When your gaze met his, JJ was entirely serious. Your lips parted, wholly unprepared to rehash this tonight, and you shook your head.

“We’ve talked about this-.”

“...and we’re talking about it again.”

You resisted the urge to sigh.

“JJ…please…”

“Do I have to kill him?” he wondered with a shrug, making your eyes widen.

Your lips opened and closed, and you blinked.

“That’s not funny…”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” JJ told you, a deep frown on his face as he stared at you. “...but what else can I possibly suggest? I’m not just going to stand around and wait for the day Sarah tells me he finally did it.”

Your heart clenched at what he was insinuating. 

“For the day he shoves you down the stairs, and you don’t make it or the day he strangles you for too long-.”

“JJ, stop.”

“Why? Am I scaring you?” he harshly asked. “Good.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, looking away from him.

“You want me to just stand back and wait for that…and I can't do it.”

“Goodnight, JJ,” you told him, pushing the door, but JJ pushed back.

“Look at your face,” he harshly hissed. “What happened to keeping him happy, huh? That plan fall through so soon?”

“Fuck you,” you tearfully whispered, your hold faltering on the door.

JJ used the opportunity to push his way past the threshold, and your eyes widened. You looked at him like he was crazy as he shut the door behind him, and you stumbled back.

“Are you crazy?”

JJ raised his brows at you.

“Probably, but you definitely must be if you actually expect me to listen to you,” he sneered. “Would you?”

His question stumped you, and you froze.

“If you were in my shoes, and it was me, would you listen to the bullshit you’re trying to feed me?”

The answer was obvious, and it was no, and you didn’t need to voice that for JJ to know it. You tearfully shook your head at him.

“It’s not fair to you, JJ,” you choked out.

JJ nodded at that, but you didn’t feel like he was agreeing with you.

“...and you know what? None of this is fair to you, but the difference is that you didn’t choose any of this,” he said to you, taking your arms.

“JJ-.”

“I knew what I was getting into when I kissed you,” he interrupted. “I knew that you might never leave that asshole, but then I found out what he was doing to you…”

You pulled on your arms, but JJ’s hold was firm.

“...and I knew that I had to get you away from that asshole.”

You knew it was coming, but you were somehow still completely unprepared for the kiss that JJ gave you.

The rest of the house was quiet—everyone asleep—and so you tried to keep your own voice down as you pushed JJ away.

“JJ, no. Especially not here…”

Your words died in your throat as he covered your lips with his again, the kiss making your lashes flutter. His hands were on your wrists, now, holding your own hands against his chest. When he walked forward, you stumbled back, and your heart fell to your stomach as the realization of what was very likely to happen started to creep up on you.

“Ask me if I care,” JJ murmured into the kiss.

His hands were tight on your wrist as he forced you back and back until the back of your legs grazed the bed—Rafe’s bed. Your stomach turned from a mix of things, mostly at how much of a new low this was. Granted, you were still sporting the physical evidence of Rafe’s abuse, but you couldn’t help it. He was awful and treated you like worse than dirt, but he was still your boyfriend.

JJ had never cared about that technicality though, evident in the way he moved his mouth against yours. When one of his hands fell to your waist, you followed suit in the hopes to pull his hand away, but you ended up using it to press into the bed to keep JJ from laying you down completely.

“JJ…”

The warning in your tone was weak, and it was apparent by the way the blond smiled against your lips.

He wouldn’t stop kissing you and touching you, and the only time his lips weren’t on yours was when he was ridding you of the shirt you’d been sleeping in, his quickly following suit. Your palms against his chest did nothing to stop him or even slow him down, JJ eager to feel your skin against his after literal weeks.

Somewhere along the way your protests became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether. Your hands were no longer pushing against him, but instead sliding along his skin as he tasted the inside of your mouth. All the reasons as to why this was technically wrong eluded you, and when JJ slowly pushed his cock into you—stretching you out in a way that you hadn’t felt for too long—it took everything to swallow down the moan that threatened to climb out of your throat.

His hips repeatedly curved into yours, every inch of him stroking you in a way that made you twist your fingers into the sheets. His teeth grazed the skin of your neck as he pressed open mouthed kisses to it, and you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips. You tried so hard not to miss him—and this—but it turned out to be in vain.

As if he read your mind, JJ spoke.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.

You could only nod, wrapping your legs around his waist as you pressed your nails into his back. One of his forearms was resting beside your head, and a shudder traveled down your spine as he pressed kisses across your collarbone. Your chest was heaving, and you lifted your hips to meet his thrusts halfway.

It felt good to have sex again with someone who didn’t terrify you, and you felt like JJ couldn’t get close enough. His blond hair was sticking to his forehead from sweat, and you pulled his face closer, kissing him. JJ hummed into your mouth as you breathed him in, missing him so much despite how much you didn’t want to.

“You’re so wet for me,” he quietly said against your lips. “You’re dripping for me, princess.”

He wasn’t wrong, and you had multiple reasons to be embarrassed by the fact—namely whose bed you were currently in—but you weren't able to focus on it as JJ continued to thrust into you. The bed jostled beneath his movements, and so lost in the ecstasy that he was giving you, your legs fell from around his waist. A few soft moans slipped out here and there, but you were always aware in the back of your mind that Sarah and Rose and Wheezie were just down the hall.

One of JJ’s hands dug into your waist, holding you down as his hips repeatedly met yours, and you watched him look between you, no doubt watching himself disappear into you. The sight turned you on even more, and you shakily exhaled.

You lost track of how long you were wrapped up in each other, but you ended the night on top of him, his hands on your breasts, and your own hands covering his as you slid yourself down onto his cock over and over again. Your lashes were fluttering and your eyes were rolling at the feeling of him inside of you. You had come once already, but JJ wasn’t done with you, attempting to make up for lost time.

…and when he finally spilled into you, you pressed your teeth into his shoulder to hide the sound of you coming around him too.

[baronessvonglitter]

paying off the debt

joel x fem!plus size!reader x clint | wc: 1.6k

summary: when your husband doesn't pay his debt, the two men coming to collect decide on a different form of payment

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit. DDDNE. TW: non-con. Dub-con. Infidelity. Unprotected p in v. Oral (m & f receiving). Degradation. Slut shaming. Titty slapping. Nipple play. Dacryphilia. Anal fingering. Spanking. Creampie. Reader is plus sized and wears a silk nightgown, has female genitalia and breasts but is otherwise not described. A few mentions of another Pedro-char not shown. Never beta'd because this all happened so quickly, dear god. If I've missed anything please let me know!

a/n: this is my submission for the Magic Number Writing Challenge hosted by @mothandpidgeon , @schnarfer , and @whocaresstillthelouvre ❤️ I have wanted to write something for these Clint and Joel for the longest! And I hope I've done Clint justice, as it's my first time writing him. (He owns me, heart and soul.)

Shoutout to @milla-frenchy who is the Queen of Hot Threeways and who was my cheerleader for this little daydream-turned-writing project. You're the best, Milla!

dividers by @firefly-graphics 👑

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

You'd only ever caught glimpses of Clint between a crack in the door or through the blinds when he'd come by to speak to your husband. A big, scary, intimidating man like him, rough-looking, though handsome, face decorated with scars.

And now he's between your legs, slurping away at your pussy while his buddy, another big, strong man referred to as Joel pins your arms over your head on the other side.

It was just after seven a.m. when they knocked and you, still in your white silk nightie from last night, answered it, still half-asleep, not thinking.

"We're here for payback, little lady," Clint had growled, hands on your hips as he pushed his way into your home, Joel at his heels. "Tried to talk some sense into your husband but it ain't takin'. Now we gotta show him we mean business."

Now you're sprawled on your bed, still unmade at the early hour, Clint's tongue plundering your cunt while Joel's big hands hold you down, thumb lightly stroking over your wrists, as if to soothe you, as if it's a romantic tryst you're engaging in.

Shocked into submission, you let it happen, too overwhelmed by his ravenous appetite to think about anything else. Clint swirls his tongue around your bud before teasing your folds, licking at the jucture between your thigh and torso, eyes lifting to watch your expression, to see you slightly struggling against being pinned down. He knows he's got you, and with his lips sealed around your needy clit, it's game over. He holds you down as your hips lift off the bed, still in control, keeping at it while you drench him.

"There now, see, that wasn't so bad," he murmurs, getting to his feet as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Damn, you're so pretty when you come.."

"She is," Joel agrees in his gruff voice.

"I was just getting you ready for me. Trust me, little darlin', you can't handle me without getting ready first."

The moan that escapes your lips is absolutely sinful. His cock is a stretch to fit, even as wet as you are, your cunt takes time to elongate, housing him deep within your center. And though he doesn't give you time to adapt to his size, he does go slow and steady, your thighs bracketing his as he thrusts lazily, looking down at the way your silk nightie is pushed up over your generous hips. He tells Joel to push the top half down, and when he does they both paw greedily at your tits.

"Dave likes 'em thick, huh?" Clint growls with a punctuated thrust. "Round ass, big tits.. and tight pussy."

At the mention of your husband's name you whimper, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in shame. You shouldn't be enjoying what's being done to you. They're doing it for themselves, to send a message. But you're getting off on being their plaything.

"She's lovin' it." Joel's fondling you, pinching your nipples and giving them a few light slaps. That and Clint fucking you is starting to send you over the edge.

"Yeah she does," Clint says proudly. "She probably can't even come unless someone's holdin' her down." He nods at Joel to let go of your arms. You keep them there, flexing your hands as the circulation finds its way back to your wrists.

"She likes it!"

"Little slut."

Clint picks up the pace, spurred on by your neediness. Your hips find his rhythm and match it, drawing him in deeper. "That's right," he rasps. "Touch yourself. Lemme see you work that pretty little clit."

Your fingers desperately circle your nub, working yourself into a frenzy as he fucks into you, spreading you open on his fat cock. Above you, Joel leans down to suck your nipples. You lick your tongue along his cheek until he stops to kiss you, plundering your mouth with his tongue.

"She's fuckin' feral," Clint growls, shoving himself into you ruthlessly. "Keep that mouth of hers busy, Joel. She's about to explode soon."

Joel unzips his jeans, pulling out his thick length. Head to the side, your mouth waters at the sight of it, long, cut, girthier than Clint, with precum already beading the top. You don't have to be told twice to suck it. Your lips wrap around it as he holds the base, feeding it to you. Clint slows down marginally, watching you start to suck off his friend.

Joel thrusts shallowly, going deeper when you start moaning. "Gonna bruise the back of your throat, honey."

"That's right, gag her," Clint adds. "She wants it. She's fuckin' dyin' for it."

You're drooling around Joel's cock, his balls hitting your chin as you're moaning around him, incoherent, gluttonous, insensate.

"Fucked her stupid," Clint sneers. "Time to give her what she wants.." He's panting as he takes hold of your thighs, hoisting them around his hips and slamming into you, the lewd sounds of your colliding flesh the most obscene and perfect thing you've ever heard.

"Your husband know he married such a slut?" Clint continues to taunt, breath growing heavy as he nears the edge. "Gonna show him when he gets home.." His hips stutter before he spills deep inside you, and as you moan your throat constricts around Joel, who pulls out before he can blow his load into your mouth.

You're vaguely aware of them switching places, and then you're put on your hands and knees. You don't care; you're not in control. Your body is simply a funfair, a ride to go on, and it's a kind of freedom in just letting them do what they want. They're still taking care of you, Joel rubbing his length against your still-sensitive clit, sliding in between your folds and between your ass cheeks before he notches at your entrance. You're soaking wet with your fluids and Clint's jizz, making the way easier for Joel to slide in, an appreciative sigh leaving his lips. Your moan is muffled by Clint's semi-hard dick probing your lips, your tongue coming out to swirl around the crown.

"She's so good," he moans, running his fingers through your hair. "She's makin' it all up to us for her sorry-ass husband's debt."

"Gotta come around more often, pay her a little visit when Dave's out," Joel says with a sneer, his large hands digging into your hips as he thrusts home, bottoming out as your cunt squelches wantonly.

"Suckin' me so good," Clint moans again. "Get a taste of yourself on my dick, darlin'. I bet your husband doesn't give you his dick often enough, that's why you're beggin' for it from us, huh?"

You moan as his tip touches the back of your throat and you gag. "Eyes on me," he tells you. "Lemme see those pretty eyes waterin' while it's chokin' my dick."

He's bruising your throat, your mouth stuffed with him as you practice breathing through your nose. Meanwhile Joel's balls deep in your cunt, watching himself slide in and out with ease. His thumb traces the puckered outline of your asshole. "Your man ever take you here? He ever claim this tight little hole?" He spits on your hole and eases his thumb in just enough to make you squeeze around him. "I bet Dave's never even touched it. Probably never even asked, has he?"

"He asked you a question," Clint says sharply, squeezing your jaw in his hand. "You better answer him."

"No," you answer them, swallowing more air after Clint removes his cock from your mouth. He slaps your cheeks with it before feeding it to you again. "Good girl," he praises softly, something like kindness in his eyes as he palms your tits, kneading them softly.

"Poor thing's been so unfulfilled. Her pussy's only gotten wetter the more we talk about her like the piece of meat she is." Joel's hand lands with a hard smack on your ass and you yelp.

"It's the only thing she's good for," Clint agrees, holding your head still while he fucks your mouth. Your moans turn to an endless, tuneless hum as Joel speeds up, sensing you're close to coming for him. "Fuck, she's tight. She's damn near gonna drain me."

"Fill 'er up, Joel. Get it in there nice and deep so she'll be leaking both of us for days."

Joel's face contorts, brow furrowed, teeth bared as he gets close, and right as you come he pulses within you, shooting his cream into you.

"Turn her over," Clint barks, and Joel takes just a moment more to keep the feeling of your sweet snatch around him before pulling out. A little semen dribbles from you and he stuffs it back in as he moves you onto your back.

"Pretty little white nightie," he sneers. "Gonna give you somethin' else white to wear."

Your nightdress still hiked up over your thighs and pulled down showing off your breasts, Clint stands between your legs and strokes himself. With a few pleasured grunts he comes, painting your mound and belly. You're panting, trying to come down from the summit of the strongest orgasm of your life as they spread your legs, lift your knees up to view the damage.

"Jesus, this pussy's ruined."

"She's gaping."

"Keep our cum inside you, baby, as long as you can. Let your man watch it drip out when he comes home."

You're too fucked out to say anything as the men take their leave, staring up at the ceiling fan, slowly circling in the early summer heat.

"Dave's not gonna like that," you hear one of them mutter.

"Fuck Dave. He should've paid up."

taglist: @itwasntimethatdidit40 @tateypots @thedilfdiaries @sunshinehaze1

and anyone else who reads this, I love you so much ❤️

[winxanity-ii]

BIG FAT MEANY

ship: stepbro!megumi x fem!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (p in v, fingering, dub-con); overbearing/possessive brother (aged up: reader and megumi are in early 20s) word count: 4.5k (lololo forgive me y'all got a bit carried away with the storybuilding 💀 promise this won't happen all the time jajaja ) A/N: Hey guys, just wanted to let you know that i'm reposting this from my alt account, lulu-4-u in case you've seen this posted before... ★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You weren't a hateful person. Not at all.

In fact, you were practically a ball of sunshine—inside and out.

You loved everything.

It was the simple things in life that made your heart flutter: the moon on a clear night, the smell of fresh rain, lazy afternoons spent with your friends from college, and, of course, your family.

Especially the love between your mom and stepdad, Toji.

He came into you and your mom's life at a time when things were pretty dark—your dad had been having an affair with his secretary, and your mom was left heartbroken. But then, when you were fifteen, Toji walked into the picture, and everything changed for the better.

Out of all the things you cherished, though, there was one thing—one person—you absolutely hated.

Your stepbrother, Fushiguro Megumi.

You hated how mean he was to you.

How he always managed to push your buttons.

How he treated you like a child, even though you were only a year younger than him.

And what you hated the most?

How pushy he got when things didn't go his way.

"Megumi, I said stop!" you whined, pushing at his annoyingly close chest.

Your mind could only race, trying to piece together exactly how you ended up in this predicament.

The night had started simply enough. It was a Friday—date night for your mom and Toji, which meant the house was practically dead.

Normally, you would've just stayed at your dorm, but tonight was different. Your dormmates had been all over you about some party happening on campus, trying to drag you along, but you weren't in the mood.

You'd barely been able to dodge their constant nagging, so instead of getting sucked into something you didn’t want to do, you decided to come home.

A weekend in your room sounded a lot better than getting roped into a night of drinking and chaos.

But instead of holing up and rotting away in your room, Megumi had caught you on your way upstairs. He'd asked—well, more like insisted—if you wanted to watch a movie with him.

It had been a little out of the ordinary, but you shrugged and went along with it, thinking it'd be a decent way to pass the time. And for a while, it had been fine. You both settled on the couch, watching the newest Scream movie.

Until now.

"Megumi, what's your problem? It's just Yuji..." you finally managed, voice small as you sat up properly on the couch, trying to put some distance between the two of you.

"My problem?" he repeated, scoffing like you'd just said something ridiculous. "My problem is you acting like you don't know what’s going on. That picture—he sent it to you for a reason. But you're sitting here like it’s no big deal."

Your brow furrowed, hurt blooming in your chest at what he was insinuating.

You hated it when Megumi got like this—sharp-tongued, confrontational, like everything you did somehow annoyed him.

And this time? It was all over a damn picture...

It wasn't even a big deal, honestly.

You and Yuji were just chatting as always when among the messages he sent a picture of himself fresh out of soccer practice.

You could vividly recall the boyish grin plastered across his face, eyes bright with his usual warmth.

But it wasn't just the smile that caught your attention.

His shirt, the one you knew had probably been soaked with sweat from practice, was pulled halfway up, wiping at his forehead. It casually exposed the lean muscles of his abdomen, glistening faintly from practice.

He hadn't done it on purpose—he probably didn't even think twice about sending it knowing him—but the way his body looked in the picture was enough to make your face burn upon seeing it.

But apparently, what wasn't a big deal to you, was to Megumi...

"Is he your boyfriend or something?" he demanded, glaring down at you. "Yuji, I mean. Is that why you're all flustered? Because he sent you some half-naked picture and now you’re freaking out like some lovesick idiot?"

"What are we, twelve?" you scoffed, crossing your arms and turning your body away from him, your tone sharp. "For your information, it's none of your business what Yuji is to me. We're in college, Megumi. I don't owe you any explanations."

You could feel the heat rise to your face again, but this time it wasn't just from the embarrassment. It was the fact that he felt like he had any right to badger you about this.

He wasn't your parent, your guardian—hell, he wasn't even a friend half the time with the way he acted.

"Why do you even care?" you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than to him. "You're always like this. Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

You didn't see the way his jaw clenched or how his gaze sharpened at your words. You were too focused on staring at the wall, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling in your chest.

You stood up abruptly, ready to head back to your room, away from his snappy attitude.

But just as you turned, a large hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your steps.

You froze, looking over your shoulder to see Megumi. He was staring up at you through his dark hair, head tilted slightly, a burning look in his eyes that made your heart race in a way you didn't like. His grip was firm but not painful—just enough to keep you there.

"Megumi, let go," you huffed, your lips pouting as your eyebrows furrowed in frustration. You gave a light tug on your arm, but his hand didn't budge.

He didn't say anything, just kept staring at you, his expression unreadable. That silence—his stubborn, infuriating silence—only made your frustration build.

Why did he have to be like this?

"I said let go!" you repeated, yanking on your arm harder this time, but his grip tightened. You felt a hot flash of anger rise in your chest.

"If you don't—" you started, your voice trembling with frustration, "I'm gonna tell Mom and Toji when they get home."

His eyes flickered for a second, and just as the words left your mouth, he scoffed, standing up in one smooth motion, his form towering over yours.

You could feel the heat of him, the intensity of his presence making you instinctively take a small step back.

"What?" he sneered, his voice low and mocking. "You're gonna tell them that you're whoring around?"

You gasped, your eyes going wide in shock, heart slamming in your chest. "What the hell, Megumi? Why would you—?" you started, but the words barely made it past your lips before he cut you off, stepping even closer, his voice quick and biting.

Megumi stepped even closer, his body towering over yours as he stared down at you through his dark lashes, his voice dropping into something almost mocking.

"Or are you gonna run to Toji?" he taunted, his lips curling into a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. "I bet you'd like that, huh? Telling him how mean I'm being to you... like some helpless little girl."

Your breath hitched, your back pressing against the wall as he closed the space between you, his presence overwhelming.

You felt cornered, heat rising to your cheeks in a way you couldn’t control. His words, the way he looked at you—it all left you speechless.

You hated that he had this effect on you, hated the way he made your pulse race, not just from anger but something deeper, something you couldn't quite place.

Megumi leaned in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or maybe you like it when I'm mean to you. Is that it? You're always whining, but you never tell them, do you? Why's that?"

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, your eyes darting off to the side to avoid the intensity of his gaze. "B-because," you stammered, voice barely above a whisper, your cheeks still burning hot.

"Because what?"

You swallowed hard, finally meeting his eyes, though the way he was looking down at you made your heart pound even harder. "Because… you're my big brother..."

As soon as the words left your mouth, you felt silly for even uttering them. You expected him to laugh, to scoff at you like he always did, but instead, his expression didn't change. If anything, something darker flickered in his eyes as he leaned even closer, his breath hot against your skin.

"Is that what you tell yourself?" he asked quietly, his voice low and almost dangerous. "That it's just because I'm your big brother?" He tilted his head slightly, still staring down at you, his eyes narrowing just a bit. "You sure that's it?"

You could feel the heat rushing to your face again, heart pounding painfully in your chest as you struggled to find words, any words, to push him away.

Your mind raced, and though you wanted to focus on the anger bubbling up, a different thought crept in, unwanted but undeniable.

Megumi was attractive.

Like, really, really attractive.

You hated to admit it, but standing there, inches from him, it was impossible to ignore. He towered over you, standing at least six feet tall, his broad shoulders filling out the plain black t-shirt he wore.

You could see the faint outline of his muscles beneath the fabric, the way his chest rose and fell with every breath, the strong line of his jaw clenched in irritation.

His dark hair fell over his forehead in that effortless way it always did, messy but somehow perfect, framing his sharp, intense features.

And those eyes—Gods, those eyes.

Even though they were currently glaring down at you with frustration, you couldn't deny the pull they had. Dark, stormy, and filled with an intensity that made it hard to hold his gaze for long.

They were the kind of eyes that could make anyone feel small, vulnerable, and you hated how they always managed to affect you.

Your breath hitched as you let yourself take him in for just a moment too long, your body betraying you with a sharp jolt of attraction. But no—no.

You weren't going to go there.

This was Megumi, your stepbrother, and as good as he looked, he was being a complete asshole right now.

You shook your head quickly, trying to rid yourself of the thought. Stop it. Stop thinking like that.

Clearing your throat, you took a deep breath and straightened up, attempting to put on your most serious face, even though your heart was still hammering in your chest.

"Look, 'Gumi," you began, your voice sounding steadier than you felt, using the nickname you had given him years ago. It rolled off your tongue easily, a little too familiar for the situation at hand, but you needed something to ground yourself. "I'm not sure what’s wrong. And I'm sorry if I did anything to make you upset, but you have got to stop this..."

You trailed off, knowing full well what the 'this' was. And deep down, Megumi knew too.

It wasn't just about Yuji, or any other guy, really. It was him.

It was how he acted—how he always got so weirdly possessive, so jealous, whenever another guy so much as talked to you.

You didn't even have to be interested in them; the mere mention of someone else was enough to set him off.

You'd seen it countless times. The sharp glares, the biting comments, the way his jaw would tighten at the mention of a boy's name.

It was always the same, this constant undercurrent of envy and jealousy that never made sense, and it wasn't just a protective brother thing.

No, it was something else.

Something darker.

Something you weren't ready to acknowledge.

Megumi's jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he was going to say something or maybe even do something.

You braced yourself, heart racing with both frustration and something you didn't want to name.

But instead, he let go of your wrist, taking a step back.

"Fine…" he muttered, his voice low and almost too calm. "You're right, and I'm sorry."

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. Megumi? Apologizing?

He never apologized to you, not like this. Usually, he'd just brush you off, act like whatever happened didn't matter or somehow turn it back on you. But now, here he was, actually acknowledging his behavior.

It felt strange, and you weren't quite sure how to respond.

"Uh, well, um, thank you…" you mumbled, still processing.

It didn't feel real, this sudden shift. But before you could dwell on it for too long, you turned to leave again, ready to retreat to the safety of your room where you could put distance between yourself and this confusing experience.

But just as you began to walk away, you felt it again—his hand, firm around your wrist.

He wasn't letting go.

"Where's my apology?" he asked, his tone unsettlingly calm.

"Huh?" you responded, confused by the sudden demand. Your brain barely had time to catch up with the words before Megumi yanked you forward, pulling you off balance.

You stumbled, instinctively putting your hands up to steady yourself, but you ended up falling into his chest instead. "Oof!"

Your hands pressed against the solid warmth of him, trying to create some space, but Megumi's arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

The heat from his body seeped into yours, making it impossible to ignore how solid and overwhelming he felt against you.

"Megumi—" you started, breathless, but the rest of your sentence was cut off as he brought his lips close to your ear, his voice soft and commanding.

"Shush…" he murmured, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Let's just finish the movie."

With that, he pulled you back down onto the couch next to him, his arm still wrapped around your waist, keeping you tethered to his side. You were practically sitting on his lap, his arm still holding you close, and your mind was spinning, trying to wrap itself around what was happening.

The movie played in the background, but you couldn't focus on anything except the heavy tension in the room and the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

As you tried to shift away, to put some space between you, Megumi's voice pierced through the room, low and deliberate. "You know," he began, his hand dropping lower, his fingers brushing the inner corner of your thigh. "I just realized something… we never got to bond." He emphasized the word by gripping your thigh, his touch firm and intentional.

Your breath hitched at the contact, and your mind blanked for a second, overwhelmed by how sudden and intense his presence felt. "I-I mean, we still can," you stuttered, trying to defuse the situation, trying to keep this from going wherever it was heading.

But the way Megumi's face pulled into a wicked smirk, the sharp gleam in his eyes, made your stomach drop. He leaned in closer, licking his lips as he watched your reaction, his grip tightening slightly on your leg.

The air around you felt thick, it was as if everything had narrowed down to just this—his gaze, his hands on you, the heat of his body so close to yours.

Before you could even think of moving again, Megumi's hand suddenly gripped your jaw, his fingers firm against your skin as he turned your face toward him.

His touch was possessive, controlling, and it sent a wave of something through you—part fear, part something darker that you didn't want to name.

"C'mon, look at me," he said, his voice a low murmur as he scooted even closer, towering over you now. He tilted your head back slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes, and even if you wanted to pull away, you couldn't.

His grip was too strong, too sure.

Megumi watched your reaction closely, his smirk growing as he tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "What's wrong? You don't wanna play with your big brother?" The way he said it, his voice dripping with a mock sweetness, sent shivers down your spine, and your heart pounded painfully in your chest.

"G-Gumi, the movie…" you stammered, trying to deflect, to push him away with your words, but it was no use.

You knew nothing good was going to come from this.

He just chuckled softly, his fingers gripping your jaw a little tighter as he leaned even closer, his breath hot against your skin. "Forget the movie," he muttered, his voice taking on that dangerous edge again.

Before you could react, Megumi grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them to your side with one hand.

You were startled by how effortlessly he did it—his arms didn't even bulge, as if it was nothing for him to hold you down like this. Your heart raced even faster, panic starting to creep in as you realized how strong he really was.

You tried to squirm, to pull away, but Megumi didn't budge. His grip on you was firm, almost casual, like he was barely putting in any effort to keep you trapped against him.

Megumi tutted at you, a soft noise that somehow felt condescending, as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "The movie's still there, silly," he hummed, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

You could feel him nosing along the contours of your neck, his presence overwhelming every one of your senses.

"Let's just play a game until the commercials are over, yeah?" he murmured, his voice low and teasing, as if this were all some harmless joke to him.

"A-A game?" you stuttered, your mind struggling to keep up with what was happening. Your body felt frozen in place, your instincts screaming at you to move, to get away, but the grip he had on your wrists, the way he held you down so effortlessly, made it impossible.

"Yeah…" he whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck. "Let's play… who can last the longest."

The words didn't even fully register before you felt the sudden force of him pushing you back against the sofa.

An involuntary "oomph" escaped your lips as your back hit the cushions, and your vision blurred for a second as you stared up at the ceiling, heart pounding in your ears.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Megumi was hovering above you, his body blocking out everything else. His dark eyes raked over your face, taking in every flicker of emotion you couldn't hide, every sign of the fear and confusion coursing through you.

He didn't move, not yet, but the weight of his gaze pinned you in place as effectively as his body did.

There was something in his expression—an intensity that made your chest tighten, made it hard to breathe, and you couldn't help but feel like you were already losing whatever game this was.

Megumi let out a deep chuckle, the sound reverberating in your chest, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry," he murmured, his tongue flicking out to lick the curve of your ear, making you shiver. "I'll go easy on you… for now."

"Megumi—" you started, your cry cut off as his hand cupped your jaw, and he slammed his lips onto yours, his movements forceful and possessive.

Heat shot through your body, shivers running down your spine as his tongue invaded your mouth like a man starving. It was overwhelming, the way he kissed you—demanding, fierce, leaving no room for resistance.

You whimpered against his mouth, the noise muffled by the way his lips devoured yours. His hands wandered along your body, gripping, grabbing, squeezing any part of you he could find.

The pressure of his touch was firm, almost bruising, and with every place his hands explored, your body responded with an involuntary jolt of heat.

Your breath hitched as he hooked his hands under your legs, pulling them up and around his waist, his hips jolting forward into yours. The movement sent a rush of sensation through you.

You managed to tear your lips from his, gasping for air as your chest heaved. "M-Megumi, stop…" you whined, your voice trembling, your head falling back as you tried to make sense of what was happening, what he was doing to you.

He didn't stop. Instead, he groaned low in his throat, his lips finding your neck. He licked and bit along the sensitive skin there, the rough scrape of his teeth making you shiver even as you tried to push the sensation away.

Your mind was at war with itself—one part of you frothing, screaming, fight him, get him away, the panic clawing at your chest.

But the other side—the darker part, the one that you didn’t want to admit was there—was keening, practically begging for more of his attention, for more of this twisted game.

And Megumi, as if sensing the battle raging inside of you, just smiled against your skin, biting down a little harder, leaving a mark you knew wouldn't fade anytime soon.

Megumi pulled back slightly, making a deliberate show of licking his lips as he panted above you, his eyes dark and focused. "C'mon, lil sis," he murmured, rocking his hips into yours in a slow, rough rhythm that made your breath catch in your throat. "The game can't start until you're ready."

Your body betrayed you as you watched him put a hand between your bodies, his fingers easily slipping into the confines of your sleeping shorts. "Ohhh, looks like you really wanna play, huh?" he taunted, his voice laced with smugness as his fingers rubbed up and down your wet slit.

A wave of shame washed over you, your thighs twitching with the instinct to close, to shut them and stop what was happening, but his frame kept them wide open.

You couldn't escape the heat pooling low in your stomach, no matter how hard you tried to fight it. A choked whine left your mouth, your back arching involuntarily when he slipped a finger inside.

Megumi let out a groan, low and rumbling, as if he was savoring the sensation. "Damn…" he muttered under his breath, cursing softly as he felt your walls constrict around his finger. His thumb brushed over your clit, making your whole body jerk, and when he added a second finger, the fight in you began to crumble.

His fingers were relentless, rubbing and probing with a skill that left you breathless. Your legs, which had tried to resist, opened wider for him, your body moving of its own accord.

Megumi hummed in approval, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he muttered, "Good girl." The words sent a rush of conflicting emotions through you—humiliation, desire, confusion—but you couldn't stop the way your body responded to him.

And before you knew it, you came. Babbled whimpers fell from your lips as the coil within you snapped, your body shaking with the force of it.

By the time you came down from the high, Megumi had already pulled back, sitting on his haunches as he dropped your legs.

You curled your legs up to your body, watching as he began to untie his drawstring sweats, his eyes still locked on you with that same wicked smirk.

You looked away just as you caught a glimpse of the dark trail of hair peeking out from his waistband, heart pounding in your chest.

At this point, you had accepted what was about to happen, and your mind raced as you braced yourself.

Megumi crawled back over you, his hands tugging at your shorts, and you barely registered the feeling as he discarded them over his shoulder. One of your legs was pulled back around his waist, the heat of his skin pressing against yours.

His body hovered over yours, and you felt him nudge your entrance with the tip of his dick, sliding it up and down along your slit.

A shiver ran through you as you struggled to keep your thoughts clear, but it was impossible under the weight of him, both physically and mentally.

"Fuck," he groaned to himself, eyes locked on where your bodies were beginning to connect.

Your breathing grew shallow, your heart racing uncontrollably, knowing that whatever came next, there was no turning back.

Megumi filled you in one swift movement, stealing your breath away. You cried out, the sound a mix of pleasure and pain echoing through the room. His groan was long and guttural, reverberating in the space between you.

Megumi's rhythm was steady, each thrust sending a jolt of shock of pleasure through your body.

It felt surreal—part of you couldn't believe you were letting this happen, but the undeniable pleasure clouded every coherent thought.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, the intensity of it all overwhelming your senses.

"That's right," Megumi grunted, his breath hot against your ear. "Take all of me."

You couldn't form words, your mind spinning, too overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you.

Instead, all you could do was moan and whimper, your body moving with his, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. His hand snaked up to your throat, gripping lightly as he maintained a relentless pace.

"You like that, don't you? You like the way big brother fucks you?" he growled, his voice harsh and demanding, his thrusts becoming even more intense.

Your mind reeled, unable to speak, only nodding frantically in response as the pleasure built inside you. You could feel the pressure mounting, an orgasm threatening to wash over you as your body tensed beneath him.

Megumi seemed to notice, his hands hiking your legs up higher, deepening the angle, each movement more brutal and precise than the last.

You lay there, body writhing beneath his as he fucked you like a ragdoll, and a dark part of you couldn't help but thrill in the way he took control. His voice filled your ear with praise, breathless murmurs of "you're doing so good for me," and other words that barely registered through the haze, as if he were drunk off the feeling of you clamped around him.

Soon, his tempo shifted, becoming erratic, his grip on your hips tightening as his low moans became uncontrollable.

The intensity built until you felt warmth spreading inside you, the realization hitting you that he was coming, his release flooding your senses.

The throbbing between you two blurred together, until yours faded, and you could still feel him twitching, even as everything else calmed.

Eventually, he slowed, both of you panting, the room thick with the aftermath. You winced when he finally pulled out, a shiver running through you as you felt the hot liquid seeping out.

Megumi stood to grab cleaning supplies, gently wiping you off, his touch softer now, though still lingering in the tension of what had just occurred.

And as you lay there, watching him, all you could think was, What the fuck just happened?

[fanaticsnail]

Dreaming of You

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 890+, 800+, 950+, 950+

Synopsis: They couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in their dreams. The way they had you wrapped around their body as a marionette in their minds, dancing for them as they awoke to sticky blankets when they jolted upright. Their thoughts got the better of them, and they are wracked with guilt. Ace, Sabo, Luffy

Warnings: wet dreams, afab!reader, swearing, oral (character receiving), masturbation, dub con (using your image to masturbate to), suggestive content, feelings, all individual 'x reader' drabbles, same reader!insert different outcome, (mention of breeding kink in Sabo's - light), NSFW, 18+, MDNI, smut.

Notes: first time writing for Sabo and Ace to get a sense of their flavours before writing them individual fics. Series Link for Dreaming of You here. Shout out to @avogigi for keeping me company and giving me brain rot for Sabo.

Hands grabbing fistfuls of your ass, he held you completely locked against his face while his tongue greedily lapped at your glistening cunt. His head bobbed and weaved, shoulders bullying their way between your legs as you stood above his seated form on the cool floor. With one arm braced against the wall in front of you, the other attempted to push his head further into you. 

“Ah, ah-!” he softly chastised you, withdrawing one of his hands from your ass and swatting your hand away from pawing at him. Laughing against your skin, he multitasked his motions by mouthing at your pussy while withdrawing his hat from his head and letting his hair shake free. Pulling away just enough to gaze cheekily into your eyes, he offered the hat out to you.

“If you wanna grab onto my hair so bad,” he thrust the hat into your hand before slowly inching his smile towards your pussy, “Better keep that warm for me and do it properly.” Before he dove back into greedily consuming your pleasure and coaxing your orgasm from you, his voice grew dark and possessive: his order coming out as a curt bark while his eyes darted between yours.

“Put it on.” 

Your hands hurriedly placed the hat on your own head just as his lips and tongue slipped between each fold and carded from your slit to your clit. Lazily lulling his tongue from his lips, he clawed at your ass with his blunt fingernails to physically grind you against his face. 

Humming at the sensation of your walls fluttering around him, he drew his right forearm up to cage your hips in while his left hand traced down the contours of his abs towards his aching cock. Rocking your hips over his mouth while he pumped his cock had his breath fall from his lips in gruff whimpers. 

He was a needy puppy, desperate to devour your ecstasy while playing with the edge of his own. As your slick messily dripped onto his face and your walls began to contract around his tongue, he chuckled against your body.

“That’s it, baby. Cum in my mouth,” he huskily growled up at you, throwing his head back into your hand, “Ride my face. Pull my hair harder. C’mon now, you can go way harder than that.” His eyes roll back when he feels your fingertips grind against his skull, gripping on tight and rolling your hips against his mouth. Your voice sounds like a sweet melody singing a song only for him. 

That wave of possessiveness twinkles in his eyes as he sees your brow contort and scrunch as you hit that peak and crest over the cliff he’s throwing you from. Humming up at you, his voice vibrates his tongue as he fucks it into your fluttering walls. His fist lazily pumps his cock with his fist while you use him to ride down that high.

“There you go,” he praised you, softly cooing your name up at you while you whimpered from the aftershocks of your high, “Good job. So fuckin' sexy using me like that. Now-.” He hastily pushed you from his face and rose to his feet, his cock achingly hard as he quickly circled his body behind yours. He gave you little time to shake off the sensitivity of your orgasm before you felt his fat tip push its way into your slit down to the hilt. He heard you gasp at the hasty thrust, prompting a greedy smile to inch its way onto his face.

“My turn,” his voice rumbled with his hissed whisper as he withdrew his cock all the way to the tip before puncturing your body with its girth. Your head fell back onto his shoulder, his lips attached to your neck as he bites your muscle to anchor himself to the earth while he hastily chases a path to the heavens. 

Hips slapping harshly in a rapid flurry, your pussy welcomes him with each cruel drag of his cock in your walls. Your prior release is so slick against his cock, he almost wants to cry. His head swirls as he feels himself draw nearer and nearer to his own edge. 

“Fuck, you’re s-so fucking wet,” he muffled against your skin, flicking his tongue out to taste the sheen of sweat he’d been drawing out from you, “I’m close. I’m so fucking close.” As his eyes scrunch tightly shut, panting against your body while his hips become more staggered in their vicious clapping, “Where you want me to cum-...? Where can I-?”

Upon opening his eyes, your body was gone. The warmth from your skin, a distant memory as his cock desperately twitched beneath his heavy blankets. Hastily throwing back the sheets, his cockhead bobbed and shook as hot ropes of his release shot out all over his stomach, shaft, balls, and thighs. 

“Nghh, shit-?!” he whimpered, eyes wide as he glared at his cock. He couldn’t help the little bucks of his hips up into the air while he rode through his untouched high. Soft gasps, choked groans, and muffled huffs of breath poured over his lips and shot quietly out into dark bedroom while he rouse fully from his rest. 

Covered in his own mess, his prior expression of bliss fell into a low frown while he came to terms about what just occurred. He just came untouched, while dreaming elicit thoughts about you and him together. 

“Damn it.” 

Ace

Fingertips caressed his scalp while the fire-first exhaled a jaunty laugh. He was appalled he had used your image as his own personal fantasy, his release still coating his skin in a glistening array of spend over his abdomen. Looking down at the sticky release, he let out a soft, audible groan as he attempted not to wake his comrades. 

Quickly looking to the side, he notices a few members of Whitebeard’s crew still breathing heavily in the midst of their slumber. The slow inhale and exhale of their breath put Ace at ease while he articulated a plan to rid himself of his lustful display coating his skin. Reaching for a soiled shirt he neglected to wear for the day, his bashful smile remained drawn up over his features. 

You were in his dreams, occupying his thoughts, and corrupting his slumber again. He was praising whichever of the old gods were listening that his slumber was corrupted beneath the security of his own cabin this time. Waking up with his seed painting his pants in public was not something he looked forward to on the regular. And regular visits within his falsified memory, you enacted with gusto.

Having met only a fistful of times in person, he was floored by how his dreams seemed to get a hold of him and run wild each time he closed his eyes. Seeing your image float beneath the shroud of darkness had him shaking his head and softening his laughter to soft waves of humor. 

He was a man smitten by his younger brother’s crew member. The way your grin shot at him the first time you’d met held him hostage. Attempting to play it off, all he ever did was behave like a gentleman: his politeness and well articulated manners had you appreciate the softness of him all the sooner.

If you’d only known how desperately he needed you. 

He wanted you so badly, his thoughts betrayed him on the regular. He would often wake to see the sticky remains of your spectral slumber-visitations the moment he awoke: your smile haunting him in a way his soul would sing for. He would yearn in silence, adoring you from afar while you kept his baby brother safe. 

Although Luffy was a grown man, your captain no less, Ace still appreciated the way you would swarm to protect him at the most minor inconvenience. It was your loyalty that did him in. How much did you truly love his adoptive brother that you would follow him to whichever foe his stomach would lead him to face. He loved the way you would follow him, loved the way you would laugh jovially, and love-… love-…

He loved you. 

Everything that was you, Ace held locked in his heart. Your smile, your eyes, your heart: all away in the softest corner of his beating organ swarming his chest with heated love. While his cock appreciated how attractive he found you, his heart held you in earnest. He loved you through and through. His deepest fantasies now only solidifying that fact. 

He was deeply, hopelessly, and wholeheartedly in love with you. 

Tossing his shirt aside, Ace cradled his head with his palms behind his neck. Humming with a whimsical smile painted on his features, he shut his eyes and softly whispered your name. 

“I will see you again,” he confessed, forging a covenant within his heart and writing a quest on his soul, “I will open my heart and let you love me, if you’re willing. I want-... I need you to love me.” He uttered, rolling onto his side and cradling his chest with his arms. 

“I need you to love me. Please.” 

Holding his body closer, he gazed at his sleeping den-den-mushi, contemplating whether it was worth the disruption of your own sleep to confess his adoration towards you. He was a Whitebeard, you were a Straw-Hat. He was loyal to Edward Newgate, you were loyal to his younger brother. His infatuation was never meant to be: two pirates allied, but both ships anchored to differing ports. 

Sighing out a heavy breath, he shook his head and clutched his freckled cheeks with the palm and four fingers of his right hand. Contemplative was the expression that homed itself on his face, picturing what a relationship could look like with you on an allied vessel. His thoughts of love would have to remain in his dreams: never wishing to burden you, or pull you away from your ties to where your allegiances found themselves. 

He couldn’t do that to you. 

Not you.

His brother’s crewmate deserved more than that. You deserved more than that. More than him.

Closing his eyes, he found solace in the way you would welcome him into your arms within the call of slumber. He was smitten, enjoying the dance you would perform for him as his entertainer within falsified memory. He loved you wholeheartedly, but would never dream to tear you from the ties you had forged with Luffy as your captain. 

For now, he could only dream of you. 

Sabo

Hastily throwing his duvet off the rest of the way, he turned on his side and anchored his bodyweight against his elbow while he grasped at a cluster of tissues. Scrunching them tight, he drew them down to his body and began swiping at his skin. Several fragments of the white paper remained on his flesh while he attempted to clean up the carnage left behind from his dreams. 

“Sabo, m’close,” he heard your spectral whine keen for him. He growled at the image, continuing to pat his sticky skin free from his release. He clicked his tongue as he came to terms with the fact that he was doing more harm than good with his tissues, hastily standing to his feet and briskly walking to his ensuit bathroom. 

At the revolutionary base, he was blessed enough to have the privacy of his own quarters to bathe within. He doesn’t enjoy bathing at the most of times: his devil-fruit making him feel weak and pathetic as opposed to relaxed and tranquil. 

He was feeling weak and pathetic now, even before his body met with the rapidly filling running water in the large bathtub.

You were a part of Luffy’s crew. A 'Straw-Hat’. He had only met you a handful of times, and you were always sweet with him. Your soft voice, cheeky grin, eyes that seemed to find his and twitch in glee. He loved the way they would sparkle, those domed orbs mirroring his streak of chaos and had him want to take you into his arms and carry you back to the base with him.

Stepping into the water, he sighed out at the warmth: attempting to scorch his thoughts from his mind with the tranquility within the still waves. He drew his hands down to his stomach and swiped at it, removing the glubs of paper and cum from his skin with the heels of each palm. 

“Sabo, please. Please, Sabo. I need you,” he heard your voice echo in his mind and shift throughout his body. His lengthy digits had a mind of their own, grasping his half-hard shaft and beginning to pump at his submerged cock. His eyes scrunched themselves shut as he attempted to stifle the thought of you while his quickly re-stiffening cock fanned the flames.

“Flame emperor, please let me take your cock? Fill me up with it?” his hands quickened their reaction and his eyes flew open. That title, his title, falling from your illusionary lips and growing his desire for you more. Without much warning, Sabo hastily turned in the bath: water sloshing from the sides while he clasped the porcelain edge of the tub. 

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” he growled in a low tone, his brow furrowing while he chased that image of you clutching the wall, “You want me to fuck you like an animal. Let me guess, breed you?” He could barely get the words out, falling hard into the fantasy he had crafted in his mind of your body. 

His cock twitched violently, each vein throbbing while his shaft pulsed with desire. His breaths came out in choked pants and gruff huffs, quickly giving way to wanton moans that rolled into whines. His imagination ran with him, positions of you quickly changing to see you on your back with your legs pressed up into your chest. His eyes rolled back in his skull as he pictured the soft squeaks you would make while he viciously pounded your pussy with every in-thrust. 

And then he switched again, removing himself completely from the equation. He wanted to watch you squirt. He wanted to have his gloved middle and unity fingers buried to the knuckle while your wrists were tied to your ankles. He wanted to watch you squirm around his hand, trying to escape the umpteenth orgasm he’d been ripping from your body. 

He wanted to have your chin raised by his dragon-claw cane, while your lips were gagged with his other glove. He wanted to feel you squirt and fuck you through your orgasm with his hands; your clit caressed by the pad of his clothed thumb. He wanted to watch as you succumbed to the insanity he was pulling from your body with a keening scream of his name pouring from your lips-. 

“-Fuck! I’m cumming-...! H-hah, sh-shit-!” he rode his hand, the water splashing in heavy waves over the edge while he released his spend into the bath water. He sobbed your name, whimpering as he sucked his lip into his mouth. 

All he could see through his scrunched vision and darkened thoughts was the way you would grip onto him and trust him to claim you completely. To fill you with his cum, to watch as you slipped off that edge and tumbled into his awaiting arms. Rope after rope of his unraveling release spurted into the water as he rode his high. His blonde locks dance while dripping with water from the bath, his pants coming out as cries for you and you alone. 

“Fuck-! Baby, please. I need you,” he whispered as he came down from his high, feeling dirtier  now than when he first stepped into the warmth of the bath water. His physical recoil from his release had him forlorn, his brow furrowing further as he rode through the afterwaves of his bliss. 

“Shit, I do need you,” he confessed to himself. He hastily shook off his high and fled from the soiled waters: releasing the plug and watching it swirl through the drain. Taking a deep inhale through his nose, he exhaled his promise through his lips without breathing the words to light. 

He will see you again.

He will confess his desires for you.

He will make you his. 

Luffy

Immediately jolting from his bed, his brows furrowed low as he slotted his legs into each leg-hole of his denim pants. Hoisting it up over his deflating cock, he narrowed his vision by deeply scowling.

Why were you in his thoughts? Why did you ask him to defile you like that? Why did you want him to hold you close and fuck you so viciously? 

And why did he want to? 

Tugging up his waistband, he shrugged on his red vest and began to briskly walk to where he knew you were aboard his ship. Designating you as his watch shift for tonight had you positioned within the crows nest and looking out over the horizon while the rest of the crew slumbered. Reaching the woven footfalls of the rope-ladder had Luffy immediately scurry up to confront you. 

As soon as he hoisted his way up over the last barricade, his deep frown softened into a warm smile. Gently scrunching his nose, he hooked his heel into the last loop and pulled himself over the railing to slip quietly beside you.

Nestled warmly beneath your blankets, you stared at the rippling ocean and stood alert at each uncharted wave rippling in an unsoundly manner. Holding your gaze firm on the moon shining on the waves had you jolt upright the moment your captain unceremoniously plopped himself down beside you. 

“Captain-!” you squealed in surprise, gently moving to a seated-fighting position by thrusting your hands up to your chest before the familiarity of your boss removed thoughts of violence from your mind. Your shock turned into glee at his presence by your side, a subtle shift that didn’t escape your captain’s notice.

“Didn’t mean to shock you,” he chuckled with a soft wink, moving his body closer to yours with a gentle pull. Softening his cheery smile, his eyes dragged over your face and marveled at the way you looked within the night air. “Hi.” 

“Hi back, Captain,” you offered him with a slight giggle in your tone, “What brings you out tonight? Shouldn’t you be sleeping or raiding Sanji’s pantry?” He couldn’t help but laugh along with your playfulness, gently nudging his shoulder with your own before resting his cheek on your covered flesh.

“I actually came out to see you,” he admitted without remorse, defeat, or malicious intent, “I had a dream about you and wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

You stiffened beneath the weight of his confession before shifting to make yourself comfortable with his head tucked safely within your shoulder. Glancing out from the corner of your eye, you notice the way Luffy’s eyes fluttered closed while he tucked himself into your embrace. He seemed out of sorts: his actions feeling far more clingy and desperate than his usual demeanor. 

“Nightmares, Cap?” you asked him, gently opening the flap of the duvet and inviting him within your solace, “Some rough dreams on quiet waters?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” he offers, eagerly accepting your embrace by hooking his shoulders beneath your arms, “I was just thinkin’ about you, s’all. Like I said: wanted to make sure you were okay.” His arms eagerly found themselves coiling around your waist, tugging you into himself and nestling closer. 

Gently chuckling at his motions, you shrouded his shoulders beneath the cloak of your heavy blankets, nestling him into your skin and holding you within your solidified embrace. Tucking his head beneath your cheek, you softly whispered against his temple.

“You just rest, Cap,” you spoke calmly and lovingly against his skin, cooing down at his nestled form within your arms, “I’ll be right here when you wake up, alright? Just sleep.” He nuzzled against your warmth, holding himself against you and scrunching his eyes tightly shut,

His lips moved, his words muffled and incoherent as his eyes fell half-lidded. His arms felt possessive around you, holding you firmly as if you would dissipate into smoke at the earliest convenience. You could’ve sworn his lips puckered and pressed against your skin, caressing you with his mouth in a sweet kiss as he drifted off into slumber. The softest whisper tumbling over his lips and going unmissed by your ears as you peered out to the open ocean.

“I’ll see you in my dreams,” he confessed lazily, his heart on his sleeve as he slowly slipped within the depths of calming slumber. His breathing tapered out as he focussed on the easy beat of your heart, prompting his own to beat within the same tempo. 

As his breath grew heavy and laboured, you readjusted him to lie in a more comfortable position on his lap, slowly caressing the crown of his head by carding your fingers through his curled locks.

“Rest well, my captain,” you sighed down onto him, ignoring the way your heart skipped a beat at the possessive undertones your profession indicated. He was your captain, a captain you knew as yours and your only one. You would lay down your life for the opportunity to do him proud: winning battles, foraging for food, and hunting beasts for a moment of his attention. He was your captain, and you were his crew. 

But the lingering emotions flooding your hearts with the warmth of infatuation had you both believe you could be more than just that. For now, contentment found you. Luffy’s breathing expanded out as his peace prompted you to guard him as you found your own. The night watch was uneventful: the giddiness of the morning to follow your captain’s sleep buzzed your senses and held you awake overnight. 

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

[lvmimis]

“You know, your heartbeat isn’t all that different.”

As you look up at Luffy from your vantage point, your left palm resting on his chest as you turn your ear away from where you were listening carefully, he looks at you quizzically. Your smile is wide as you gaze at him, then you pat his chest gently.

“Why would it be different? I’m just laying here.”

He’s right about this, the two of you have turned in for the night and are just about to sleep, but every so often in these serene moments, you’ve sometimes wondered if you’d ever be able to catch a glimpse of something different in his pulse ever since the events that played out at Wano.

He has a heart that has stopped, started, experienced all sorts of arrhythmias… you have heard that in some ancient medical traditions, a thousand conditions could be gleaned from just close attention to the steady (or not so steady) rhythmic thump of someone’s heart, that you could learn so much about someone from every beat -

And yet, Luffy sounds regular, steady, just like he’s always been, which isn’t particularly upsetting nor is it exciting. 

However, the familiarity of it does put you at ease naturally. You press your ear against him again to listen and inhale slowly, then exhale, consolidating all your senses into just one.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

“Do you want to know what it sounds like when I transform?” Luffy asks. His palm comes to a rest on the top of your head, a soft caress of your hair accompanying the question. His voice is lower, quieter than usual, perhaps because he’s already sleepy since it is the middle of the night and he’s starting to wind down from the day.

“No, not now. I just…” your voice trails off as you close your eyes.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Trillions and trillions of people have heartbeats just like this. But this one, his heartbeat, is the one you might cherish the most.

You’re entranced, pulling closer to him as you relish in this sound that reminds you that he’s here with you, always, connected. With two free fingers, you feel your own pulse in your neck. 

Not the exact same rate - yours a little faster, a little fainter, but you’re both still here. Together.

“Are you okay?”

Your mind naturally runs a mile a minute, a train of thought often too fast for him to catch up to before he decides to give up on trying to match it and decides to wrangle it into comprehension. An arm curls over your waist and he shifts easily until he’s atop you in bed. He’s careful to be light on your body as he supports his weight while he looks deeply into your eyes.

“What are you thinking?” Luffy asks, finally. Deep brown eyes run over your body; you’ve already had sex tonight - he could very easily indulge in more but rest is a good idea too sometimes, he figures.

Your arms wrap loosely around his neck.

“That I’m happy your heart is always beating.”

His eyebrows knit in confusion for a moment, but then just as quickly he eases into a smile and dips low to kiss you on the forehead, before letting just a little bit more of his weight rest onto you. His warmth and pressure is just as comforting as the sound of blood coursing through his body, as his indomitable spirit.

“I’m happy about that too. And yours, of course,” he says, cheerfully. 

“I love you, Luffy. Your heart better never stop beating,” you declare.

He laughs, letting his face bury into your neck as he nips at it, kisses sleepier and sloppier over time. His chest presses against yours and you feel it again, every beat after beat.

“If yours keeps beating, mine will too. They’re talking to each other, like best friends,” he teases.

His hands run the length of your arms, searching for your fingers; you slip your fingers in between his naturally.

“Like lovers,” you correct him in a teasing voice.

“Like lovers,” he repeats affectionately. His eyelids lower languidly, and he murmurs the words, “I love you.”

He’s dozing off, his heartbeat slowing against your body. Your body clings naturally around him even as he slips carefully to the side so he doesn’t suffocate you. 

“Love you,” he repeats again, drowsy. You press your head against his chest again, to let that steady heartbeat, one amongst trillions, but a sound so terribly precious to you, lull you to sleep.

[mandoalorian]

crimson fever [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: In the icy shadows of 1944 occupied Europe, you uncover a dangerous Hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. But Hydra’s ruthless scientist, Arnim Zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. As you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with Sergeant Bucky Barnes, your childhood friend from Brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, sex pollen that comes with themes of dub-con, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism sorta, reader is drugged via injectables, descriptions of pain, canon typical violence, torture, one use of Y/N, Winter Soldier foreshadowing.

Word Count: 6700

Author's note: Thank you to @notreallythatlost for helping me with all the German translations. I love youuu. ღ

ᯓ★ Masterlist

✮ PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER ✮

Objective: Develop a serum enhancing physical strength, endurance, and healing, surpassing the Allied “Super Soldier” serum used on Captain America. The serum is paired with psychological conditioning.

Methods: Subjects— prisoners, captured soldiers, “recruited” operatives undergo experimental injections and brutal brainwashing techniques including sensory deprivation, electroshock, and chemical inducements to break their minds.

Timeline: Initial trials are active in an underground facility, in occupied France. Production to be scaled by 1945. Report to Johann Schmidt.

Der Winter Soldier wird die Zukunft von Hydra sein. (The Winter Soldier will be Hydra’s future.)

You hunched over the decrypted Hydra message, your eyes burning from hours of work, fingers smudged with pencil lead. The office buzzed with quiet urgency—typewriters clacked, a radio hissed static, and your fellow codebreakers murmured over their own stacks of intercepts. You’d been at it since dawn, unraveling Hydra’s coded transmissions, each one a puzzle that could save lives or lose them. Your role as a linguist, fluent in German and trained in cryptography, made you vital to the Allies, but tonight, the weight of what you’d uncovered felt like a stone in your chest.

“Carter, you need to see this,” you called, your voice sharp, cutting through the room’s hum. You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping the floor, and held up the decrypted page, its typed German translated into your neat handwriting. Your heart raced, the words searing your mind: Projekt Winter Soldier.

Peggy Carter, poised in her tailored ATS uniform, strode over, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her dark eyes flicked to the paper, then to you, sharp and assessing. “What’ve you got?” she asked, voice crisp but laced with concern.

You swallowed, pointing to the key lines. “It’s Hydra. Something called ‘Project Winter Soldier.’ They’re experimenting—on people, not just weapons. It mentions a serum, like what they used on Captain Rogers, but… different. They want to create operatives with no will, no memory. ‘Perfect obedience,’ they call it.” Your voice trembled, and you tapped a name scrawled at the bottom. “Signed by Arnim Zola. He’s running it.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss—burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich—research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you. 

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out. 

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about. 

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap. 

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure. 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement. 

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you. 

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate. 

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up. 

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding. 

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.” 

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance. 

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more. 

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small. 

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I’ll be there.” 

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope. 

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[gxhana]

Malfunction (Optimus Prime X Human!Fem Reader)

Summary: A strange Cybertronian signal infiltrates Optimus’s systems, overriding his usual restraint and amplifying his sensory responses. Every sound, every touch, every thought of you sends unbearable waves of pleasure through his frame. He resists at first—but when you touch him, even accidentally, his control snaps.

Warnings: AI corruption, Size Difference, smut, curse words, transformer x human sex, rough sex, rough oral sex (female receiving), overstimulation, brutal thrusting, breeding, full penetration, degradation, forced stretching, desperate Optimus, slight dub con, dirty talk

The strange Cybertronian signal has been affecting Optimus all day, his body tense, his voice thick with static-laced restraint. You notice the way his optics flicker whenever you get too close, the way his massive hands flex as if he’s holding himself back.

"Something… is wrong," he finally confesses, voice strained. "Every sensation is… amplified. You—" His optics darken, tracking the way you shift under his intense gaze. "I cannot focus when you are near."

And then, you make a mistake.

You touch him.

The instant your fingers graze his heated plating, a deep growl erupts from his chassis. His entire frame shudders, and his massive hands shoot out, grabbing you, caging you against him. His optics burn into you, his vents cycling erratically.

"You shouldn’t have done that." His voice is low, almost dangerous, thick with something primal.

Before you can react, he’s lifting you—effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing—pressing you against the cool metal wall of the Autobot base. The size difference is staggering; his body dwarfs yours completely, his massive frame surrounding you, pressing you down, trapping you in his overwhelming presence.

"I can’t stop," he groans, his servo sliding under your clothes, fingers dragging roughly over your bare skin. His touch is hot, desperate, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. "I need to taste you."

He doesn’t wait for permission.

You gasp as he lowers you, his enormous frame sinking down, positioning you exactly where he wants you. His optics flicker, scanning you with predatory intent as he spreads you open, his thick digits gripping your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

His glossa (Cybertronian tongue) is bigger than it should be, hot and flexible, pressing against your aching heat in long, devastating strokes. The size difference makes everything overwhelming—his sheer power, the way he holds you in place, how easily he could devour you whole if he wanted to.

"So small… so fragile… and yet you take it so well," he groans, voice vibrating through your core.

His grip tightens, his massive hands keeping you spread open as he ravages you, his pace rough, insatiable. His deep growls send shockwaves through your body, his mouth working you open with relentless precision.

He’s too big, too strong, too much, and yet you can’t stop screaming his name.

He doesn’t stop when you come. He doesn’t even slow down. If anything, the taste of you only makes him hungrier. His deep, reverberating purr vibrates through you as he buries his face deeper between your thighs, dragging another orgasm out of you before you’ve even recovered from the first.

"Again," he commands, voice dark and wrecked with need. "You’re not done yet."

Your overstimulated whimpers only make him more desperate, his grip tightening as he devours you, utterly addicted to the sounds you make, to the way you break under his touch.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, your body wrecked from the intensity of his mouth. But Optimus isn’t done. Not even close.

His massive fingers stroke over your slick thighs, spreading you wider, his optics dark with hunger. His vents stutter as he towers over you once again, his sheer size pressing down on you.

"That was only the beginning," he growls, his massive form caging you against the wall. "Now… let’s see how much more you can take."

The sheer heat of him makes you shudder. His panel shifts with a mechanical hiss, and fuck, he’s huge. Thick, ridged plating lined with Cybertronian biolights, far too big for a human body—yet he’s determined to make you take it anyway.

"You’re going to stretch for me," he rasps, pressing the tip against your slick entrance, the difference in size making you whimper. "It’s going to hurt, little one… but you’ll take it."

He doesn’t ease in. He forces his way inside.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as his massive shaft pushes in, spreading you wider than should be possible. The stretch is unbearable, your body resisting, but Optimus doesn’t stop. His grip on your hips tightens, pinning you down as he forces every thick inch inside.

"Look at you," he groans, voice laced with raw lust. "So fucking small, struggling to take my cock."

You claw at his plating, nails scratching uselessly against the metal, but he only laughs, a deep, dark sound vibrating through you.

"Hurts, doesn’t it?" he mocks, thrusting another inch inside, making you scream. "You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to be fucking ruined by me."

The stretch is unbearable, your body too tight, but the pleasure is just as overwhelming. He’s grinding against nerves you didn’t even know existed, forcing your body to adjust to his impossible size.

"Pathetic little human," he growls, voice thick with static-laced pleasure. "Crying like you can’t take it— but look at you. You’re dripping all over my cock, sucking me in like a desperate little whore."

Your mind is spinning, your body overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being filled so completely. Every slow, brutal thrust forces another choked gasp from your lips.

And then—he starts moving for real.

Optimus doesn’t hold back. Once he’s inside, once he feels the way you squeeze around him, something snaps.

"I’m done being gentle."

His grip tightens, and then he slams into you.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, your body jerking against the wall as he drives his cock in deep, his sheer strength keeping you pinned. The brutal stretch is too much, your mind dissolving into raw pleasure as he pounds into you with reckless force.

"Fucking take it," he snarls, thrusting harder, his metal body unyielding, slamming you into the wall with every brutal snap of his hips. "You’re mine. Made to take my cock. Nothing else fucking matters."

His engine roars, his frame shaking with the effort of holding back from completely breaking you. But even as he ruins you, he keeps talking, his deep, growling voice making you clench around him.

"Listen to yourself," he huffs, pressing his forehead against yours, optics locked onto your wrecked expression. "Whimpering, crying— and yet you keep spreading your legs for me. You love this, don’t you? You love being fucking wrecked by something this big."

You can’t even speak. Every rough, punishing thrust sends shockwaves through your body, your nails digging into his plating.

"You were made for this," he groans, his pace brutal, his thick shaft stretching you past your limit. "Made to be fucking bred by me."

That’s what finally breaks you.

Your orgasm slams into you with blinding force, your body spasming around him, clenching so tight he growls, his own movements turning ragged. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, overstimulating you until you’re sobbing from the pleasure.

"I’m not done," he growls, pressing his forehead against yours. "Not until I’ve filled you. Not until you’re leaking with my transfluid, dripping with proof that you belong to me."

His movements grow desperate, his thrusts turning animalistic, his deep moans vibrating against your skin. He’s close—his vents stuttering, his fingers bruising your skin as he slams into you with reckless force.

"Gonna fill you up," he groans, thrusting deep. "Gonna fucking ruin you."

You’re still shaking from your first orgasm when his final thrust slams inside, his entire frame locking up. His grip tightens, and then—heat.

Liquid metal warmth floods your core as he comes, a deep, wrecked growl tearing from his throat. His overload is violent, his entire frame trembling as he pumps you full, his transfluid so much that it leaks out, dripping down your thighs.

He doesn’t move for a moment, his massive frame shuddering. Then, his grip loosens, and he pulls out, watching with dark optics as his thick release spills from your stretched, ruined hole.

"Look at that," he murmurs, his fingers gathering the mess between your thighs. "So full of me."

Even now, his optics burn with hunger.

"I hope you’re not too tired," he warns, voice dark and dangerous. "Because I’m not nearly finished with you."

[lambcultist]

bare.

synopsis — ‧₊˚ ⋅ you have been alone for so long that she sees you fit to be her perfect next victim. your neck untainted, unmarked, and ripe. best of all, you will not complain when she invades. you will let her in unabashedly, as the helplessness of your biggest fear has led to chilling desire.

content warnings — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI ( 18+ ) agoraphobic!reader x vampire!ellie. dark content. dead dove do not eat. you have been warned. ellie is stalking you. home invasion. panic attack + paranoia. dom!ellie, sub!reader. blood. humiliation, degradation, and praise. dacryphilia. dumbification. feminine!reader. dub-con. reader is legitimately afraid of people and will not leave home for anything. technically reader is also a virgin but it isn't mentioned. pet names used: rabbit, darling, good girl.

　　　　m.list　wc — 2.1k　mdni, please ♡

a steaming cup warms your hands, the tea burns your throat on the way down. you have made relentless routine of this; each night, watching the liquid swirl in your mug and trying to find some semblance of amity in it. hoping it will calm the constant whirring of your mind, bring the storm to a halt.

because being alone for so long has caused irreparable damage to your psyche. it doesn't take a shrink to figure that out. your fear has ravaged you, and you can no longer even remember a time where you didn't feel this paranoia in your bones.

it is paranoia. seeing the shadow of your lamp-shade in a different angle has you fearing the worst, eyes deceiving you. hearing the wind outside—perhaps it knocks over something in the garden—you'll then spend your night with a butcher knife by your bedside. just in case.

currently you cannot be certain that you aren't being watched. there's no proof of such, nothing to go by aside from the nauseating feeling in your gut.

you exhale slowly, but your breath shakes. your own voice can startle you, hence you only ever mumbling nonsense to yourself. "nobody's here. m'okay. it's just me..."

just you.

it's so stupid. stupid, how it hurts to be so lonely. you desired it at first, pulled away from the world and protected yourself from its dangers. your neighbours don't have the pleasure to even know your name. you work remotely, and order everything to your house. don't own a car, don't need to leave your bubble.

it was everything to you at first. now there is more and more pressure and you cannot pop the bubble for the life of you—thinking about it feels like a death sentence, and you'd rather serve your life in here.

there's always been a small itch. even if it was just wishing your bed had double the body heat at night, you were still wanting at least somebody. affection is a bare necessity for humans. it's the one essential that you have deprived yourself of for so many years now that your chest has a consistent ache. you cannot indulge in what you used to love—even a movie kiss is enough to make you cry. of envy.

once upon a time you shed tears over the thought of catching up with friends. it's dangerous. you could be hurt. what if those people aren't your true friends? they could betray you. you were distrustful of the world enough to hyperventilate over opening a window.

now, there's an odd balance between fear and yearning. you weep at the idea of another person's understanding. to be known. feeling like you matter. everybody wants to know that they matter, but you've felt worthless.

thinking of the simplest acts of love, be it a hug or somebody squeezing your hand, gives a troubling reaction; it turns you on. you are alone enough to crave anything, you would be grateful for anything. you are sure that somebody could say your name and you'd feel yourself become wet.

"just me." you have to keep reminding yourself. between sips of tea to soothe your rather unused voice and frantic looks around your living room, you continue to reassure yourself. "i haven't touched the doors since monday's food delivery. everything is still locked. should be. m—maybe i should check..?"

your heart beats in your chest, thumping like a rabbit's foot as you slide your empty cup onto the coffee table. and then— an egregiously loud clunk comes from outside.

you sit up straight immediately, panic shooting through you. it sounded like someone walking up your porch. can't be. but that is exactly where the noise came from.

your feet drag along the floor and your knuckles squeeze the handle of your knife as you head towards the front window. you push the curtains back and take a look. and that feeling as though you're being watched, it feels more powerful than ever right here, but you see nothing. nobody.

this has happened a few nights now.

you flip the lock and pull up your window to peek around the wall—in case someone is hiding. the knife shakes in your hand but you hold it almost like you are cradling it. it's your lifeline.

"nothing. god, why does this keep happening?" you ask yourself. with the back of your hand, you rub your eyes until your vision is no longer blurry, and then you close the window. "i just need to go to bed."

the knife lays on your nightstand as you slip under the sheets of your bed, a lavender candle flickering in the dark to get you feeling a little number. at least that is your intent with lighting it.

"aren't you gonna blow that out, darlin'? that's a safety hazard."

a stranger. in your house.

your heart sinks, you choke on your breath, and you weakly reach out for your knife. but in seconds, she's knocked it out of your grip and climbing onto your bed.

"you think that little blade can hurt me? you're cute, rabbit."

she speaks like you have known her forever. as though you should know who she is. and her own nickname for you—rabbit—pushes you deeper into fear. you are prey. scared, paralysed prey. the one place you thought you'd always be safe in is now a far cry from what it once was, so even if you felt like fleeing... where can you run to?

"get off," you say, the words leaving your lips in a gasp. "leave me alone, h— how'd you get in?"

the wide look in your glassy eyes makes your predator chuckle lowly. her pupils are blown out like yours, not of fear, instead of lust. short locks of auburn hang down as she crawls over you, and when she finally speaks, you notice how terribly sharp and precise her canines are. they shine under the candlelight.

"awh, i only came to tell you you forgot to lock your window, rabbit. i wouldn't want anyone to come hurt you. other than me."

"fuck." you squirm only to have her place a hand at the base of your neck, pushing you against the mattress. "don't hurt me, don't, please. i'll scream—"

"don't you fucking make a sound," she growls. "i was kidding, darlin', i won't hurt you unless i have to. you just have something i need... and if you're good for me, i'll be outta your hair before you know it."

somehow, you only feel like walking yourself even further into the bear trap. it's the pet names, you think. but when her cold hands are sitting you up, positioning you like a particularly breakable piece of porcelain, it becomes harder not to let this hit your cravings.

fear and lust. so similar, yet so different.

there is a genuine gush of warmth between your thighs and you whimper broken words. "what do you want from me? you're scaring me."

"i'm sorry for scaring you rabbit, i know this is difficult for you to handle, but you're being so brave," she whispers. a slender hand squeezes your jaw and she grins in the dark, tilting your head up. your neck is bared for her, and she sighs dreamily. "i'm so hungry, you know?"

"hungry?" you repeat, eyes cast down at her. she holds your face so tightly your cheeks smush, it pushes a couple of tears out of your eyes.

but she is hyper-focused. zeroed in on your neck, and finally it clicks for you. her ivory skin, cool touch, and those teeth. fangs.

"so hungry, and i've had a craving ever since i found you, rabbit."

so many questions are at the tip of your tongue now and yet you can't utter a single word. because she's looking at you like you are her entire world. you are useful to her for something, it's a first in your life.

her hair tickles your neck, and as you sit tense and trembling, the predator's lips travel along the expanse of skin. she searches for a vein. and she groans gutturally as she tears into your neck and spills your blood, the cloying taste hot on her tongue.

your sniffles, mewls, and pleas fall on deaf ears, but she attempts to soothe you somewhat by rubbing up and down your side. you swallow thickly, neck stinging angrily the longer she takes from you. mortification floods your eyes even more, spilling over in thick and salty tears, when you notice your stomach swirling and flipping whenever her hand moves lower.

stupid, lonely, desperate, stupid girl. you can't help squirming even if it means her teeth tug harder at your tortured skin. you can't help feeling a little satisfied by how gentle she is even despite the danger she carries.

when she finally pulls away, a trail of your body's wine trickling down her chin and some oozing from the wound in your neck, it's because she had used her knee to nudge apart your thighs. you cover your face immediately, roughly wiping a mix of tears and snot from your face as the vampire inspects between your legs.

"i knew you would be easy," she says with a hum. it's a pleased sound. "you're supposed to be scared of me, darlin'. you might just have the worst survival instinct i've ever seen."

shame pools in your stomach and unfortunately for you, her mean words only seem to make your cunt wetter. your panties, a white pair, are translucent. completely soiled through, even without touch, because her hand stroking your waist meant absolutely everything to you in the moment.

"poor rabbit," she coos. her finger runs along the inside of your thigh and she likes the way it triggers a tremor in you. but she doesn't stop there. she slides her finger over your core, quickly and gently, but you splutter out the cutest moan over it. "my name is ellie."

she intended to take her feed and then leave. she intended to remain nameless. she wanted to have her fill and then take amusement in watching you scamper 'round your home in terror for days to come. but you have given her another need to fill, and she couldn't resist telling you what name to cry.

"it's okay, i've got you now," ellie murmurs, hoisting you into her lap and pressing your back against her chest. "keep those legs open, and i'm gonna make this feel all better, yeah? so tell me, do you always spread your legs for a stalker, or am i just the lucky one?"

"n- no," you reply, voice meeker than it's ever been.

"no? no what?" ellie asks. she's speaking gently against your neck, fingers now rubbing slow circles around your clit. she doesn't bother to remove your panties, instead deciding she likes them on more. she was flattered to see how ruined they are.

"i d- don't do this," you stammer. "for anyone."

"well, that's incorrect." ellie reprimands you with a small tap against your cunt. "what do you call this? you're laid out for me like a hooker."

"sorry."

"mm, sorry, huh?" she chuckles meanly, now going back to rubbling you. she can feel the way your pussy throbs against your thinned-out panties, and her fingers pull back wet as if she had touched your skin.

you, on the other hand, can barely keep your eyes open. your face is hot and shiny, ruined with tears. ellie can't hold back a smile at the sounds you're making—hiccuping sobs and blubbering out her name, your hips beginning to buck under her petting.

you can barely speak anymore, only crying out sounds that are vaguely close enough to her name. ellie is just pleased to have brought you to such a state with barely any touch.

she nods slowly along to all of your distressed mumbling, and as you approach your climax she can't help but to take a second taste of your blood. your neck is so close, she couldn't help the flare of her nose every time she caught a whiff. ellie licks a stripe up your neck, 'cleaning' the wound—but your sensitivity grows to be too much, and very soon your vision whites at the corners and your body jolts and tenses under her hold.

once you are finally limp, ellie coos and presses a last icy kiss to your neck. "good girl. you're the best, you know, darlin'?"

nothing but a small and disgruntled whine leaves your lips.

you were useful for something. since she feasted upon your lifeblood, ellie's face has more colour to it, there's a slightly warm buzz to her fingertips.

even after she leaves, you still feel grateful. she tucked you back into your bed and wiped your tears, blew out your candle, and even picked up your knife again—placed it back into its rightful position on your nightstand.

she touched you. she told you that no other victim could live up to the hospitality and selflessness you showed her.

ellie told you she'll be back next week, and you don't even feel afraid of it.

🏷️ @kaykeryyy @abbyslvrrr @cowgirlvi @absfemme @madewithsilk

thank you for supporting my fics. planning on making a permanent taglist soon, if anyone is interested. ♡

[yanderestarangel]

𐔌 . ⋮ wet dream .ᐟ ֹ₊ ꒱ — tio miguel o'hara x male reader

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 summary: you woke up your step!uncle in a different way... Or maybe it's another perverted dream of his...?

♡⁠ smut totally inspired by my bot on janitor a.i ♡⁠

♡⁠┊tw: somnophilia, cnc, dub con, v!sex, dark romance, smut, v!sex, oral fixation, ftm reader, use of lingerie, afab anatomy, dark themes...+

Tio Miguel was back at the farm that night, another damn excuse for the family to get together, drink themselves stupid, and pretend to care about some meaningless celebration. The smell of beer, sweat, and smoke filled the air, blending with the loud, slurred conversations of relatives who would say anything after a few shots. He didn’t care about any of it — not the food, not the laughter, not the festivities.

He was there for one thing, or rather, one person: you.

Ever since his wife died, Miguel had been a shell of himself. He wasn’t the strong, untouchable man people once admired. He was broken, hollow, and full of desires that made him question every shred of decency he had left. Falling for you — his so-called “nephew” by family consideration — was proof of how far he’d fallen.

You weren’t even blood, just a boy with a face and body that made his cock stir every time you were near.

However, it didn’t matter.

He knew well how wrong it was, how twisted it looked, but that didn’t stop the fantasies from creeping into his mind every time he saw you.

And tonight, you were in everywhere — your laugh cutting through the crowd, your body moving in that damn shirt that clung to you in all the right ways. His eyes never left you, burning holes through you from across the yard. He tried to act like he wasn’t watching, like his blood wasn’t boiling every time you so much as looked his way, but the drinks in his system made it impossible. Every word exchanged between you two was laced with tension, your innocent smile betraying the way your eyes lingered on his lips or the way your voice dropped ever so slightly when you spoke to him.

It drove him insane.

By the time the party wound down, with most people passed out drunk or stumbling around like idiots, the man had enough. He muttered some excuse and made his way inside your parents’ house, heading straight to the guest room. He kicked off his boots, let his hat fall to the floor, and collapsed onto the bed, trying to drown out the heat coursing through his body with the haze of whiskey and exhaustion. But it wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts from wandering back to you.

Sleep came quickly, but it didn’t last. A sharp, intense sensation dragged him out of his slumber. He groaned, his brows furrowing as his mind struggled to piece together what was happening. Then he felt it again — hot, wet friction against his cock. His eyes snapped open, and there you were, straddling his lap like a wet dream. Your hips rocked against him, your pussy slick as it slid over his pulsing length. The soft light filtering through the window highlighted the way your body moved, and for a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.

"Is this real...? Baby- is that really you?" His voice came out muffled as you continued your shallow movements, the delicious friction of your hips making him throw his head back. He struggled to adjust his eyes to the full view of your lap—your body adorned in delicate lingerie, the lace of your panties pushed to the side, granting him a perfect view of your wet pussy grinding against his aching length.

The slick mess you were making was almost too good to be real, too intoxicating to be just another wet dream conjured by his obsessive mind. Miguel's breath shuddered as he reached for you, rough hands sliding up your thighs, gripping tight enough to bruise.

His head was spinning—whiskey, exhaustion, and now you—but this?

This felt real.

Too fucking real.

His fingers twitched as they traced the damp lace barely hanging onto your hips. He groaned low in his throat, his cock throbbing beneath you, slick with the evidence of your need.

"Dios mío..." His voice was thick, hoarse from sleep and disbelief. His grip flexed, digging into your skin as if trying to ground himself. His dark eyes dragged over your body, drinking in the way you moved—slow, teasing, grinding down against him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

A guttural groan ripped from his chest as his hands shot up, grabbing your hips and forcing you down harder, deeper, making sure you felt every inch of him. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot, ragged.

"Fuck..." He hissed through clenched teeth, his thumbs digging into your skin as his lips brushed over yours—not kissing, just breathing you in. His hips rolled up instinctively, chasing the friction, the heat, the unbearable need clawing at his gut.

"You know what you're askin' for, don't you?" His voice was low, dangerous, his lips grazing against your jaw as his fingers slipped beneath your panties, pushing them further aside. "You're not gonna take it back, cariño?"

But he already knew the answer.

"Mierda... Fuck it... Just use my cock..."

He whimpered as you finally positioned his thick, precum-dripping tip at your soaked entrance, his broad hands gripping your hips with bruising force. Then, without warning, he drove himself inside, stretching you open with a deep, shuddering groan. The moans spilling from both of you were low, laced with raw hunger, the obscene slickness between your bodies making it impossible to hold back.

Fucking you raw had been an obsession—something he fantasized about every time he fisted his cock, every time he caught your scent, every time you so much as looked at him. And now that he had you, bare and perfect around him, his control frayed with every desperate thrust.

Your walls clenched around him like a vice, hot and wet, and the thought slammed into him like a freight train: he needed to fill you. His breath hitched, and his pace stuttered for a second before he fucked into you harder, deeper, chasing something primal. His heavy balls slapped against you, already aching, already desperate to claim.

Your breasts bounced with every movement, hypnotizing him, making him groan as he latched onto a nipple, sucking with messy, open-mouthed need. You were so fucking soft, so warm—his mind spun at the thought of pumping you full, making sure his release stuck, watching it drip out of you only to fuck it back in.

The pressure coiled tight in his spine, unbearable now. His grip on you tightened, possessive, as his thrusts turned sharp, desperate.

He was going to breed you—whether you realized it or not — the thought of getting his step-nephew pregnant was as sickening as it was tempting.

Miguel was gone. Lost. Drowning in the unbearable heat of your body as you sat flush against his lap, stuffed full of his cock. His breath came in ragged pants between deep, messy kisses, his lips swollen and wet from how hungrily he devoured your mouth. His hands gripped your waist tight, almost bruising, as he rocked you against him—desperate, frenzied, like he couldn’t get deep enough.

"Mi—mi niño precioso," he groaned, forehead pressed against yours as he forced you to take every inch. "So fucking good—so perfect, just like that."

His head fell back against the headboard, eyes glassy, half-lidded as he stared at the lewd mess between you. His thick length was completely buried inside your wet, twitching heat, your slick dripping down to his heavy balls, coating them in proof of how well you took him. The sight alone made him throb inside you, his hands trembling as they roamed your body.

Another sharp slap landed on your ass, making you jolt, but Miguel only grunted, rolling his hips up hard as if punishing you for squeezing him too tight. His fingers curled around the delicate fabric of your lingerie, tugging it aside to expose you more, his breaths turning ragged.

"Want me to fill you up—do you want me to get you pregnant? Make you the father of my children?"

He didn't even know what he was saying anymore. His mind was drunk on the way you clenched around him, the way your body sucked him in, begged for him without words. It made something raw and desperate coil in his gut, his grip on your hips growing almost frantic as he fucked up into you, making the bed shake.

"Tell me it’s real..." he rasped, his voice cracking as his nails dug into your soft skin. "Tell me you’ll take it—fuck—tell me I can really give it to you."

His thrusts turned erratic, brutal, his whole body trembling beneath you. Another slap, then another, hard enough to leave your skin burning. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t hold back.

And then—he shattered.

Miguel's breath hitched as his orgasm slammed into him, a deep, broken moan tearing from his throat as he came inside you, filling you to the brim with thick, hot ropes of cum. His body locked up, muscles tensing, fingers gripping you so tight he might never let go. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, his lips trembling as he whined through the aftershocks, burying his face in your neck.

"Take it—G-God—please, take all of it."

His hips gave a few more shallow rolls, making sure he was as deep as possible, making sure none of it would go to waste. Even as the haze of pleasure started to settle, his hands were still possessively holding your hips, as if afraid you’d slip away before he could fuck you all over again.

Miguel barely registered the loss of warmth when you lifted yourself off his cock, the slick drag of your walls pulling away making his breath shudder. He felt it—his cum leaking out of you, trailing down your inner thighs, wasted. His fingers twitched, instinct screaming at him to grab your hips, push you back down, make sure you kept every drop.

But you said nothing.

No teasing remark, no soft moan—nothing. You just slipped off him, standing on unsteady legs, your body still trembling from the way he had ruined you. Miguel’s dazed eyes followed the mess between your thighs, his jaw clenching at the sight of his seed dripping from you, his mark already fading as if it had never been there.

Then, without a glance back, you left.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Miguel alone in the dimly lit room, his body still burning with the ghost of your touch. The air felt colder, the silence almost suffocating, but his limbs were too heavy, his mind too sluggish to chase after you. He exhaled a deep, shaky breath, his head falling back against the pillows.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was just a dream, right?

Maybe it was just another one of those sick, forbidden dreams—another twisted fantasy his mind had conjured up to torment him.

Sleep pulled him under before he could think too hard about it.

♡⁠

Morning came with golden light bleeding through the blinds, painting warm streaks across Miguel’s face. He stirred, a low groan leaving his throat as the dull ache in his muscles reminded him of the night before. His sheets smelled like sex, like sweat, like you. But the haze of sleep convinced him, again, that it wasn’t real.

Just another fantasy.

Just another sin his mind had indulged in while his hands worked over his cock in the dark. A damn perverted old man, with another dream of fucking his own nephew.

With a tired sigh, Miguel reached for his jeans on the floor, shaking them out before sliding them on—until his fingers brushed against something soft in his pocket.

His brows furrowed.

He pulled it out, and the second he saw the delicate lace of your panties, his breath caught in his throat.

Soft. Expensive. Yours.

A slow exhale left his lips, with amusement flickering behind his eyes as he let the fabric slip between his fingers. He should’ve felt guilt. Maybe he did, buried somewhere beneath the thick, heady satisfaction curling in his stomach.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, lazy, smug, still laced with sleep.

"Oh God... How I love that boy..."

His voice was hushed, almost to himself, as he tucked the lace back into his pocket.

After all, he wasn’t done with you yet.

★ ! yanderestarangel ©