#manipulation sphere

[moderator-monnie]

In celebration of valentines day my amazing friend @lazy-charlie helped me.

Create a bunch of valentines day cards featuring 4 of my many chararters from across my journey as an au creator! Please check her out and support her if you can.

Todays Card Is Manipulation Sphere (Nicknamed Manny) From my Alternate story portal au.

The true master of gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss.

The next card will be posted on the 9th, and two cards will be posted on valentines day itself, one on this blog and one on another blog and reblogged here.

[phobia393]

Curse user au for my jjk oc

[sorrysomethingwentwrong]

"King Size", The King has left the building.

Elvis Presley's death marked the end of an era in American culture.

"King Size" is a meditation on the intertwined narratives of Elvis and Las Vegas—his transformation into a myth and Las Vegas into the epicenter of the American consumer-entertainment complex.

In Vegas, Elvis embodied the American Dream and was its ultimate victim.

The four-minute, hyper-detailed, image-dense video starring the King in his different incarnations—from young army officer to swaggering movie star to bloated has-been—as well as the dream-city of Vegas itself, which somewhat similarly evolves from a small desert oasis into the neon epicenter of debacle-spectacle.

In keeping with its themes of celebrity-image proliferation and saturation, King Size (2023) is Brambilla’s biggest video collage yet, using 1,000 looped video clips from different movies, including all 33 Elvis films.

Marco Brambilla’s video for the Sphere, created with AI

[meistoshi]

the closest we ever got to satoshi making his own wave bomb in the anime,,,,,,,

[beastwars-transformers]

Every time I write a new fictional species they always end up being biologically incapable of digesting alcohol and this is the only form of projection you’ll see in my work

[space-arsonist]

AU in which Zog was the one to manipulate himself the entire time into doing everything he has done + rescuing Talion and becoming his ally only to make both of them spiral and later Talion becomes a nazgul and this is up to debate if it was a consequence of their actions or it was up to Talion exclusively. The fact is that it's the event that pushes Zog into this huge manipulation game because he can't accept Talion's fall and so he has to destroy himself in the process to; he also can't get over the fact that he was defeated by Talion so he's also taking revenge. It ends with both of them dying.

[gayemoji]

jesus fucking christ.

[pearlprincess02]

pluto in a man's birthchart

pluto in 1st house

with pluto in the 1st house, a man often experiences life with intense passion and a profound sense of power and control. his presence can be magnetic, drawing others in while he navigates deep-seated issues of obsession and jealousy. this placement fosters a transformative approach to self-expression, where renewal comes through confronting personal taboos and exploring the subconscious. his sexuality is marked by a powerful, often compelling energy that drives him to uncover and embrace hidden desires and deeper truths about himself. in relationships, this intensity can lead to a dynamic where power plays a significant role, pushing him toward profound personal growth and understanding.

keywords: magnetic enigma, alpha, dark horse, intense lover, power player, obsessive pursuer, transformative leader, taboo breaker, complex anti-hero, passionate visionary.

examples from movies/tv: don draper (mad men), patrick bateman (american psycho), tom ripley (the talented mr. ripley), dexter morgan (dexter), jesse pinkman (breaking bad)

pluto in 2nd house

with pluto in the 2nd house, a man’s approach to life is deeply intertwined with intensity and passion, especially regarding personal values and material security. he often seeks power and control through financial stability and possessions, leading to obsessive tendencies about wealth and resources. this placement can stir feelings of jealousy over material success or status, pushing him toward significant transformation and renewal in his self-worth and values. delving into taboos and the subconscious, he explores deep-seated fears and desires related to his value system and personal assets. his sexuality is characterized by a profound, sometimes all-consuming drive, revealing a need to merge deeply with his desires and those of his partners, transforming both self and relationship dynamics.

keywords: resourceful enigma, possessive tycoon, obsessive collector, transformative financier, taboo-breaking sensualist, passionate materialist, controlling patriarch, 

examples from movies/tv: gordon gekko (wall street), frank underwood (house of cards), walter white (breaking bad), tyler durden (fight club), michael corleone (the godfather),

pluto in 3rd house

with pluto in the 3rd house, a man experiences intense passion and drive in his communication and intellectual pursuits. his need for power and control manifests through his interactions and thought processes, often leading to obsessive focus on his ideas and relationships. jealousy might surface in his exchanges, particularly if he feels challenged or threatened intellectually. this placement fosters significant transformation and renewal through exploring deeply held beliefs and confronting subconscious patterns. he may be drawn to uncover and engage with taboos, especially those related to communication and learning. in sexuality, his approach is intense and transformative, reflecting a deep desire to connect profoundly and intellectually with his partners, reshaping his perceptions and experiences of intimacy.

keywords: intense communicator, manipulative wordsmith, obsessive researcher, transformative thinker, taboo-breaking provocateur, passionate debater, controlling intellect, 

examples from movies/tv: hannibal lecter (the silence of the lambs), john doe (se7en), tony stark (iron man), roy waller (matchstick men), william foster (falling down),

pluto in 4th house

with pluto in the 4th house, a man’s intensity and passion are deeply rooted in his home life and family dynamics. his quest for power and control often centers on creating a secure and dominant presence within his domestic sphere, leading to obsessive tendencies regarding his personal space and family relationships. jealousy may emerge over issues of control or security within the home. this placement drives profound transformation and renewal through revisiting and resolving deep-seated familial and emotional issues. he is drawn to explore taboos and subconscious fears related to his upbringing and emotional foundations. in sexuality, his approach is deeply transformative, seeking to merge his intimate desires with a profound emotional connection, reshaping his understanding of personal and relational intimacy.

keywords: intense patriarch, controlling homebody, obsessive family man, transformative foundation builder, taboo-breaking ancestor, passionate nurturer, 

examples from movies/tv: norman bates (psycho), tyrion lannister (game of thrones), thomas shelby (peaky blinders), tony soprano (the sopranos), frank gallagher (shameless),

pluto in 5th house

with pluto in the 5th house, a man’s intensity and passion are channeled into his creative pursuits, romantic relationships, and self-expression. his desire for power and control often manifests through his creative projects and romantic involvements, leading to obsessive behaviors around these areas. jealousy might surface in matters of love or competition, driving him to confront deeper issues of self-worth and recognition. this placement encourages significant transformation and renewal through exploring and redefining his sources of pleasure and creativity. he may be drawn to uncover and engage with taboos related to self-expression and romance, delving into the subconscious aspects of his desires. in sexuality, his approach is profoundly transformative, seeking to fuse passion with emotional depth, reshaping his experiences of intimacy and personal fulfillment.

keywords: intense charmer, controlling stage presence, obsessive performer, transformative creator, taboo-breaking artist, passionate lover, 

examples from movies/tv: christian grey (fifty shades of grey), james bond (james bond series), joker (the dark knight), david aames (vanilla sky), bojack horseman (bojack horseman),

pluto in 6th house

with pluto in the 6th house, a man’s intensity and passion are deeply intertwined with his work, health, and daily routines. his drive for power and control is channeled into his professional life and personal well-being, often leading to obsessive behaviors regarding productivity and perfectionism. jealousy may arise in competitive work environments or over perceived inadequacies in his routines. this placement promotes profound transformation and renewal through confronting and overhauling old habits and health issues. he is compelled to explore taboos and subconscious fears related to his work environment and daily life. in sexuality, his approach is transformative, seeking to integrate his desires with a deeper understanding of his own needs and those of his partners, reshaping his intimate connections and personal growth.

keywords: intense workaholic, controlling perfectionist, obsessive researcher, transformative healer, taboo-breaking rebel, passionate servant, 

examples from movies/tv: dr. gregory house (house m.d.), michael bluth (arrested development), howard stark (agent carter), elliot alderson (mr. robot), paul atreides (dune),

pluto in 7th house

with pluto in the 7th house, a man experiences intense passion and drive in his relationships and partnerships. his need for power and control often emerges through dynamics with others, leading to obsessive behaviors and deep-seated issues around partnership and commitment. jealousy may manifest in romantic or business relationships, prompting him to confront and resolve underlying fears. this placement fosters significant transformation and renewal through the exploration and redefinition of his relational patterns. he is drawn to delve into taboos and subconscious patterns related to intimacy and collaboration. in sexuality, his approach is profound and transformative, seeking to deeply connect with partners while continuously evolving his understanding of intimacy and personal connection.

keywords: intense partner, controlling manipulator, obsessive lover, transformative union seeker, taboo-breaking rebel, passionate collaborator, 

examples from movies/tv: julius caesar (rome), gordon ramsay (hell’s kitchen), patrick jane (the mentalist), rick sanchez (rick and morty), victor von doom / doctor doom (fantastic four),

pluto in 8th house

with pluto in the 8th house, a man experiences profound intensity and passion in areas related to intimacy, shared resources, and personal transformation. his drive for power and control often surfaces in matters of joint finances or deep emotional connections, leading to obsessive tendencies and complex dynamics around trust and vulnerability. jealousy may arise over issues of control or emotional depth within relationships. this placement is marked by significant transformation and renewal through confronting and integrating profound psychological and emotional experiences. he is compelled to explore taboos and the subconscious, delving into the darker aspects of his psyche and desires. in sexuality, his approach is intensely transformative, seeking deep, meaningful connections that challenge and reshape his understanding of intimacy and personal power.

keywords: intense enigma, controlling power broker, obsessive investigator, transformative healer, taboo-breaking mystic, passionate lover, 

examples from movies/tv: anton chigurh (no country for old men), nicholas van orton (the game), david (the skin i live in), lestat de lioncourt (interview with the vampire), james bond (casino royale),

pluto in 9th house

with pluto in the 9th house, a man’s intensity and passion are directed towards his pursuit of higher knowledge, philosophical beliefs, and long-distance endeavors. his need for power and control manifests through intellectual and spiritual pursuits, often leading to obsessive exploration of big ideas and ideological frameworks. jealousy might arise in academic or philosophical debates, pushing him to confront deep-seated fears about his beliefs and understanding. this placement drives significant transformation and renewal through a profound reassessment of his worldviews and personal philosophies. he is drawn to uncover taboos and subconscious patterns related to his exploration of meaning and purpose. in sexuality, his approach is intense and transformative, seeking to integrate his desires with a deeper understanding of his own values and how they shape his intimate connections.

keywords: intense philosopher, controlling ideologue, obsessive seeker, transformative visionary, taboo-breaking explorer, passionate idealist, 

examples from movies/tv: richard alpert (lost), professor charles xavier (x-men), clyde shelton (law abiding citizen), frank abagnale jr. (catch me if you can), rick grimes (the walking dead),

pluto in 10th house

with pluto in the 10th house, a man’s intensity and passion are focused on his career, public image, and aspirations for success. his drive for power and control manifests through his professional life, often leading to obsessive behavior in achieving career goals and maintaining a dominant public presence. jealousy may surface in competitive work environments or when confronted with others' success, prompting deep self-reflection and transformation. this placement fosters significant renewal through re-evaluating and reshaping his career path and public persona. he is drawn to explore taboos and subconscious fears related to authority and achievement. in sexuality, his approach is profoundly transformative, seeking to integrate his desires with his ambitions, reshaping his intimate relationships to align with his broader goals and personal power.

keywords: intense leader, controlling visionary, obsessive achiever, transformative titan, taboo-breaking maverick, passionate reformer, 

examples from movies/tv: howard hughes (the aviator), donnie brasco (donnie brasco), j.r. ewing (dallas), bruce wayne / batman (batman begins), hank moody (californication),

pluto in 11th house

with pluto in the 11th house, a man’s intensity and passion are directed towards his social circles, friendships, and long-term goals. his quest for power and control often plays out within group dynamics or through his involvement in social causes, leading to obsessive behavior in achieving his idealistic visions. jealousy might arise in relation to his peers or within social networks, prompting him to confront deep-seated fears about acceptance and influence. this placement drives significant transformation and renewal through a profound reassessment of his role within groups and his aspirations. he is drawn to explore taboos and subconscious patterns related to social interactions and collective ideals. in sexuality, his approach is intense and transformative, seeking to align his intimate connections with his broader social and personal ambitions.

keywords: intense revolutionary, controlling idealist, obsessive reformer, transformative visionary, taboo-breaking rebel, passionate humanist, 

examples from movies/tv: jim morrison (the doors), lenny leonard (the simpsons), george costanza (seinfeld), michael scott (the office), boris yellnikoff (whatever works),

pluto in 12th house

with pluto in the 12th house, a man experiences profound intensity and passion within his inner world and subconscious mind. his need for power and control often manifests through hidden or private struggles, leading to obsessive behaviors around his personal fears and psychological patterns. jealousy may emerge from unseen or repressed emotions, prompting deep self-exploration and confrontation with his own shadow self. this placement fosters significant transformation and renewal through working on internal issues and subconscious material. he is drawn to uncover taboos and delve into the depths of his psyche, exploring hidden aspects of his being. in sexuality, his approach is deeply transformative, seeking to integrate his desires with a profound understanding of his inner self, reshaping his intimate relationships through personal growth and introspection.

keywords: intense recluse, controlling shadow self, obsessive seeker, transformative healer, taboo-breaking mystic, passionate visionary, 

examples from movies/tv: travis bickle (taxi driver), rorschach (watchmen), jack torrance (the shining), david (the omen), donnie darko (donnie darko),

all observations are done by me !!! @pearlprincess02

[theoldsports]

SHITHEAD.

Art Donaldson x Reader.

warnings: a lot of them. 18+, slapping, begging, major angst, brat!Art, an argument with make up sex. Art is really manipulative because… he is a bit and we all know it. [Y/N] is very ill-tempered too. it’s dirty.

can be a part ii to SPONTANEOUS, or read as a standalone. this is my favorite piece of writing i have published on this account.

The bed was empty beside [Y/N]. She stared at Art’s empty side of the bed. The soft green sheets and mix-matched pillowcases went unoccupied. Not because he wasn’t home, but because [Y/N] hated Art so he had to sleep downstairs on the couch.

It wasn’t that she really hated Art. She did hate him right now. Not in a funny way. Their drive home had been silent. Poor Art didn’t know how to facilitate conversation that wouldn’t worsen the situation. His sorrowful eyes, but honest eyes kept glancing from the road to where [Y/N] sat in the passenger seat. The real showdown had started between them something awful when the door to their house slammed shut.

See, Art cried when he got mad. Or sad. Or profoundly excited. Their wedding photos were two-thirds Art crying and trying not to show that he was crying.

Art hadn’t cried tonight yet. That pissed [Y/N] off. She was furious and he seemed to feel absolutely zero discernible feelings about that.

They argued all the time. It rarely lasted all too long.

It was different this time. When [Y/N] started to say something cruel or shout or weep, Art got a little smaller, but he alarmingly stood his ground. He averted his gaze and said “I respectfully disagree,” or “What the fuck do you know about how I feel?” in a dangerously level tone.

Fighting with Art about this wasn’t fun. He was too cool about. He knew he was right. [Y/N] wanted to yell and scream because Art was so relaxed and condescending in his tone. When the man who had spent his teenage years getting referred at competition after competition as literally Ice tonelessly said: “Jesus Christ, aren’t you bored yet? What, going to over-explain the same information to me again, or…?” Finally, that had made [Y/N] drag herself to bed and yank the door closed violently enough that she felt the metallic vibration run all the way up to her shoulder.

And she was still laying there, staring at Art’s side of the bed.

At the Zweig’s party that night, there were a few hot topics in the Donaldsons’ sphere:

1) Lots of congratulations from people that had known them grow up, but hadn’t seen them since the wedding or prior.

This was mostly very kind. It dragged that smirk up Art’s face and caused his fingers to dig tighter into [Y/N]’s waist. That look of pride and tenderness on his face was more than welcome.

2) Lots of questions about Patrick. His lack of attendance was felt.

Both Donaldsons dodged these question as much as they could. Art kept an eye on [Y/N]’s liquor consumption. He knew how embarrassed she would be if she said something she regretted in front of Patrick’s family. Patrick had hurt them both, but Art’s heart went out to [Y/N]. Her world had been built around Patrick’s from a young age. Art was trying to engineer his own world higher around her so she wouldn’t be able to see the old place and people that had burned her over the walls.

3) “You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”

With Art keeping an eye on [Y/N]’s drinking, she hadn’t really been keeping an eye on him. She just assumed he would keep his shit together. Art drinking in public was never really a concern. He wasn’t a big drinker anyway. At this point, his career mattered more and he was approaching his mid-twenties which made him feel surely less young than he had once. He wasn’t a casual beer guy either. It was Patrick who liked beer and Art who would have a moledo or something sometimes. Art did like white girl drinks, though. Tequila and fruity stuff. He had been able to shoot shot after shot of vodka like a pro in college at a season-end celebration.

Art was a tight-lipped man, but he was a giggly drunk who he got pretty comfortable talking out of his ass from behind a glass with an umbrella in it. Art was rarely comfortable with anything, so a drink or two at a party was welcome to him.

Another important point of context is that the largest point of tension between Art and [Y/N] was starting a family. They desperately wanted a child together, but they disagree on when. [Y/N] felt like she was fresh out of college, so she figured they had plenty of time. Art felt that he was fresh out of college, so he figured they may as well get to it.

Their arguments about this were once semi-regular. In the last four months or so, Art timidly bowed out and hoped [Y/N] would tell him when she was ready (sooner rather than later). He got tired of the low-tier shouting matches. Instead, he would pick fights about things that were decidedly lower stakes when he was bored.

Art had let [Y/N] field comments about family planning throughout the night. Unfortunately, when Art was polishing off a second drink, he ran his mouth a little bit.

Knowing he was the designated driver that night, Art did go easy. Art was also, like, five pounds. While he could hold his liquor with grace, he always got giggly. He watched with heavy eyelids as [Y/N] walked away to collect another drink following the dinner portion of the evening. The paper placecards with their shared last name emblazoned on them rested comfortably in Art’s inner jacket pocket to be kept as a memory.

Some guy who sold boat insurance and liked to rub elbows with talent was talking Art’s ear off. Art couldn’t remember his name, but [Y/N] would know it.

This was the precise moment that got Art in trouble.

Because when the guy whose name Art was sure started with an R said: “So! You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”

Art said:

“Any day now, I hope. Tomorrow. I’m good to go. [Y/N] thinks now’s not a great time for her.”

He had said it with a smirk and a stupid little laugh. It was basically locker room talk. Big deal. He would’ve said it to Patrick with [Y/N] present in the room. This guy wasn’t Patrick and he was technically speaking behind her back.

Art had forgotten how close they were standing to the bar. He had forgotten that the frequency of his pitchy tenor was known to carry. He had forgotten that he was well known to be an instigator of fights even though he never actually threw the first punch. He had forgotten that he hadn’t been whispering. He had forgotten that this guy… Richy? Ronnie? was pretty much a stranger who had no business knowing their business.

Now, Art was sleeping on the couch and his side of the bed was empty.

Jackass.

[Y/N] stared still at the empty bed and didn’t know how to articulate her upset to an Art who had seemingly yet to feel ashamed.

She had a headache and was tired. But sleep wasn’t going to come easy and all she had to look forward to was a hangover.

Art didn’t really snore, but he was a heavy breather when he slept. The lack of his white noise made the A/C blowing and the stairs creaking too loud. Maybe all of this was on [Y/N] for making Art uncomfortable, she dared to think.

Then she reminded herself that it was Art’s fault for talking too much and for drinking when he knew he was supposed to drive home.

[Y/N] rolled over to face away from Art’s spot. All she could think about is how his hands always sleepily pawed at her to pull her back when she got too far away from him before he fell asleep.

“So, what’d you do?” Patrick asked.

“She hates me.” Art replied. It was almost a question.

“I asked what you did, not what she feels. She already told us what she feels and it’s that she hates you.” Patrick stated. When Patrick had stopped through town for a match, he had come by for dinner with, well, his best friends. This had been right after they’d gotten engaged.

Art sniffled. He didn’t want to cry in front of Patrick. Art would sooner cry in front of his own father. Both men would have laughed in his face, but it would have stung more from Patrick. “We got into a fight yesterday. A big one. Like, the first, uh, big one. She’s worried about the f—“

“The future? Please,” Patrick said bitterly. He frowned and his jaw tightened, but he combatted it by tossing Art a smile before the other man noticed the tension. “Stupid. You’re gonna marry her. You’ll play tennis. She’ll do her… columns? Articles. I don’t get what it is that she does—“

“She writes for—“

“Sure, yeah. You’re gonna have two kids so you can each pick a favorite one. And she’s gonna be a pain in your ass forever. Don’t be a pussy.”

Art sniffled again and stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I didn’t think I did,” Art said meekly. “I don’t get it. She gets so mad sometimes. At me.” Patrick stared at him blankly. Art had to know that he was usually at least a little bit the problem.

“Did she do the thing where she calls you a—“

“Shithead bastard?”

“Shithead bastard.” Both boys said at the same time. Art dragged his hands through his hair and looked up at Patrick. Both of them quirked a smirk at the other.

“See,” Patrick started. “You’ll be fine. Fuckin’ go after her.”

“And say what!”

“Uh… ‘I’m sorry?’ You do that kinda shit. She’ll like that.”

It was impossible to know how long [Y/N] laid there. The clock was on Art’s side and she would get spitting mad if she rolled back over.

She could just go downstairs and tell Art to come back to bed. He was probably sleeping just fine.

“Hey, hon, you don’t hate me, right?” Art’s voice whispered in the darkness.

[Y/N] was fairly certain she had imagined it. She had not heard his sweaty feet on the stairs or his fingers against the doorknob. Quickly, [Y/N] whipped over to face the door behind her.

There was Art. His sweatpants sat low on his hips and his shirt was long gone. Clothing didn’t often survive the night on Art’s back.

Really, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken Art to work through coming upstairs so quietly. “Mm?” [Y/N] groaned in question.

Art rocked his right shoulder into the doorway to lean. His arms were crossed and his eyes straight ahead on her from what [Y/N] could tell in the glow of the hallway’s thermostat. “Please just tell me you don’t hate me and I’ll let you go back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

With a sigh, [Y/N] sat up and rolled her cracking shoulders back. “I don’t hate you, Art.” Her heart melted a little bit. [Y/N] knew it was immature, but her special attack in arguments since childhood was to bandy around the word hate a lot. Not that she had said it to Art tonight, but she had no doubt said it before. More than once. More times than she could count, maybe.

She was surprised Art had never asked this before. That surprise hurt in an a way that was too complex to describe. “I could never hate you.” [Y/N] continued, voice hushed only because it was dark out.

Art’s posture relaxed slightly. “You promise you don’t?” Said Art’s evermore crippling lack of self-confidence.

“I promise.” [Y/N] replied calmly.

“Okay. Thank you.” Art said in a small voice.

“I love you, baby. I don’t hate you. You shouldn’t have to ask that. I’m sorry I made you feel like you even have to ask that.”

Art frowned sharply. “No, I’m the one that should be sorry. You told me nicely not to talk about—“

“Don’t play that. You have to know you don’t feel like you did anything wrong, so you don’t have to invent a situation where you’re some horrible person.”

Art was silent.

[Y/N] continued. “I’m pissed because you told Randy,” RANDY. His name was RANDY. That’s it. “Our business. My business, really. He’s an asshole. It’s fine. Well, not now, but eventually. But you kinda martyred yourself on it. You don’t have to do that and I don’t hate you. You know I don’t… Right?”

“I’m sorry.” Art said quickly. He was gifted at making every single minor problem his own fault. He knew he was a little bit of an awful person for that, but he would die before admitting it. Art would hide behind his martyring habit as long as his cross could hold him, though. [Y/N] hadn’t noticed before this moment, but she could see the shining of his eyes in the digital blue-green glow. Tears. This time, less than obvious waterworks. Aw.

“I’m sorry. I’m still pissed at you for running your mouth, but I’m sorry too.”

Art nodded, said nothing else and reached for the doorknob.

Here is a frustrating thing about Art.

He said he was going to leave for downstairs once [Y/N] said she didn’t hate him. He started to make good on that vow. If he says something, he’s going to do it, even though he doesn’t have to do it.

“Come on,” [Y/N] called louder than she’d been whispering. “Come here, pretty baby.”

Pretty Baby by Blondie had been their wedding song. She had been calling him that for almost as long as she had known him. Saying it, or hearing the song always made that stunning, small crooked smile stretch up beyond his sad puppy eyes all the way to his ears.

Art’s kryptonite was pretty baby. They both knew it.

He turned to look at her with a slight blush on his cheeks, almost visible in the dark. Art shifted one of his feet childishly over the other in apprehension.. “Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like to ask twice.” [Y/N] reminded him.

After a hasty nod, Art was in bed before he [Y/N] blinked. The blonde sat bolt upright beside [Y/N] with his eyes wide. Hesitant, but coyly so. He knew this pattern. The agony and shame from her brutality would only last so long. Housepets loved to cause trouble for treat.

Not to say that Art liked to start fights so he could play some low-status lapdog that got to feel his wife’s fingers comb through his hair the way he liked as a reward for an apology. The man bit his cheek to avoid a devious smirk. A part of him did like to do that sometimes, though.

He always got away with it. He was such a nice boy.

[Y/N] rolled her eyes and leaned back into the threadbare pillows. With a finger, she beckoned Art nearer. Hesitation eliminated, Art flopped slowly down beside [Y/N]; she on her back, he on his side, facing her. Delicately, Art’s fingers dragged down [Y/N]’s arm to curl in her fingers.

Not long after that, his plush mouth climbed down from her neck. Then shoulders and collarbones. Then bicep. Elbow. Forearm and wrist. Down her hand to her silver-studded ring finger. Each kiss with accompanied with an honest and dutiful I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He was sorry. Genuinely. Sorry for the upset he brought his wife, but not the cause. Art’s beautiful duel-colored eyes glanced up at [Y/N]’s blown pupils through her own fingers.

“I didn’t mean to talk about you like that… I just… I love you so much that I want more of you. That’s all, honey,” Art laid his head on [Y/N]’s upper chest and his mouth moved against the front of her throat. “I’m just a little stupid, huh…”

Under his lips, Art could feel the rumble of a laugh rip through [Y/N]’s throat. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair to hold him in place. “Do-don’t talk about yourself like that,” she mumbled and gave his hair a lovely tug with both hands. He whimpered. [Y/N] wanted to bottle that sound. Art would always remember what she said next and how she said it: “Only I get to talk about you like that… St-stupid.”

This was the version of [Y/N] he was going to remember when he thought of her every day for the rest of his life. That sentence, the way her hair hung from where he had pushed it away from her neck. The sting of the cold metal from her wedding ring on the back of his neck and the stone of her engagement ring pressing into where he reached his palm to place his hand over hers. There was just the wrong amount of clothes between them. Her eyes ringed smoky from the makeup smudges and the exhaustion.

“Say it again.” Art whispered, swinging a knee over [Y/N]’s thighs so he could stare down at her. His forehead pressed softly against [Y/N]’s.

[Y/N]’s mouth fell open slightly with a breathy exhalation. Holy shit. “What, pretty baby, you want me to tell you how stupid you are? You like that?” [Y/N] almost whispered into Art’s still lips. He was too shocked to kiss her back, but too turned on to pull away. Art whimpered louder than before. [Y/N] felt him nod.

So she didn’t hold back. “You think I need to punish you after you behaved like that today or something? You need to atone for what a moron you were, shithead?” [Y/N] kept her tone light enough to just about tease as her nose trailed along the side of his. Her objective was to belittle. Her nails slid down Art’s muscular, sturdy back.

They both knew Art was a masochist on his worst days. Did he get off on being degraded sometimes? Sure. But this series of events was ridiculously new and exciting for [Y/N]. And shockingly obviously for Art too.

His hips pressed into her pathetically. “What? Did you need help with something?” She asked innocently when she felt Art’s hard-on against her thigh. [Y/N] kissed him distractingly warmly for how she was treating him. Art’s head spun and he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. He had backed himself into the best kind of corner.

Across Art’s hips and side went [Y/N]’s left hand, to the front of his sweatpants. Humiliatingly, Art blinked tears out of his eyes and screwed them shut. His mouth opened and closed, but no intelligent sound came out. [Y/N] planted a kiss at the corner of his parted lips. His strong arms boxed [Y/N] protectively in from above, but she had him locked into place, really. “Baby, if you want something, you know you have to ask for it.”

“Nnh,” Art tried, eyes stuck shut. His attention was mostly spent hold himself up over his wife. His insanely gorgeous wife. [Y/N]’s other hand grabbed his jaw tenderly. He still didn’t look at her. Art was gathering his courage. “Yo-you already told me I couldn’t have what I wanted.”

With a sharp inhale, [Y/N] grip went from gentle to nonexistent. At the lack of contact, Art’s damp eyes crept open one at a time to see if his brattiness had overstepped the situation. His frightened eyes caught [Y/N]’s. She popped the side of his face sharply with an open palm. Art blinked and tipped his head to the side like a dog.

That was big trouble, huh?

“Fuck,” he said. Both of them panted in sync. “I’m sorry.” He meant it.

[Y/N] pulled Art’s face to hers and kissed him hard. “I love… you.” She said.

[psalmsofpsychosis]

'

[scarletcomalies]

soul bounds entwined

Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader

Part I, Part III

Word count: 5,248

Warnings: 18+ content, brief masturbation, confrontation, groping, emotional manipulation, brief degrading, edging, angst. Also, Reader kinda uses Billy.

A/N: Oh, my! This was supposed to be second and last part but I'm sorry, I'm leaving the best part in suspense. Thank you 3000 for the support you've given to this little series so far ❤️ See you in part III!

The more you get involved into Wanda Maximoff's life, the more you find yourself increasingly drawn to the woman. Through a series of interactions during family activities, intense romantic and sexual tension develops, culminating in a dramatic confrontation where hidden feelings are exposed.

You met Kate Bishop at High School, a few yesterdays ago. She opened the door for you to photograph galas, events, or photoshoots that her mother, Eleanor Bishop, occasionally participated in. Eleanor only agreed to please her stubborn daughter, who would have hired you regardless.

Despite your young age at the time, you were able to demonstrate to Eleanor -and several others- your almost innate ability to capture the precise peak of every instant. It was as if you had a sixth sense that told you exactly when to pick up your camera and press the button.

You were never more grateful for that gift than when you spotted the figure of Wanda Maximoff hitting the neon green sphere with her racket, so steadily, yet with such elegance that it could easily pass for a dance sequence. That was her, a being who radiated beauty even without trying.

You were barely at the middle landing of the stairs that would lead you to that woman you so longed for, her green eyes had not yet settled on you, for her attention was directed to her opponent. Oh, but she had your full and undivided attention, every action on her part being meticulously scrutinized.

When the redhead was defeated by her son, she let out a sigh of defeat, and moved to pick up the tennis ball that hit the wire and rolled a few meters away from her. It was at the moment when she threw it up, ready to take the first hit, that you pressed the capture button of your old Polaroid camera, which would be your accomplice in freezing that moment inside the piece of zink paper.

You shook the cartridge impatiently, the minutes feeling like hours for the image to be developed. And hell, was it worth the wait, for your eyes were delighted in return.

In your hands was a photograph that only you would have at your mercy, and you couldn't help but consider it a form of unparalleled intimacy that condemned you to an addiction.

Wanda Maximoff with the ball hovering in the air, looking up at said object with her full lips half-open, her racket at shoulder height. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, some of it beginning to stick to her forehead from the sweat that was beginning to be present. She wore a white pleated skirt like yours, and a light blue polo shirt with three buttons open, revealing just a little bit of her collarbone.

You stared at the photograph for who knows how long, the hours feeling like minutes this time.

"(Y/N)! You made it!" The distant voice of your now muse snapped you out of your trance, and you quickly shoved the photograph in your bag. With quick steps, you descended the remaining stairs and walked to where the awaiting family stood.

"I made it," you replied with a smile.

"And you look..." Wanda began the sentence, looking you up and down, repeating the action twice. However, she concluded it with a sigh.

"You look beautiful," Billy completed it. Despite the fact that he vocalized a complete word, a prolonged intake of breath followed by an exhale, held more meaning for you because it came from the woman before you.

"Completely," Wanda confirmed, grinning at you from ear to ear. "That skirt really suits you. You should show off those legs more often."

"Oh, thank you..." your breath hitched, and you felt as if all the blood in your body lost the ability to distribute itself, landing in your cheeks alone, the impact of her words taking on a peculiar dark pink hue.

"Billy, you pull," Wanda said, and that's when you realized he hadn't taken his eyes off you. His perennial stare was undetectable for you as long as his mother was present. "And (Y/N), go sit next to Tommy, feel free to order food or drinks. I'll teach you how to play as soon as we finish this round."

You found yourself nodding quickly, like a submissive and obedient puppy who didn't let out a word and complied to whatever she said.

Tommy greeted you with a tight-lipped smile. Between the two brothers, you found it easier to relax around Tommy. While you preferred Billy, you always had to be on guard against his suggestive remarks, which hindered your ability to fully enjoy his company. On the other hand, Tommy's voice held no hidden intentions, only friendliness at its best despite his reserved countenance.

"Did you play yet?" You asked him, noticing that his hair was still perfectly combed, with no sign of movement or activity.

"No, when my mom teaches you, I'll be your opponent," he replied.

"Then it'll be an easy win," you chuckled, making him laugh back.

"Don't worry, I won't be hard on you..."

"I meant easy win for me," you corrected, eliciting a surprised gasp from him, making you laugh even harder.

"Ah! Is this how things are gonna be between us? Okay, okay," he joked, feigning offense.

"Okay, Billy, rest," you heard Wanda say, once he lost to her.

With quiet gasps, he walked over to the table where you were seated next to Tommy. He reached for the cold water bottle that was resting across from you. He appeared to be upset, and you assumed it was because he lost, not because he witnessed your interaction with his brother.

"Mom, I want to be the one on the other side when you teach (Y/N)," he spoke, after placing the water bottle on the table.

"What?" Tommy exclaimed. "No way, dude. You played the hell out of it, it's my turn."

Before Billy could counter, Wanda interfered, "You wanted to play first, now it's your brother's turn."

Billy snorted, and sat on the chair, pulling his phone out of his bag.

Wanda signaled for you to follow her, and again, you walked behind her obediently, stopping where she indicated. Tommy positioned himself on the opposite side, stretching out his arms.

"All right, ready?" Wanda asked, handing you her racket. When you took it, you were surprised to see that it was heavier than she made it seem. The way she was handling it earlier made you think it would be featherlight.

"Yeah, ready," you could only hope that you would at least look your best while failing at trying to play the sport.

You let out a small gasp as she suddenly positioned herself behind you, her front pressed against your back. A stream of torturous cold sweat invaded every corner of your body as you forced yourself to keep your sanity.

"We're here to have fun, not the international tennis league," she said, guiding your arm with the racket at the appropiate height. "That said, don't worry if you don't get it perfect on the first try, okay?"

"Sure," you nodded, taking a deep breath. Maybe she noticed your nervousness, and thought it was due to the circumstances, when really, that became irrelevant to you when her body was pressed behind you.

"Take it firmly, with two arms or with one, whichever you feel better," she continued, and you opted for the second option, this being the one that would give you the most freedom if you needed momentum and fluidity.

Noting your choice, she added, "Good. I advice you to use your whole forearm. You're a beginner, this thing is heavy, and we don't want your wrist to dislocate."

"Oh, I was thinking of doing that anyway," you laughed. Using your wrist alone with such a heavy artefact would affect you considerably. She was right.

Wanda laughed softly, her breath colliding against your ear as she did so.

"Now, legs, they need to be apart and parallel," she continued, grabbing the inside of your right leg, a little above your knee, and positioned it in front of hers, so that you mimicked the distance she had. "Like this, good girl."

You swallowed dryly.

You weren't sure if she was simply too trusting or if, in your wildest dreams, she really wanted to bewilder you and have you under her spell.

"Finally, don't be too rigid. Let your body follow its course every time you stroke," she withdrew from behind you, and you felt the emptiness of her closeness linger on you. "Let the movements flow. But keep your posture as straight as you can."

"Noted, I got it."

At first, every time Tommy threw the ball at you, it seemed to take on a life of its own when you hit back. It bounced off the net, or to the side, out of your reach. Frustrated, you looked to Wanda, for help.

"Don't be discouraged, (Y/N). You just need to adjust your position and the angle of your racket a little,” Wanda said, approaching you.

She stood behind you once again, and gently guided your arm, showing you how to hit the ball. “Try to keep your eyes on it and bend your knees a bit for stability.”

Tommy threw again, and this time the ball came closer to you. With Wanda's help, you managed to hit it well, sending it straight towards where Tommy was standing.

“Well done!” Tommy exclaimed, surprised.

Wanda smiled, “Now you try it on your own, (Y/N)."

You took a deep breath and prepared for Tommy's next pitch. This time, you concentrated on following the trajectory of the ball and positioned your racket at the right angle.

You did it! The ball landed right where Tommy was expecting it.

“Excellent, you're catching it fast!” Said Tommy, excited. “I think you'll soon be an ace.”

Little by little, Wanda let you manage the game on your own, intervening only occasionally with advice. Your strokes became more and more precise and powerful, and Tommy had to work harder to keep up.

Wanda no longer considered it necessary to offer you her help, so she sat at the table next to Billy, with dark sunglasses covering her gaze, and although you had decided not to turn around to avoid distractions, her penetrating gaze was able to pierce through every fiber of your being.

You could feel her intense and overwhelming presence, as if a magnetic force pulled you towards her. Your heart was beating with desperation, wishing to turn your head and gaze at her beauty, but you knew you had to maintain focus and not be too obvious.

In the ninth round, Tommy failed to reach the ball and hit the shot needed to keep the streak going, so you decided to suggest to take a break instead of continuing to play. He agreed, and the two of you headed over to the table where Wanda and Billy were.

“I ordered some cold water and snacks,’ Wanda announced, pointing to the tray that contained them.

“Oh, thank you very much,” you replied with a smile. After all the physical activity, the thought of having some cold water was like heaven.

When you sat down, Billy looked away from his phone and smiled at you before placing it face down on the table.

He was about to say something when his brother joined you at the table. "You're a natural, (Y/N)! I must admit, I let you win at first to cheer you on, but then I had a hard time catching up,” he praised you as he picked up a bottle of water and drank almost half of it. In a way, you were grateful for that interruption, as it saved you from having to deal with Billy's corny flirtations.

“Yeah, you were awesome,” Billy added, bummed that maybe Tommy took the words right out of his mouth.

“Thanks, guys,” you replied with a smile. “I had the best teacher, giving me the push I needed,” you turned to Wanda, pining for the older woman's attention again.

And you did, when she leaned a little closer to you and said softly, “Oh, honey, and I had the best student,” she winked at you from under her shades, which you could see through the sunlight.

Billy sat next to you, trying to look gallant. “Well, you know, I could give you a ‘push’ too if you wanted one. What do you say, gorgeous?” He said with a crooked grin.

You couldn't help but laugh at Billy's awkward flirtation.

Wanda shot Billy a stern look. "All right, lover boy, you've got your energy back.

Time for you and me to play a little,” she interferred, taking his hand and pulling him away from you.

Tommy, who watched the interaction, rolled his eyes playfully and sat next to you.

"Forgive my brother," he apologized. "You're the first girl he's ever liked, and he has zero experience in how to behave with one."

You brushed it off with a little wave of your hand.

If he wasn't so charismatic, you probably would have cut ties with him... or maybe that's what you forced yourself to believe, because by being around him, you had opportunities like this, to share with his mother beyond work issues.

"What about you, any person who caught your eye?" you questioned.

"There is a guy, David, yes..." he confirmed, causing you to reposition your chair to turn towards him, showing interest. He laughed softly at your action. "I won't elaborate."

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," you clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, shaking your head. "I'm a gossip enthusiast, and you can't tell me about a guy without blurting out more details," you replied, but realized that perhaps, it was best to respect his decision. "But it's okay. I understand if you decide not to share. I won't force you."

He sighed, "It's just... everything that shapes me as a person; my hobbies, my passions, my career, my internship, I share with my brother," he shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I adore him madly. But at least, this is very much my own thing," he sighed a second time, louder this time, watching his brother, who was occasionally observing the interaction, but redirecting his focus to the game.

“I totally understand," you nodded. It was often the case that with a pair of twins, it was more usual to share common grounds and live together almost as if they were one person in two bodies. Sooner or later, there came that desire for individualism, which Tommy found in keeping aspects of his life to himself. "I'm so glad that you are in that process of detaching from your brother and forming your own path, as your own person."

"Sure as hell I am," he giggled. "I have my own friends, I had a girlfriend named Lisa for a while," he continued. "About both, Billy constantly commented on, whining about why I managed to fit in at college and he didn't, what I had that he didn't. And it was always my duty to comfort him," his expression took on a lingering hint of annoyance.

“Must've been so hard to always be the one comforting him, especially when you were just trying to enjoy your own life and relationships,” you nodded with sympathy.

Now you understood why Billy seemed to want to hog your attention, and was so annoyed when Tommy, with his extroverted nature struck up a conversation with you. Billy felt like he was constantly in Tommy's shadow, always comparing himself and feeling inadequate. He craved validation and reassurance, seeking comfort in your friendship whenever he felt overshadowed. You were the only person he was starting to form bonds with besides his brother and mother.

"It may sound selfish, not to have included my brother to my group of friends when many do that."

"No," you replied firmly. "As you said earlier, it's your own thing."

"Thank you... that's what my mother tells me," he confessed, and you were glad to know that the redhead was comprehensive in that regard. "She's a twin too, so she understands the dynamics of having a close sibling relationship while still needing your own space and identity. She ended up being way different than her brother, but both were happy for each other.”

You knew about her brother, Pietro Maximoff, that he died when the Avengers fought Ultron in Sokovia. You saw it in one video of ‘50 things you didn't know about Wanda Maximoff’, at 3AM when you couldn't mitigate the intrigue she left.

And from all that you learned, not only was she talented and charismatic, she also carried a profound strength in her heart, from which she emerged stronger. She was now enjoying the empire she built with the stones life threw at her… quite literally, the mind stone.

"If Billy isn't happy for you, his emotions are not his responsibility," you stated. "In fact, nothing regarding him is your responsibility. You enjoy what you were able to attract into your life."

"Thank you, I'm glad someone is reassuring me that I'm on the right track," he replied, pulling a bag of chips that was resting on the tray. He gestured you to grab one as well, so you did. "A few months after my first breakup, I developed this crush on a girl named Kate, and he never knew. It was refreshing, keeping it to myself, without Billy turning it back on him and how much he hated not even having a girl he liked."

"And what happened between you and this girl, Kate?"

"Oh, well, it was pathetically movie-like," he chuckled. "After crushing from afar, I saw her outside campus. I was very determined, walking towards her to say hi, when a blonde girl came on a bike, got off and went to kiss her. So I stepped back.”

"Wait... isn't that Kate Bishop by any chance?" You asked, the first name, college and blonde girlfriend being enough characteristics that fit your best friend.

"Yes! Kate Bishop!" He confirmed, surprised. "No way... do you know her?"

You let out a laugh at the coincidence, shaking your head softly in disbelief.

"She's my best friend since high school," you nodded.

"Oh, shut up!" He exclaimed loudly. "There is no way!"

Wanda Maximoff's son, studying at the same university as your best friend, Kate, who he used to have a crush on.

Kate, whose girlfriend, Yelena Belova, was the younger sister of Natasha Romanoff, one of the Avengers, of which Wanda Maximoff was a member until the Sokovia Accords marked a new beginning in her career.

All this time, you were closer to Wanda than you thought.

Billy noticed the friendly and amusing exchange between you and Tommy, so he proceeded to purposely miss on the present round, with the excuse to approach the table again where the two of you were.

"What's so funny?" He asked, so innocently, you thought, because you were so oblivious to the look on his face at every single thing you were doing.

Wanda followed him.

Evidently, she wasn't born yesterday, and she knew she had to be on the lookout to intervene in any recklessness, a product of that jealousy you were already aware of, that he was experiencing towards his twin brother. It was funny, nevertheless, that he thought he had to compete against his brother for your attention, when truly, it was her mother the one and only threat.

"Oh, (Y/N) has a best friend, Kate Bishop, who studies at our university. I've seen her a couple of times," Tommy explained. "We were just laughing about how small New York is."

Billy nodded slowly, arching his eyebrows.

"That's so funny!" Wanda spoke, a smile plastered on her face, instantly melting you. Whenever she did so, her nose scrunched a little in the process, and some dimples on her cheeks made themselves present.

Oh, how you longed for her to be so close to you, sharing gestures and glances that seemed to connect you both in a unique way. Yes, they may have been mere human interactions, but you treasured each of those little things, those details that, to the eyes of others, might go unnoticed.

"Actually, her girlfriend, I'm sure you know her," you replied to the older woman. "She's Natasha's younger sister, Yelena."

"Noooooo!" It was her turn to be surprised and laugh, just like you and Tommy were a few minutes ago.

"I know! Unbelievable!" You responded, her laughter contaging you like a deadly virus.

"Yelena, I've met her a couple of times,” she recalled. “When we have one of those friendly get-togethers at the compound, I've had the chance to see her twice or thrice," Wanda commented to you, and seemed to think for a moment. "Hey, next time, you and Kate should join us. Since you and I aren't strangers anymore, and Kate seems to be familiar with the rest of the team."

You laughed instantly, remembering the anecdote of Kate meeting her idol, Clint Barton, for the first time.

"I'm serious, darling," Wanda stated, probably believing that your little giggle was due to disbelief and not the memory that popped into your mind.

"Oh, no, it's just… I remembered how pale Kate looked when Yelena took her to meet Natasha, unbeknownst to her that Clint would be there too," you clarified.

Yelena had invited Kate to a restaurant a little way out of town, in order to introduce her to her sister, Natasha. Things between them had already become serious like that.

Your best friend was a nervous wreck before Yelena picked her up, repeatedly stating that she was not mentally prepared to meet Natasha Romanoff, whom she also admired. She was in for a big surprise, when not only was Black Widow waiting for them, but Hawkeye as well.

You expected to receive a text, or at most a phone call with all the details. However, hours later, the couple arrived at your flat. Yelena walking hand in hand with a completely mesmerized and shocked Kate, with a lost gaze and unable to spill a single word.

"Wow, I can only imagine..." Wanda mused, empathizing with your best friend's feelings at such an experience. As she sat down across from you with a clear determination to continue the conversation, you couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph. It was then that you regained awareness of your surroundings and realized that the twins had left you alone who knows how long ago, opting to play a round together instead. “But seriously, I would love it if you came.”

Wanda Maximoff: (Pauses).

Tommy Maximoff: That’s… (sighs) that’s when the incident happened.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N): Did Tommy say that? (laughs) No, the incident was always that Billy started to get the wrong ideas. Of course, I didn't have the heart to reject him, but I gave very clear signals. At the compound, that’s where it ended.

Tommy Maximoff: There is no worse blind than the one who does not want to see.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N): I always carry my Polaroid camera with me, no matter where I go. I am fascinated by being able to capture the important moments of my life with that particular photographic style and store them in a special album of memories. Maybe it sounds old-fashioned, but over the years, you realize the almost magical power that photographs have to transport you back to those frozen moments in time. Pressing the shutter button at that country club became a sort of curse, as I couldn't help but yearn to be teleported back over and over to those unforgettable moments with her.

When you finished working with Wanda, you already had a large number of photographs of her. A collection, you could call it at this point.

You didn't pass up the opportunity to take pictures in every corner of the tennis court, every time she and Billy played together, and you'd even have more if you'd taken pictures when she played against Tommy as well, but you didn't want to expose him to a jealous feud with Billy.

Likewise, you were more than content with the other occasions; like your personal favorites, the family dinners at which you were frequently included. After the food was served, you proceeded to ask the three of them to pose before eating, just so you could have the privilege of watching that gorgeous face for as many seconds as you wanted later at night.

It always amused you to see him smiling in all the photos, so flattered thinking that he was the one you wanted to immortalize in the memories.

The end justified the means, right?

You let out a small gasp, arching your back in pleasure when, as you stilled your needy entrance, you grabbed another photograph, the bonfire photograph...

"Oh, Wanda!" you moaned, feeling your climax about to burst, clenching around your own fingers.

"Why is it that you only take pictures of Billy when I'm around?" Wanda confronted you, once the twins went to sleep. A great day at their University awaited the next day, unlike Wanda and you, who could stay awake as long as you wanted.

Wanda occasionally held bonfires in the garden of her house. She cordially invited you to join them, and after a few minutes, you were all dressed up and on your way to her house, when you were already comfortable in your pajamas, ready to get into your bed.

And once you were alone, she placed her chair in front of yours, and asked you that question that caught you off guard. You had just taken a picture of her with the twins before they left.

"What?" You exclaimed, pretending to be clueless to buy yourself more time to come up with an excuse.

"Or better yet, why don’t you ever accept seeing Billy exclusively? Only when I'm present," she repeated, leaning towards you.

The air thickened around you, each breath torturous as if you were inhaling the very essence of your dread. Your heart pounded, a relentless drum echoing in the cavern of your chest, each beat reverberating through your bones and threatening to shatter your composure.

"I want Billy as a friend, I don't want me accepting outings or taking pictures of him alone to get him more excited than he probably is," you replied, almost all in one breath.

Wanda's eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing through your weak defenses, "Are you sure that's the only reason, (Y/N)? Or is there something else you're not telling me?"

You felt exposed, as if she could see right through your clumsy excuses.

"I... I don't want to give him false hope," you hesitated, trying to maintain your composure.

"False hope?" Wanda scoffed, her tone full of skepticism. "Then, why taking those pictures in the first place? Who do you wanna see, hm?"

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing by the second. "It's… memories," you protested, but the conviction in your voice was waning.

Wanda tilted her head, scrutinizing you with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn't quite place.

"Bullshit!” She exclaimed. “Why do you always make sure I'm around? Is it because you need a buffer? Or is it because you're more interested in someone else?”

Her words were heavy and loaded with implication. Your mind struggled to form a coherent response, but the truth was clawing its way to the surface, threatening to break free.

“I...-"

She didn't let you finish, "Is it me?" She insisted. "Are you using Billy to get closer to me?"

"Wanda, please, it's not like that," you pleaded, but her words had struck a nerve. She could sense it, therefore, she leaned in even closer, her lips almost brushing your ear. You felt your skin reacting through goosebumps immediately.

"Stop lying. You think I can't see through you, like my son? You're pathetic, hiding behind your excuses. If you have something to say, say it now," she hissed, her breath hot against your skin.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat almost choking you.

"No, nothing..." you stammered, but the words wouldn't come.

Wanda's grip on your knee tightened further, her nails digging into your skin.

"You're infuriating. If you can't even be honest with yourself, how do you expect to be honest with anyone else?" She said, her voice a low growl.

“I… I better go,” was all you managed to respond. You never realized how weak you were until the Wanda Maximoff was so close to you, forcing you to face the consequences of your impulsive and not-so-wise acts.

Her eyes glinted with a dangerous determination. She wasn't going to let you off the hook so easily. Her hand slid from your knee up to your thigh, keeping you in place.

"You think you can keep hiding? From me?" Her voice was a seductive murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. "Wanda, please," you whispered, your voice trembling. You refused to do this at all costs, even though it was what you deserved.

"No more lies. I want the truth, and I'm going to get it," her other hand moved to your waist, pulling you even closer to her.

Your heart pounded wildly, your body not knowing whether to tremble of fear and desire.

"I... I don't know what you want me to say," you stammered, trying to keep your composure.

Wanda's hand moved higher up your thigh, her nails lightly grazing your skin through the fabric. "Oh, but you do," she countered. "You're scared, aren't you? Scared of what you feel. Scared of what I might do if you admit it. So scared that my poor, poor son has to suffer from your cowardice."

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat almost choking you.

"No, it’s..." you began.

And once again, she didn't give you a chance to finish. Her hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up so you were forced to meet her gaze.

"Look at me, darling. I want to see your eyes when you tell me the truth," she demanded, her voice a low growl.

Your eyes met hers, and the intensity of her green orbes was almost too much to bear.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision.

"I... I can't," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Wanda's grip on your chin tightened, her nails digging into your skin. "Yes, you can. And you will," she insisted, her voice brooking no argument. Her other hand moved between your legs, pressing your core with a tight squeeze, making you yelp and let the first few tears spill out of your eyes. You felt so helpless, regretting every life decision that led you to this very instant.

"Do you want me?" She questioned, with a voice so firm it sounded more like a statement.

"Yes," you finally admitted.

Wanda's eyes shone with satisfaction, "Oh, my good girl. That's all I needed to hear," she murmured, her lips brushing against yours.

Her hand moved from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss that left you breathless. You could only describe it intense and fervorous, her tongue exploring every inch of your mouth, without even asking for permission. Just taking you as if she had always owned you, and maybe, she did.

Just as you were about to lose yourself in her lips, Wanda abruptly pulled away, leaving you gasping for air.

"This is your punishment for toying with my son's feelings," she established. "You don't get to have me, not after what you've done. Now go."

[dotster001]

When You Escape Him...

Summary: Yandere Heartslaybul boys x gn!reader. He adopts a child that looks like the two of you. You run to give you both a chance at life. You never expected him to find you years later.

CW: Yandere, baby trapping through adoption, kidnapping, allusions to past abuse, drugging, injury to reader (Cater's part), manipulation

Savanaclaw Octavinelle Scarabia Pomefiore Ignihyde Diasomnia Non NRC Staff

Three years into your relationship, he had come home and placed a baby in your arms.

"They were left in a box, all alone. And, well, he looks like if the two of us had a child," he sheepishly stared at the ground. "I just, I just figured it must be a gift from the seven."

You knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to tie himself to you through this boy. He looked just like him, and you were disgusted and scared.

Until he opened his eyes for the first time, and you found yourself staring into your own. 

And you knew. You had to give this child the opportunity for a better life. A life without him.

In the end, your son did the opposite of what he had intended. And the first moment you could, the two of you had escaped.

Your son's hair was as red as his "father's". He was the spitting image of him. He was only five,  yet the resemblance was so strong, there were moments where you would be filled with terror. But then you'd see your eyes staring back at you, and you'd calm down.

Despite the resemblance, he was a sweet, innocent thing. You didn't even think he was capable of anger. So easy going. So mellow. Sevens, you loved your boy.

But that sweet nature could cause trouble sometimes.

You were scrolling through your phone, trying to find an odd job so that you could pay the rent. Sunset Savannah rent was low, but still. When you were trying to stay off the grid, and moved every couple months, money was hard to come by.

Your son entered the room, smiling brightly.

"There's a man at the door who wants to talk to you. He says it's important."

"Baby, I told you not to open the door without me. It's dangerous." And also inconvenient. You'd rather your landlord not know you were home.

"I'm sorry," his lower lip quivered, and you quickly wrapped him in a hug.

"It's alright, love, just don't do it again. Stay here, I'll go talk to him."

You left him on the sofa. And went to the door that your son had left open. You put on a strained smile, and prepared to greet your landlord.

"Sorry for the wait-" you cut yourself off as icy terror filled your veins. Your eyes met Riddles, and you prepared for the worst. The shouting. The beheading. And if he was in his worst mood, his staff would come into play. Which, considering you'd escaped him for five years, he was definitely in a worse mood.

You'd been so careful! Had you gotten sloppy? Complacent? You didn't think you had. You knew Riddle had the money to pursue you, but you had hoped that since you had escaped the country, you would be past his sphere of influence.

You continued to stare, gritting your teeth for what was to come, but you were immediately shocked as he released a sob, and wrapped his arms around you, his tears soaking your shirt.

"I thought I'd lost you forever," he whispered, his grip tightening so much that you thought he was trying to break your ribs.

"Please don't cry, it's okay!" 

Oh, your sweet boy. Your poor sweet baby boy.

Riddle pulled away, and crouched to your son's level.

"I'm your father."

Your son's eyes widened. You'd tried to make the idea of two parents a foreign concept, but children had a way of talking. So the idea that he had a second parent, who came for him, made his eyes sparkle in delight.

Riddle scooped him up in his arms, and turned to go.

"Let's go home," he whispered, and the final piece of hope you'd been sustaining finally died.

You'd gotten forgetful. 

A large family like the Clover's, all of whom had chocolate centers, would have a large network of acquaintance's.

Even out here, in the middle of the countryside, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

As you were realizing now. All it would take was one person to recognize the "oldest Clover's missing spouse" and then it would be over. 

And your son…he looked like a Clover, even if he wasn't one biologically. One peek at him, it would be over, again.

As you realized now that you'd clearly fallen into a trap.

Your new neighbor had invited you and your son for tea. And you were so tired. So tired of running, of not having roots, that you had agreed. What could go wrong with a tea party?

Everything.

You entered the room, and there he was, already seated at the table. Giving you a very disappointed look.

"Thank you, Meredith. Can we have a moment alone?"

Your son wasn't old. But a ten year old like him was smart enough to see the resemblance between himself and the man before him. Even if it was a coincidence.

You had intended to tell him the truth about his "father" in a year or two.

But now he'd never believe you. With the warm smile on Trey's face as he opened his arms, your son would never believe the relationship was built on manipulation and perfectly hidden drugs. Someone with a smile as warm as Trey's would never do anything like that.

Your son ran into his arms, happily explaining about how happy he was to finally meet "daddy".

Meanwhile, Trey stared at you, his eyes cold as he held your son tighter. 

"Y/N," he finally said, his voice firm in the way that told you he was out of patience. "Drink your tea."

You stared at the pretty porcelain cup that sat waiting on the table. You had guesses of what would happen if you drank it. It would all be over. Ten years of hiding for nothing. But he had your son. It wasn't like you could go anywhere.

Your feet felt like they were weighed down with concrete blocks as you walked over to the cup, sat, and brought it to your lips with trembling fingers.

The black invading your vision was almost immediate, and you heard Trey explaining to your son, "An evil man stole you both from me. Their medicine will make them sleepy, but when they wake up we can finally be a family."

You didn't even have a phone. You changed your hair every few months. You wore a mask in public. Because you knew the second a photo of you made its way onto the internet, it would be over.

Your son had wanted a phone when he was about ten. And you'd been able to push it off until he reached thirteen, when you'd say him down and told him about the man who wanted to be his father. 

He was young, but when he heard how this man hurt you, and took you away from the people you loved, he understood quickly. 

Your boy was smart. And he was a responsible kid. So he never asked for a phone again.

He was fifteen  now. He was a smart boy, and very protective over you. He always joked that if he and Cater were ever in the same room, he'd punch him in the stomach. 

The two of you were at the store, getting groceries. You saw a flash of ginger hair out of the corner of your eye, but told yourself it was just your son's hair. The second and third ginger flashes were harder to ignore.

You shared a look with your son, and made a rush to the exit.

...Unfortunately, running straight into a crowd of ginger hair. Multiple Caters pinned you both down, pressing rags to your mouths, making you sleep.

When you woke up, you found yourself tied to a chair in a dark room.

"You're up."

His voice was far more bitter than you were used to, but you'd recognize it anywhere.

Cater stood from the corner he was seated in, and made his way over to you. A loud crack filled the room, and you didn't quite realize what had happened until your cheek began to sting, and you met his furious eyes as he shook with rage.

No matter what was wrong with your relationship, he had never laid a hand on you.  

"You promised me!" He screamed. "You promised I wouldn't have to be alone anymore!"

Another crack filled the room, and your cheek began to feel numb.

"We were supposed to be a family, Y/N!  The three of us, together! And you turned him against me!"

He raised his hand to slap you again, but froze with a sob. He collapsed burying his face in your lap as he sobbed. 

"Why? Why do you both hate me? Am I not good enough?" He cried, his voice cracking and choking as he spoke. "I'll be better! I'll be whoever you need me to be!"

You could only imagine how the reunion with your son had gone if he was like this already. You hoped he was behaving, so the both of you could reunite and figure out how to escape.

But if the multiple pairs of emerald eyes watching Cater sob in your lap were anything to go by, you were never going to be alone ever again.

Once you'd crossed the border of the country, you hadn't expected to ever run into Ace again. It wasn't that he was poor, per say, it was just that he wouldn't have the means to search for you forever. Private investigators were expensive. And it wasn't like he actually cared. 

At least that's how it felt. After one day of having your son, he admitted he was already bored, he just wanted to tie you to him. And he had told you every day of your relationship that he you were only together because he felt bad that you would never have anyone else who cares about you.

The longer you were away from him, the more your brain cleared, the more you realized that he probably did care. Quite a lot. But it was the tactic he used to make you dependent on him.

You were embarrassed by how well it had worked….

Your son was college aged now. He had received an invitation to NRC, but had turned it down in favor of protecting you. You were so grateful, and had worked with a friend who knew your situation to get him into a university without being able to tie it back to you.

You currently lived alone in your apartment. This evening, you were reading a book that your son had recommended, as you ate a basic dinner. There was a knock on the door, and you gently put your bookmark in.

You opened the door to three officers…one of them you unfortunately recognized.

"Deuce," you pleaded, and he looked everywhere but you.

"I'm sorry Y/N, I really am," he cleared his throat, and in his official voice. "Y/N Trappola. You have been missing for nineteen years. You must come with me for questioning."

There would be no questioning. He'd take you back, and drop you off with Ace. The wording was just in case one of your neighbors came to see what was going on.

The trip was long. And Deuce had tried to get you to tell him where your boy was. A sign that Ace actually cares, despite his cruel words. 

He'd eventually dug through your phone, and figured out who he was based on your messages back and forth. He'd called him, and given him an address to come meet you at.

"Remember when you were my friend too?" You spat at Deuce. It hurt him, you could tell, but you wanted it to hurt as much as you would inevitably hurt once you were back with Ace.

You happened to both arrive at the house at the same time. Your son looked between you and, at least to him, the unknown officer, but kept his mouth shut. 

The three of you walked up to the door together in silence. Deuce knocked on the door, and it was only a moment before he opened it.

He laughed hysterically. "Oh seven, you really found them! I can't believe you actually did it!"

He grinned at your son.

"Hah! You look just like your old man."

Your son growled. "You're not my old man."

"Hee hee, you're feisty like me too!" Ace grinned. Then he turned to you, affecting a look that was saying 'I'm not mad just disappointed'.

"Y/N," he said, his tone a threat in itself. "I'm sure you know how upset I am with you. How are you gonna make it up to me?"

Your son pulled his pen, but Ace was faster, throwing a painless stun spell at him.

He shook his head in mock disappointment.

"You really raised him all wrong, didn't you Y/N? Oh well, I guess I don't mind fixing both of you."

You'd thought once you crossed the border, you'd be safe. You hadn't realized that Deuce would have made friends in his time as an officer, and could use those connections to find you.

To your credit, you'd made it awhile before his investigator colleague had found the two of you.

But you'd hoped you could hide forever. Five years felt like nothing.

You'd paid your neighbor to watch your son while you went out for groceries, and were startled to see her not with him.

"Hm? Oh, his father relieved me of duty," she laughed, until she saw the distress on your face.

"Y/N?" 

You ran to your apartment, practically busting the door down. You found Deuce sitting with your sleeping son, staring at him as though he would disappear if he looked away.

"Hey Y/N," he hummed, still not looking at you. "What did I do wrong?"

The question floored you. It was on brand. He never knew what he was doing wrong with your relationship. Which made it easy for you to forgive him early on. But you couldn't ignore how he was hurting you forever.

"Deuce. Give him to me."

You slowly approached him like you'd approach a wild dog.

"Was it something I said?" He looked up at you with heartbroken eyes. "I didn't mean to. I promise I'll be better."

He stood up, and approached you.

"Come home, Y/N. We can start over."

You couldn't risk triggering his delinquent mode while he was holding your sleeping son. And it wasn't like you could hide again, not without leaving the sleeping angel behind.

And you didn't doubt that this time he'd do whatever was in his power to catch you if you ran.

"Give me my son," you whispered.

"Our son," he said firmly, and you froze, breathing deeply to try and calm him down.

"Our son," you repeated softly. You held out your hands, and he scrutinized you with a cold look.

"No. I'll hold on to him," he said, shifting away from you. "I just can't trust you anymore."

Normally, you'd have snapped at him that you could never trust him. But he had the advantage.

"Please, Deucey," you simpered, hoping his affection for you could still cloud his judgment.

"I'll think about it when we get home," he said with a soft smile. He stood up, and walked over to you, nuzzling your noses together. 

"C'mon,Y/N, let's go home," he calmly walked out with your son in his arms. What else could you do but follow?

[tealvenetianmask]

Hell's royalty has a culture that enables Stella's abusive behavior.

Point 1: Keeping up appearances is valued above all else. And I specifically mean the appearance of things being the way they're supposed to be. Conformity basically.

Conformity in this culture seems to include a kind of stoic dignity ("you know excitement is unbecoming of a goetia"), an air of superiority ("don't bow to that one- he bows to us!"), and, of course, some good old fashioned toxic masculinity ("cease this bitch crying").

Individuals at the very top are not immune. Even though he gets past it, Asmodeus seems to spend a lot of time and effort on keeping his relationship with Fizz quiet in order to keep up the appearance of fulfilling his "lust" role.

Point 2: The members of the aristocracy who don't conform are seen as the problem, not the members who are being cruel.

Speaking of Ozzie, there's a chance he'll face real consequences for getting out of line . . . Mammon seems pretty confident about getting revenge. Also, if Ozzie had decided that his reputation was important enough to avoid stepping in to help his partner, well . . . I'm just saying. Cultures of conformity create bystanders who stand by and let abuse happen. So it's good that this guy has the courage (and a good heap of privilege and power) to enable him to step out. Yes, I realize that the crowd at Mammon's celebrated Ozzie and Fizz, but the crowd was distinctly NOT aristocratic.

Now look at Stella's party- this woman is not subtle about being cruel to her husband.

She calls the party a "Not Divorced" party. She openly talks negatively about Stolas in a blatant attempt to humiliate him. She's not trying to hide that she hates the man.

Because he's . . . an oddball. Gentle, not as polished as others in his social sphere, awkward and mostly friendless, probably autistic. And importantly, I think, not traditionally masculine.

So Stella has no need to hide that she treats him poorly. She's proud of it. And her social circle seems to support her in it, or at least, they don't push back. Because based on the aristocracy's unspoken (or if we look at Paimon, very much spoken) value system, Stolas's failure to fulfill all of his expected roles gracefully is worse than Stella's cruelty.

Point 3: Stolas's parenting, while much better than his own father's, still reflects this value system in some ways, and that's . . . complicated.

In some ways, Octavia is doing great. She has her own interests (music! gothy fashion!) that don't seem to be based on any role prescribed to her by others. She has a genuine bond with her dad that's based on care and not on molding her into some ideal princess.

But Stolas still puts on an facade in front of Via. We know that he pretended things were fine when they distinctly weren't for most of her childhood. We could argue endlessly about whether Stolas was right (as Georgia Dow explained in her video) or wrong to stop himself from explaining the situation with Stella to Via in Loo Loo Land, but honestly, the man could let his nearly grown up daughter know that abuse was happening without all out trauma dumping. It would enable her to make more informed decisions, and I think she would want to be able to do that.

Instead, Stolas keeps it to himself. Because he feels like Via SHOULD have this picture perfect childhood. Look at the pictures that are up in his palace. Look at his attempt to gloss over the fighting in the household by taking Via to an idealized childhood destination.

A part of him still thinks that good parenting is keeping up appearances, and that the ugly things are best kept hidden. Look at how hard he still tries to avoid crying in front of people. The values he was taught as a child are part of him.

And while it's not his fault (it's Stella's fault, obviously- these are HER actions), his inability to be open allows Stella and Andrealphus to scheme and (we'll see . . .) probably manipulate Via because of her lack of knowledge.

We're meant to see the moments where Stolas breaks expectations and behaves raw and even a little unhinged as triumphant. Sleeping with Blitz. That is the sound of a fucking divorce. Actually going through with the fucking divorce. Insisting on it. Appearances be damned.

And yeah, more of that please. Because if the people around Stella stop caring about aristocratic social trappings, all she'll have going for her is her shitty personality.

Thanks @akirathedramaqueen for inspiring this post with a conversation.

[torchwood-99]

Eowyn and Gothic Horror

I've ranted about the interpretation that Eowyn's rejection of gender roles was a symptom of her sickness, caused only by Grima's manipulations. An interpretation that doesn't hold to either Gandalf's speech in the Houses of Healing, when he specifies how the liberties denied to Eowyn and allowed to Eomer and her male peers played a crucial role in her depression, or when we see how Eowyn was really vindicated in her decision to ride to battle by her victory over the Witch King. A victory that wins her incredible renown and respect.

I think this reading comes about because people see the significance of Grima's contribution to Eowyn's despair, and think he is the sole source of it.

But Eowyn was not dissatisfied with her role and her enforced position in the house because of Grima's manipulations. She didn't rail against sexism because Grima played with her head and "poisoned" her traditionally feminine role for her.

Grima was able to prey on Eowyn, manipulate her and drive her to despair, because of the sexism that forced Eowyn to remain stuck in the house.

Look at the speech Gandalf gives Eomer about Eowyn's sufferings. The very first thing he mentions is the fact that Eowyn was denied the freedoms and opportunities Eomer had. The suffering that follows stems from that first initial injustice.

Because of that first injustice, Eowyn was rendered vulnerable, and Grima was able to exploit that. That isolation, that limited freedom, that unhappiness about her lack of choices, left her free game for Grima to take an already bad situation, and make it far worse.

Thinking about Eowyn's experience in Meduseld, what the impact of being confined to the domestic sphere did to her, and what is left her vulnerable to, makes me think of Gothic horror, and the role of sexism and domesticity in that genre too.

Eowyn's situation before the novels is that of a classic Gothic heroine. A fair, beautiful woman, trapped inside a decaying house, and preyed on by an awful monster, who hungers after her beauty and longs to possess her. Or else, destroy her.

Domestic settings and isolation are pretty crucial themes in the gothic genre, and for that reason it has historically been seen as a woman's genre. It taps into a pretty universal fear of what happens when home ceases to be a safe space, a fear that historically, has a particularly great resonance for women.

Whereas traditionally home is a refuge and respite for men from the world, the home is the woman's only true acceptable sphere. And yet even there she is subordinate. Therefore, she is vulnerable. With no place in the outside world, she has no escape, no respite, no refuge. If home becomes an evil, she is trapped. And because she has no place in the social sphere, she has no voice either. She is invisible, she is overlooked, her sufferings and her contributions are passed over,

Eowyn is isolated. Eowyn is vulnerable. Eowyn is overlooked. And because Eowyn is isolated and vulnerable and overlooked, Grima is able to get his hooks into her and drive her to despair. She is a wild animal, trammelled and caught in a hutch, a predator's helpless prey. But Grima didn't put Eowyn in the hutch. Eowyn was already there. Grima just took advantage of that.

Even after Grima is gone, Meduseld is still a place Eowyn longs to escape, and while its evil is purged and she does return, it is only for a short while. Grima's defeat is not enough to make Meduseld a place where Eowyn can find real happiness or fulfilment. On its own, it still represents a role for Eowyn that she wishes to move beyond.

The healing counterpoint to Eowyn's gothic castle of horrors, the hutch she was caught in, is in escape, and in a return to nature.

Eowyn's entire romance with Faramir takes place within the gardens of the Houses of Healing, where we see Eowyn start to recover from her ordeal. It takes place on the open, in the garden, on the ramparts, with much notice given to the sky and the sun and the elements around them.

(Also, the Houses of Healing themselves are not a domestic setting, but a public one, and there we see women working alongside men and holding authority.)

Eowyn's happy ending, her great escape, climaxes with her decision to go with Faramir to Ithilien.

Ithilien is the exact opposite of a hutch. It's descriptions are filled with natural imagery, and is known as the Garden of Gondor. It is a place for growth and fresh starts. A place of freedom. A place for a wild thing.

When Faramir suggests that he and Eowyn live in Ithilien, he reasserts again and again that they will go there if it is Eowyn's will. Both Tolkien and Faramir put emphasis on the importance of Eowyn's will, and Eowyn's right to freedom of movement.

In his plans for their future, Faramir talks of "us" and "we", removing the separation between men (belonging to the social sphere) and women (belonging to the domestic), and speaks of Ithilien as a shared dwelling place for both of them. Faramir only distinguishes between himself and Eowyn when he puts importance on Eowyn's will, and at the end, on Eowyn's influence.

At the close of his speech, Faramir says all things will grow with joy in Ithilien, if Eowyn is there. Returning Ithilien to its former glory, allowing it to bloom once more, is to become Faramir's life's work, and still it is Eowyn's influence he puts centre stage. Far from being kept confined to the domestic sphere, relegated to being Faramir's home support while he dominates the rehabilitation of Ithilien, Faramir places Eowyn's work and Eowyn's significance at the heart of their future together.

Eowyn goes from being shut in the house, where everything around her was decaying and falling to ruin, to being freed to stand in the heart of nature, where there is a chance for influence, growth, and fresh starts.

[ravensliterature]

Sentinels' Siege

A/N: Yeah, it has definitely been a minute. Saw the new X-Men 97 show and got inspired. Please enjoy this!

pairing: Magneto (Erik) x GN!Reader

warnings: Character death

w/c: 784

Prompt: The reader here has forcefield powers. The sentinel is attaching Genosha and the reader saves Erik at the expense of their own life.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the heart of Genosha, amidst the ruins of a once-thriving nation, the sentinel's ominous presence cast a shadow over the land. Its metallic form, a symbol of oppression and fear, loomed tall against the crimson sky, its mechanical eyes scanning the desolate landscape with ruthless efficiency. But amidst the chaos and fear, you stood as a beacon of hope, your powers of forcefield manipulation shielding not only Magneto but also civilians of Genosha from the sentinel's relentless assault.

Two spheres of energy shimmered in the air, each pulsating with the strength of your will. One enveloped Magneto, the other surrounded you and the civilians seeking refuge within your protective embrace. It was a delicate balance, maintaining both shields amidst the onslaught of the sentinel's attacks, but you refused to falter, driven by the unwavering resolve to protect those you loved at any cost.

As the sentinel unleashed its barrage of energy blasts, your forcefields flickered and crackled with energy, absorbing the brunt of the attacks. Beside you, Magneto watched in awe and gratitude, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of your unwavering determination. But beneath the surface, there was a surge of panic within him as he witnessed your struggle to maintain both shields.

He reached out to you, his voice a plea amidst the chaos. "Y/N, my love, you mustn't—"

But his words were lost in the cacophony of battle as your forcefields strained to their limits. With each passing moment, the pressure mounted, threatening to break through your defenses and claim you all.

Flashbacks of your time together flooded your mind, each memory a bittersweet reminder of the bond you shared. You remembered the first time he had entrusted you with his secrets, the way his eyes softened as he spoke of a future where mutants could live without fear. You remembered the stolen moments of tenderness, the quiet nights spent gazing at the stars, finding solace in each other's company amidst the turmoil of their world.

But amidst the memories, there was the harsh reality of the present—the sentinel's relentless assault threatening to overwhelm your defenses. Your forcefields flickered and waned under the strain, cracks forming along their surfaces as they struggled to hold back the tide of destruction. Yet still, you refused to yield, your determination unyielding even in the face of insurmountable odds.

Magneto watched in silent anguish as you stood as the bulwark against the storm, his heart heavy with the weight of your sacrifice. He reached out, his hands grasping at empty air as you fell, the light fading from your eyes even as his world plunged into darkness.

In that final moment, as the sentinel loomed over Genosha victorious, Magneto could only cling to the memories of the love you shared—a love that had been both his greatest strength and his deepest sorrow. But though you were gone, your spirit would forever be etched in his heart, a guiding light in the darkness that now enveloped him.

And as he gazed upon the devastated landscape of Genosha, a vow ignited within him—a vow to carry on the fight in your honor, to ensure that your sacrifice would not be in vain. For in giving your life to protect others, you had shown him the true meaning of heroism—a selflessness that transcended even death itself.

But amidst the chaos and despair, there was one final moment of connection—a silent exchange of love that echoed across the battlefield. As the sentinel's onslaught reached its crescendo, engulfing you in a blinding blaze of light, you locked eyes with Magneto one last time.

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still, the world around them fading into insignificance as you mouthed the words that echoed the depths of your soul, "I love you."

Though no sound escaped your lips, the sentiment rang loud and clear in the silence of the battlefield. It was a declaration of devotion, a testament to the bond that had transcended the trials and tribulations they had faced together.

Magneto's heart clenched with a mixture of grief and gratitude as he returned your gaze, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears. And as the light consumed you, engulfing you in its brilliant embrace, he could only watch in silent agony as your form disappeared amidst the chaos.

But though your physical presence had been extinguished, your love would forever burn bright within his heart, a beacon of hope in the darkness that now enveloped him. And as he stood amidst the ruins of Genosha, a solitary figure against the backdrop of devastation, he vowed to carry on your legacy—a legacy of love, sacrifice, and unwavering strength in the face of adversity.

[lilac-5ky]

Sex with a Ghost (TojixFem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Date with a ghost

Chapter 2 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests | AO3

Summary: Being at the bottom of the ladder in your class with a non-combat oriented technique, you are prompted by Gojo to summon a dead sorcerer as a learning experience. However, when none other than Fushiguro Toji appears in your room, you find yourself practicing more than just your cursed technique.

Tags: Student!reader, Ghost!Toji, Age Gap(reader 18, Toji early 30s), Oral Sex (both f. and m. receiving), Manipulation, Corruption Kink, Praise, Degradation, Pet Names (princess, baby, etc), Cowgirl, Toji being a horny asshole that gets redeemed at the end? Sort of.

Word Count: less than 6k.

“But, sensei, is this really necessary?”

You tilted the sphere between your fingers, sizing it up. It weighed no more than a baseball ball did, yet its price must be comparable to that of an entire stadium. A cursed item among cursed items given to a mere grade 3 sorcerer who barely stood out amidst the renowned prodigies of Tokyo Jujutsu High. This was a waste of both time and effort and yet the white-haired man before you begged to differ, eyes glinting a vibrant sky-blue hue from underneath his dark shades.

“Doubting your favorite teacher, Y/N?” he chuckled only to sulk a second later when you asked him what deluded him into thinking he was your favorite.

Undeterred, he continued “I feel like a broken record here, but do yourself a favor and have a bit more confidence. Graduation is two months away, don’t you wanna prove your worth till then? It’s not too late to climb a couple of steps up the ladder. You could easily shoot up to Grade 2. Look at the rest of your class—”

A firm albeit reassuring grip latched itself onto your shoulder, gently twisting you in the direction of your classmates.

The heatwave must have gotten to them for good, blood boiling under the vicious sun rays. Their sleeves and pants were rolled high above their elbows and knees respectively, foreheads glimmering with a thin sheen of sweat that dribbled down their necks.

Just looking at them made your skin crawl with uneasiness.

You didn’t understand why anyone in their right mind would willingly trade the shade of these blessed pine trees for the scorching furnace that the schoolyard was, but when you stopped paying attention to their clothes and took in their blissful expression, you felt a lump swell in your throat.

The two of them were practically beaming, giggling, and prancing around the water fountains without a care in the world— and why should they have anything to worry about when they were Grade 1 at seventeen? A Kamo and a distant cousin to the Zen’ins, both guaranteed to walk a path strewn with rose petals since birth. No trial or tribulation whatsoever.

Your teacher’s voice was muffled into white noise while you were busy shooting daggers at the duo, part of you wishing to join them in their harmless idiocy, and another silently praying that in your next life, you’d be lucky enough to be born into one of their clans. No one questioned the value of a Kamo. No one went against a Zen’in with an inherited technique.

“So, we good? Tell me I didn’t waste 15 minutes of my precious time for nothing.” His fingers squeezed at your shoulder, causing your attention to shift.

You had no idea what he’d been saying, though you’d sat through plenty of pep talks already to guess the gist of it. “You have potential, Y/N. Don’t bring yourself down like this. You can do it!” All empty words without real meaning. Worthless. Not everyone had what it takes to become the next Gojo Satoru. Some people were born to be stepping stones for others, and you were perfectly fine with it. No half-assed aspiration would spur you on.

“If I do this… will you leave me alone?”

A Cheshire cat grin spanned from one corner of his mouth to the other. If one didn’t know any better, they’d mistake Gojo for an overzealous teacher whose earnest goal was to see his students succeed. Not you. You’d spent enough time in his presence to know that his whole “Teacher of the Year” shtick hid an agenda of its own. It was a matter of time to find out what his true motive was.

“What’s the plan?”

“Now we are talking,” he sang in glee. “Very simple, really. You just hold this between your palms and channel as much cursed energy as possible to its center. The ball will absorb it like a magnet and continue drawing from you until you have a clear picture of your target. Then, assuming all goes well and you don’t pass out,” a quiet “What?!” was overwritten by his voice, “you’ll get your very own date with a spirit. Isn’t that exciting?”

Nothing about your expression screamed excitement, eyes squinting in slits and bottom lip quivering into a frown. “And who’s my target, exactly?”

“A Zen’in sorcerer,” he said.

“A Zen’in sorcerer you say,” your eyes wandered again to that soaked blockhead in the distance, the black mop he had for hair flapping left and right. “Ain’t the one over there good enough?”

Shaping a cone around his mouth, Gojo yelled at the top of his lungs for the kids to wait up so they could play together. The duo cheered excitedly, shouting some sort of inside joke you knew nothing about right back at him. Wasn’t the first time you were excluded, and it certainly wasn’t the first time you questioned how this man came to be the world’s most talented sorcerer, either.

“If he was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” his smile softened as he lowered his voice. “The Zen’in I’m talking about has been dead for a little more than a hundred years now. Unfortunately, his name is erased from our logs,” of course it is “but that shouldn’t hinder you too much. He was an immensely powerful sorcerer with a great amount of cursed energy to back his technique up. An anomaly, if you like.”

“What kind of technique?” “The ten shadows technique,” he answered. “Out of all the Shikigami users, he is perhaps the strongest there’s ever been.”

“Stronger than you, sensei?”

The way his nose scrunched made you regret asking, knowing that a haughty declaration was dangling from the tip of his tongue, begging to be unleashed in a never-ending spiel of self-praise.

“And why should I invoke him in particular?” you quickly changed the subject. “I thought our goal was to hone my spirit-channeling technique and increase my cursed energy flow while we’re at it.”

“That we are doin’, but why not kill two birds with one stone? A new ten-shadow user has risen. I’m sure whatever trick that old dog has up his sleeve will be useful to our little Meg—” He feigned a smile of innocence at his slip. “All you gotta do is chit-chat him into giving you some info. Toss in a few compliments, butter him up. Shouldn’t take more than a few words to convince him, spirits are dying to be summoned— Oh well, unfortunate choice of words. What do you say? You’re in?”

Your groan was all the answer he required to beeline straight to the water fountains, his chirpy laugh echoing from afar. This guy, you huffed, examining the crystal ball anew. There was no way out of this. Either you did his bidding or you’d be forced to endure the obnoxious sound of his voice all summer long.

“Couldn’t you have chosen anything more cliche than a crystal ball?” you snarled, convinced he hadn’t heard you.

“Ouija board was already taken,” he warbled unexpectedly, voice meshing with that of your peers as they ran around in circles, dark-colored uniforms turning darker with every splash of water. “Besides, this has a bit of pink in it,” he referred to the rosy shaded base. “Much cuter than a bunch of rusty letters, right?”

You groaned as you shoved the item into your tote bag, making no mistake to talk out loud again as you turned on your heel. A pinch of jealousy punctured your chest, relieved by every step you took away from the scene and away from the fun the three of them were having.

“Looks like we’re having a date with a ghost tonight.”

It was a quarter past twelve when you decided to put that little experiment to work, the coast clear of overbearing parents and annoying little brothers who wanted nothing more than to disrupt your so-called “studying session”. As far as your family was concerned, Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College (Tokyo Jujutsu High for short) was your average educational institution that had somehow recognized the value of your mediocre grades and scouted you when you were still in middle school— no questions asked from either side.

You wouldn’t go as far as to call your own family a bunch of dimwits, but the signs were all there. A teacher merely four years older than you were, his odd sartorial decisions only second to his eccentric personality. A class made up of four students dramatically and suddenly decreasing to a party of three. An unknown man in a suit and tie driving you back and forth between “emergency study dates” in the dead of night. The lack of studying material in your backpack as opposed to the exams you constantly stressed over. Your unreasonable reaction when your mother stored a cursed tool in with the silver cutlery.

Even if you straight up walked to them with a banner that read “I exorcise curses”, you doubted they’d have anything more to say than a plain “Good for you”, not because they were stupid, but because they simply didn’t care at all.

They didn’t care enough to bat an eye when seven-year-old you tugged at daddy’s trousers, whimpering about a squid-like creature sneaking in your closet, and didn’t care enough to try and justify the stream of water flooding down the corridor. They didn’t care that your imaginary friends were more akin to monsters, and they didn’t care about you being away from home 350 days a year. It was convenient not to. That’s how they were able to drink their woes away at the local bar on a Thursday night with a clear conscience, having offloaded that pest of a brother at your grandparents’ for the fifth consecutive night.

Poor kid. If he wasn’t so despicable, your big sister instincts might have kicked in and raised an objection, though as things currently were suited you best. Rituals required focus, and you needed to make sure no one would bust through the door and interrupt your conversation with Mister Whatever-his-name-was.

You’d taken care of all your basic needs —eating a reheated portion of lasagna, cleansing your body of the worldly filth that stained it, catching a rerun of your favorite show’s latest episode, and cursing Gojo for making you miss it in the first place— and were now seated on your room’s floor with the crystal ball nesting between your bare thighs, the cold sensation much welcome on this excruciatingly warm evening where sitting on the fuzzy carpet seemed like the greatest torture imaginable.

It was only March and you were already in your skimpiest outfit of all; a frilly pair of dusty-pink shorts and a matching low-cut tank top dressing your sweat-beaded body. Dark spots saturated the fabric, demanding your fingers fanned it every two seconds. The worst had yet to come. By the time summer arrived, the final thing for you to crawl out of would be your own skin.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you returned to the item at hand. It’d been fairly long since you’d last performed a seance. Your role in the recent assignments was to support your classmates from the sidelines, exorcising whatever lower-grade curse got in their way with the aid of various cursed tools.

The white-haired nuisance could claim your technique was useful all he wanted, but at the end of the day, yours were simply not meant for combat. Best case scenario, after graduation, the higher-ups would put you on a 9 to 5 job, where you could dig whatever intel they wanted from the comfort of your cramped-up desk; away from your haughty classmates, and away from Gojo Satoru.

You rolled your fingers around the globe’s surface, pads tingling with waves of cursed energy as they seeped into the crystal. Slowly, a dark purple aura came to distort its translucence with colors and shapes of various magnitudes. Shadow-like forms gathered at the seams, remnants of pent-up energy colliding and converging with one another at one focal point. All ready to go!

You began mentally chanting the surname of your target, over and over again until the slideshow of foggy faces diminished to that of a select few candidates from the same bloodline. Some, you would imagine had died when they were still in their prime, measly fledglings of sorcerers with eyes retaining that youthful glossiness, while others seemed to have lived enough to see themselves turn into dehydrated raisins with next to zero cursed energy left.

Once you’d gone through your classmate’s entire family tree at least three times, you caught yourself admitting that despite their faults and innate air of pretension, the Zen’ins weren’t particularly hard on the eyes. Especially that one guy whose mug kept reappearing at random intervals, the slanted scar of his lips lingering in your mind well after the next contender’s appearance. There was something about him, be it the lack of aura he emitted or the viridescent hue of his eyes that had you replaying the frame at the expense of your own energy.

You were drawn to him in an inexplicable way that, at the time, you attributed to fate. It had to be him, right? That must have been why the dope you had for a mentor insisted on calling this a date. Even if he didn’t know the sorcerer’s name, he must have known how insanely attractive the guy was, right?

And suddenly, you felt a sliver of gratitude overcome you, eyelids snapping shut with the Zen’in sorcerer’s face as clear as day behind them, while you chanted the incantation Gojo himself had taught you.

“From the murky shroud of oblivion, I invoke thou out the shadows and blight to bask in heavenly light. Through me gain life, and through life gain thine blessed power.”

No more than a few seconds had passed when you heard a thud, your gaze meeting with that of the very man you’d summoned.

The orb barely did him any justice. Not as if crystal balls were ideal measuring instruments, but you’d need about ten more of those to depict his height as he towered over you, the bulky frame of his shoulders casting a large shadow on the wall behind your head. He was dressed in a much more casual manner than one would expect of someone who’d been dead for over a century, with corded veins and taut muscles peaking underneath a black compression shirt, waist accentuated where his hips met with a pair of baggy pants. And once you got to his face— you must have lost track of time staring into the gem-like green orbs of his eyes, considering you didn’t notice the scowl his lips wore until his tone pointed it out.

“The hell is this?” He sounded just like he looked, the bass of his timbre ringing most pleasantly in your ears.

You wouldn’t know what being dead felt like, but if it was anything remotely close to sitting on a dead leg for hours on end, you guessed he’d rather take a moment to adjust over an answer.

His soles circled the tiny space, eyes dancing between the fairy lights on the wall, the moonless sky —and by extension the empty driveway outside your window—, the three Polaroids on your desk that depicted an old family trip to Seoul (your mother silently accusing him from the frame for the crime of wearing his shoes inside the house), and lastly, you. His gaze feasted on your body as if he’d been starved for ages and you were the first oasis in the desert, his expression gradually easing into a lopsided smile as he cocked his head to the side.

“Got a name, sweetheart?” he asked in a syrupy sweet tone, the nickname he’d come up with making you doubt he’d use your actual name even if you shared it.

You set the ball aside and hopped on your feet, standing on somewhat more equal ground, though not equal enough to completely diminish the difference in height. He was massive, and you were still processing the kind of person that possessed the power to end this man’s life.

“Name’s Y/N,” you extended your hand. “You must be master Zen’in, nice to meet you!”

He merely glanced at your gesture, leaving you to embarrass yourself without a single qualm. “No one’s called me that in some time,” he expressed wryly. “You know about me?”

You nodded, wiping your palm against your shorts. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a spirit act all high and mighty, a Zen’in at that. “Who hasn’t heard of the greatest sorcerer there’s ever been?” you chuckled, Gojo’s bootlicking advice coming in for the clutch. “You are somewhat of a legend in the Jujutsu world. The one who mastered the ten shadows technique like no other.”

“Is that who I am now,” he pondered out loud, his index briefly scratching his jaw. “I guess I am,” he grinned with confidence. “That why you summoned me? Wanted to meet with great ol’ me in person?”

“Something like it,” you admitted, finding it hard not to smile back. “I just so happen to be acquainted with this idiot who’s a big fan of yours. Had me use my technique for a passing grade.”

A low hum prompted you to continue. “He’s a real pain in the ass,” you groaned. “Calls himself ‘the strongest’ and acts as if he’s ‘teacher of the year’ when he forces me to fish out intel like some lackey— Actually, you might have heard of his family name before, they’ve been around for ages. Gojo,” quickly adding “Satoru.”

At the sound of your teacher’s name, the man’s eyes widened, his darkened pupils blown with an emotion akin to rage. You weren’t sure what great calamity the Gojos had brought upon him in his previous life, but being familiar with their descendant you doubted they put much effort into it.

“The six eyes is your teacher?” he asked, not giving you enough time to question how on earth he knew that title before he pitched in another question. “So, ya just a kid, huh?”

“I’m not!” you objected. “Turned 18 a while ago.”

“A while, you say?” he arched a brow.

“I’m closer to 19 if anything,” you crossed your arms over your chest.

“19,” he mocked, his droopy eyelids incapable of hiding the way he sized your figure up.

You didn’t even think to put on a bra before the ritual started. Just like you could vividly picture what his pecs looked like under his clothes, your flimsy outfit left little to the imagination, the sweat that’d shimmered across your collarbones and cleavage working in your favor.

“Nah, you are right. No kid could ever have a body like that. Plump and ripe in all the right places,” his tongue lapped over his bottom lip, salacious stare prodding at what your arms kept hidden. “That’s a woman’s body, no doubt.”

Heat spread from your chest all the way to your cheeks, and for once, it wasn’t because of the room’s overbearing heat. Your toes sunk inside the carpet, thighs awkwardly rubbing together. You’d found yourself in such a position before, yet never with a boy like him— never with a man like him.

“Th-thank you,” you mumbled, your fingers hesitantly sliding down your elbows.

He took a step closer, lacking hesitation as he lifted your chin with two fingers, his thumb gently caressing it.

“Gonna let me look at the rest, baby?” his other hand encompassed your hip, the size of his palm alone making you feel oh-so small and fragile before him. “I’ll make ya a deal if you lemme. Tell ya anything you wanna know and more— heh, I’ll make sure ya pass with flying colors.”

“I don’t… I’m not-”

Depriving you of the chance to deny his advances, the man slotted his lips between yours and pulled back almost instantaneously, overjoyed to catch you leaning into his touch for more.

You weren’t sure why this was happening— why you were letting this happen. He was a stranger who barely qualified as being alive, and at the time of his death, he was closer to your father’s age than yours. But he was there, and he was paying you attention, and the way he spoke to you as if he already knew your answer ahead of your mouth had warmth spiraling to the lower parts of your body.

Rather than giving in to your pouty lips, the man whose name you didn’t even know cupped your breasts in both his hands, calloused thumbs making quick work of your nipples as they peaked below the drenched fabric, rolling the sensitive buds into full hardness.

“Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he praised, kneading at your supple skin almost adoringly.

The straps of your top slid down your shoulders, and you felt the ghost of a smile press onto your neck, his warm mouth smearing wet kisses right to where your neck and shoulders connected. You bit back a sigh, your breath audibly strained.

“Bet you wanna be touched, hmm?” he continued, finding the sweet spot you didn’t know you had, and pressed on, his sharp teeth digging into your flesh coaxing a purr from deep within your throat. He chuckled, the vibrations making you shudder. “That why you’re dressed like a slut? Wanna be treated like one, mm?” his lips parted again, tongue lapping over the delicate bruise his teeth left as he pinched your nipples harshly. A moan was ripped from your slack jaw, the insult he carelessly threw adding to the slick between your thighs.

“Sounds about right,” he smirked. “Well, I’m not complaining. You’re a sight for sore eyes, kitten.”

He didn’t ask for permission before he tugged at your shirt, your breasts spilling out with a single bounce. You saw him wet his lips once more, fingers seizing your now-exposed nipples and lustful eyes admiring them up close. You hadn’t noticed how close he was standing until his hips bucked against yours, alerting you to how painfully hard he’d gotten underneath his pants. The six-year-long refractory period his body was subjected to was far too cruel— though you wouldn’t know about that until much later.

“Tell me,” he requested, pausing just so he could look you dead in the eye. “Have you ever done this before?”

His lips traversed the valley of your breasts, rough palms sliding languidly across your ribs and waist. You could see him hold you like that while being inches deep in you. Slamming your frail little set of bones against your desk’s wooden surface. Pounding your hole for your parents to return to their precious daughter bent in half by some stranger. Bruising Gojo’s star student until the smug smile was wiped from his obnoxious mouth for good.

All those reasons made you nod at his question, not caring that he’d be ten times rougher because of your white lie. If anything, you looked forward to that.

“Sure you’re not lying to me?” he read your mind like an open book, the elastic of your shorts being torn away from your body. “Won’t be mad if y’are. I love myself a sweet little virgin. Love how whiny their voices get. How,” he lowered himself onto his knees, palm pushing you to sit on your bed “cute their little tight cunts look all stretched around me.”

His hot breath fanned over your soaked panties, index lazily rubbing back and forth between your clothed slit, the added friction sending a pleasurable tingle up your spine.

“You really aren’t one, are ya?”

You shook your head repeatedly like a bobblehead doll, propping your weight onto your elbows as he lifted your legs on his shoulders, the reality of his choppy raven hair nuzzling to your thighs finally hitting you.

“You said all you wanted to do was look, right?” the finger that was hooked around your underwear stopped. “That was the deal…”

For a brief yet conscious second, his eyes bore into yours with such spite that you thought you’d completely messed up. Only a virgin would dare say something this stupid. If he wasn’t bound to you by the ritual, he’d be out the door the moment you spat those words, you knew it, but then his knuckles brushed over your abdomen to find the hand that clenched onto the sheets, and you realized that wasn’t the case.

“Deals get altered and terms renewed all the time,” he mumbled distractedly, deeply inhaling your scent on his nose, while your fingers unfolded between his lips. You gasped, the sight of him fucking them in and out his mouth —tongue slithering right in the middle and saliva dribbling down his chin as he popped them out— enough to hypnotize whatever sense out of your brain.

“I’ll make ya a new deal,” he hummed, gently directing them to your mouth as if he beckoned you to do the same. A smirk tugged at his scar as he watched your pink lips obediently part and round around your own fingers. He didn’t let go until he heard you choke, secretly plotting to replace them with something else—sooner, than later.

“My technique is what interests you, right? How about instead of telling you, I show you?”

You tried to remove your hand, but he shoved it back in, his true colors pouring into a devilish smile. “I’ve had enough of your voice. All you gotta do is sit back like the good little girl I know you are and keep your legs nice and spread for me. How’s that?”

The only thing your head could manage was pathetically bob up and down in agreement, your fingers stuck in your mouth like a damn pacifier, while your cunt pulsed at every single word he uttered; derogatory or not. Were it any other guy talking down to you like that, your knuckles would be leaving an impermanent imprint on his cheek. Were it any other guy treating you as if you had no volition of your own as if you were just a toy for him to break, and you—

There wouldn’t be any other guy for you ever again. He’d make sure of it.

He ripped the fabric into a single shred and tossed it over his shoulder without caring where it landed- your bedside lamp. He looked down at your pussy, debating to himself whether to start with his tongue or fingers first, calculating the time it’d take for him to prep you for his cock down to the last second. He might’ve been a lot less nice than he pretended to be, but he wasn’t about to go out of his way to hurt you. Not intentionally, at least.

“Let’s see,” he tipped forward, the way his forefinger slipped between your folds without any resistance whatsoever bringing you shame. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, his digit triumphantly pulling out and smearing your slick all over your puffy lips. “Is that all for me, sweetheart? So fucking wet just for me?”

Your hips bucked forward as an answer to his question and he thought he wouldn’t mind taking things slow for once— see how much you could take before you came completely undone.

“Girls like you make the best fuck,” he cooed, voice echoing right through your core. “Surrendering to the first sweet word they hear.” His thumb circled your clit, flicking at the little bundle of nerves. “Leaking at the slightest of touch.” His middle and ring fingers joined in the action, burying themselves as far inside walls as your tight hole let him push. “Breaking so easily.” He drooled, coating your entire pussy in his thick saliva before allowing himself a taste, tongue lapping at the mix of juices straight from the source.

Your thighs clenched around him, muffling the lewdness of a whimper as he looked up at you, his smirk loosening with every kitten lick across your flesh. You wanted to say something, to call out his name and moan for him, but it all felt so unpracticed— similarly to how unpracticed your cunt was when it came to the girth of his fingers; much bigger than yours, more experienced too. He reached depths you didn’t know existed, bringing your body such pleasure that had you writhing for more, hips slamming against his face.

He groaned, his own arousal throbbing against his lower abdomen, begging him to get this over with. “Wanna fuck my face, baby?”

You felt your cheeks ignite anew, the eyes you’d fallen for at first sight overflowing with lust, convincing you it felt as good for him as it felt for you.

“Can’t let ya do that,” he parted your folds, fingers spreading your thighs apart while his tongue darted between your lips, his nose intentionally nudging the pink nub with each deep stroke against your spongy spot. “Gotta earn it first.”

You stared at him like an idiot, wondering to yourself if somewhere between his refusal to shake your hand and his eagerness to quench his thirst with your body you’d passed away because that was what heaven ought to feel like. That was what angels ought to look like.

“Got something to say, princess?” his eyes shot up and he gestured for you to unlatch your mouth.

“S-so pretty,” you whispered.

“What was that?” his ears perked up, not because he hadn’t heard you the first time, but because he could do with some affirmation himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this… f-fuck—” a yelp punched its way out of your lungs as he folded you in half, pinning your thighs onto your stomach, and crawling onto the bed right after them.

He’d had enough of this little game.

“Good girls shouldn’t cuss like that. Six eyes didn’t teach ya that?”

Holding you down with one hand, he dived back into your pussy, his fingers pumping in and out of you at a furious pace that had your upper body tossing and turning, the first unregulated moans ushering him to keep going. His tongue toyed with your swollen bud, the squelching of your cunt growing significantly louder from this angle, reverberating throughout the four walls of your bedroom. You were close, and so was he to getting his dick wet with all the mess he’d helped create.

His mouth watered just at the thought of his seed being the one to dribble down your thighs instead of his spit. He could picture you in one of those cute blue-navy skirts hanging from your closet and hoped you weren’t a tights person. He wanted to see you off to school every morning with your thighs sticking together so deliciously that anyone smart enough would understand how meticulously he’d fucked the brat out of you—

If only there was a mirror for you to see how stunning you looked. All fucked out and writhing, disheveled hair stuck on your tits and forehead while you nuzzled to the pillows, your shaky voice calling out to the surname he’d left behind. Would you still do that if you knew he played you like a fiddle? If you knew he was no esteemed Zen’in or sorcerer, for that matter, but a man hell-bent on ruining you for his own sick satisfaction?

Your body reciprocated his vile thoughts, your pussy fluttering around his digits. “Gonna cum for me?” he panted, forcing your legs to the side lest he missed a reaction.

Neither of you realized how his one hand had sneaked into his pants, stroking his veiny cock closer to the ecstasy he craved. Precum leaked hot out of the reddened tip, his thumb frantically swiping it over his length in sync with his thrusts. He’d stopped listening to your pleas and instructions. He fucked his fingers in you as he pleased, slowing down only when his balls began to dangerously tighten. Only then did he tear his fingers away ‘cause God forbid he busts his load in his palm like some fucking untouched teenager— regardless of how obscenely pretty you appeared for him or not.

Once he regained his composure, words made sense again. Harder. Faster. More. He hated being told what to do but absolutely loved how pliant you were. A people-pleaser, he bet. Going above and beyond what was asked of you, bending and breaking into whatever molds others force you to fit. He could work with that. Shape you into a mold only he could fit in.

“Cum for me, baby. Show me how much prettier y’ can get.”

His cock twitched as he felt your walls clamp down around his fingers, your sweet face contorting with pleasure, lips swollen with how hard they’d tried to contain the last bits of debouched decency.

How cute.

He set your legs down and moved up to meet your face with his, a wave of genuine softness rushing over him as he thought to kiss your lips tenderly, hushing whatever emotion had you spasming. You were so sensitive. Even if you’d been with another guy before him, he doubted they knew what they were doing— not like he did, anyway. He’d make you scream out his name for the neighbors to hear what a dirty slut lived just next door from them.

After a short while of his stroking your hair and whispering filth into your ears, he decided he’d been good enough to get his trick. He took your hand in his and guided it to his cock, grinning like a little kid as your smaller palm traced the outline over his pants, knowing full well both hands would do nothing to cover his girth.

He’d really missed this— so much that he didn’t mind letting a grunt out in appreciation, certain that more would follow.

Your eyes met, the spark in them telling him you understood what he expected you to do, and even if you didn’t, he’d teach you. He’d teach you everything, snatch you from that piece of shit and make you into his star student, so long as you kept touching him and let him do all the things he’d spent the last thirty minutes fantasizing about.

Everything and anything, all for you to take—

The thoughts that failed to reach your ears along with all traces of the man whose weight alone -up until a moment ago- threatened to crush your body into a fine powder evaporated, the smooth sound of his voice replaced by the crude breaks of your father’s car as he pulled into the driveway— your mother’s kitten heels soon clicking atop every step they climbed.

Shit.

A/N: I actually intended for this to be a one-shot, but I guess it sort of ended on a cliffhanger so, oops. Lemme know if I should write a second and final part, or if you have any Toji ideas/requests ♡