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justwinginglife · 2 days ago

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The LADS Men React To You Saying You Can't Have S*X Because Of Mismatching Underwear

NSFW WARNING

Sylus

Sylus knows in an instant that you’re messing with him but he plays along, a sly smirk sitting pretty on his lips. “Oh NO- your underwear set doesn’t match? Whatever shall we do?” After clicking a few buttons on his phone, he stands to grab his car keys (one out of many).

“Wait! What are you doing, where are you going?” You ask, brows furrowing. The sudden change in the atmosphere has you feeling like, at any moment, you might get whiplash. One minute, he’s kissing up your neck, squeezing at your thighs, grinding his raging erection into your crotch, and the next, he’s throwing on his jacket, zipping his pants back up, and getting ready to leave.

“You mean where are we going, kitten.” He speaks like it’s only obvious.

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why are we leaving? I thought you just wanted to have sex not two seconds ago.”

“Of course, dearest, but we can’t have sex if you’re feeling embarrassed, now can we? So I thought I’d just buy the nearest lingerie store and we could go pick out whatever you like.”

You choke on your spit. “You did WHAT?”

“I said I bought the store. So let’s go.” His eyes are daring you to continue with your little charade.

“Well I…I kinda wanted to stay home tonight.” You say weakly. You know you’re making a pathetic case for yourself, but he’s really not allowing you the wiggle room to be more convincing.

“Then allow me to have all of their stock delivered to the house. Unless… you think that the mismatching underwear is no longer an issue?”

Oh, this son of a bitch. “You… you really don’t have to do all of this just for me.” You say with an awkward laugh. He knows you’re all out of moves and you’re just pivoting at this point. He knows and he has the audacity to be amused.

“Oh, but I did, kitten. I wouldn’t want to overlook this very important issue. What’s important to you is important to me.”

“It’s, uh, not actually that important…” You confess meekly.

“Say that again, sweetie?” He cranes his head to hear you better but you know damn well he can hear you just fine.

You glare at him. “I said it’s fine.”

He chuckles, sweet satisfaction clear on his face. “So then. Does this mean we can pick up where we left off?”

Caleb

You’ve been teasing Caleb all day.

Dancing into his field of view with that low neckline of yours, wearing a dress that’s so short, it’s a wonder it’s covering anything at all. Touching him here and there, your fingers grazing his skin with a feather-light touch, trailing up his biceps, or down his back, before flitting away like you’d never been there in the first place.

So, of course, after hours of edging him towards an excruciating erection, his self control still intact (though holding on by mere splintered pieces), you decide to reward his good behavior. You straddle him on the couch, and slowly begin to slide your hips back and forth, dragging your clothed cunt across the admittedly-impressive bulge in his pants.

He swears he’s seeing heaven, when you finally allow his aching cock some much needed friction. He’s not proud to say that a little dry humping is all it takes to get him coming into his pants, but he’s sure you’ll continue to show him such endless bliss as the night goes on that he won’t even remember how many times he’s come, let alone that the first time was in his underwear. His head dips forward, steadying itself on your shoulder as he allows the wave of euphoria to wash over him.

But the second the wave has come and gone, his arousal is already flaring back up in his gut, ready for round two, round ten, round however much you want. All he can think about is how perfect it’ll be when he finally sinks himself inside you, your wet heat enveloping him until all he can feel is you. He doesn’t even think that maybe you’re more devious than he gave you credit for.

After he’s come, you retreat almost immediately, pulling yourself off of him.

He whines pathetically and he fumbles as he attempts to grab hold of you.

“Baby, we can’t tonight.” You say, innocent as ever.

He tries to keep the disappointment from his voice, tries to restrain his very evident need for you, but desperation is quickly rising within him. “Why not?”

You try to keep the smirk from your lips. “It’s just…I’m not…”

“You’re not what, love? Not feeling well? Not in the mood?” He hopes you don’t notice how badly he just wants you to spit it out.

“I’m not wearing matching undergarments tonight. So we can’t.” And there it is. The goal you’ve had all night. The little trick you couldn’t wait to play on him. You’re thrilled to see how he’ll react.

His eyes darken in an instant. “Oh, you little minx. You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” His tone has dropped to a low growl.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” You say, feigned ignorance dripping from your lips.

He gives a short laugh. “Sure you don’t. Well, if your mismatching underwear is the only issue-” He begins to kiss down your neck harshly, not bothering to take care where he leaves his marks, “-I’ve got just the solution.” His fingers find your dress’s zipper with expert precision and before you can even process that he’s taken ahold of it, the dress is already laying in a pile on the ground. Along with your bra and panties.

“There. All better. Now your underwear matches- they’re both on the damn floor.”

Rafayel

You’re starting to think that you lie just a little too well.

You had only meant to tease Rafayel when you had told him that the reason you couldn’t have sex tonight was because you were embarrassed that your bra didn’t match your underwear, but you didn’t expect him to take you completely seriously. What was even more unexpected was that he would go on to give you an entire art lecture in the process.

“Take Picasso, for instance. Brilliant artist. One of a kind. You know him, of course you do, everybody knows him. His work is asymmetrical, and yet you don’t see anybody telling him that his work isn’t beautiful because it doesn’t match.”

“Raf-”

“And take my work. My work isn’t always symmetrical either, but would you tell me that I’m anything less than a true genius? No, because I am. See?”

“That’s besides the point-“

“The point, cutie, is that you’re gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing. It’s okay that you didn’t plan a matching outfit today. Some of nature’s most stunning scenes are spontaneous. You wouldn’t complain to the sunset that its pink doesn’t match its orange, would you?”

“No, but I-”

“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter to me if you’re wearing mismatching underwear; you could be wearing a trash bag and I’d still want you. Do you understand now, cutie?”

“Raf, baby, there’s nothing to understand, I was just jo-“

“Okay, if you don’t understand, let me put it in simpler terms for you. I’m hard for you regardless. That make sense now?”

When he puts it that bluntly, you really want to jump his bones. At this point, you figure you might as well. It’s useless to try and explain to him that you were only joking- not after he’s given you such a lengthy (though thoughtful) monologue. Though he’s a bit dense today, he’s still the same sweet Rafayel you fell in love with. So you think you’ll reward him for his kindness.

“You know what, baby? You made me feel so much better, thank you. I think, to show you just how much better I feel-” You strip yourself naked for him and his jaw drops, his eyes hungrily raking over your bare form, “-I’ll even let you come inside me tonight. What do you think?” You purr seductively.

You really didn’t have to try so hard to seduce him.

He’s already dropped his pants and begun stumbling towards you, rapidly hardening cock in hand.

Xavier

You’re in the middle of a very heated makeout session with Xavier when you decide to pick on him a little. You can tell where this is going, but you want to drag it out a little longer.

“Xav-” You whine breathlessly. “I think we should,” You return another one of his hungry kisses, “Probably stop for the night.”

He pulls back to examine you. He can’t tell if you’re messing with him or if you’re genuinely not in the mood. Of course, if you want to stop, he’ll stop. He can just fuck his hand later; he’s not so selfish that he’d make you do something you don’t want to do. But just in case he did something wrong, he decides to ask. “Any particular reason you want to stop?”

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, hoping it makes you appear timid, when really you’re trying not to grin. “My bra and my underwear don’t match. I’m a little embarrassed to show you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Oh, is that all? Feel free to change them then. I won’t look.” Before you can even respond that it’s a joke, he’s turned his back to you to give you your privacy.

You shake your head, smiling softly at his back. You didn’t expect him to be so sweet. You may as well strip naked while he’s allowing you the time; you had planned to have sex with him anyway.

What the both of you don’t realize is that your bedroom’s full length mirror is angled just right so that he can still see you even when you’re behind him. He looks up only to get a perfect view of you undressing. When he realizes he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to, he starts to look away. But then he catches a glimpse of your mismatching underwear. Cherries decorate the soft material of your panties, while your bra is littered with little bows all the way around. Heat surges through his groin and he realizes that for some reason, this combination of mismatching underwear is doing something to him.

You finish pulling your shirt off all the way and reach back to unhook your bra. “You know, I appreciate you being so understanding, my love, but I have to admit- I was completely kidding about not wanting to have sex just because my underwear didn’t match.”

In an instant -you honestly don’t remember him even having the time to turn all the way around- he’s at your side, gripping your wrist tight and locking you in place. “That’s a relief. Now you don’t have to take off any more.”

You raise a curious brow at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t you want to have sex? I kinda have to take my underwear off for that.”

“No. You don’t.” His tone is low and thick with lust. “The undergarments stay on.” Before you know it, you’re pinned down to the bed.

You don’t know if it’s his teleportation ability or just his pure, unadulterated need, but he seems to be moving rather hastily today. You’ve barely even had time to blink before he’s slipping his cock under your bra, fucking your cleavage while it holds his cock in place.

Something about you, the girl who always settles for function over fashion, wearing the cutsiest, girliest underwear he’s ever seen makes him harder than he’s ever been before and he’s not stopping until he’s staining this particular set in his cum.

Zayne

“So we don’t strip naked then. That doesn’t mean I can’t still make you feel good.”

When you originally decided to play this joke on Zayne, telling him that you were feeling just a little too shy today to reveal to him your mismatching underwear, you thought he would see right through your little act. This is the man who has known you almost your entire life, after all.

But after you’d come so many times IN YOUR GODDAMN UNDERWEAR ALONE, all because he had insisted on tending to your needs even with your clothes on, after your clenching walls began to feel rather bruised, your clit increasingly more and more overstimulated with each passing second, as he fingered you through the (soaked) fabric of your clothes yet again, you were starting to regret this decision to mess with him.

You tried to confess so many times, to tell him you’d been lying, to beg him for his cock instead, but it was almost like he knew what you were trying to say, because he’d kiss you so deeply until you were so dizzy from lack of breath that you forgot what you wanted to say, and then he’d dry hump you until you forgot how to even breathe in the first place.

When you finally stutter out a pathetic, “P-please Z-Zayne…can’t t-take it anymore. Wanna f-fuck you,” Your hips thrusting desperately against the unsatisfying, thin air, he grins.

In that moment, you realize he’s known you’ve been lying all along.

He leans over to you and you think he might kiss you. That, or scold you. But either result turns you on, so you hold your breath, waiting for him to respond.

He merely peers down your shirt before tugging your pants down slightly to confirm something. “So your underwear does, in fact, match. What an interesting development. Now then…how should I punish you for such dishonest behavior?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @tbaluver @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi

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after-witch · 3 days ago

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The Grass is Greener [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: The Grass is Greener [Yandere Shigaraki x reader]

Synopsis: Shigaraki Tomura finds something at Overhaul’s base that’s worth taking.

Word count: 7000ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, dubcon sex, abuse

It’s not that Tomura Shigaraki thought the base of the once-great–he tucks the once into his molars, savoring it–Shie Hassaikai would be teeming with life. It’s that he thought some of them might have the balls to stick around and fight for the remnants of their organization.

But they must have been paying real-fucking-close attention, because there wasn’t a trace of a living person left in the entire facility. Which was a shame–while killing some stupid underlings wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as destroying the hands of a fear-stricken Overhaul, it would still be a little fun.

Well. At least the rest of the League seemed to be having a decent time sifting through the hallways, the abandoned rooms. Finding things to take home or mock or both.

The sights of overturned chairs and abandoned posts both sickened and thrilled him. Sickened because, really, what unloyal douchebags. Thrilled because it meant they were afraid–afraid of the League. Afraid of him.

They should be. It was only a matter of time before everyone else was, too.

Most of the rooms are what they expected, minus any signs of existing life. There’s even some kind of hospital lab–what did that creepy asshole do in there, he wonders–amidst the various bunkers, a kitchen, odds and ends.

Still, there’s one room Shigaraki wants to find–wants to sift through himself, in case there’s anything worthwhile. More money would be nice. More vials, more secrets. More, simply put.

“Think I found it.” Dabi stares at a door that’s so irritatingly obviously the door that Shigaraki doesn’t hesitate to shove his palm against it, watching it crumble into dust with something a bit like satisfaction.

Unlike the other doors, plain grey things, this door was a sleek black metal. Probably with some fancy lock system that didn’t matter anymore.

And unlike the other rooms with their scattered papers and overturned chairs, with signs of messy life and abandonment, this room is really fucking perfect. Prim. Proper. Utterly disgusting, really, and Shigaraki is the first one to step in and sweep his hand across a side table lined with perfectly spaced vases and send them crashing to the floor.

Lovely.

“Don’t take anything yet,” he says, glancing at the others. “But tell me if you find something worthwhile.”

There’s murmurs of agreement that mingle with a general sense of curiosity. He soaks in the feeling in the air–the triumph. The thrill of victory thrumming through everyone’s chests, no doubt, the same way it’s making his whole body tingle.

Overhaul’s room is just as annoying as he is; it’s entirely expected. Immaculate. Through an open doorway, he can see a bedroom with perfectly pressed black sheets. No doubt in the closet were equally perfectly pressed clothing sets. Fucker probably had perfectly shined shoes, too.

It’s all too satisfying to plop down in Overhaul’s chair and stick his boots, dirt and mud and blood flecking off the soles, onto the meticulously organized desk. There’s probably something important on there, but Shigaraki doesn’t mind if it’s got dirt (or a boot print) on it for later.

“What’s this door for, do you think?” Toga pokes–literally–at a closed door on the side of the room.

In the beats of silence after her question, Shigaraki hears it–they all hear it: sound. From behind the door. Shuffling and scuttling. Footsteps–

Someone’s still here.

There’s a curling little thrill inside his stomach as he stands and makes his way to the door. Toga is mid-way asking about looking for the key inside Overhaul’s desk when Shigaraki places his palm on the wood and disintegrates it with his hands.

He expected an underling’s office. Maybe a second-in-command that had yet to show his face, stationed in some side office next to Overhaul. Probably someone just as organized, by choice or by command.

He doesn’t expect a bedroom. Not just a bedroom, actually, but one that is so clearly not Overhaul’s living space that it’s a bit disorienting. Sure, it’s got that same sort of annoying tidiness as Overhaul’s office and the glimpse of his bedroom.

But it’s… prettier. Softer. Touches here and there, that place it distinctly away from Overhaul himself. A soft pink comforter with matching pillows. Watercolor paintings taped to the wall. A bookshelf with spines that he vaguely recognizes–some light novels and mangas, fantasies, romances, all pinks and pastels.

And in the center of the room, a table with some scattered papers, an overturned chair…

Like someone had heard they were coming and bolted.

There’s only one place for someone to go, and that’s the only other door remaining in the room. He gestures for the rest of the League to stand by as he watches the door turn to ash.

Behind the door is a bathroom, immaculately cleaned, with a toilet room and then beyond it, a room with a tub–and inside that tub, no doubt bleach-cleaned like mad, is you.

Cowering, of course. Wearing a pretty white dress with pink flowers embroidered all over it–you’re all flounces and frills. Even from the doorway, he can see you trembling, can see your eyes all wide, pupils blown in fear.

Staring at him like a victim, like a doe. Like some pretty little thing in way over your head.

And you are, aren’t you? You’re like some fish all flopped out of the water, gasping for breath on the sand.

It’s irritating, really.

“Who are you?” He asks, none too nicely.

He sees your lips press together, and thinks, all instinct: haughty bitch.

But then he reconsiders. The pieces are put together link by link. A pretty little thing kept in a room adjacent to Overhaul’s private office, wearing nice clothes, given nice things…

“You’re Overhaul’s squeeze?”

You furrow your eyebrows, like you’re thinking way too hard. He might add “stupid” to his list of descriptors–doe, sweet, scared. Stupid.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Oh, you are sweet. You’ve got a soft, trembling voice to match your shaking form.

“His girlfriend,” Dabi drawls from behind them. The rest of the League is watching, craning their necks, eager (or indifferent) to see where this goes.

“No,” you say, then seemingly correct yourself. “Y-Yes. I… we’re…” Everything seems to confuse you, and you pull your arms tight across your chest. “Where… is he?”

Shigaraki doesn’t hide his grin. “Oh, he’s a little tied up at the moment.”

And then, odd thing you apparently are, you take a breath in. Almost in relief, he thinks. You stand up and take an unsteady step out of the tub–he finds that he likes that. Likes the way you try to straighten up a little, despite being unable to look him in the eye.

“When is he coming back?” You keep looking to the side, and tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “Did he send you?”

Shigaraki’s lips twitches. “You ask too many questions.”

You fiddle with the hem of your dress, then. And he finds he likes that, too. Likes the way you look like some sort of bizarre doll in this bunker of Overhaul’s, some little treat he left behind.

And left behind you were–because there’s no way in hell Overhaul will be able to get you out of here himself.

“He won’t be coming back,” Shigaraki says, easily enough. “Ever.”

And oh, you finally look right at him and what is this? Something that looks like joy in your eyes.

Shit, maybe you aren’t as annoying as you seem.

“Then I…” You swallow, and there’s a crack of a smile on your lips. “I can go home now?”

Go home? Ah. Another piece clicks together. Not a girlfriend, then. A toy; a kidnapped one, anyway. Overhaul wouldn’t be the first creep to resort to kidnapping to get a partner.

“He kidnapped you?” There’s no pity in his tone, and he hopes you aren’t looking for it, because you won’t find it with him. He just wants the confirmation.

You nod, looking down at the floor again. “Yes. Um. And he… I’ve been kept here a while, so…”

While your words drift away, his mind drifts, thinking of the souvenirs from this bunker that the League’s got stuffed in their bags. Remnants of Overhaul’s reign. He ought to take something besides that fucker’s hands.

And aren’t you the perfect trophy? Some doll that Overhaul wanted and took, kept here in this stuffy bunker. You probably haven’t even seen sunlight in ages. All pretty and soft and maybe stupid, by choice or force.

Why not? He’s earned it. He has a right to anything that shitbag left behind.

Even you–especially you, with your trembling hands and flouncy dress. He thinks about the watercolors on the walls and wonders what happened if you got paint on this dress, or any other; Overhaul probably kept you in the same types of frilly things day after day.

He might, too. Or not. He doesn’t even know what he wants with you, really. He might have fun with you, might just let you go, might just keep you until you’re boring. It doesn’t matter. There’s no sense in plotting so far ahead when the real thrill is in the act of taking what he wants. And right now, in this moment, he finds that he wants you.

It’s Shigaraki’s turn to crack a smile, but there’s not much joy to be found in it.

“How would you like to live somewhere else?”

It is, of course, a rhetorical question.

–

What happened in between? You can’t be too sure; the memories are all blurs and fogs, snatches of conversation–a girl complimenting your dress and someone asking if you had any injuries, if he hurt you–and overwhelming noise.

It was easy to forget how quiet your life had been, when confronted with the outside world.

Maybe that’s why it’s all fuzzy. Your mind or your body or both went into some sort of shock, maybe, in between the bathroom to the truck to the–wherever this is. Not a bunker, exactly, like where Overhaul kept you.

It’s a bedroom, that seems obvious enough. A messy one. The man–Shigaraki Tomura, he’d told you–dumped you in here and said simply, “Don’t do anything stupid,” before leaving. The door is surely locked, though you don’t have the nerve to try it. Where would you go, if you were brave enough to run?

It would be stupid, besides, and he told you not to do anything stupid. You’re good at following orders. Well, now you are; it took training. Will this Shigaraki Tomura want to train you? What is he going to do with you, after all?

The question makes you cringe.

“What am I to do with you?” Overhaul–Kai, he insisted–would ask you, when you did something wrong. The question always carried with it the thread of being remade. Literally. The threat of his hands on you and being blown to bits and put together the way he wanted. So you answered his questions by remaking yourself from the inside out; it was gentler, that way.

Overhaul–Kai?--was… gone. Dead, maybe? They didn’t say. Shigaraki told you that he wouldn’t be coming back for you. Someone else in the truck had quipped–”He’s got his hands full”--which made one person snicker, then everyone else laugh. You didn’t know why it was funny, and you didn’t want to know.

Maybe you’ll be bait. Or ransom. Or maybe he wants you to…

On this messy, unfamiliar bed, your fingers begin to pull at the dingy, faded comforter. The threads come out with a bit of work from your fingernails, and it’s satisfying, to yank on them, as you contemplate.

Maybe he wants you to…

You know what villains might do to people they kidnap. You’ve read your romance novels. Though Overhaul took some of them away once he’d realized what they were about. Still. The thought of that is–scary, sending tingles down your back.

Overhaul never touched you like that. Sure, he looked at you sometimes. When you were asleep but when you were awake, too. Told you to stand still and ghosted his fingers just above your nightgown, until he’d pull himself away and scrub his hands raw in the bathroom.

You don’t suppose this Shigaraki Tomura will be squeamish.

As if on cue, the door swings open, and your sort-of-rescuer-but-maybe-also-kidnapper tosses a pre-warmed bowl of noodles on the bed. They bounce against the plastic wrap, and you can see the artificial color sticking to the condensation against the plastic. A pair of chopsticks lands next to the bowl.

“Dinner,” he says, before plopping down on an upholstered chair shoved into the corner of the room. He tears the plastic off his own bowl, and begins to eat unceremoniously.

You scooch back on the mattress, your clean, full skirt feeling dingier by the minute on the mattress. That was dinner? The meals that Overhaul made you come to mind–not just the meals, but the dinner itself.

Dinner was meant to be at 7pm sharp. At your table, which you’d cleaned and cleared. Dinner was meticulously thought out, he told you, each element designed to give you the best nutrition possible. Protein, fat, fiber, carbs; vegetables, lean meat, rice. Sometimes a bit of chopped sweet potato as a treat.

This–this was certainly not appropriate. And to eat it, where exactly? On the mattress? Something tingles in your chest, imagining all the germs seeping into the plastic, settling onto the noodles.

The noodles themselves were a problem, though.

You clear your throat. Shigaraki doesn’t notice. You clear it louder, and he sighs.

“What?”

You poke a finger at the bowl.

“I’m not allowed to eat that.”

As if he should know.

He blinks at you.

“Eat it, or don’t. I don’t care.”

Then he goes back to eating his own meal, and you’re left with something dull inside your chest. It’s not right–the meal. Or the setting. Or any of this, really.

Some part of you, a selfish part, wishes you were back in your bed inside your clean room; wishes that you were still waiting, colored pencils and paper in hand, for him to get back and continue on with your orderly, if captive, existence.

Well, if wishes came true, none of this would have happened in the first place.

You can’t bring yourself to touch the noodles; the thought of them makes your stomach ache. Overhaul (Kai, you remind yourself) would be able to tell you all that was wrong with a meal like that, and you try to envision what he’d say. It becomes too tiring so you simply pull your legs up and wait to find out what this Shigaraki wants.

The answer must come, you think, when he tosses his bowl in the trash bin and shrugs off his coat. It smells of sweat and dust, or is that him?

Without warning, he flops down on the mattress, almost sending you flying off the side. He snickers, and you feel warmth flush your chest as you try to recollect yourself. But even that brief loss of dignity gets lost when you realize what must be coming now.

What villains do, when they take someone away.

Will it hurt? Will it take long? How often will he do it?

He props himself up on his elbow and you can feel him staring at you. Sizing you up, probably. Deciding on how and when he’ll take you. The realization makes your heart begin to race, and cold sweat beads against the back of your neck.

When will he do it? Now? Now?

When you hesitantly glance at him, you can see he is sizing you up–looking at your dress and your socked feet and the way you’ve pulled your knees up to your chest. There’s a flash in your mind of him ripping it off, shoving you down onto the mattress, and then–then.

But it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t move towards you, despite his leering look.

Instead of hovering over you and pinning you down to the mattress, he simply scoffs. Then he sits up and grabs a game controller, turning on a system set-up at the far end of the room.

“Be quiet,” he says, “It’s been a long day, and I don’t want to mess up this level.”

Eventually, as your heart begins to settle, you stare at the cooling bowl of microwaved noodles on the mattress.

Your stomach growls.

But this would make you sick; that’s what Overhaul said.

And he’d done many things to you, but he never lied.

–

Hunger can be overcome. It can be uncomfortable, true; but you’d dealt with it before. During the days when you hadn’t been good enough yet, and Overhaul refused you anything but water, until you’d given in and behaved yourself.

So it’s not the growing hunger that’s bothering you now, as the day wears on and it must surely be nighttime.

It’s the sleepiness.

Hunger can be ignored–but this? It’s hard to ignore the way your head is starting to slap hard against your knees as you begin to micronap, unable to keep awake no matter how many times you pinch your flesh.

It’s not a gesture you’ve had to do in so long–bedtime was, well. Bedtime. A set time with set things to do, all designed–or so Kai told you–to get you the best possible sleep so your body could rest and heal. (Heal from what, he never said.)

So sitting on a mattress and feeling your body jerk in desperation as it tries to get some sleep is something new. Something difficult.

If this Shigaraki Tomura notices, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are glued to the news, a grin on his face, his palm slapping his thigh at the action.

The news has him enthralled, so your fights to stay awake are probably not even on his radar. Which means you’ll have to bring it up yourself–that question that’s been pulling at you since you realized it must be well past afternoon and into the night.

“Excuse me…” You say, voice hoarse. You clear it, then realize you don’t know exactly what to call him. He gave his name, but that didn’t mean you were supposed to use it. So when you continue, you err on the side of caution. “Excuse me, sir?”

At this, he finally seems to remember that you’re in the room. He waves a hand at you, vague irritation crossing his features. “Just call me Shigaraki.” Instantly, his gaze turns back to the TV.

Your tongue feels heavy as you swallow. “Oh. I’m sorry. Um. Shigaraki?”

You can see him push his tongue against the side of his cheek, his eyes still not leaving the TV. There’s some sort of press conference footage playing, though you can’t quite focus on the words.

“What?” he says, almost a grumble. “Don’t ask for something to eat. I already gave you dinner. Eat it cold, if you’re hungry.”

Oh, that. You’d set the bowl on the floor once you’d decided that it was best not to eat. It would have been awful if it got knocked over and the sauce seeped through the plastic rim, after all. Although given the status of the mattress, maybe it was generous to care about additional stains.

“It’s not–” Your voice is too soft, in this room, with the mess and the TV. You try to speak up, something you haven’t done in so long. “I was just wondering, that is, I wanted to know…” Directly asking things is no longer in your nature, and your fingers find themselves playing with the hem of your skirt.

The sound from the TV stops abruptly, and you flinch. He’s muted it. He turns fully to you now, irritation written on his face. “Can you just spit it out already?”

A shuddering breath escapes your chest as you force the question out: “I just–I wanted to know, what time am I going to bed?”

You do not ask the rest, though surely it must be a given: What time are you going to bathe me, what nightgown would you like me to wear, do you prefer to brush my teeth for me or can I do it myself, am I sleeping on your bed or somewhere else?

He blinks at you, not for the first time today. “Whenever you bother to fall asleep.” The words come out slow, like you’re some inept child.

You’re starting to feel like one. Because the words hit you, the way he intends them, all hurtful and condescending. But you can’t make sense of them. Go to bed whenever? Without anything to prepare you? It doesn’t register–you don’t know what he means.

And you tell him so, as plainly as you can:

“I don’t understand.”

He rolls his eyes, and a pit inside your stomach seems to open up, tossing each irritated expression into it and making you feel worse.

“What’s there to understand?” He waves at the mattress. “Pick a side and go to sleep. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”

He turns back to the TV, clearly not interested in any further conversation, and turns the sound back on. Without so much as an order or command or at the very least, an expectation from you.

What a strange man. What a strange place. What a strange world.

There is, at first, a temptation to tell him. To explain what your needs are–why you can’t simply go to sleep. But then come the thoughts about punishment. He’d already gotten annoyed with you for simply asking. What would he do if you, bold thing, insisted on it?

And so, on this new first day of what is apparently the rest of your life, you’re left to curl up on the farthest edge of the mattress and squeeze your eyes shut. There’s a headache lingering at the back of your forehead, and hunger in your stomach, and it’s all so wrong.

If Kai were here–and he’s not, and you can’t deny that you don’t hate that fact even as your mind jolts from the strange turnabout the day has taken–this wouldn’t be happening. But this new one… this Shigaraki, maybe it’s too much to expect from him right now.

He just took you, after all, and it sounds like whatever group he belongs to was involved in something major today. A long day–a hard day. So he must still be thinking on the rules, how to properly manage you.

You need to be managed, after all. That is one thing you learned from Kai.

It’s surprising to you that you’re even able to fall asleep without everything that ought to be done. Without the ritual of the bath, without being handed your nightgown while Kai turns around and swears he won’t look, without your hair being tended to, without being tucked into bed…

Exhaustion doesn’t seem to care about rituals.

So sleep, you do; and when it takes you, it takes you hard, dragging you into a heavy slumber while the TV plays on.

–

When you wake up, it’s morning–and you are alone.

There’s a bright light streaming in through the windows and it’s a wonder you can stand up at all, with your muscles aching and the world itself feeling topsy turvy, as you fumble for the shabby curtains with one hand over your eyes. They rip a little as you yank them over the window, but at least you don’t feel blinded now.

There hadn’t been windows, before; in the bunker, that is. With Overhaul–with Kai. Just the overhead lights at first, and then eventually, a pretty lamp with a soft lilac-colored shade. A gift, for behaving; for being trustworthy enough to control your own light. It was nice to be able to turn on the light when you had to pee in the middle of the night, at least.

There are no lilac lamps here. Only an overhead light that, when you peer closely, appears to have a smattering of dead flies resting inside the lamp shade. The thought brings bile to your empty stomach, and it growls in retaliation.

You hadn’t eaten in… was it almost two days, now?

Maybe Shigaraki was getting your breakfast. That seemed right–that he’d sleep off yesterday’s havoc and spend the morning organizing his rules for you. What you should eat, and wear, and your schedule.

But what should you do in the meantime?

You stand, stretching your worn-out muscles, and take stock of the room he’s placed you in. It’s not clean, that’s for sure. Messy, to say the least. Used clothes and food wrappers are strewn about, and the whole room has a terrible sense of neglect.

If your room isn’t clean, how could you hope to get anything done?

Kai had told you that, when you argued about his expectations for your room. Everything ought to be perfectly tidy, he’d said. And after a while, how could you disagree? It only made sense. When your room was organized, your thoughts could be organized. When your thoughts were organized, everything else simply fell into place.

And maybe–maybe that’s the trick, here. Shigaraki left you alone in the morning, because he wanted to see what you’d do. Wanted to see if you’d pick up on a classic rule–keep things clean and tidy–without being told.

Before, Kai needed to train you–but now? Now, you knew the game.

A smile, faint and uncertain though it is, crawls across your face.

You’d pass this test with flying colors.

–

He’s still not sure what to do with you. The thought comes to him, faintly and then stronger, as he gets closer and closer to the bedroom where you’re being kept. It’s one thing to take what you’re due, another to decide how to manage it–how to manage you.

It’s a bit like taking in a pet, he realized over the night. You’ve got to be fed and watered and all that. Clothed, if he feels like it. He’s not sure if he does. And if you’re too much trouble, well. It might not be worth the thrill of taking what was once Overhaul’s, in the end.

He almost expects you to still be asleep when he opens the door, but as soon as he steps in, he can see you’re up and about and–

Cleaning?

The room is almost unrecognizable. He doesn’t bother much with tidying. Not when there are far more important things going on. Yet you’ve picked up every bit of trash, folded all the dirty clothes he’s thrown here and there… even made the bed. You clearly haven’t noticed him open the door, because you’re just finishing up the folding, humming a bit to yourself.

He can’t decide if he likes it or not.

“What are you doing?”

You flinch at his sudden words, and there–he likes that; the fear, the flinching, it’s familiar. He can work with it. He deepens his frown, just to see what you do.

You swallow, timidly folding your hands in front of you. All proper and prim.

“I–I thought you wanted me to clean.”

He snorts. He doesn’t know what he wants you to do, exactly, but “tidy up the bedroom” probably wouldn’t be at the top of the list.

“I didn’t tell you to clean.” And maybe it comes out snarkier than he intends to be, but so what? He’s allowed to be an ass, if he wants.

Your hands wring together, and your gaze flits down to the floor.

“But I thought… I thought…” You seem to struggle with the words, your voice getting higher, more anxious. You’re like a bird, he thinks, one afraid to fall from some carefully constructed nest in a tree. There’s an instinct to crush you until those brittle bones break–and another instinct, too. One that makes him want to scratch.

“I thought it was… a test.”

What.

“A test? Are you stupid, or something?”

When you don’t answer, just bring your top teeth over your lip and wring your hands tighter, he can’t help the almost cruel warmth that spreads in his chest. This–this is more familiar territory, he thinks.

He wonders, too, how often Overhaul made you look like that; how often he might want to make you look like that in the future.

“What did that freak do to you, anyway?” Curiosity mixes with his existing annoyance, and it clearly takes a moment for you to realize he’s talking about Overhaul.

“Overh–” You catch the words in your mouth. “Kai,” you say, and the way you say it so sweetly feels rehearsed–and gross. “He didn’t do anything.” You shake your head, like you’ve said something awful. “No! I mean. He did everything.” He watches your throat bob as you swallow. “He taught me how to be better.”

“Better,” he says, the word coming out all slow and sticky and thoroughly unimpressed.

“Yes,” you say, staring down at your feet. Your fingers pick at the hem of your nightgown. “How to be… organized.” You seemingly ignore his snort. “How to be clean. Things like that.”

“Why?” He can’t help the sneer in his voice, even if he’s dimly aware that he’s not fully committed to tearing you down just yet. “Were you a dirty girl?”

You frown and swallow and shake your pretty head. “No, of course not. He made me take a bath or shower twice a day.”

So much for teasing. You’re too stupid–or naive, whether it was natural or beaten into you by Overhaul–to get it, apparently.

He’s not sure how long he stares at you. Long enough that you stop worrying at the floor and start worrying at him, your eyes all wide and anxious and getting glossier by the minute. Soon enough, he’s sure tears will start spilling down.

He stops you before you start sputtering out apologies–and teardrops.

“That’s not what I meant.” A finger goes to his neck, scratching. The white dress, the teary eyes, the way you can’t really keep his gaze… it’s annoying. It’s endearing. Both are equally tiresome.

“You’re giving me a headache,” he says, finally. An end to the conversation, he hopes. Then he digs into the pocket of his coat and tosses its contents at you–a wrapped up egg sandwich someone pilfered a while ago, shoved into the shared fridge and forgotten amidst their recent win. “Here. Breakfast.”

You barely catch the sandwich (your reflexes sure are shit, he thinks; you’d die in the wild) but the way you simply stare down at it, words apparently caught behind your teeth, brings irritation to the forefront again.

“What?” He almost bites the words out. “Not good enough for you?” Maybe Overhaul fed you on silver platters or something equally ridiculous.

Perhaps it’s his tone, or maybe you’re just that eager to get him un-pissed at you, but you manage to unstick your tongue and stumble out something akin to an explanation.

“I’m not allowed to have white bread. It’s too processed.” You turn the sandwich over, inspecting. “And there’s mayo… it’s got too much oil, and–”

“Not allowed.” The word becomes a sneer. “Who are you to tell me what I’m allowed to give you?” Captives–that’s what you are, at bare minimum, at least–aren’t usually so damn bold.

And oh, the way your face seems to fall, the way your mouth perks around your words like a damn heroine in a novel.

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean–it’s that–” The wrapper on the sandwich crinkles as your fingers tighten. It makes his chest tighten, too. How stupid. “It’s not safe. It’ll make me sick. Unhealthy. Kai said so–”

So that’s why you turn up your nose at food? Overhaul, of all fucking people?

“Kai says,” he repeats, mocking your voice, the soft lilt of it, the way each word mimics the pitiful wringing of your hands. “Kai,” he continues, “isn’t here. So who gives a flying fuck what he said?”

He doesn’t wait to see what you say or what you do. He leaves without another word–he’ll relax somewhere else, without you and your pitiful self to think about–and doesn’t see you sink down onto the mattress. He doesn’t see the way you grip the sandwich until your fingers smoosh into the bread.

He doesn’t see the way you eventually, and oh it takes so long, peel back the wrapper and take a small and slow bite.

–

It’s only been a few days, and maybe you’re imagining it, but it seems like your stomach is finally beginning to settle. The food isn’t–it isn’t right, it isn’t healthy. That’s what your brain tells you, what your mouth wants to parrot. But you’re so hungry and–this is what Shigaraki wants you to eat.

So you should do what he says. You think. It’s still debatable, still churning around in your head. Kai taught you what was best, and now you’re here, where what was “best” seems to be entirely pointless.

You’re still digesting a microwaved breakfast that definitely wouldn’t have passed Kai’s examination when the door opens. Shigaraki enters, as he always does, without bothering to acknowledge you.

He’ll probably sit down and eat something for himself. Or start texting someone–the other people in his group, maybe. Sometimes he unwinds with video games. Or naps.

But instead, he approaches you, boots thudding on the hardwood floor. They stop right in front of you and you have just enough time to think about all the germs on the bottom of the soles before he speaks–

“Hey.”

You look up. His face is twisted today, nose screwed over, mouth turned down in a frown. You did something wrong, probably. But what? You ate breakfast, and didn’t even complain about it being wrong today. That was a good step. So what–

“You stink.”

Oh.

Shame curls in your gut with the half-digested breakfast. It’s… true. You haven’t washed for days, and you know you’ve been sweating. Shigaraki doesn’t open the windows and the room isn’t exactly a bastion of fresh air, anyway.

He jerks his thumb at the bathroom door. It’s a far cry from your bathroom back home–back with Overhaul. Messy, dirty; the hand towel hasn’t been changed since you’ve been here. And you doubt that Shigaraki cleans the toilet as nicely as Kai did (well, as Kai’s cleaner did, anyway) so the tub can’t be much better.

Still. Still, it’s what he wants, and that’s what should be done–and it would be nice to get under some hot water and have the sweat and grime and overall feeling of awfulness scrubbed away.

So you dutifully follow him into the bathroom, note a change of clothes that he’s dropped into the open sink, and then–as you should–you stand in front of the tub and wait for him to undress you, so that he can give you a bath.

But instead of ordering your arms up or having you sit on the toilet so he can peel off your socks, he simply turns away and starts to leave.

“Wait–” You can’t stop the word from coming out, can’t stop the way you stupidly reach out a hand.

He does stop. He turns around, face questioning, irritation starting to creep onto his features.

“What?” He tilts his chin towards the tub. “There’s shampoo and soap in there. Some random brand Toga stole. Is it not good enough for your highness, or what?” There’s a bit of a jeer in his tone that makes you want to sink into the floor.

“It’s not that,” you force out. “They’re–they’re fine. It’s just…” And your fingers fiddle with your dress, the fabric feeling more thin and frayed from all your worrying it. “Aren’t you going to draw my bath?”

Because that’s how it goes. Kai draws the bath. Kai undresses you. Kai tests the water, and tells you to get in. Then he cleans you or, if you’ve been exceptionally good, lets you do it yourself while he gives the orders.

The jeer in his tone becomes a snort, an almost sneer on his lips. “You really are a princess, you know that? You can draw it yourself. You’re not that stupid.”

And oh, the way your heart pounds. He’s upset, and you’re upset, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s throwing away the natural order of things or if it’s because you’d like him to be nicer to you.

“I’m sorry.” The words feel too loud, in the bathroom, trapped in the small space with you and Shigaraki. “It’s that–Kai says I don’t clean myself up right. So he does it for me. Tells–tells me what to do, if he doesn’t scrub me himself.”

Your fingers clench hard against your fists–and then harder, when you see the emotions registering on Shigaraki’s face. One emotion in particular–disgust. Disgust, yes, and it makes you feel awful. Makes you feel dirty and stupid, and everything Kai said you were, when you hadn’t yet listened. You can’t look at his expression anymore, so you stare at the floor. At your socked feet, at the dirt between the tiles.

It’s the floor that you see when you hear him sigh, when he steps further into the bathroom and practically pushes past you to turn the water on.

Your heart speeds up–is he going to?--but as if he’s read your mind, he crosses his arms. “I’m just filling the tub for you. You can wash yourself. You remember how to do that, right?” And maybe it’s the way the question seems earnest, no longer weighted down with a mocking tone, that makes you feel better. Not stupid–not dirty.

So you nod, and smile–just a little. Just to show your appreciation.

“Good.” He grabs something–a towel–from a hook on the wall and tosses it at you. He glances away when he speaks, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining it, or if there’s really a faint hint of a flush on his cheeks. “Just… shout out when you’re done and I can help you out or whatever. If you need me to.”

He glances back at the tub, filling rapidly with hot water.

As if to burn away the flush on his cheeks, his voice turns jeering again. “I’ll leave once I turn it off. Don’t take forever in here, either, princess.”

Jeering, sure; but with something nicer mixed in, something like a flush underneath it all that makes your skin tingle.

Maybe Shigaraki wasn’t so bad after all.

–

Overhaul had clearly trained you and fucking hell, you really need to be untrained.

It’s this simple fact that helps Shigaraki decide what to do with you–that is, he’s going to keep you.

Dropping you outside would be like putting some pampered house pet on the streets–you’d be gobbled up. And if you happened to go to the police before you were snatched up by some back-alley criminal, it would complicate things, anyway.

Besides–you’re… endearing. In a way. He likes the way you ask for his permission, likes the way you stammer and stumble over your words when you get anxious.

You’re like a pet. A pet project, that’s what you’ll be. He’ll untrain all the weird fucked up things that Overhaul taught you, and make you into something better.

Overhaul had his kinks, that’s for sure. And while he’s not going to deny that there’s something really fucking hot about imagining you being his mindless doll, letting him bathe you and eating exactly what you’re told and waiting for him to come home in a pretty white dress… it’s simply not very fun.

Or practical, truth be told.

And more importantly–

He wants you to be his in the right way. He’s not some replacement for Overhaul, some step-in that you’ll simply pivot to because he’s there.

Sloppy seconds aren’t his style.

Overhaul is nothing now, a useless, handless fuckup who will rot away and forever regret tangling with him. You should forget about him, forget about what he taught you, how things were with Overhaul. (He makes a mental note: Train you to stop saying ‘Kai,’ especially so damn softly, so damn sweetly. Something Overhaul meticulously taught you to do, no doubt.)

In the end, Shigaraki is better than that failure–so you need to be better than the pet Overhaul created, too.

–

It’s not exactly clear why Shigaraki wants to keep you–but he does keep you. And he gives you something Overhaul had taken away from you: he gives you choice.

So much choice. Too much choice, maybe. Foods aren’t off-limits anymore, and Shigaraki doesn’t scold you for any awful table manners. Maybe because you never eat at a table. You’re allowed to watch TV, and even tentatively take up an extra controller to try (and fail) at the video game he’s currently playing.

He even–and it’s got your stomach in knots, as you make your way down the hall–lets you out of the room. To get some air and, today, meet other people. You’re meeting the League, the people you met (so to speak) on the day Shigaraki took you.

“It’ll be better if you get to know everyone,” he says, almost muttering. “In case someone needs to keep an eye on you while I’m gone for a while.”

The thought of Shigaraki leaving you for that long, too long, almost makes you feel sick, but you try to force it away.

“But you won’t be somewhere else too often, will you?” The question comes out too soft. Something else you’re working on; he told you to talk louder. Less like a rabbit, more like yourself. Whoever you were before all this.

Shigaraki glances back at you, something unreadable in his expression. Did you say something wrong, or not? You’re almost bold enough to ask, when he simply snorts and turns around, gesturing for you to enter an open doorway where you can hear chatter already sifting through.

But you stop at the threshold. At the sound, at the thought of being amongst a group of people. Eating whatever you wanted was one thing; but talking to a whole gaggle of others?

“Are you sure…” The words are soft, but you can’t help it. It’s easier to slip back into that place from before; to be soft and quiet and let someone else take over everything for you. “Are you sure you want to let me talk to other people? Wouldn’t it be better if I only talked to you?”

And now, you did say something wrong, because his expression twists. His nose scrunches and his lip curls up, like he’s thinking about something unpleasant. “No,” he says. “That’d be weird.”

“Oh.” Something dull hits your stomach. Embarrassment and disappointment, a terrible mixture. “Sorry.” You swallow, and add, quickly. “I don’t want to be weird.”

“Too late.”

The two of you turn your head inside the doorway in time to see someone with a burnt face and dark hair watching you, arms folded, a teasing grin on his face.

It is also just in time to see a young girl playfully smack the air next to his arm–”Dabi, don’t be a jerk! She’s not weird, she’s cute!”

There’s barely any time to decide if this is a compliment or not, before Dabi–that must be the man with the burnt face, after all–shrugs and grins. “Sorry,” but he doesn’t sound sorry in the least. The fact that the grin is edged by staples doesn’t help.

The rest of the group is sprawled about the room. On a sofa, on the floor. There’s a card game going on. Drinks on the table, along with takeout. The room looks like it was once some sort of office break room, complete with a microwave and dinged-up fridge.

The conversations that must have been going on are silent now, and you’re left standing awkwardly next to Shigaraki in the doorway. He nudges you forward, then takes a step out the door. There’s a strong urge to grab his sleeve and ask if you can go back to the room, but he begins walking down the hallway and doesn’t give you the chance.

“Um,” you say, and his footsteps in the hall stop for a moment. “Nice to… meet you?”

There’s a moment before there’s a burst of laughter, and the girl–Toga, you’ll learn later–grabs your hand and pulls you inside the room.

–

That night, Shigaraki climbs into bed with you and instead of turning over and keeping to his side of the mattress, he slots himself against your back for the first time.

The freeze response comes naturally, as your heart speeds up and your breath seems to slow down. Overhaul did this, too. When he thought you were sleeping, though.

Shigaraki knows you’re up and his fingers, pinky jutting to the side, ghost over your clothed side, caressing your hip. His fingers skitter underneath your shirt and rest against your stomach, before trailing up, bringing the fabric with it.

He cups your chest and you think the sound you make must startle him, because he pulls away without a word. But if he’s mad, he doesn’t tell you. Instead he stays pressed against your back, breathing.

Why was he still in bed?

“Don’t–” And you stutter out the next words quickly, because you’re not telling him to stop touching you. You wouldn’t dare. But– “Don’t you… want to wash your hands now?”

Something between irritation and curiosity lodges itself in his tone. “Why would I wash my hands?”

You lick your lips, and fight the urge to turn around in bed and look at him while you speak. Sometimes, when you told him about–Overhaul–the disdainful expressions he made stirred something awful in your gut. Made you feel ashamed and silly. He didn’t mean to do it, you think; but that didn’t change how you felt.

“Overhaul… when he touched me like this, he always washed his hands in the bathroom after. For a long time. Because–” The word Overhaul would mutter over and over come back, like acid rain pattering on the roof. “I’m dirty.”

You don’t want to look at him, but you don’t get a choice, because he grips both of your shoulders and lifts you up, until the two of you are sitting with your backs against the wall. The curtains are open and the moonlight washes everything out, but you can see him frowning well enough.

“You’re not dirty,” he says. “Stop saying stupid things.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, but you don’t feel sorry at all. Instead you feel–relieved. Lightened.

He frowns. “And stop saying sorry, too.”

“Right. Sorry–”

You stop with a breath left in the word and in a single beat, the two of you burst into laughter.

That’s when you lean forward and kiss him, smashing your lips against his in a brief moment before he pushes you off.

Humiliation stings your chest and you almost start crying in an instant. The world before and the world today blur into one awful moment and you apologize for things you’re not even sure about. “I’m sorry, that was–stupid. I’m awful, I’m bad, I won’t do it again-”

“Shut up. You will do it again.”

Oh. What?

You blink up at him, stupidly, yes, but it’s a nice kind of stupid. The syrupy kind that only gets sweeter when his hand grips your chin and pulls you in. You don’t fight.

This time, he kisses you. His lips are chapped and so are yours, and your mouth opens awkwardly to let his tongue in. It feels wrong and right and for once, there’s nothing old that dredges itself up with the action. No ghost of Overhaul over your shoulder, no commands, no flashbacks to being locked in closets–

Just you and Shigaraki on his bed in the middle of the night, kissing.

–

You can be annoying. Too meak, too unsure; wanting him to guide you and taking too long when he tries to give direction.

You’re a burden, that’s for damn sure, but oh, he doesn’t want to let you go.

The thoughts of releasing you on the streets seem so dim now.

They faded every time you stumbled through eating food that wasn’t perfect by Overhaul’s stupid standards, every time you looked like a deer in headlights at the prospect of washing yourself, every time you suddenly got the ick at his room and scrubbed yourself raw until he stopped you…

You wanted to be better, though–better for him. That’s what sealed it. Well, that, and that kiss, even though it was mostly teeth the first time. He likes you better for that, he thinks. Because that was you.

You’d once told him that you were afraid Overhaul would remake you, so you remade yourself. And now he’s remaking you. No, that’s the wrong word, isn’t it? He’s unmaking. Undo what Overhaul did and find out what’s underneath, Because what’s underneath–you, the you he’s seeing as he peels away each layer of bullshit–belongs to him.

That’s how it should have been from the beginning. Too bad he didn’t find you first.

–

He’s been gone for longer than usual. Long enough that Toga came in with something to eat and played a round of cards with you. Long enough that daylight came and went and came back again, and the sound of morning birds does nothing but contrast with how groggy you feel.

It was too hard to fall asleep, when your stomach was tied up with worry.

They don’t unravel even when the door opens and he comes in, expression troubled, burdened. You know something about burdens. He smells of sweat and dust, and you long to lift it from him. He’s been… nice, hasn’t he? Nice and kinder, kinder than Overhaul, although his words are often short and he sometimes calls you stupid.

He takes a look at you, at the darkened circles under your eyes and maybe he can see all the thoughts swirling around in your head, and snorts. “Go to bed. You haven’t been sleeping.”

“I can stay up,” you tell him, sitting up straighter on the bed. “To keep you company.”

He pauses, drops his coat on the chair. Something in him seems to soften and harden all at once. A vulnerable question left on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see which wait it will roll. “Why? Why would you want to do that?”

Words don’t come easily to you, even now. “I… like being around you.” It’s more than that, but you don’t know how to say it, how to peel it out from your mouth.

He eyes you with something that might be suspicion. “Don’t lie.”

At this, you stand. It feels better to stand, to be on something like stronger footing. “I’m not. I–I like that you let me do things. You don’t get mad if I eat what I want, or if I read certain books, or watch movies with you…”

He doesn’t respond and maybe it’s not words you need. Maybe it’s this–

Maybe it’s you taking a step forward and gripping his shirt and kissing him, just as awkwardly as the first time. This time, when he pushes you away, he keeps his fingers curled on your shirt. His eyes search yours and you don’t know what your expression is saying, but you try to make it say: You make me feel good and I want to make you feel good, too.

“Get on the mattress,” he tells you, but it doesn’t feel like an order. Maybe you’re sugarcoating it. Maybe not. In the end, you’re okay with it; you’re okay with turning around and crawling onto the mattress, knowing what he wants now.

It’s not how you envisioned it happening with him. You remember what you thought that first day, flashes of him taking you while you struggled and squirmed, pinning you to the bed. A villain in a book that Overhaul took away from your bookshelf.

It’s slower. Slower and maybe not sweet, exactly; but there’s some tenderness there that you can’t explain. Tenderness reflected in both your tired eyes, in the smell of dust clinging to his skin, in the way you cling to him and don’t have to worry that he’ll scrub his hands raw afterward.

Tenderness that makes you forget that Overhaul took you and now he took you, and you’re never sure if you’ll ever be your own person again.

–

When it’s over, he cleans you up. Slow but sure. It’s remarkably soft, but you don’t dare say so; if you did, you think he might push you off the mattress for good measure.

“Shigaraki–” you begin.

“Call me Tomura.” He interrupts.

“Tomura,” you say.

Something about that makes you want to cry, so you bury your head further against his chest and blink the tears away.

Later–not this morning and not for some time–you will think about whether Overhaul would have ever fucked you. What he might have thought about the mess of it all. The sweat and panting, the warm liquid between your legs that was carefully wiped away with a warm washcloth before he hopped back into bed.

For now, all you think about is Shigaraki–no, Tomura–who doesn’t tuck you into bed like you’re some precious doll but instead wraps his leg across your own, keeping you close on the mattress as sleep begins to overtake you.

His hand brushes against your hair as the world begins to turn into a formless buzz.

“Do you want to stay with me?” He asks.

It is, you know, a rhetorical question.

#yandere #yandere shigaraki tomura #yandere bnha #yandere shigaraki #yandere my hero academia #afterwitch writes

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toxicanonymity · 3 days ago

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Mama's Boy, 18+

slasher Joel masterlist | problematic playlist | AO3

PAIRING: Slasher!Joel x f!reader LENGTH: 7.2k words and none wasted tbh SUMMARY: Dinner at his mom's house, mostly. WARNINGS: 18+ dark, unsafe PinV, gunplay, degradation, a bit of angst, a whiff of incest, choking-adjacent, dark!reader, major revelations (!), feelings maybe? (god help us), mommy and daddy issues, slasher Joel needs a hug. NOTES: Today is not only mother's day, but also the 2nd anniversary of his first fic. This is packed. @flawssy-227 ty for your activism. And @thesummerpetrichor, I thought of you 🖤. Joel can carry reader.

It's Sunday. He lets himself in.

“Still in bed? Must’ve been ass up face down pretty late last night, huh? Told ya i'd pick ya up… ”

You squint at him as your eyes adjust. “What are you talking about?” He has something draped over his shoulder.

Too much talking. Not enough fucking.

He scoffs, “Really? Sunday dinner, slut.” He marches over to your nightstand with a snarl, picks up a folded piece of paper, and tosses it at you like a frisbee.

Oh yeah.

You unfold it as if it's the first time you've read it: “pick u up sunday.” There's a sketch of his fat cock and a thinner outline of what's presumably a dong next to it. “p.s. u need a real toy.”

Well, here he is. Picking you up on Sunday, and he's even kinda cleaned himself up. A plaid shirt and jeans tighter than his work uniform. Looks like a normal guy you could pass in the supermarket, none the wiser that he’d shove a huge tool up your cunt.

He stands by your bed holding up one dress in each hand. Neither of them yours.

“Now put on somethin’ decent.”

He throws them onto the bed, then pulls a gun out of the back of his pants. “What do you think? ” He gestures between them with the gun.

One of the dresses is simple, clean lines, not far off from something you might normally wear. But it has a brown stain and a frayed edge. It doesn't feel right.

The other dress is a strawberry plant pattern with short sleeves that puff out. It's faded and outdated, but clean and in decent shape–from what you can tell, at least.

“Got my own clothes,” you tell him.

But he insists, “This ain't the street corner, sugar. You're gonna pick one of these.”

“I'm too tired for this,” you complain, then add, “I dunno what makes you think I wanna go to your mom's house.”

“Come on, baby…” He looks at the gun. “I don't wanna use this… unless I'm stuffin’ your muff with it later ”

After looking at both the dresses, you can't bear to put on the stained one and choose the strawberry print. You feel unexpectedly cute in what could have been plucked from a mid century catalogue for housewives, although it’s probably from modcloth circa 2015.

Turning around in the mirror, it’s actually really flattering, and there’s something kinda sexy about dressing up like this degenerate's pretty little wife…Yep, you're really doing this.

Maybe it’s partly out of morbid curiosity, wanting to know where he came from.

How he…. happened.

He brings you a pair of your own shoes and puts them down for you to step into.

“Yeah, that's my girl,” looking over your right shoulder at the bathroom mirror, he grabs your ass, then sticks his hand between your legs from behind, hooking his hand under you to reach your clit. Your feet spread reflexively, giving him more room. Still holding the gun in his right hand, the hand between your legs tents the dress as he strokes you, and your gut begins to swell with need. He spreads his feet and angles himself slightly toward you, getting close enough to press himself against you, letting you feel the warm log in those tight jeans, gun held against his meaty thigh. Your chest heats up and you adjust your tits in the dress, copping a feel of yourself while you’re at it.

“Good girl ” he mutters. With a glint of affection in his eyes, he says, “You were born to wear this dress, kitten.” Now that he’s got you dripping, his fingers slip into the crotch of your panties and he shoves one, then two, inside. “Mm,” he grinds against you as he stuffs you with his fingers. Then he pulls them out and squats down. He lifts the skirt of the dress and yanks the panties down to your ankles. You lean forward and brace yourself on the sink. He stands up, slides the gun between your legs and the smooth, cool metal of the top of the barrel rubs through your slippery seam. Your hips tilt and he slides it forward one last time, before taking it away.

He pats your ass, and says, “Now c’mon, let's go.”

Not even the decency to fuck you first. Not even with the gun.

You scowl at him in the mirror.

He asks, “Am I gonna have to drag you, kickin’ and screamin’?”

“Yeah, actually,” you reply.

“Alright,” he agrees, all too happy to oblige. He puts the sticky gun in the back of his pants, bends his knees. and lifts you over his shoulder with a grunt.

He steps through your open back door and slams it behind him with one hand, his other arm braced over the bare backs of your knees.

You yoink the gun from the back of his pants and he says, “God damnit, be careful with that,” without putting you down.

“You seem pretty sure I won't shoot you,” you observe.

“Course ya won't. Be like a … like a drug addict shootin’ their dealer… nah, shootin’ the drug cooker. Yeah. And he's the only cooker.”

He's getting slightly out of breath as he walks. Or maybe it’s the effort of all that thinking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” You ask.

“Cock hungry whore ain't gonna kill off the biggest cock she's got.”

You press the edge of the barrel against the small of his back and nudge it into his jeans, then demand, “Put me down.”

He groans in exasperation, stops, and sets you down in the side yard.

You almost forget to point the firearm at him. Almost. With the gun raised, you ask, “What’s with the gun anyway? Thought knives were your thing.”

He shrugs. “Special occasion?”

“Why do you want me to come to dinner so bad?”

“Cause I told her we were comin’, okay? Told her ya liked the casserole.”

For the first time, you notice his hair is a little bit combed. You ask, “What'd you tell her about me?”

“Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “She knows we met when I was workin’. Knows I gave ya a ride….knows ya ain't like other girls.”

“What’s that mean?” You ask, adjusting your grip.

“I dunno… ” He shrugs, then gets frustrated. “I ain't brought home a girl home in a long time, okay? And she's gettin’ older, and…”

When you've lowered the gun, he lunges forward, muttering, “Gimme that,” as he disarms you with ease that makes your heart skip a beat. He grabs you by the arm and marches you to the Volvo. He opens the passenger door and manhandles you into the seat.

When he gets in the car, he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you. He smells clean and minty.

As he puts the car in drive, you ask, “What else did you tell her?”

“Uh…. She knows we ain't been on many dates.”

“Not many?” You ask with a laugh. “You mean none?”

He glances at you twice, suppressing a flattered smile at the implication he perceives. He wets his bottom lip. “That mean ya want to?”

He holds the gun against his thigh and steers with one hand.

When you get to his Mom's house, he warns, “Just don't talk about all your whorin’ around, okay? She won't like it.” He checks his hair in the rear view mirror.

You laugh, “What whoring around?”

“All those skinny dicks in your phone,” he mutters, getting out of the car.

“Excuse me?” You ask, still sitting.

“Just tell her about your day job instead,” he says, as if you genuinely don't think or talk about anything other than cock without prompting.

Wait--skinny dicks in your phone? Your train of thought dies when he puts the gun in the back of his pants, and in doing so exposes a few inches of skin, and the tail end of a scar. After he shuts the driver side door, you open yours while he hurries around to help you out.

“Come on,” His big hand wraps around your inner elbow again. “We're gonna be late.” He's slightly in front of you

“Bringing a gun into your mother's house?” you ask as he pulls you along.

He freezes, then mumbles, “You're right. Don't want her to think you're a bad influence. Even if ya are.”

What a gentleman.

He goes and puts it in the glovebox, then jogs to catch up with you again.

When she opens the door, Joel's mother beams at the sight of her son. She steps outside, frail and slow moving. She's pretty, with silky white hair that looks older than her face. The storm door creaks to a stuttering close behind her.

At first, it's like you're invisible. He lets go of you, and they embrace. She reaches for the back of his neck and says, “C'mere, baby,” pulling his face to hers. He kisses her on the cheek, then she kisses him, and then, as they separate, Joel gestures toward you. Her eyes are curious when they meet yours, then her face comes to life as her gaze falls down your body. She puts a hand on her hip as she checks you out, her other hand rising to her mouth for a moment, then resting on her chest, fingers centered in the hollow of her collar bone.

“Joel,” she half-laughs in flirtatious accusation, then narrates, “Well, there she is…”

“Don't she look nice? ” Joel asks with a subtle smile and blush.

His mom admires you with an air of disbelief, then goes in for a hug. Her fragrance isn't entirely new to your nostrils, and the sensory recall brings an unsettling tingle to your loins: The night Joel brought the leftovers.

She holds you close, pressing her body all the way against yours without fully relaxing. Firm and in control, and yet , she feels softer than she looks. Her bosom is like a warm pillow. Like a relic of young motherhood, reaching through time, tickling your inner child awake.

As the hug ends, she gently pinches the puffed sleeves of your dress and says to Joel without looking at him, “Yes, baby. She looks real pretty.” Then, glancing up from your dress, she tells you with a smile, “Can't promise strawberries, but I do have cherry pie. Come on in.”

“Thank you, ma’am” you nod.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she chuckles, “You can just call me Mama.”

It sounds like you should know better. Like ‘Mama’ is the most obvious option. You glance at Joel, and he nods with a little smile of permission, as if that's what you’re looking for, and he's glad to give it.

Might as well rip the bandaid off: “Okay… Mama… well, it's nice of you to have me over.” In the back of your mind, you hope Joel doesn't think this is any special effort on your part. It's more like, your job requires manners, and this is your default setting with older folks.

She holds the door open with her body and you have to graze past her. “Smells delicious,” you observe with genuine hunger, having slept through the first two meals of the day.

She straightens her frilled apron with a smile and suggests, “Joel, why don't you give your girl a tour while I finish up?”

This is a relief - you hadn't been consciously dreading it, but worst case scenario, she would've asked you to help in the kitchen. She seems like that type.

–

It’s a humble brick ranch. Dimly lit. Everything is out of style, but tidy. There are a few bedroom doors, but he doesn’t open any of them, and you don’t pry. The paint in the hall is disrupted over a poorly repaired dent in the wall. You try not to look at the stains on the ceiling.

One of the living room walls has a fireplace, and one wall is lined with pictures. There's a bare corner with nothing but a crochet rug – a rounded rectangle, with raised crosses. The paint is newer over there. Bubbling and wanting to peel as the wall approaches the perpendicular wall, the one with the fireplace.

Before you can get a good look at anything, Joel steers you outside. In the small backyard, a wooden garden bed has overgrown with weeds. The lawn is nice and trim. “You help out with the yard?” You ask.

“Uh, sometimes,” he answers. “ She's got somebody else too .”

He rocks forward on his feet, arms crossed.

“So... you gonna fuck me in your boyhood bedroom?” You ask, and he clears his throat with a forced smile, brows knitted.

“What?” you ask. “Why the hell else would you take my panties?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, allowing himself only a brief glance at you, until he does a double take and admits, “Fuck, you look good.” He seems more distressed by it than anything.

No such luck, you guess, raising your eyebrows at the visible outline against his thigh. Never would've pictured him in jeans.

He runs his hand through his hair, puffs out his cheeks with an exhale, and adjusts himself with effort before leading you back inside. His boot grazes the side of a metal bowl, sloshing water into dark spots on the cement.

She pours Joel a glass of milk with dinner, and when you politely decline, Joel says, “One glass won't hurt ya, baby .” Mama seems pleased to bring over the old fashioned bottle of milk. She rests her free arm on the back of your chair, with the fine lines of her cleavage near your eyes as she fills your glass.

The meatloaf is delicious, with sauce that reminds you of barbecue. The mashed potatoes are over-buttered, but they hit the spot. She smiles to herself, satisfied to watch you eat.

“So tell me about yourself,” she says. “Do you work?”

You swallow your food, nod, and tell her which clinic you work at.

“Oh,” she recognizes the name. “The one over on Main Street?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“That's nice,” she says. “Joel's going to own his own business one day. Do you ever want to own your own practice?”

“Oh, no, I don't think so,” you answer, then ask Joel, “What kind of business?”

“Joel, I'm surprised you haven't told her,” his Mom says, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial volume to tell you, “He’s too modest.”

“Ya know, I guess a tow and repair one-stop shop,” Joel says. “Not a lot of guys do both, but I can really take care of ya. Same night, even. Late hours, too.”

His mom nods. “I always knew he'd be successful,” she says. “Even in the darker days.”

Joel tenses and begins to tap his heel. “ How about you, Mama? ” he asks, “ What have you been up to? ”

“Oh, you know, this and that,” she says. “Crossword was a doozie today!” she laughs. “What are you two gonna do this week? Anything special?”

You shrug and look at Joel.

He starts, “Uh… ”

His Mom bails him out, “You oughta take her to the drive-in like I said, baby,” then she asks you, "Would you like that, honey? You like the drive-in? We used to go, it was so nice.”

“Sure, I like movies,” you answer.

“See, Joel? She likes movies.”

Joel finishes his meatloaf relatively quickly, and his mother puts another generous slice on his plate.

“I don't need any more, Ma,” he says, but she doesn't listen, and he digs into it anyway. By his third slice, he’s pushed back in his chair, adjusting his belt. He pats his tummy and says, “There's nothin’ she makes that ain't good.”

“Only the best for my boy,” she agrees, then asks you, “Ain’t that right?”

“Of course,” you agree.

“Oh! I saw Randall Junior earlier,” she says. “He came by and did the lawn.”

“Randy,” Joel corrects her.

“Yeah, Randall’s son.”

“Randy,” Joel repeats. “He ain’t even a Junior, Ma. He’s the third.”

“Well, it was nice to see him,” she reminisces, fiddling with the corner of her placemat. She catches herself, smooths it down, then brings her hands together, fiddling with her left ring finger. “I swear, that boy’s an inch taller every time I see him.”

“He’s in his thirties,” Joel tells you, drawing a genuine smile to your lips. One that brings a sparkle to his eyes.

“Well, anyway,” she goes on, “A face like that belongs in the movies,” she chuckles to herself. “Of course, he’s nowhere near as handsome as my Joel,” she looks at you reassuringly as she says it. Lest you pine after Randy the third .

A silence stretches on until you say, “Well, this was delicious. I’d love the recipe…” You dab the corners of your mouth and put down your napkin.

“Oh, it’s not a recipe, honey,” she boasts, “It’s somethin’ ya do from the heart.” After a moment, she adds, “But I can write down the ingredients! Now, how about some cherry pie?”

She stands up, puts her apron back on, and you help her clear the table. “Go on Joel, we’ve got it,” Mama tells him, and he goes to sit in the living room.

“Okay,” Mama whispers to herself as she plates the first slice, a generous one. “This one’s for him.” You take it to Joel and he sits up from the couch to accept it with a thank you, reading your face for signs of how things are going. You flash him a small, unrevealing smile.

“Gonna take a piss,” he mumbles, and his eyes ask if that’s okay. “Sure,” you say with a little curtsy, trying not to smirk as you turn and head back to the kitchen.

Mama’s about to plate the other slices of pie when she lifts a finger in the air and says, “Oh, let me write this down before I forget,” then retrieves a notecard and pencil from a drawer. She puts on a pair of glasses and smiles to herself as she jots down the ingredients. You dwell in the threshold of the living room.

She looks up like she’s trying to remember something, then looks down and keeps writing on the notecard.

You begin to look at the pictures on the wall. Some are of Joel, and he’s straight-faced. Some are of cats. Charmingly, a blurry photo of a black cat has been deemed frame-worthy. It sits within a bigger rectangle, the shadow of where a different frame used to be. There are a few spots like this. There are a few relatively recent photos of Joel and his Mom. None with his father, as far as you can tell. None now, and none then. But when you look closer at the older ones, it’s clear some of them have been trimmed.

“He hates having his picture made,” Mama startles you from less than a foot away.

“You two seem really close,” you offer. “Just the two of you?”

She raises her eyebrows in amusement and lowers her volume. “Oh, Joel made sure of that .”

A chill in her voice hardens your nipples and dries your mouth. You search her face for more, but her eyes have wandered, and her face has fallen. “Been about thirty years, just the two of us—well, just me for a while…” You follow her eyes to the corner with the crochet rug, and she squeezes your arm.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

She eases her grip and manages a little smile. “Yes, dear.” She hands you the notecard.

Her handwriting is beautiful. Captivating.

You stay there, eyes scanning the photo wall, while she finishes plating your pie and hers.

One of the frames catches your eye. It’s the first one you’ve really zeroed in on, looking at the faces and not just the context. The picture is faded and yellowed.

Joel is young and smiling, with a pin-up looking woman hanging all over him.

A rush of begruding jealousy begs the question, who is that?

And then, your stomach turns before the realization sets in.

It’s a much younger Mama, with dark, loose curls befitting of a centerfold. All dolled up and glowing, with her arm around his middle. And god damn, her tits are swelling up out of her neckline. She looks…. Hot. Your lungs go hollow, then your chest expands with a deep breath. Something's stirring in your gut. Arousal? Attraction?

Your eyes pan down to her Mary Jane heels, but the swell of her breasts, those bouncy curls… your eyes are pulled back up her body. The dress is cute, and proper. Innocent, even. But the way she wears it… Sweetheart neckline, puffed sleeves… You squint for a closer look, and your breath hitches. Heat rises to your face, to the tips of your ears. Your heart races. You pull your eyes away, chest burning, and pretend you don't notice anything.

Something soft brushes your calf and you gasp and jump as you look down to see a black cat thread between your legs.

“Oh, it’s Daniel!” Mama says. “He must’ve come in behind you. Not allergic, are you? Here’s your pie, honey.” She sets down your plate on the coffee table.

“You good, baby?” Joel asks.

Taking your place on the sofa next to Joel, you sit like a lady, one foot tucked behind the other ankle, minding your lack of panties. The dress is just long enough to cover your knees.

The three of you finish dessert in silence aside from forks scraping good china and Daniel purring from that rug in the corner. Joel finishes first, and stretches his arm behind you on the sofa. When you finish, you sit back with him, knee brushing his. You will yourself to relax. You will yourself not to ogle his mother in trying to reconcile her fragile frame of today with those curves of yesteryear.

She looks back and forth at the two of you sitting side by side and smiles. She puts down her plate, crosses her legs toward you, and clasps her hands. A smile rises through her pretty cheekbones as she looks directly at you.

“Ya know, Joel was top of his class.”

You raise your eyebrows.

Joel takes his hand off the back of the sofa and leans forward, forearms on his knees, full belly filling out the plaid against his lap as he wrings his hands. “Mama.” Joel’s tone is cautionary, but his face is more pleading. He shakes his head ever so slightly.

Ignoring him, she smiles proudly at you.

You try not to sound as skeptical as you are when you ask, “Really?”

She nods.

“Mama,” he whispers.

“Mm-hmm,” she smiles.

He sits up straight, wipes his hand down his whole face and sits back in defeat. His arm doesn't return behind you.

She continues, “There were a couple other boys, went in ‘round the same time – took’em three tries to get their GED. Three tries, at least. Not my Joel. He got his on the first try,” she beams. “The warden shook his hand.”

“Okay,” Joel mutters.

The Warden. Your heart skips a beat and your face goes cold, but you pray it doesn't show.

You turn and congratulate him, “That’s great, Joel.”

He doesn't meet your eyes. He’s looking at the carpet with a defeated scowl, jaw flexing, chest heaving, arms crossed limply over his stomach. He tries to manage a smile of acknowledgement. You can see the effort, but humiliation prevails.

You feel for him and add, “Really, babe.”

His face softens, but his posture doesn't change. After a moment, without looking up, he mumbles, “Long time ago.”

“Yeah,” his mother nods. “He's always been a smart boy.” She starts talking about his favorite subjects, and how he could have gotten his bachelor's too, three times over, if the program was worth a damn, and state funding, and blah blah blah, riots, and understaffing, and shanks hidden in law library books, and a few bad apples spoil it for everyone…

Your eyes are on him, tuning her out, best you can, despite your curiosity. You rest your hand on his knee, and he relaxes a little. And then, once your face turns toward his mom again, Joel looks at your face, assessing the damage.

You want to hear it all– how long he was locked up, how he ended up in juvie. You're afraid you already know that part.

Daniel purrs loudly from the crochet rug, and you will yourself not to look in that direction.

Joel's Mom looks at Daniel and gets quiet as her eyes wander up that wall that must've been painted over, God how many times in the past thirty years? She idly caresses her ring finger.

You squeeze Joel's knee, slide your hand up his jeans a couple inches, and squeeze again. You tap your thumb, and his hand joins yours.

“We oughta get goin’, Ma,” he announces.

“Oh,” she frowns, slumping in defeat.

“I'm workin’ tonight, and she's gotta work early.”

“Okay,” she whispers to herself, stands up, and smooths her dress.

—---

“It's nice to know there's a good woman looking after my son,” she says as she bids you goodbye with another hug.

Your heart swells at the praise, you can't help it. Her apparent sincerity weakens your eyes, makes you shake away your own memories and steel yourself as she says goodbye to Joel.

“Chin up, baby.” She holds Joel's face, makes him look at her. “Give your mama some sugar.” She gives him a smack on the lips. He doesn't kiss back, but he does accept her hug.

He pulls up his jeans on the way to the car. Almost forgets to open the door for you.

He doesn't look at you, even when he buckles you in, which you would have done yourself if you hadn’t froze.

He swallows more thickly. His posture is less proud.

For the first few minutes of the drive, you ride in silence. Then you ask, “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” He grumbles.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, tummy tickling with a pang of sympathy for the man.

“No,” he answers flatly with no hesitation.

“You don't have to,” you reassure him.

“I know I don't have to,” He snaps. “God, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about.”

You watch him scowl at the road, clenching his strong jaw. His gaze is so dark. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. As if noticing this himself, he stretches one hand out, spreading his fingers before assuming a more relaxed grip.

You wonder… was he born a killer?

He's got this tough, violent shell about him, and now you know there's something else under there. Is he sorry he brought you to dinner, you wonder? You don't want him to be.

“Well, it was nice meeting your mom,” you remark. “Meatloaf was fantastic…. The pie, too.” You cradle the Tupperware stacked in your lap. “You wanna hang out for awhile?” you ask.

“Gotta work,” he answers flatly and swallows with his eyes still on the road.

“Well, that's too bad.” It really is. 'Cause you're not any less horny than he got you in your bathroom two hours ago. Wetter, if anything, you realize, and warmth blooms in your cheeks. Now the sun is going down. You reach back and put the Tupperware on the back seat, then shamelessly turn toward him. You lean your temple against the headrest and watch him drive.

He’s hard-working. Complicated. Private. And his mom’s right, he is successful, all things considered.

You wonder where his dad is buried. Whether he was handsome, like Joel. Maybe . But with or without him, Joel got those looks from Mama.

Joel glances over and shoots you a dark look. A warning.

“You don't gotta play nice,” he says.

“I'm not playing anything,” you protest.

He lets out a dismissive chuckle.

“Pull over,” you tell him.

“For what?” He asks.

His meaty thighs are spread, swelling in those tight jeans. He follows your eyes and squints at you, then slides his hand under his belly and adjusts his belt, annoyed.

“Just pull over Joel,” you repeat.

“Ain't in the mood for your games, sweetheart,” he says.

You open the glove box, then close it with the gun in your hand. You point it at him. “Pull over, god damn it,” you tell him.

He squints and looks at you up and down before dismissing you with a silent, condescending laugh.

Keeping the gun trained on him, your free hand unbuckles your seatbelt, then slides between your legs. You pull the skirt of the dress all the way up to expose your cunt.

“You serious?” He asks.

“Serious as a heart attack,” you confirm.

And that's not what killed his dad, you think.

It must've been messy.

He must've deserved it, by the looks of Joel's back. The way the moonlight skidded over his scars, that night in your bedroom.

Joel shakes his head, keeps driving, and you lift the gun to his temple. “Pull over right now,” you repeat, quieter.

“Jesus, FUCK,” he relents, neck vein bulging as he veers toward the shoulder.

It's close to dusk now, on a suburban road, and you're half way out of the seat before the car's in park.

Stretching your leg over the center console, you help yourself into his lap, straddling him, still holding the gun. With your free hand, you begin to unbutton his shirt.

For a moment, all he does is stare at you and breathe heavier. “You're fuckin’ with me,” he tells himself out loud, not wanting to fall for a joke. He has his elbows back and out of the way, one arm on the door, one on the center console, but he’s itching to have you. You can see it in the way his biceps twitch. His stomach rises and falls with heavier breaths under his white tee.

“I’m not,” you assure him.

He lets you pick up his hand, and you guide it between your legs so he can feel how wet you are.

His face darkens, and his hand reflexively grabs your cunt.

“Somethin’ wrong with you?” he asks.

“That’d make two of us,” you answer.

You glance at the gun to make sure the safety's still on, then point the barrel at his chest and reach down to grab the massive bulge in his jeans. The largest you could imagine, for a cock that’s not quite hard. And he chubs up quick under the lustful pressure of your palm.

“You're into this shit,” he says. “ Like some kinda kink.”

Ya think?, you manage not to say out loud.

But you get the subtext: He’s a real person... With a real big cock that swells harder in your palm as you massage him slow with your breasts heaving. He cups your bare ass cheeks. You slide your hand up the front of his jeans, and his hips lift under you, chasing your palm. The heel of your palm presses into his gut as you unbuckle his belt. You rest your wrist on the seat, gun pointed toward the back of the car as your hand continues its work between your bodies.

With his belt buckle out of the way, you grope at his cock through the denim again, then unzip his jeans and rest your hand on the curve of his belly, splaying your fingers out before sliding your hand down into his jeans. As your hand engulfs the mushroom shape of his cockhead, then his swollen shaft, you moan at the girth. “Yeah,” you breathe, “You gonna fuck me in your mother’s dress?” You end the question with a firm grab of his package, and he grunts, nearly breathless, then sighs as you palm his cock hungrily through the cotton of his boxer briefs.

“Looks really fuckin’ good on you,” he answers with a nod.

Blood’s still rushing to his cock, responding to its need to stiffen up and plug whatever gaping hole appears in front of it.

“Looks good on her too,” you note.

“Fuck,” he breathes under your slow but aggressive massage. His eyes pour over your chest and he says, “Looks better on you.” If he’s not lying–and it feels like he’s not–-it’s quite a fucking compliment. His shaft plumps with as much as blood as it can hold, stiff as a rod, fat and juicy, hard as hell, spilling precum in his boxers.

“Ohh, fuck,” he moans. His hips lift and his abs tense and his belly swells against your forearm.

You slide your hand up again, and under his waistband. You brace your wrist on his shoulder, pointing the gun toward his neck as your hand slides into his warm boxer briefs to feel the smooth skin of his aching manhood.

“You wanna put that down?” he asks.

“No,” You reply, unable to connect your thumb fingers around his girth.

“Man, when ya need it ya need it, huh?,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy. “Need this cock real bad, don’t ya? ”

“Yeah,” you answer.

“Need to pack that droolin’ gash,” he says. “ Pack it full. ”

“Yeah,” you nod and raise yourself a few inches. You get his tip at your entrance, then slide it through your dripping pussy.

"Oh, fuck,” he moans, “God damn sex kitten.. . FUCK, youre hot”

He breathes audibly, watching you with forced patience as you notch his broad tip at your hole. You start to sink down on him with some difficulty, face scrunching, biting your lip in frustration, eyes watering with need.

“What's the matter, sweetheart? Forget how to take a cock all the sudden?”

You lift yourself up and sink down a little more, swallowing the tip.

“Oh fuck,” he moans. He puts his hands on your hips and pulls you down with an upward thrust, spearing you on his monster girth.

“Yeah…oh, fuck,” he breathes, not quite bottomed out. “Ugghh,” he groans, pulling you down more with an upward thrust to the hilt, fully seated in you at last.

“God, you're filthy.” He wets his bottom lip, admiring what a mess you’ve become in his lap. “Hot little slut like you…. Oh, you're trouble,” he says.

You begin to lift yourself, letting most of his meat out of you, tip dragging thick and tight through your walls, your slick beading under the crown and sliding down his shaft. Then you sink back down, splitting yourself open on his girth with a sigh.

The sky has erupted into shades of pink and purple as it begins to sink past the horizon.

Electricity runs through your blood. Your skin hums. His neck glistens with goosebumps and the hues of his shirt look brighter in the almost-dark.

He grabs your hips as you ride him, then moves his big hands to your waist. Each time you slide up his cock, it’s easier to sink back down. Your body’s hungry for more each time. You can feel it pulsing wider around him, welcoming his girth, hungry for more.

“Yeah,” he encourages you as you find a rhythm. “Like that.”

You seize one of his wrists to move his hand to your neck.

“You're a real freak, baby,” he taunts you, brushing his thumb against the delicate skin of your neck before carefully positioning it and raising his eyebrows at you. He closes his eyes as you sink down on him again and his girth slides easily through your soft walls. When he opens his eyes, his massive hand gives your neck a little squeeze, and you moan in appreciation.

“Guess it takes a freak to fuck a guy like you,” you spit back.

He scowls, and his nose twitches.

You go on, “Mighta picked the only freak in town who’d fuck you by choice,” you tell him. “Lucky call,” you say. “Lucky you have such a fat fucking cock,” you taunt him and study his face, hopeful for a sign that he could snap. “What else do you have?” You ask, and it feels almost too cruel. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lot to have… fuck,” you breathe. “Mmm,” fully stuffed by his girth.

“Quit runnin’ your damn mouth,” he snaps and grabs the gun by both ends at once, smoothly disarming you with an effortless twist of his hands. He places the barrel against the hollow of your neck and asks, Is “That what ya want, ya dumb slut? Tryna get yourself killed?”

You freeze, half-way on his cock, getting lost in his eyes.

“Well God damn, if you're gonna ride it, ride it. I'm gonna lose my goddamn patience” he warns.

When you don’t sink down fast enough, he gets rougher, putting you in a bruising grip, one arm wrapped around you, tightening like an anaconda.

He fucks up into you from the bottom, both arms behind you, with the gun held vaguely to your neck.

“Yeah,” you moan.

He growls, pushes his back against the seat, and his stomach pushes against your front, pushes and rubs as he fucks you harder, rocking the car.

The windows fog up.

He unzips the back of the dress and tears it down to reveal your breasts.

He watches them move as you’re bounced on his thick manhood. He snarls and grunts like an animal possessing his prey.

“I see you,” you whisper, intoxicated by the rhythmic stroke of him up in your guts.

“Fuck you,” he rasps.

“Fuck me ,” you retort, “Fuck me,” you repeat, “Fuck me, killer,” your cunt spasms with the word.

“Knew what I was, don’t act fuckin’ surprised.”

"Fuck," you moan, swallowing up his cock. “I'm -mmm- m’not,” you say. “I'm turned on.”

“You’re sick,” he says, burying his cock in you fully, once again.

Your nipples harden, you moan, and he looks at you skeptically, even as he feels your walls twitch around his absurd girth.

“Know that pussy's hungry for something bigger,” he says.

“Like what?” you ask and feel the gun leave your neck.

“Get up.” He checks the safety.

When you rise up, he holds the gun near his dick, making the barrel of it look like a twig.

“Best I got here,” he says with your gummy walls clinging to his shaft as you let out all but the tip.

“Think she can take it?” he asks. “Shit, we know she can.”

You lift all the way up onto your knees, letting his cock fall out. It bounces, bringing a string of slick with it, and stands stiff at attention.

He works three fingers into you with ease.

“Gimme your hand,” you ask.

“Hand's fuckin’ busy,” he says, referring to the one holding the gun.

“No, gimme your whole hand,” you demand greedily, and grab his wrist with his fingers still buried in your cunt.

“Attagirl,” he says, then works a fourth finger into you. “Best I can do here, sweetheart,” he winces as he fucks you with four clustered fingers.

“Fuck this,” he decides, unable to stand his throbbing cock growing ever colder outside your cunt.

He positions you over his dick and the gun, uses his fingers to spread your pussy around both, then pulls you down.

“Uh–ughh,” your mouth is agape as you sink down the shaft and barrel, taking them both.

You’re a quivering mess.

He holds the handle steady and says, “Good girl.”

You don't go all the way down. The cool barrel slides against one side of your walls.

“God damn, this hungry pussy,” he pants, cock stiff against the gun. “God damn, i know she can take more,” he says, frustrated without much more to give you.

“How do you know?” you ask

“Cause I've seen ya gapin’ wide open, sweetheart.”

You moan at his words, pussy quivering around his cock and gun.

“Wide fuckin’ open,” he repeats. “Ya take my fist… take two dicks…fuck ,” he twitches inside you. “ Took my goddamn wrench…. greedy fuckin’ cunt,” he goes on.

Then you're seized by a swell in your lower belly…. The pressure that’s been simmering quickly boils over, and you whimper as you come on his cock and the gun.

“Yeah,” he pants as your walls flutter and your thighs quiver.

He lifts you up with one arm, and takes out the gun, putting it aside. Then he slams you all the way down on his cock. “Oh god, yeah,” he pants, “Freak nasty whore ”

You moan and let it ride, clenching around his cock, your walls hugging it tighter each time, with the girth of the gun no longer holding you open.

Your climax wanes and your legs are weak. “Oh fuck,” he pants, “Gonna fill this dirty snatch,” He sweats and grunts. “Gonna stuff her with my load,” he warns, “Bout to fill this gash right up .”

“Fuck,” he breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust up into you, then slams you down, and with an upward jolt of his hips begins to drain his massive balls. “Fuck,” he sighs as he comes inside. “Fuck, you're crazy,” he says with another rope, warm and sticky, hitting your womb.

“Tryna get knocked up by some psycho killer ya picked up on the side of the road,” he says. “ Fuck, you goddamn freak .”

Still milking his cock, something possesses you to cradle his face as he slows down. Another burst of warmth in your core, as your face approaches his. He starts to turn his cheek, but your hands become forceful. “C’mere, asshole,” you demand, grinding into him with his cock pulsing deep inside again. His neck begins to relax, and he sighs with his eyes closed. You hold his face steady and bring your face to his. When your lips meet his are limp and open.

Another warm spurt into your womb, and when you moan against his mouth, he moans back. His lips soften, then cradle yours. Your tongue slips into your mouth, and his pushes into yours. He grabs the back of your head, pulling you into his face as he kisses you, releasing a final burst of hot seed. “Mm,” he grunts into your mouth, hands holding each other’s faces. Glued together, consuming each other in the dark. The passion simmers to something gentler as your loins twitch with aftershocks, becoming over-sensitive.

You break away to breathe, gasping for humid air in the fogged-up car.

He pants, looks up at the ceiling. His neck vein pulses. His skin is clammy looking, dewy with cold sweat,

“Fuck,” sighs, his chest heaving, “Still got your goddamn tits out.” He admires them, then feeds himself one. He tongues your nipple, and when your cunt squeezes him, he winces, letting it out of his mouth.

A tractor trailer whizzes by, shaking the whole car.

“Alright,” he says, and nudges you off his lap. “Now pull yourself together.”

He takes the gun, wet with your juices, puts it on the dashboard near him. He looks over at you skeptically when you've climbed back over the center console into your seat.

“You better stuff that dress between your legs,” he warns. “Don’t want ya leakin’ all over the goddamn place.”

THANK YOU FOR READING.

Believe it or not, I cut two scenes from this lol so I might put them in a little bonus visit between Joel and his mom soon.

Look, this took me a year and I feel like I've finally done my mental vision justice lol. So, please interact 🧎‍♀️🥺🖤

anon is fine if you're shy!

#dark!joel miller #slasher!joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #toxicanonymity ☠️#slasher!joel miller #cw dubcon

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vibrantdream · 3 days ago

Text

Is it worth it?

That was the question I found myself wrestling with. After all, I had things pretty good as they were. I had a stable income working in my parents' armory shop. I was also not particularly short on offers. Nobility, I am not, but I was still a decent prospect for marriage. My life was both stable and comfortable which made the fact that I was even considering chasing after this lead absolute madness.

Common sense said to settle. Find a suitable partner in town, have children, teach them armorsmithing when they were old enough. Magic could be finnicky anyway, and I'm no mage. I barely have the ability to cast the cheapest and simplest of spells, like a dating spell. I could have cast it wrong. Or perhaps the spell itself was flawed. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time a dating spell proved unfruitful.

A near-certain suicide mission wasn't worth a maybe.

And yet my mind burned. Not only with that name, that honey-sweet name that rolled off my tongue like water over rocks, but with a bright curiosity. I had cast the dating spell almost four months prior. Doubtless, my match had been adventuring then, far too busy to worry about love. So why now? Why cast the spell while trapped in the deepest, deadliest dungeon in history? Who would embark on such a hopeless rescue mission, if that had, in fact, been my match's intent? What good could knowing my name and location possibly do in such bleak circumstances?

I wanted to know. I wanted to know that answer more than almost anything.

I found myself pulling my personal armor out of storage: I had only worn it twice and it was slightly misshapen, having been the first full set I ever made, but that was nothing I couldn't fix now. I fired up the forge, hammering away until it matched the quality of my current work. I spent the next few days inscribing protective spells and sigils on the bracers, and inside the breastplate, referencing our books on magical armor. My father shook his head fondly whenever he found me toiling over it, offering advice here and there, but never berating me. I hadn't told him, but he suspected something.

Neither of my parents were surprised when I told them I was leaving, sword at my waist, armor shining and polished. My mother hugged me and kissed my cheek, handing me a bag full of supplies and provisions.

"Come home safe." She said. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I might not come home at all.

"I will let you go," My father said, "on one condition. You leave that sword here."

"Father, I'm going to need a weapon. I'm going somewhere dangerous," I said.

"I rather suspected you would," He said, "Which is why I think this will serve you better." He turned to a chest and brought out a long bundle wrapped in cloth, which he offered to me.

My heart stuttered. "My great-grandmother's sword?"

My father nodded. "It saw her through entire wars. I think it shall meet your needs nicely."

I slowly reached out and grabbed the hilt as my father unwrapped the cloth. The blade shone brighter than my armor due to the diligent care my father put into maintaining it. My hands weren't shaking, but only because I was terrified of dropping it.

My father removed my sword belt and strapped on a new belt with my great-grandmother's scabbard before he stood back and looked at me. "That's more like it. You be careful out there, now. And you should know you're gonna need a little help along the way: you're not used to adventuring. There's a list in the bag of people and organizations who might be of help. People will recognize that sword and scabbard before you speak a word so take very good care of them."

"I will." I said hastily. "I promise I will. Just like you taught me."

My father nodded and gave me one last hug before I sheathed my new sword and set off to find--and potentially save--my one true love.

It was madness, but I'd do it or die trying.

A new dating spell is trending in the magic world—cast it, and if your perfect match also does, you’ll instantly know who and where they are. Simple. Yours just activated. Their name burns in your mind… and their location? Deep beneath the earth, at the bottom of a dungeon no one returns from.

#fantasy #writeblr #writing prompts #writing practice #adventure

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iamthatonefangirl · 3 days ago

Note

oh look it's me again but uh winter soldier with an exhibitionism kink👀

-🍒

I love u queen

public - nsfw winter soldier

okay so obviously these two are so fucking weird but I really want to explore this fuck ass relationship dynamic, so that’s kind of what I’m doing here. for the sake of writing this scene the way I want to, assume they've never been out in public together before.

fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated. pre-established relationship.

~~~

when he grabbed your hand and started dragging you to the bedroom, you assumed you knew exactly what was about to go down.

except when you got there, he didn't immediately pull you into bed. he let go of your hand halfway through the room and walked over to the closet, leaving you stunned. what was he doing?

in a second, he was throwing something at you. you quickly grabbed whatever he'd tossed to you, some article of clothing, and you looked down at it to unfold it.

your little black dress?

you confusedly looked up at him for confirmation, and he nodded, pointing to it.

okay, so he wanted to fuck you while you were wearing the dress, apparently.

~~~

you were way off, apparently.

he wouldn't just tell you what he wanted, of course he wouldn't. when did he ever...

so after you finally realized you were going out, you were floored. he grumbled something about going to a bar, confusing the hell out of you.

so you decided to treat it like any other night out, do your makeup real heavy, thick eyeliner and dark lipstick. you could almost hear his whole body stiffen when he saw you all done up.

so you could still surprise him.

~~~

he took you a fairly decent bar, not one of those dingy crapholes you imagine he might go to while out on a job, looking for whatever sustenance he could find while working.

but still shoddy enough for him to be seen there.

that's when you knew for fact that there was an ulterior motive. sure, there always was with him, but now?

what was the plan here?

he didn't like to be seen, but he seemed to want to show you off. his hand never left your waist once, from the second you walked out the door until the point you ordered your drinks. and even then, he still held you like someone would try to take you from him.

regardless, he wanted the sprinkling of men in the bar to see you. to see that you were all dolled up, dressed nicer than anyone else there, and you were his.

so it's a power trip, you think. to have power over the other men in the room, that he had something they could look at but couldn't touch; could desire but couldn't have. to have the power of knowing he owns you, not only within the walls you live in, but everywhere you go.

you'd never seen him like this before.

you soaked up every second of it, of being the only person he directed any attention to in a room full of people. of finally having the chance to somewhat show off that you were, in fact, taken.

since you'd never have the chance to have a normal relationship with him.

you basked in it as long as you could.

~~~

he watched you every second, like a hawk.

he eyed you when you put on the dress, as you did your makeup so boldly, as you stepped out of the black taxicab. he watched you.

he knew this was a bad idea. he knew being seen in public with you was a bad idea.

but he had an idea in his head, and he wasn't going to back down now. so he plotted it perfectly.

over the course of one or two drinks each, you slowly meandered over to a darker corner of the room, far more sparse with people. men's gazes finally drifted away from you, focusing back on their beers, drowning their thoughts and forgetting entirely about you.

when he pushed you up against the wall, holding you by the hips, you knew.

he's about to pull something. in public.

"James, no," you hiss, holding your glass close to your chest and looking around the room for any onlookers. you found none, and looked back into his eyes.

you'd gotten good at reading him, a man of little expression and even fewer words. you had to given how little he spoke.

so when you looked in his eyes, you knew. he wanted this, but he wouldn't do something so bold without you agreeing.

this is stupid, you think. a terrible, horrible idea...

it's arguably even stupider that you're already out in public together, being seen together. granted, there were no security cameras in the place (something he'd taught you to look for) and nobody that appeared to be suspicious (something you knew he looked for everywhere he went).

so you looked around the room once more before setting down your glass and inching both of your bodies closer into the dark corner. you pulled his chest flush against yours.

and then his hands were on your thighs, trailing up underneath the fabric that left little to the imagination.

this was stupid. he was being reckless.

but he was still a trained... don't think about that.

he's trained for the worst of the worst. if it wasn't safe, he wouldn't do this, wouldn't put you in danger.

at least, that's what you try to tell yourself when your breath hitches. you try to hold it to keep yourself from making any noise as he touches you.

a metal hand comes to grope at your chest, and you swallow down a moan before it can escape your lips. he notices, obviously, and gives you a small nod to laud you for it.

he's on edge, you can tell. still listening to everything happening in the room, prepared for anything that might happen. prepared to get you both the hell out of there at any second should he need to.

his slight distraction makes him act more gently. he eases the hem of your dress up your legs ever so slowly, making only the slightest of adjustments.

his hand on your chest touches you over your dress, pinching at your skin through the thin material to softly rile you up.

this is a bad idea.

this is so fucking hot.

his fingers trail up your inner thighs, gently kicking one of your feet to the side only enough for him to get his hand between your legs. he teases, his fingertips barely making contact with your skin. it's only enough to tickle you, and it makes you shudder the more he does it.

he lays his mouth against your collarbone, placing a bite just enough to surprise you, while his fingers move from your thighs to find where you're not wearing any panties under your dress.

you're sure you feel him smirk against you.

you scan around the room again as he begins to tease, gently testing how tight you are, how wet and ready you are for him.

there's nobody watching, not that you know of. this corner is so dark, and there's not that many people here, and...

he slowly sinks two fingers inside of you, in a room full of half-drunk men you can't trust. in fucking public.

yet there's something about this that you might never get enough of. maybe it's the adrenaline, or it's the feeling of knowing you're the only one he would do this to. the proof that this is real, he is yours.

you decide it's the adrenaline rush.

you lay your head back against the wall as he sucks a hickey over your collarbone, fingers moving so delicately in and out of you, trying to make sure you're making next to no sound between your legs or from your lips.

you do a pretty good job of keeping your composure, you think, as you let him fuck you with his fingers against the wall of a literal bar. he keeps sucking hickeys across your chest above the neckline of your dress, leaving proof that this happened, so you'll both have a reminder for the next week of the crazy, sexy stunt you pulled.

you're never doing this again, you think.

but you're fucking loving letting him do this to you while the rest of the world seems to go about their lives, having no clue of what's going on right under their noses.

his fingers work in perfect rhythm, controlling whatever he can in such an uncontrolled environment.

"gonna come?" he whispers into your ear. it's so low you almost don't hear it, but you understand the sentiment. you nod and whisper, "more," into his ear, hoping no one else hears and catches on.

he gets the point, rubbing his thumb over your clit, now paying close attention to your face.

"my name. when you come," he whispers to you.

all the attempts to be quiet, to keep this dirty secret between the two of you right now, and yet he's still asking you to affirm his claim on you. even while you let him defile you in public, he stills wants the audible confirmation that you're his.

so you dig your fingers into his hair while you're holding him in place in front of you to preserve some of your dignity. he lets you dig your nails into his scalp as you summon all the self-control in your body.

"James," you whisper, little more than an exhale, and you shudder against the wall while you bite down on your lip, refusing to make another noise as you come harder than ever before.

this is the hottest thing he's ever seen, he thinks.

mission accomplished. this is what he wanted, to do this to you right here, tonight.

but he didn't anticipate the thrill being so... enticing.

he grabs your hand in his metal one, leading you across the room, back into the gaze of every man here, and drags you out the door.

you barely fix your dress to cover your modesty before you're in the light again, and you're pretty sure you watch him suck his fingers clean in front of everyone.

you're barely out the door, expecting him to hail a cab, but you're once again proven wrong. it's been a night of nothing but surprises, clearly.

he pulls you by the hand down the road and into a dark, creepy alley on the side of the building where the bar is.

he just can't get enough of this.

he hauls you further into the shadows, and you think you see a rat run by when he pushes you up against the hard brick, holding your head in one hand so it doesn't hit the wall.

he's scrambling, overwhelmed with the desire to take you right here, right now. his hands yank and pull at his belt buckle, trying to hurry up and fuck you already.

your hands are immediately on his, helping him shove fabric to the side before hiking your dress up and wrapping a leg around him to give him easy access.

his metal hand returns to hold your head, his other tightly gripping your leg in place around him, and then he's pushing inside you harshly. this time, you make no efforts to conceal the loud breaths and noises he's evoking from you, and you moan uncontrollably as he rails you in this dark alley in god only knows where.

you can tell he's far more riled up than usual, less worried about taking the time to fuck you properly and more worried about getting you both off. he's growling and heaving, even letting out small little whines every here and there that he'll never admit to, chasing after a climax you're both desperate for.

you get so caught up in the thrill, in the idea of what you're doing and hot wrong but how hot it is, and you're not even aware when you fall apart. your orgasm hits you like a truck, out of nowhere, and you cling to him all while sobbing his name loudly.

"fuck," he hisses when he buries himself in you once last time before letting go, filling you until the point you feel him dripping down your inner thighs while still buried inside you.

you stay like that for a while, catching your breath, the heat of the moment passing and making you realize the reality of what just happened.

you look up to meet his gaze. you want to be appalled, disgusted by what you both just did.

but there's not a single regret between the two of you.

~~~

masterlist

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bucky tag list:

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pagesfromthevoid · 3 days ago

Note

Tagging in here for the Bob discussion. But imagine after a few times together he gets the confidence to be on top but he is a complete service top (still whiny though)

You’re so right, anon. So very right (this got. Very away from me).

The first few times, he’s so awkward. He’s worried he’s not doing it right, or he’s bad at it. He’s so timid and awkward, and he waits for you to make the first move because he knows what he wants but he doesn’t know what you want. What if you don’t want him touching you there? Or what if he does something you don’t like but won’t say anything so you don’t upset him? So he lets you make the choices.

But after —let’s say, the fourth, fifth time (and a few shattered windows because, well, turns out he doesn't know how to control his powers just yet when he's worked up) —he realizes that…you want him just badly as he wants you. Actually, you might be even more desperate than he is, honestly. Because you’re the one being patient with him. You’re taking everything by his pace; stopping when he needs to stop. Only touching him when he’s made it clear he’s okay with it. While he’s the one “in control,” it’s not really control —you’re just you, and you’re willing to take it slow and take care of him over yourself instead.

And now all he wants is to give you everything.

You’re lounging in his bed one night, reading one of the books from the stack he got from the library. Bob isn’t in the room; he’s been with Bucky and Walker most of the evening, doing god knows what (jokes on you, he was getting a terrible pep talk from both of them on how to do this). Bucky was helpful; gave some relatively functional advice. However, Walker kept repeating to use the alphabet, which was…not great and even Bob knows that. They did make him put on a less baggy tee shirt; something about having confidence in his own appearance would translate into the room.

He missed his sweater.

You only look up when the door opens because there’s a shift in the air; not a bad shift. Just...different suddenly. You put the book aside as he walks in, hands behind his back. He looks a bit rigid; stiff, uncomfortable.

“Where’s your sweater?” You ask, though it’s hard to complain when you can see the veins in his arms properly.

You don’t mind the baggy clothes; he’s comfortable and you find that’s what is most attractive. But it would be a lie to say you’re not pleased to see the lean muscle that he has under this shirt. Outside of being intimate, it wasn't often that you got to see him exposed in any way —even if it was just a t-shirt instead of a sweater.

“Uh, Bucky and Walker took it,” he explains but that sounds bad so he explains further. “Training. We were training and they didn’t want me to train in it. It’s…weird, right? The shirt? I’m not used to wearing things that are so…I don’t know, tight?”

You just hum, tilting your head to the side as you look him over. He looks down some, feeling like he’s being ogled (well, he is. But he's still not used to you staring at him like this).

“I think you look good,” you offer, sitting up properly now. “Not that I don’t like what you usually wear —I like whatever makes you feel good. But I'm not going to pretend that I don't like being able to see more of you whenever I get the chance."

"You do?" He asks, and you can't help but laugh a little. "I'm not much to look at —,"

"Wrong," you quickly interrupt, slowly standing up. "There's a reason why I like to take off your clothes —I like taking my time because I don't get to see all of you often." You pause for a second, taking a moment to consider how much more you could tell him without making him uncomfortable. "It's something that only I get to see. I like to enjoy that."

Bob is staring you down, definitely short-circuiting because neither Bucky nor Walker advised him on how to handle anything you just said. How is it fair that you’re just so…good to him?

But then...he takes a step forward. You don't move; that shift in the air suddenly makes sense and you let Bob decide what he's going to do now. His hands clench into fists a few times, trying to coax himself forward.

You take just barely a step towards him —not even an inch. Something instinctual; something gravitational. Then his hands are on your hips, and his lips are on yours, and he’s pushing you towards the bed. It’s the first time he’s initiated a kiss without outright asking. You melt into the touch, sighing into his mouth as the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress.

Sometimes you forget that Bob is incredibly powerful. He was, after all, created to be stronger than all of the Avengers combined. He doesn't particularly like using his abilities, but when his hands grip your thighs and lift you up, you gasp in surprise.

"I want to make you feel good," he practically breathes into your mouth, and even though he's the one leading, his voice comes out begging. "You always take care of me —let me do that for you."

You nod frantically, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into another kiss, but he only let's you get a quick peck in before he's pulling away. You whine a bit, sitting up on your elbows to complain —but you can't find anything to complain about as Bob is slipping his shirt over his head.

It's not the first time you've seen him shirtless. But it's the first time he's taken his shirt off himself, without prompting. Usually he wants to wait until you ask, or you're the one playing with the hem of the shirt and trying to get it off. But the confidence in his movements is both amazing and distractingly attractive, and you're staring unabashedly with lust blown pupils and kiss swollen lips.

Your eyes trail over his skin —the freckles and scars that letter his collarbones, the flush that's spread from his throat down over his chest. Down to his abs and following the V that leads below the waist of his sweats —which are straining from the hard on that's hidden beneath.

"You're staring," he teases, and it's a shaking sort of tease —like he's unsure of if he should be speaking.

"You're hot," you confess, but it's not really a confession at this point.

You've told him he's hot before —he doesn't believe you usually. But the little grin on his face suggests that maybe today, he does.

"You're too good for me," he counters as his hands slide up your thighs and over your hips. Then he's leaning in closer, pressing his lips to your jaw and peppering kisses over your skin.

You buck slightly at the touch, chasing it, and he immediately gives in and slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your leggings. You suck in a breath, and he pauses, but you lift your hips in response, a silent plea to continue. He doesn't hesitate and pries your clothes off of you, tossing them to the floor, before settling between your legs on his knees. You move to take off your shirt but he stops you, one hand holding you down.

"Don't," he warns, puling away to look down at you. "Let me do this for you."

You watch him for a moment but nod, pulling your hands away from your shirt. Bob's hands are slow —not teasing, not purposely at least —dragging up your hips to your waist, pushing your shirt up as he goes. His fingers trail along your ribs, just grazing the edge of your bra. You briefly wonder if he'll try to take it off or if you'll need to do that yourself —but he settles on pulling your shirt over your head first.

Your skin is warm and soft against his fingers, and he's watching as your chest rises with each breath you take in anticipation. You're still sitting up on your elbows, waiting, watching, when he leans down and pulls you up against his chest. One hand is bracing your lower back as the other fumbles with the clasp of your bra.

Confidence doesn't matter when it comes to bras, because they're evil, he decides as he sighs in frustration. He almost caves into the embarrassment, worried he's ruined the moment. But you reach behind your back with ease and unclip it, and toss it away. He wants to complain, and you can see he does, but you wrap your arms around his neck again and pull him into a messy kiss.

It's all teeth and tongues, deepening each second his hands grip you tighter. Then he's laying you back down, dragging his lips from yours to your jaw. Then down your throat. One of his hands holds your hip, but the other is trembling as it approaches your breast and tentatively squeezes it. You hum in response, and his mouth is on your nipple now, grazing it with his teeth.

Between the biting, the sucking and the pinching, you're aching for more. But the sounds he's making —the moans when you sigh his name or tug at his hair —are almost as satisfying as an orgasm itself.

Though you certainly wouldn't refuse one or two of those.

Perhaps he can read your mind, or maybe he just knows what he wants —it doesn't really matter —because he gives your breasts one final squeeze and nip then trails his mouth down your stomach. The closer he gets to you, the more fidgety you become. You can feel his lips smile against your skin.

"It's okay," he promises, breath fanning over your thighs as he parts them slowly.

His fingers are trembling slightly, pressed into your thighs just enough to leave marks. Like he's scared that if he lets go, you're going to pull away from him. But he shakes those thoughts from his head, shifting down the bed until he's sitting on his knees on the floor. You're about to argue, to ask him what he's doing, but he wraps his arms around your thighs and yanks you down the bed until your legs are over his shoulders. You gasp, and his nose just barely presses above your wet core.

He groans, pressing his forehead into your thigh, fingers tightening around you. "God, you are...you're so wet."

"I told you," you sigh, running a hand through his hair, guiding him to look up at you through his lashes. "You're hot. This is hot. Everything you're doing is just...hot."

He melts into you, taking a moment to ground himself in your touch. "You have no idea how much you do for me," he admits, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh softly. "But I'm...I'm going to try to show you."

"Oh, Bob, you don't —,"

But you cut yourself off with a gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as he buries his face in between your legs. Your hips move involuntarily, chasing his tongue as it swipes through your folds. He doesn't stop you, only presses his tongue flat against you before he sucks on your clit.

You suck in a breath, begging him to keep going. He nods as if he trying to respond, but he's groaning instead as he slips his tongue into you. Your thighs tighten around his head, hand guiding his head and mouth exactly where you need him to be. The hands holding your hips drift away, one disappearing entirely while the other glides just between your folds, one finger pressing into you slowly.

"Oh-oh," you sigh, involuntarily clenching around his one finger. "Oh, god, more —please —you're doing so good.."

He pulls his mouth away, just slightly, so he can see how you react as he slips a second finger inside you —curling up slightly. His eyes are glossy, face smeared in your juices, and you think this is the hottest thing you've seen in your entire life.

You cry out his name, back arching off the bed as you beg for him to go faster. He pulls out, just briefly, and you swear you hear him groan again. But you're too distracted by his fingers pressing up into you once again to notice any sounds that aren't the sounds of him finger-fucking you and him whining as he sucks on your clit.

You're so close —can feel it teetering on the edge when you manage to open your eyes just enough to watch him suck at your clit as he continues his rhythm. His other hand —the one that had disappeared —is in his lap and you understand his own whimpering now. While he's ruining you —burying his fingers so deep inside you, curling up and into that spongey spot that causes you to cry —he's jerking off at the whole experience.

And that tips you over the edge, pressing your heels into his shoulders as he furiously pumps his fingers in and out as you ride out your orgasm. You're crying out his name, begging him to stop because it's sensitive —fuck, your nerves are on fire —but he knows you don't actually want him to stop. It feels so good —the wave after wave of your orgasm washing over you before you hear him cry out himself, his body jerking against yours as he cums all over his hand.

You've collapsed on the bed, breathing heavy, and he's laying his forehead against your thigh. Both coming down from this, trying to catch your breaths.

When you've finally come to your senses —a solid five minutes later —you pull him up to lay beside you, pushing his hair out of his face. He's smiling at you lazily, hand laying against the base of your throat to feel your heartbeat.

"Have I told you recently how hot you are?" You ask, brushing your nose against his. You can smell yourself on his breath, and you're about to kiss him again when he says,

"I think I might start believing it soon."

---

Bob Taglist: @ilovemarvel12 @myrrh-dock

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reybolds x reader #sentry #sentry x reader #this took a turn sorry

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the-bloody-ruby · 3 days ago

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Yan!Baldwin IV X Reincarnation!Reader

✎Summary✐ you got reincarnated as Baldwin's wife.

⚠Warnings⚠ historically inaccurate mentions of death, guy of lusignan, racism?(I don't if it counts as racism btw it has nothing to do with skin color).

✎Note✐ reader is a female in this. Author hates this but decided to post it anyway. This is not the actual historical figure but the figure from KoH movie.

✎Tags✐ @jsprien213

✎Part 2✐

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You don't understand how it happened.

How did you end up in Jerusalem?. It's Not our modern day Jerusalem, it's 1181 AD.

From what you understood, you are during the anjou household reign of Jerusalem, most likely during king Baldwin IV time due to Saladin's name being mentioned so it must be around that time. But that's just a guess, if it is true then The king must be about 19 at this point.

When you first opened your eyes you found yourself laying on an a soft mattress, According to who they seemed to be maids, you had fainted while walking through the garden. You do have some blur memories of walking through a grand garden even though you know for sure that you did not walk through such garden ever in your life.

the last thing you remember, that you know that you actually did, that you went to sleep on your bed in your home, that's it. You didn't die while sleeping, did you?.

maybe you somehow took someone's else life, a someone from history none the less. It may sound bazaar but it's the only logical explanation in this unlogical situation.

While you were dozing off, trying to think of a solution to this disaster, The door was pushed wide open. a woman with fine clothing and jewelry enters with servants following her in. "I see you have finally decided to wake up." Her tone was sharp so was her glare.

You stared back at her, not with the same coldness but with confusion. "Who are you..?" You do know that she has to be a noble due to her clothing, but which noble? And why did she visit you? Why is her tone was as if you two know each other?.

She scoffed "It seems like the maids were right, It seems like you actually went mad this time." 'This bitch-' you thought to yourself, you can only say such things in your mind because you don't want to insult someone who might has the power to execute you on the spot. "Who are you?." You ask again, this time with determination.

"Sibylla of Jerusalem." You face went pale, you thought knowing her identify would make you understand the situation better but it only confused you more, why would she visit you?.

You look away, you feel like you're gonna faint again. "Tsk.. Pathetic.." She mumbles as you grip on the bedsheets, she grabs your chin and makes you look directly to blue eyes. "Hold yourself better, you are no common girl, remember that you are queen of Jerusalem, wife to my brother, you are y/n of Jerusalem.. Even if I don't deem you worth of such honour yet here we are.."

You are not sure if she wanted to scold you or mock you, either way her words hurt you even though you don't know why, it just stungs.

"We're having dinner this evening, you should be fine by then." She stated as she turned her to leave. you wanted to protest, you are in no condition to join a stupid dinner. "But-" "absence is unacceptable." she cuts you, she doesn't even bother to turn around to look at you yet her words held a warning in them. With that she finally left you alone.

Now you know whose life you are in, yes life not body because you are 100% sure that this is your own body, whatever. In history her name was forgotten so she's only known as Baldwin's IV wife or the Saracen queen.

Basically Baldwin and her got married to secure an alliance between Jerusalem and some Saracens, and to prevent Saladin from getting anymore power since your people are also in odds with Saladin.

You pity her.

No one cared about her, she was just a tool for her family to gain more power, Jerusalem's court despited her because she is still a filthy Saracen in their eyes and not to mention that king Baldwin IV, her own husband did not spare her a single glance during the entire of their marriage. It's not personal, it's just she's the least of his concerns.

In the end of the day she was executed because she attempted to poison to Sibylla but failed, it is unclear whatever she was truly guilty or framed.

No.. No. You won't die like this.. You won't live like this! You don't want to die with sorrow and tears!.

You won't allow history to repeat itself, you don't care if it's gonna change tomorrow's history or not, you value your happiness more than history that you might not live to see.

If you want a peaceful life, you have two potions.

you earn the King's favor and then you will live peaceful as the queen.

Which you are mostly to take, run away after securing a good amount of money.

Just in case, you're gonna try to secure both plans. You will try to earns his favor while earning enough money to escape.

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Evening came fast.

You didn't want to leave bed but you also didn't want to piss off sibylla so it sucks to suck. Even though you still don't understand, how can she threaten you?! I mean yes she is a princess but you are the queen here for God's sake!. Damn was the old owner this weak that no one respected her title as queen?, however this will change, You didn't die to live again to take bullshit again.

The maids may not be fond of you but they sure did well in dressing you up, you don't like you're about to throw up at any given moment at all But the hard part isn't not looking like you're about to throw up, the hard part is not actually throwing up in front of everyone.

"Come on y/n!." You cheer up on yourself in front of mirror, you were right about the body thing, it is your body. you look like you, not like the actual historical figure (even though there is no surviving portraits of her but okay). 'I'm happy that i didn't lose you, my sweet sexy asf face' you wink at yourself before someone's voice interpreted your flirting session with yourself. "What are you doing?." God.. Why can't they leave you the fuck alone?. First Sibylla, now this?.

"wHaT aRe YoU dOiNg?." You repeat mockingly before turning around only to see Baldwin IV in flesh and blood standing in front of you, you recognized him easily due to the mask. Your face went paler then it went with sibylla, why is God doing this to you? You are praying for the ground to open in half and sallow you.

His blue eyes just stared into yours, it felt like he is staring right through your soul. "..." He didn't mutter a word, You don't know what he is thinking but whatever it is, it doesn't seems like something you want to know about.

You wanted to cry, really. But not in front of him because it would only worsen the situation, after all you just mocked a king.

"..."

It's been quite the few minutes, he didn't say anything yet. 'You know what? I already ate shit so let's just walk away and pretend that nothing has happened.. Maybe he will just ignore it and then I'll get to keep my head..' You thought to yourself.

You proceeded your plan and it actually worked! He let you walk away although you felt his eyes still watching you like a hawk.

Dinner was as awkward as you'd expect. You tried your best to just focus on your platte and ignore everyone else on the table. "Are you alright?." It's Sibylla, even though her words seems out of concern, her voice holds no kindness to it.

You looked up from your plate, you stare back at her but this time with more confidence since the last time you two spoke. "Yes, I am fine." You replied to her question with a calm yet confident note.

That caused sybilla to stare at you. You have never acted like this before, you were always quiet and shy, never once you looked right into her eyes with such directness.

"I heard that you fainted in the gardens today. you should look out for your health more your Highness... It would be a shame if you become so sickly like someone we know.." Said the man who is seated next to Sibylla, who you assume is guy of lusignan.

At his words Baldwin looked up at him, that caused guy to shift uncomfortably in his seat, he hated everything about Baldwin, especially his blue eyes when they stared right through his soul.

'God.. It's so awkward...' You thought before deciding to gamble with fate again. "Your majesty.. Your food will get cold.. Please eat." You hold his gloved hands in yours as you tried to give the kindest smile you could manage. He moved his eyes from guy's to yours before he pulled his hands away and continued his meal.

That went as smooth as possible.. You could feel Sibylla's glare but you couldn't care less, what matters now is to earn Baldwin's favor.

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Im back from the dead 💪🏻.

Idk if you guys will like this but enjoy and if you got any notes for me then go ahead 💃🏻.

#king baldwin x reader #yandere baldwin iv #yandere historical characters #yandere king #baldwin iv #king baldwin iv #yandere history #kingdom of heaven

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debonairprincesposts · 2 days ago

Text

Loving Concern

Summary: You like to wear hoodies. Always. Jason is concerned that you might be hiding something underneath.

Warning(s): Involves topics like self-harm. Proceed at your own risk.

Words: 833.

Jason watched you across the dimly lit living room of his safehouse. His Angel, his sweetheart. You were curled up on the worn leather couch, a book open in your lap, but he doubted you were reading. Your eyes were distant, unfocused. As always, you were swallowed by one of your oversized hoodies, this one a faded black with the hood pulled low, obscuring most of your face. "Baby," he murmured, the endearment feeling both natural and like a desperate plea.

You glanced up, a soft smile gracing your lips. "Hey, Jay."

He hated this. Hated the way his chest tightened every time he saw you draped in those concealing clothes. He knew it was irrational, knew you had a whole wardrobe of these things, but the darkness clung to him like a second skin. He'd seen too much darkness, carried too much himself. He'd clawed his way out of the pit, both literally and figuratively, and the scars, both visible and invisible, were a constant reminder of how close he'd come to being consumed.

He knew your past wasn't sunshine and roses. You'd hinted at things, shadows lurking just beyond the edge of your words. And those damn hoodies... they were a shield, a barrier. What were you hiding?

He forced himself to breathe, to unclench his fists. He couldn't let his own demons poison your relationship. He had to trust you. But the fear, the gnawing, insidious fear, wouldn't let him.

He stood, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. He walked over to the couch and knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his. Your skin was soft, warm, a stark contrast to the cold dread that had settled in his gut. "Sweetheart," he said, his voice rough, "can we talk?"

Your brow furrowed slightly. "Of course, Jay. What's wrong?"

He hesitated, searching your eyes for any sign of... what? Pain? Deceit? He didn't know. "It's... it's nothing, really. Just being stupid." He hated himself for the evasion, but the words felt like lead in his mouth.

You squeezed his hands. "You can tell me anything, you know that."

He took a deep breath. "It's just... you always wear these hoodies, Angel. And I worry." He hated how weak he sounded, how vulnerable.

Your expression shifted from concern to confusion. "Worry? About what?"

He swallowed hard. "I just... I worry that you're hiding something. That you're... hurting." The word hung in the air, heavy and accusing.

Your eyes widened, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of hurt. But it was quickly replaced by something else, something that looked suspiciously like amusement. "Hurting? Jay, what are you talking about?"

He gestured vaguely at your arms, hidden beneath the fabric. "Underneath... your sleeves."

You stared at him for a long, silent moment, and then a soft laugh escaped your lips. "You think I'm... self-harming?"

He flinched at the bluntness of your words. "I... I don't know. I just worry, okay? I care about you."

You reached out and gently cupped his face, your thumbs tracing the lines of his jaw. "I know you do, baby. And I appreciate it. But there's nothing to worry about."

He searched your eyes, desperate to believe you. "Can you... can you show me?" The words were barely a whisper, laced with shame.

You didn't hesitate. You pushed up the sleeves of the hoodie, revealing your forearms. Smooth, unmarked skin. A few faint scratches, undoubtedly from your beloved cats, were the only imperfections. No angry red lines, no faded white scars. Nothing.

Relief washed over him in a tidal wave, so potent it almost knocked him off balance. He hadn't realized how tightly wound he'd been until the tension began to bleed out of him.

"See? Nothing to worry about," you said, your voice gentle. "I just like hoodies. They're comfortable. And they keep my neck warm." You tugged at the collar, a small, almost shy gesture. "I get cold easily."

He took your hands again, turning them over in his. He kissed your palms, his heart overflowing with a mixture of gratitude and self-reproach. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have doubted you."

You smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that chased away the shadows in his mind. "It's okay, Jay. I understand. But trust me, if something was wrong, I'd tell you."

He knew you would. He had to trust you. He pulled you close, burying his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo. "I love you," he whispered, the words a promise, a vow.

You hugged him tightly. "I love you too, Jay."

He still didn't completely understand your obsession with hoodies, but in that moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that you were safe, that you were okay. And that he had you, his sweetheart, his Angel, right here in his arms. He would fight every demon, every fear, to keep you safe. Even if those demons were his own.

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 16 hours ago

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A New World | Yandere Monster's World

Rules | Buy me a Kofi!!! | Commissions(Shorts, ASMRScripts, etc.)

Thinking about an alternate dimension with no humans. No rumors, no myths, and no ancient burial grounds that suggest they might exist. Only the creatures we write about and make stories of. Hairy 5-meter tall hairy giants, vampires that drink the blood of any they can get their hand on, gorgeous beauties that feed on the souls of all they drown at sea. It’s a monster lover’s dream. The races of course are in factions by race navigating peace as best as they can but it continues to be a contentious mission.

Of course not helping their case, a new species is being introduced to the pool.

You.

A dimensional traveler meant to test out a better place for humans to live. Of course, your soulless employers drop you in with limited supplies and promise they’ll return you in five years of course if you're not dead.

But this monster world is far from ready to have a human come to their land. At first, they mistake you for a defanged good-natured vampire; flexing your technology as a silent show of dominance. Typical of those snotty fang-havers….but things get weird when the council of monster representatives finds the Vampires so in awe of your existence.

“No fangs?”

“Imperviousness to the sun!?”

“You are like nothing we’ve ever seen–”

“Or smelt! Your blood—”

“We’ve never tasted anything more divine!”

After using a small reusable syringe technology is amazing from your pack and give them a couple of droplets. Only for one taste to have the vampires writhing in heat so feverish they can’t help but drool and pull at their suddenly too-restricting clothes.

The other representatives are baffled. Are you a witch?! You have a better temperament than any and you haven’t requested any hearts or weird herbs to sate some hunger of yours. The Witch representatives check you next, doing the usual checkups witches must go through.

“Alright now open your esophagus.”

“Uhm I can’t do that. I can open my mouth, though. Ahh”

“GASP! What on the Withering Lands is that pink thing hanging in the back!?”

“My uvula?”

“Oh my, should you be showing that to us?!”

“Yes, we may impregnate you that way.”

“That’s not how it works for me.”

Though for good measure and their imploding curiosity, they take a sample of your saliva. Learning from those narcissistic vampire they only pour a hint of it into their cauldrons. Taking a sip, their chemistry demands their brain think of an answer and yet….why are their pants wet? Oh dear they’ll need to satisfy themselves quickly or they’ll be unable to stop themselves from pouncing on the odd creature that brought this along. It brings the council into an uproar some call for your immediate execution, others want to take you for further experimentation, and others hope to have what the vampires and witches were having.

One of your immediate allies is the Elves the hosts for this council meeting. Escorting you from the courtroom as they mull about possible solutions, willing to hear out what you might have to say. Oblivious to the tension among the kingdoms and each specific problem, you can’t offer much. That leaves the Elf representative, an audacious fifth prince, at his wit's end. Near tears he expects you to watch awkwardly as the sparkling water falls from his eyes, not rub against his back.

“Hey it’s okay we’ll figure it out. I really appreciate you looking after me.”

Your words fall on deaf ears as the elf is immediately thrown into disarray. Even through his clothes, the warmth of your hands has the most naughty parts of him stand at attention. The tips of his ears are the shade of the planet’s crimson moon and the nails he’d always kept beautifully shaped make indents in the wood. His guards happily fall to restrain the creature responsible only for them to suffer the same fate.

It dawns on you just how terrible of a situation it is then you realize the door is locked and the monsters suffering from your effect have been thrust into a mindless rut where their all convinced you will solve their problems.

And maybe you can, after all, you are the only human in this world. If you made these problems surely you can fix them.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere monster x reader #yandere monster #yandere teratophilia #yandere oc #yandere x darling #male yandere x reader #yandere vampires #yandere vampire #yandere writing #yandere witch #yandere elf #yandere elves

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thetxtdevil · 3 days ago

Note

Could you bring back Blueberry Boy! Kai? 🫐 I dream about him every day... btw! Congratulations on the 1k, more than deserved!! Your content is amazing <3

1000 Followers Bash - Blueberry Boy Kai Continued Thoughts

nsfw/mdni content

What do you want to know about Blueberry Boy Kai?

Last time he got Strawberry Shortcake pregnant 🤭 No surprise, he's so messy and addicted. It wouldn't be shocking if he kept getting you pregnant, you're not against it because you're also addicted to him. You love the way Kai's long fingers prep you, then his cock stretches you, then his fingers are back to shove his blueberry scone cum back into you. Sometimes he'll lick you clean, coming up to kiss you so that you can enjoy the taste of his salty yet sweet cum.

However, he's all new to the world of sex; a lot of times, he just lets the aphrodisiacs of your strawberry arousal control him, making up new ways to please each other. But he wants to do this right. Blueberry Boy Kai wants to be so skilled at making you cum without instincts but from knowledge 🤓

Picnic with the boys seems innocent from afar, but most people wouldn't want to eat their lunch while overhearing what they talk about. Sweet Blueberry Kai brings a scented pen and colored paper to write down answers to his questions.

Gingerbread Taehyun claims that being rough gets his girl going. Lemon Drop Soobin agrees, saying that squeezing plushy skin is satisfying and pleasurable for them. Peachy Beomgyu believes that reading reactions is key, or letting them read smut also gives them ideas. However, Watermelon Sorbet Yeonjun warns everybody to be careful, as they're significant other might turn on them and tease, ruin you until dry.

A little more information of curling fingers in your cunt and different motions to stimulate your clit. If Kai wasn't blushing a deep shade of blue already, the advice to "edge" you got him rolling into a ball. He doesn't think he can do it, literally, he loves seeing you cum so how is he going to stop that from happening.

Later that day, Blueberry Boy Kai arrives at the big strawberry cottage, he yells out that he's home. Your cute self comes skipping to him and hugging him. Dainty arm wrapped around his broad body, making Kai's blue blush come back. "Hi, Strawberry, I missed you." He says softly.

"I missed you, too." You say into his neck, leaving light kisses on his neck.

Kai wanted to melt right there, wanted to pick you up and have you in bed. Before he could do so, you were already grabbing his arms, dragging him to your destination. Kai's mind fills with what his friends had to say, be rough, dominate her, she'll like that, edge. Kai stands his ground, making you recoil, falling onto the blueberry.

Looking up to see Kai's intimidating glare, you pout and ask, "W-whats wrong?"

You gasp as Kai quickly swoops you up, carrying you to the kitchen, the closest room, and a place where your scent seems to reside. His senses were already clouded by your innocent whines. Plopping you on the countertop, flipping up your skirt, spreading your legs to fit his hip between them. Letting you desperately grind against him, searching for some blissful friction. Whimpers and whines increase as seconds pass. Kai gives in to a simple touch.

His painted blue fingertips rub your wet clothed cunt. Delicious circles excite your clit, every so often his fingertip dips into your hole. You moan, throwing your head back until you sense Kai teasing his touch around the hem of your panties. Once a bratty whine escapes from your throat, Blueberry Kai stops everything.

Your eyes widen on your flushed face. Chest heaving from the lack of getting off. Usually your good boy, Kai, is always determined to make you cum, once or twice or three times before getting himself off. But this was different, Kai wasn't in a rush to have Strawberry Shortcake make her cream, he wanted to keep it from happening until he thought it was best to let it go.

Blueberry Kai kneels in front of you, looking up at you through his dark blue lashes. Slowly stripping you from your panties, your feet kick, trying to take the garment off fast. This action resulted in Kai forcefully holding your legs and biting your inner thigh. The yelp you make and your stiffening position signal Kai that you are ready to listen.

Once you were fully exposed, the blueberry boy leaves kitten licks on your outer lips. You lay your head on the top cabinets, focusing on stopping your whine from coming out. Your patients payed off when you feel Kai deepening himself into your pussy. Making out with your folds, tongue everywhere he can get it, sucking your sensitivity. You sink your hands into the sapphire blue hair of the man devouring you.

Kai has to fight against your hold on his head, he can feel your cunt pulsating close to cumming. Hearing your moans, tasting your sweet arousal, Kai was losing himself fast. Now fighting with himself, needing to stop you from coming undone. He eventually does so once again, causing you to whine. You squirm like a little kid not getting what they want, Kai chuckles at you.

“You’re so mean.” Your pout increases.

Kai’s face full of your strawberry arousal, he smirks at you, “I know.” He lifts his head, kisses you so that you taste yourself. Soon, you feel his touch creep into your inner thighs close to where you want it. His long fingers dive into your soaked cunt, rubbing your clit and fingertips teasing your hole. Kai deeply kisses you to the point you run out of breath, throwing your head back once again to show the blueberry boy your neck to mark up.

His two fingers screw deep into your pussy, curling up hitting your g-spot. Your body ached from immense pleasure mixed with exhaustion. You did not doubt that your neck was covered with love bites by the time the heat pooled in your belly again. "Please, ah- please, Berry." You whimper into Kai's ear. Another mean smirk grazes his lips, but this time, he enhances his actions. Lowering his head to lick your tits as his fingers on your cunt works fast.

Your hands latch onto Kai's buff shoulders tightly, scratching his back through the shirt in the process. Every hit of your g-spot had you seeing stars, and the stimulation of Kai's tongue on your nipples added to the sensation. A load scream screeches out of your dry throat. Kai backs away from your breasts, looking down to witness a gush of juices squirting onto his pants and thighs.

The scent of earthy strawberries filled the room. You roll back, unattractively slouched on the top cabinets, trying to catch your breath, too tired to realize the blueberry boy is losing it. His hands balled into fists, trying to hold himself back, but then again, it's time to try something new.

Kai's lips smash into your again, a big hand encapsulates both of your small ones, holding them over your pretty strawberry head. Blueberry Boy Kai wasn't waiting until you were calmed down; now that you're weak, he can use you all up.

Grateful for my 1000 Demons,

TxT's Devil

#txt devil #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #txt smut #txt imagines #txt x reader #txt x you #txt x y/n #hueningkai x reader #huening kai x reader #hueningkai smut #hueningkai imagines #hueningkai hard thoughts #hueningkai hard hours #huening kai smut #huening kai hard thoughts #huening kai hard hours #txt huening kai smut

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narxcisse · 2 days ago

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— Dark Choco NSFW alphabet

CW: explicit sexual content, mdni, possible slight angst (depictions of internalized shame, insecurity, and anxiety related to intimacy + references to past negative sexual experiences)

English isn't my native language.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Extremely gentle and very quiet. He’ll silently clean you up, lie beside you, and wrap an arm around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. It takes him time to ask if he did okay, but he deeply craves your reassurance—even if he’ll pretend he doesn’t need it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite part of himself is his arms. He feels most grounded when holding you close, even if he’s insecure about his strength. His favorite part on you is your waist/hips. He’s fascinated by the softness, the curves, and often finds his hands resting there without realizing.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s embarrassed about it. He usually finishes with a strained groan and immediately goes stiff and awkward, unsure of where to touch or look. He prefers cumming inside if you’re safe/agreeable—it makes him feel close—but always checks for consent.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Sometimes when he wakes from dreams about you, he touches himself without even thinking. He’ll never tell you about those dreams, though—you’re too precious to sully with the kind of thoughts that haunt him.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Technically has some experience from his time as a prince, but he hated it, it was mostly out of obligation. It felt cold, transactional, and invasive. Now, he's clumsy, shy, and easily flustered, but he's deeply attuned to your responses and very eager to learn.

F = Favorite position

He prefers missionary or spooning—anything with deep eye contact or where he can wrap himself around you protectively. He likes to feel like he’s sheltering you, especially when his emotions start to spill over.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? Etc)

Almost never goofy. He’s solemn and anxious, and if anything goes wrong (like fumbling with a clasp or misreading a signal), he’ll shut down unless you gently coax him back. However, he finds your laughter disarming in the best way.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? Etc)

Well-kept but rugged. He trims himself mostly out of habit from royal grooming standards, though he’s not obsessive. His body hair is dark and modest—less wild than you’d expect.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Emotionally intense. He treats each moment like it might be the last you’ll want him, so he gives everything in return. He murmurs low apologies, praises, and confessions, often trembling with how hard he’s trying to hold himself together.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does, but with shame and restraint. His fantasies are rarely explicit—he imagines your warmth, your smile, your acceptance more than your body. He finishes quietly, often swallowing guilt with his release.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praise kink, hand-holding, and emotional vulnerability. He thrives on being told he’s doing well, that he’s good, that you want him. Light bondage also intrigues him—he finds comfort in you taking control now and then.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He feels safest in bed, preferably somewhere dimly lit and private. He could be tempted in warm places like a hot spring, but only with absolute trust and zero risk of being seen.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Touch. Soft kisses on his neck, a quiet “I want you,” or even just falling asleep next to you in thin clothing is enough to stir him. The feeling of being wanted, not needed, melts him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything non-consensual, degrading, or overly performative. He despises the idea of being watched or recorded. He also dislikes dirty talk that ventures into humiliation—it triggers his deepest fears.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He prefers giving, nervous but gentle. He takes it seriously, trying to memorize what makes you react. As for receiving: not against it, but is extremely flustered and will grip the sheets like it’s the end of the world. He almost always asks if he can return the favor afterward.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? Etc)

He starts slow and hesitant, building into something steady and deep. The more he trusts you, the more rhythm he gains. He prefers emotional build-up over roughness, though his strength can show if you beg sweetly.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc)

Rare. He gets overwhelmed too easily and prefers taking his time. Still, if you’re both tucked away and the mood strikes—say, on a lazy stormy day—he might indulge in something soft and heated.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? Etc)

Not very risky. He worries too much. However, if you’re the one proposing something new, he’ll try it for you—especially if you gently walk him through it and let him stop if needed.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

He can last a fair while if he’s calm, but mentally, he's overstimulated fast. One or two emotionally charged rounds is his limit—then he needs cuddles and silence to decompress.

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Doesn’t own any and would blush furiously if shown one. That said, if you introduced toys for your pleasure, he’d watch and assist with equal parts awe and bashfulness.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s not naturally a tease, but once he learns what gets you desperate, he can be coaxed into slow touches, whispering with that low gravelly voice—just to hear you whimper his name.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc)

Quiet but strained. Grunts, gasps, deep breathy moans when he starts losing control. His voice drops an octave when he’s trying not to beg.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He sometimes prays before touching you—not to any god, but to you. You are his absolution, and he treats your body like sacred ground he is afraid to tread on but desperate to stay in.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

His dick isn't thick, but long, and curved slightly upward. His hips and thighs are stronger than they appear—he holds back a lot.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Medium-high. He doesn’t act on it unless you initiate, but the craving simmers always. Even just sitting beside you is enough to awaken something in him, though he won’t speak it unless invited.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn’t sleep easily, even after sex. He stays awake holding you, watching the rise and fall of your chest, and wondering if he deserves the peace he feels with you.

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mediumgayitalian · 2 days ago

Note

MEMEMEME! ILL ASK ABOUT THAT FIC TELL EVERYTHING

(I'm trying to catch up on your blog I swear!)

HI BELOVED TAKE YOUR TIME. I KNOW YOU ARE BUSY. IT IS NOT GOING ANYWHERE. but as for the fic (i'm sorry. genuinely):

cecil and lou ellen are fighting. cecil is being a shithead and just driving her nuts, which is rare bc she is also often a shithead who drives ppl nuts, but she is at her wits end. and will is like halfheartedly trying to stop it but hes like Busy right. its summer. hes got an infirmary to run.

but lou ellen snaps and goes YOU WANNA ACT LIKE A CHILD? FINE! BE AA CHILD! and shes so mad the magic POPS off of her like cecil gets HEXED.

except.

cecil is his fathers son.

he is fast.

he ducks and will, who is less fast and also Tired, gets hit instead.

theres this huge glow of green light, everyone is shrieking, no one knows what's going on, then the smoke clears and there is will, on the floor, NINE GODDAMN YEARS OLD. and everyone is like oooooohhhhh gods what do we do.

and lou ellen is like I DONT KNOW I DONT KNOW IT WAS AN ACCIDENT I DIDNT EVEN HEX HIM I JUST KIND OF EXPLODED and everyone is trying so so hard to figure it out,m but will is unconscious, and he is LITTLE and there is PANIC

cue annabeth who is like OKAY. everyone chill the fuck out. someone go get him clothes that fit. hes gonna wake up and be confused. remember we're down a medic. the rest of you need to use your fucking heads.

so people are chill but BUZZING with the rumours bc baby will is so goddam Cute like actually but also like. is he gonna age back? is he stuck that way? and they keep side eyeing nico and nico is trying not to let it bother him but hes also like oh shit oh god did i just lose the love of my life please tell me this isnt happening oh my god fuck

someone brings harley's extra clothes, but since harley is jacked they're Way too big on him, also will is small for his age, so theyre like literally what is the point of giving him these he might as well wear his own clothes, and cecil is like yo wait a second. ur onto smth maybe. so he slinks off into storage and comes back with like a stack of will's old clothes. and they're just The dorkiest things in the world

but anyways someone comes hollering to dinner like HES UP HES UP so nico rushes over and everyone else too and hes up alright. he is Bouncing off the walls.

as they suspected he is very much a nine year old. like not current fifteen year old will in a nine year olds body this is Nine Year Old Will Solace. and he is a motormouth and jumping on the bed and asking a million questions and going YOOOOOOOO ANABETH YOURE GIANT NOW and shes like bruh. okay. guess we really are going back to baby will. hold on everyone.

and nico is still stressed but also like. oh my gods. will is SO cute he is melting a little. like its hard not to

but then

then.

will chills for six seconds and hes like hey where's lee? or michael? they usually work this time a day and Boy does it ever get real quiet real fast.

and its like.

do you tell this child.

this bright eyed child.

that his entire family is dead.

or do you just lie.

they lie!

thinking quick as hell annabeth is like "uhhhhh theyre on a quest."

"all twelve of them?"

"…they're going on four quests"

"oh okay word! how come i couldnt come"

"?? bc?? ur 9??"

"aw"

and its just.

the rest of the time as they try to figure out how to turn him back

its just. this time capsule.

this kid who is asking about all these people that half the campers dont know and the other half are remembering, vividly and painfully, for the first time in years

knocking on the athena cabin door like "hey malcolm!! is carter here? i wanna play soccer"

"oh, sweetheart. he's, uh. he's at school"

and will is suspsicious because what the heck! carter always plays soccer with him especially when lee is gone! and carter is the smartest guy ever he graduated when he was ten! what!

and hes asking clarisse and she doesnt know what to say to him. she is the weakest shes ever felt in his life. all she sees is silena.

and hes asking about beckendorf and percy can hardly breathe and hes asking about luke and conner and travis dont know what to say and its AWFUL. its awful. the entire camp is realising for the first time just how many people theyve lost.

he asks about castor and mr d almost kills him.

like its just AGONIZING its the worst

and the worst of all is that will starts to realise.

the longer it stretches on the more he realises hey they arent here. they havent been here.

he goes to pull a box out from under his bed and its one no one has ever seen before and its just Filled to the brim. pictures on pictures and home videos and letters and diary entries spotted with tear tracks.

"they're gone. aren't they."

"…yes."

"all of them?"

"i'm sorry, will."

like it ACHES

he comes back to fifteen eventually and its just

how have you carried that

missing them all for so long

forgot to mention that when will tries to go back to his cabin nico thinks quickly int he beginning. "uhhhh they tried to um. renovate your cabin. with paint fromt he big house. and it had lead in it? apparently? so you and your cabin have to stay with me actually. for a while." just to keep him from seeing that literally None of his sibling's stuff is there. and hasnt been for years. and then one day no one can find will until they find him in the apollo cabin, in the early morning, rifling through this box in this giant empty cabin and realising what has happened. what he loses in the future. crying quietly. then into nico's arms, who's choking his own tears back.

"i don't want to go back to a future without them in it. i don't want to grow up. i don't want to grow up."

"believe me, sweetheart. i know."

just HEARTWRENCHING

#hey im so so sorry #i have had this idea for literal years #anyways.#will solace #will solace headcanon #fic outline #will solace angst #ask

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 day ago

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Wayward 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, arranged marriage, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Duke!Steve Rogers (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you accompany the court to a foreign kingdom for a tournament of four kings and find yourself entwined with a staunch duke.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“My lord,” you gasp. “My apologies.”

“For what affront? Having fun?” Duke Rogers challenges. He lets you go slowly, his touch dragging on your arms.

“I... suppose,” you bat your lashes. “More so, not looking where I step.”

“There are greater things to worry for,” he brushes his hands over his tunic then puts them behind him. Like many of the lords, he wears shorter sleeves as well. You notice how his muscles bulge beneath the skin. “I do hate to trod on your gaiety.”

“My lord, not at all. I... think I am in need of a reprieve. I do get carried away,” you shift on your feet shyly.

“Mm, it is rather raucous,” he glances past you and his brow arches. He moves as if ducking behind you. “Pardon, I see someone I’d rather not speak with.”

“My lord?” You crane around in confusion. The ladies continue their buoyant prancing and your father peers through the crowd. You spin back to the duke.

“As do I,” you eke out.

“I know where we might retreat, until they pass us by,” he suggests.

“Oh, you do?” You wonder.

“Not to be untoward. My lady, be assured, I am promised to another and would not act ungentlemanly.”

You peek back again and dodge your father’s eyeline.

“I don’t worry for that,” you face the duke again. “Please, if you will.”

He waves you away from your father and you scurry after him. He is sure in his stride. In his duties, he must be as familiar with this far away place as those who reside there.

He leads you into the corridor, away from the din, and you sigh at the cool air. You only notice then how hot you truly are. The sweat has grown so constant that you’re quite used to your damp clothes.

“Many thanks, my lord. I must confess, I did not wish to let my father spoil my night. Again.”

“Your father?” He intones.

“Mm, yes. I came with him. He is one of King Tony’s men. He has been rather... uptight. Especially since... well, it hardly matters.”

“I admit I might not be any less,” Rogers huffs. “My king has caused quite the stir.”

“Yes, he has,” you agree. “But it is good. He has a wife and that means he will have heirs.”

“Mm, yes, in theory, it is very good,” he scratches his beard. “Ugh, this heat.”

“It is horrid, isn’t it?” You fan yourself with your hands.

“You wear it well,” he assures.

You look at him coyly, “sir?”

“You glisten,” he tilts his head coyly. “Mm,” he hums as his demeanour sinks. “How long can we hide? I must face that weasel soon enough. If I am to wed his daughter, I will have to do so often.”

“Betrothed? That is exciting. Is she kind?” You ask.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve not met her as yet. The arrangement was agreed upon today. My king bids me to it. He says it is past time.” He crosses his arms. “Is there some handsome lord at home awaiting you?”

“No, though my father wishes so. He hoped I might find a suitor here but... alas...”

“Here? Oh, let us hope not. It is a den of intrigue. Only those with a purpose have come.” He clucks. “That would include myself. I came to ward off war though my leige does work against that end.”

“War? Do you think?” You wince and cover your mouth. You shake your head. “Forgive me,” you speak between your fingers. “I ask foolish questions.”

“It is not foolish to worry for war. It is a hideous affair. All should fear it,” he girds.

“Yes, but I am a woman. I haven’t the mind for it. Father says.” You throw your your hands. “I can’t even find a husband. My sisters are wed. He is proud of them...” You look at the duke and cringe. “And I blabber at you about it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You needn’t humour me,” you lean on a column. “What do you know of her? This beautiful lady you are to wed?”

“Not very much, I fear.”

“Did she say she is beautiful?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Perhaps she is clever. She must be if she is to be a duke’s wife.”

“Hopefully,” he agrees.

“And she must take good care of a household,” you add.

“She must,” he utters. “I didn’t... I am adjusting still to the idea, I think.”

“I still can hardly fathom it. When I do finally find someone. A husband? In my head, I see only a shadow. As fearsome as a wraith.” You sigh. “Well, I’m certain your wife will be comely and sweet.”

“I can hope.” He says. “She is in attendance, so I was informed, though I’ve not yet chanced upon her. That who I avoided, I’m sure he is eager for us to meet.”

“You are... nervous?”

“Unprepared,” he says. “But I am a duke, so it must be done. It seems not many men heed their duty, as it were. I should not follow in their stead.”

“I’m certain all will be well,” you say.

“For you as well,” he returns and glances over his shoulder. “Do you know very many ladies?”

“Some.”

“Perhaps you have met her?” He turns to you again. “If I gave you her name, would you point her out?”

“I can try. As I said, I only know a handful beyond my own realm.”

He looks you over thoughtfully. His brows stitch and his jaw ticks. He looks almost reluctant. He exhales through his nose. He enunciates the name clearly. You flinch. You squint at him curiously.

“You know her?” He asks.

You snort and flutter your lashes. How can it be? Truly? The duke?

“Why, yes sir, I do know her.” You squeak, “she is I—erm, I am her. Sir.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #drabble #wayward #medieval au #captain america #mcu #marvel #avengers

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gwen-tolios · 6 hours ago

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The pool is still as you sit beside it, sketching. Ever being born from the waterfall above it, ever dying as the water drains through a bone filled shaft in its shade. The stories say it's cursed and blessed and everything in between, a source of joy and pain. A normal thing, you think, for a place that has been here for seven hundred years, even if your family has 'guarded' it for five hundred.

You're not sure what you're even guarding it from, as all the tales you know are a mix of history and myth. You can't fight death, it comes for everything. You can't hit a ghost, they're not solid.

A bright bird catches your attention as it flies off. Then another, a third, and you realize they're fleeing. Birds take to the air as the water does too, a gesyer erupting from the far side of the water. You pull your drawings close to your chest in an effort to keep them dry and stare as you see bones in the water busrt.

They tumble in the current, but when the gesyer dies the bones don't drop into the water. They float, they reassemble, and you stare as you watch four skeletons construct themselves to stand on the other side of the pool. They're not complete, and some of the bones have been worn away by centuries in the water. It doesn't seem to matter.

One of them steps forward and bows. It lacks a jaw bone, lacks a throat, but speaks just the same. "I am an envoy of the dead, and seek a treaty for visitation rights."

You drop your parchment, and take off towards the house.

#####

Three hours later, you return. Your mother takes the lead, dressed in ceremonial clothes. She looks confident, but you overheard her whispers to your aunt about her trepidation. Seems most of the family believed their bloodline's responsibly to protect the border of life and death to be not real or no longer needed.

With you are your aunt and sister-in-law. Four humans total, to treat with four skeletons.

They're still there on the opposite shore. They might have moved, you're not sure, but they still stand with the envoy front and center. Instinctively, you line up with your family, a half circle behind your mother's back.

"I'm the envoy of the living," your mother says. "Why are you here, crossing a border aligned on by the Great War?"

The skeleton spreads out its hands. "Separation from the living has changed us."

"Death is always a transformation."

"Not death, but a separation from this world. You are sustained by life itself, the plants and fauna of the world. We are sustained by the consequences of dying, by grief and memory. But if we cannot visit, if we cannot remind our descendants of our lives, who is there to grieve us?"

You mother shifts her weight, and your aunt rocks on her feet. Your grandfather has passed away three years ago and your little sister has no memory of him. Will nothing sustain him after you pass? Can you alone keep his spirit alive?

"We simply wish to visit," the skeleton says, "and are willing to align on rules."

"Then let us treat," your mother says. "And to start, tell me your name."

"Adelaide," the skeleton says and the four of you stiffen.

The woman who tied the border to this pool. The one name passed down through family lore. She is not how you imagined her, and you wonder if it would be wrong to offer her some of the family jewels to wear. Do skeletons need dresses?

"Zachulia." You mother offers her own name. "Come, cross, and we shall talk."

The skeletons gait is smooth, even the one missing a foot. There's still no bird at the pool, and the only noise is the roar of the waterfall. Still, when Adelaide reaches the other side of the pool you think you hear her sigh. Think you see a flick of long black hair.

These ghosts are magic, but you think that they're the ghostly version of skeletons too. Scrapes of themselves like they're scrapes of bones.

"Tell me about yourself," you say to Adelaide as you walk to the grove you know is being prepared, "and I'll sketch your portrait. We'll keep your visage alive."

She looks at you, verbebrae moving silently. No jaw bone, no smile, but you see another flicker of light. One that might be a tilted front tooth.

Your mom's hand comes down on your shoulder. "Let us talk first, but then yes, we can take a family portrait."

This time, you see a flash of Adelaide's entire hopeful face. You vow to make sure someone has a camera.

Your bloodline has guarded the boundary between the kingdoms and the world of the dead for 500 years. Since the Great War nothing has happened. Today something came through. Not an army, but an undead diplomat and a small entourage.

#writeblr #writing prompts #fantasy #short story #original fiction #ghosts #magic #gwen writes

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therobotsarestuckinmyhead · 2 days ago

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♡ THE TERRACE [TFO Orion Pax/Reader]

setting: Pre-Iacon 5000, the terrace of an energon refinery. fluff.

note: i don't think the mined energon is carried off just like that, i believe there is refineries as well which are near by the mines and run by the cogless

warnings: NONE

summary: your touch starved bf surprises you at your job

You've finally gotten a break at the refinery, factory buzzing with workers— the distinct smell of smoke was something your olfactory was used to at this point. Your job at the energon refinery was not the best, better than being a miner but you all worked for the betterment of Cybertron! Isn't that all that matters?

You can hear the faint sounds of the radio replaying Sentinel Prime’s message of encouragement to the cogless such as yourself. Many look up at the screens to see the face of the mech, of the Prime, Sentinel Prime— You stand there for a moment, looking into the screen before you go up the stairs.

His face, his smile, his charm; he truly was a leader. Working so hard for all of them to retrieve the Matrix of leadership. But you can't help but wonder…

Was it truly fair that some bots are allowed to live freely while others toil for their lifestyle? You can see fragments of the golden city from where you stand. Heaven, nirvana right above you yet so, so far away. Sometimes you think you can reach your servos up and just grasp it. Perhaps Orion was rubbing his influence on you.

You try not to dwell on it, thoughts left to themselves were more dangerous than poisoned energon; to the topmost area, to your nice little quiet spot above the ceiling where the smoke and smog is away from you as you look into the sky to capture glimpses of upper Iacon city and from below, one can see the mines. The refinery is not too far from there— workers and miners were the bottom rung after all. Mined, unfiltered energon is absolutely devastating for fuel tanks, energon is just another volatile element without being refined so it's no surprise the factories are right nearby.

You can see the efforts your fellow workers put in from up here. The translucent glass parts of the terrace floor provides enough visibility to see at least the silhouettes of your friends and coworkers. And outside, you can see miners individually hauling in the raw energon in barrows to the factory.

The amount of energon seemed to get less and less by the day, decreasing. Rationing would get worse, wouldn't it? A newfound appreciation blooms for your rationed cubes, five or so wrapped in some cloth; clutching them tighter in your servos.

As you continue to ponder about the future of your world and survival of your kind, you fail to notice the presence of your one and only. His servos suddenly wrapping around your hipstruts, helm resting on your shoulder plating.

“Hello there.”

You instinctively shriek and elbow whoever it was behind you, enough for them to fall back against the railings with a grunt and fall onto their aft. You drop a few cubes but thankfully, they can't roll off the floor. You could've gotten a whiplash with how quickly you turned around to see…

“Orion!” You panic as you realize who it was, dropping your rations as you step closer to him, leaning down and giving him a servo as he gets up slowly, taking a moment to regain his footing. He sees the concern in your optics, the worry, like you might have cracked his endoskeleton.

“I'm tougher than I look, you know…” He mumbles out as he dusts himself from the fall.

“But I do feel bad for whoever gets into a fight with you.” He laughs it off, that stupid smile on his face as he stands up straight. You were surprisingly strong however, he can see you didn't find it as amusing as he did.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” You softly scold him though it almost sounds like you're whining. The gentleness in your optics makes his spark skip a beat, only if the two of you could be together all the time so you could always look at him like that..

“I know, I know.. It was a stupid idea. But I'm not going to apologize.” He says gleefully, his servos crossed around his cogless chassis with a smug smile.

“I could've smacked you off the railing, you know?” Your optics narrow at his display, lip components shifting into a small frown. It's cute. Almost like you're pouting. Of course he would show up, the two of you often shared your schedules with each other so you could meet up. He knows now was your break. The shifts have gotten longer and more demanding, sparing lesser time for lovers such as yourselves to see each other out of work so every second counts.

“Don't you think you're overestimating your strength there?” Orion teases as he notices the cubes you dropped, kneeling down to pick them up for you. You didn't even realize you dropped them. And one of your limited rations fell off through the gaps of the railing. But you don't focus on that for now, lowering yourself to collect your rations.

“Watch me. I could throw you off the terrace if I could.” You say with pride and a hint of a playful threat, no lack of confidence in your strength. The two of you rising up after collecting the remaining four energon cubes, Orion hands over the three of them he quickly grabbed as he looks at your face. Your own optics more focused on his servos, worried he might drop the remaining of your fuel for the next two days.

“Aw, you'd throw the love of your life from the terrace of a factory?~” Orion grabs a hold of your free servo to your special spot on the terrace; a peek of Golden Iacon visible from above as The two of you lay down on the terrace floor. He never takes your threats seriously. Ever. In fact, you don't remember the last time Orion took anything seriously. But that's what you loved about him. He made the bleak thoughts in your processor all the more brighter.

“If you keep doing stupid things like scaring a bot on a terrace and risk falling splat onto the ground, I might.”

You sit up as your optics narrow down onto Orion Pax yet again, he can feel that you're sort of salty about it. But your EM field doesn't lie; He can sense the sparkfelt concern and worry as well. And that you're slightly upset about one fifth of your rations falling into oblivion. Good thing he came prepared.

“Fine, fine. I'm sorry, sweetspark. I didn't mean to scare you.” He shifts to get even closer to your frame, his helm resting on your lap. You look down at him with a questioning glare but you don't reject his advances. The affection in his pretty blue optics always got to you before anything else could and Orion knows that very well.

While his tone may sound insincere and even dismissive… and you're almost entirely certain he would do that again someday, his EM field steps in and saves him. You can feel he doesn't mean it. He only wanted to surprise you. Orion can see how your faceplates light up or how your optics sparkle the moment you see him and he is willing to die if it means he can see that all the time.

“...it's okay.” Sometimes, you wonder if you give in too easily to him with the triumphant smile on his faceplates. His helm nuzzles into your mid-section, making you stiffen slightly, back struts going straight. But your servos don't hesitate to start caressing his helm. He let's out a relaxed sigh, systems whirring softly. He loves the warmth of your systems, it's subtle but so relaxing. Not to mention how he can bask in your EM field. Your very presence was soothing to the miner.

“I've missed this..” He continues nuzzling into your midsection as his helm lays on your lap, servos wrapping around your torso so he could make sure he stayed there. You were as clean as he was which meant you were covered in dust like him but with a touch of ash from the factory.

“You saw me this morning.” You smile softly, a softened affectionate gaze directed to the mech soaking up your presence. Your servos gently caress his helm. Rough digits with scratched paint and blackened tips gently circling around his audio receptors or drawing shapes. He loves this so much. He loves you so much.

“That was breems ago and it practically felt like vorns..” He says dramatically though his words are slightly muffled with how his intake is against your frame, it makes you laugh a bit and you swore you could feel him smile against your midsection even harder. Orion always exaggerated, he was such a silly bot but it was a part of his appeal to you— able to light up the mood in a nanoklik.

There's a brief moment of silence between the two of you as you sit there with your stabilizing servos stretched outward, Orions's helm resting on your tibulen as one his servos lower from its grip around your midsection to draw patterns against your thigh guards. You servos continue to caress his helm, every touch reverent.

Again, your processor goes places… after all, you can't help but wonder.

“How did you get in here though?” The curious tone of your voice makes him have to part away from the warmth of your systems as he looks up at you. You sort of spoiled the mood with that question but he is forgiving of your offense with how your servos move to caress his faceplates instead.

“Weeeelll…” He drawls out, “You aren't gonna like it.” He sighs out, knowing there's a scolding impending for him from your vocalizer. Honestly, sometimes you were just like Elita-One and Dee. Your optical ridges furrow and your soft smile drops into a small frown.

“Did you sneak up the broken down vents again?”

He winces, the way you so quickly caught on. Right on the spot. You really did know him well.

“Oh Primus..” That expression was all you needed. Your vents let out a small huff and Orion prepares himself.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to risk your spark trying to come see me?” If Elita and Dee spoke to him in the way you softly scold him, he might've actually gotten things done for once. Actually, no. He wouldn't get anything done. He'd be too busy admiring the way each word sounds.

“Yeah, yeah but.. we don't even have the same job. And you can't come down from this old factory with how prissy they are about attendance so there's literally no other way!” Orion gets a bit defensive, dismissive of his own recklessness. It worries you and he can see that. The worst part is, he's right.

“And I'll be damned before I'm kept away from you.” He mumbles out with a surprising amount of sincerity as he kisses your abdominal plating, helm returning to its old position as he peppers kisses on your midsection. His words and actions do affect you with the way you fail to respond for a moment, clearly caught off-guard. He's snuck into guarded archieves before, a refinery is nothing.

“I just don't want to see you hurt, Rion. I… love you and I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Ever.”

Your words make him smile even more against your midsection as he takes a pause from kissing. He loves you so much, his spark melts at every word and he can feel how sincere you are.

“Primus, I love you.”

He could die here the happiest mech on Cybertron. Orion isn't sure how you fell for him but he is not complaining in the slightest. His kisses trailing up to your chassis and eventually, towards the empty slot in your chassis. Soon enough, he's all over you. He's always been touchy.

“...Orion, this is a quick break. BR-109 will have me on a platter if I don't show up in a few breems.” With the mischievous glint in his optics, you know this will escalate. He relishes the smile on your faceplates as you say that though he is definitely disappointed. But there's always a loophole for a rebel like him.

“Few isn't specific enough, sweetspark. For all we know, he could've meant fifteen breems or eight breems.” Orions says teasingly, kissing the sensitive cog slot. Open ended circuits sending slight pleasure though your systems, evident by the sigh that leaves your vocalizer.

“And whether its fifteen or eight breems, I'll make sure it's worth your while.” He has that smug, teasing grin plastered over his faceplates as he looks down at you. You sigh playfully, knowing well that you crave his attention as much as he wants yours. He needs to show you that he loves you or else he might explode, you're acutely aware of this.

“You're lucky I'm into you.”

“Luckiest in the universe, my spark.” He looks like he won the Iacon 5000 as he catches onto your response, leaning down to place an affectionate kiss against your derma. The affection in your gaze, it's overwhelming but Orion has gotten used to it. Happy to be a tangled mess of frames with you.

Your rations are once again out of your servos but you could always fuel with Orion afterwards.

#transformers #cybertronian reader #transformers x reader #orion pax #transformers one #tf one #tf one orion pax #orion pax x reader

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