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natsaffection · 2 months

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heyy this is my first time making a request and idk if it's okay but what if reader is like an anti-hero or villian and when reader gets hurt she shoves up to Natasha's apartment thinking she would maybe help her? idk if it works but I've been thinking about something like this and it would be great if you actually write itt😭😭😭

Lines crossed. | N.R

Avenger!Natasha x AntiHero!Reader

Warnings: Blood, Gore and injurys

Word Count: 2,6k

A/N: These are the stories I like the most. 🙏🏻 And I feel honored, that I can write your first ever request! 🏆

The city of New York was no stranger to chaos, but in recent months, a new shadow had begun to loom over its streets. This shadow was not the kind of evil the Avengers were used to dealing with..This was different. And this, was you, a name whispered in fear among the criminal underworld, a vigilante with a taste for vengeance and a history stained with blood.

You had risen to the top of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most wanted list, a place usually reserved for supervillains and global threats. Your methods were brutal and unyielding, your sense of justice unwavering. To some, you were a hero. To others, a menace. But to the Avengers, you were a problem that needed solving.

“Another one,” Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, murmured as she stood over the lifeless body of a notorious gang leader, his blood pooling around him in a grotesque halo. “It’s her again.”

Clint joined her, shaking his head. “She’s getting bolder. This is the third one this week.” Natasha's eyes scanned the scene, taking in the familiar hallmarks of your handiwork. The precision, the brutality, the unmistakable sense of finality. "She’s not hiding anymore. She wants us to know it’s her."

Nick Fury appeared behind them, his expression unreadable as ever. "We need to bring her in. She's crossed too many lines, and now the media's starting to pick up on it. The last thing we need is a vigilante making us look incompetent."

Natasha nodded, her mind already running through the many encounters she’d had with you. Each one had been a battle of wills, fists, and wits. You were good, damn good. But Natasha was determined to be better.

You wiped the blood from your hands, your breathing steadying as you looked at the man you'd just eliminated. He had been a monster, a predator preying on the weak and innocent. You felt no remorse. In your eyes, justice had been served.

You knew the Avengers were close. You could feel their presence like a storm on the horizon. Especially Natasha. Your fights had become a dance of sorts, each trying to outmaneuver the other, each knowing that one day it would come down to a final, decisive confrontation.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts. You glanced at the message: another target, another mission. Your work was never done.

Back at the Avengers' headquarters, the team gathered around a holographic display of the city, pinpointing the locations of your recent activities. "We need to be strategic," Steve said, his voice calm but firm. "She’s not just any criminal. She’s trained, skilled, and she's got a mission."

Natasha’s eyes never left the display. She knew you better than most. She understood your motivations, your drive. And she knew that stopping you would require more than just brute force.

"It’s personal for her," Natasha said quietly. "And if we’re going to bring her in, we need to understand why she’s doing this." The team nodded, each member resolving to bring an end to your bloody crusade. But for Natasha, it was more than just another mission. It was a challenge, a test of her skills and resolve.

You moved through the city like a ghost, your mind focused on the task at hand. You knew the Avengers were watching, waiting. You relished the challenge. Each encounter with Natasha had pushed you to be better, sharper.

But you also knew that the game couldn’t go on forever. One day, it would come to an end. One way or another.As you prepared for your next mission, you couldn't help but wonder: when that day came, who would be the one standing? You or Natasha?

The city was alive with the sounds of sirens and distant traffic, but your focus was razor-sharp. You moved through the shadows, your target's location clear in your mind. You knew the Avengers were closing in, but you thrived on the edge, where danger and adrenaline fused into one intoxicating rush.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your target, a corrupt businessman with ties to multiple criminal organizations. You slipped past his security with ease, your movements precise and silent. As you stood over him, your eyes cold and unyielding, you knew this would send another message to the underworld and the Avengers alike.

Just as you were about to strike, the window shattered, and Natash swung in, landing gracefully on her feet, guns drawn. "Y/n, this ends now," Natasha said, her voice a mix of resolve and urgency. You smirked, stepping back to assess the new threat. "You always know how to make an entrance, Romanoff."

The two of you circled each other, the tension thick in the air. You made the first move, lunging forward with a series of rapid strikes. Natasha countered, your fists and feet a blur of motion. Each move was calculated, each strike intended to find a weakness.

The fight spilled into the hall, your movements fluid and fierce. You were relentless, your skills honed by years of training and combat. But Natasha was no less formidable, her experience and agility a match for your raw power.

In a desperate bid to escape, you knocked over a set of shelves, creating a momentary barrier. You dashed down the corridor, but your path was blocked by Steve. "Going somewhere?" Steve asked, raising his shield.

You didn’t hesitate. You launched yourself at him, your attacks relentless. Steve defended himself with his shield, but your sheer ferocity pushed him back. You knew you had to move fast. Every second counted.

A blast of energy struck the ground near you, and you turned to see Tony Stark hovering in his Iron Man suit. "You’re surrounded. Give it up."

With a quick glance, you calculated your options. You grabbed a nearby fire extinguisher, using it to create a cloud of smoke. In the confusion, you darted through a side door, your escape route planned to the last detail.

In the aftermath, the Avengers regrouped, frustration evident in their expressions. "She’s good," Clint said, rubbing his bruised arm. "We almost had her."

"Almost isn’t good enough," Tony replied, scanning the area for any sign of you. "She’s always one step ahead." Natasha looked at the ground, her mind replaying the fight. She admired your tenacity and skill, but she also knew that each encounter brought them closer to a dangerous tipping point.

"We need to change our approach," Natasha said. "She’s playing a game of survival. We need to make her see that we’re not the enemy." Steve nodded. "Agreed. We need to understand her motivations. If we can reach her, maybe we can end this without more bloodshed."

Weeks turned into months, and the chase between you and Natasha became legendary among the Avengers. Your reputation as a formidable adversary was solidified, but so was Natasha's determination to bring you in. Every encounter became a game of wits and skill, a deadly dance with an undercurrent of something more.

One night, Natasha found herself on a stakeout at a high-end nightclub. Her sources had tipped her off about a major criminal deal going down. She knew you would be there, drawn to the opportunity like a moth to a flame. Natasha blended into the crowd, her eyes scanning for any sign of her elusive target.

Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. "Looking for someone?" your familiar, flirty voice whispered in her ear. Natasha spun around to find you, dressed to kill and wearing a mischievous grin.

"Yes, you." Natasha said, her voice steady despite the surprise. "You're getting bold." You chuckled, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you're getting predictable, Romanoff. I knew you'd be here."

Natasha moved closer, lowering her voice. "This ends tonight. You're coming with me." You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Are you asking me out on a date, or is this another one of your attempts to arrest me?"

Natasha couldn't help but smirk. "Depends on how you look at it." Before Natasha could react, you leaned in, your lips brushing Natasha's ear as you whispered, "Catch me if you can." Then, with a swift movement, you disappeared into the crowd.

Natasha's heart raced as she pursued you through the crowded club. The thrill of the chase was intoxicating, and she couldn't deny the electric connection between you. You were always one step ahead, leaving clues and taunts that kept Natasha on her toes.

The chase led them to the club's rooftop, the city lights sprawling beneath them. You stood at the edge, the wind whipping through your hair. Natasha approached slowly, her eyes locked on you.

"You can't keep running forever.“ Natasha said, her voice a mix of determination and something softer. You turned to face her, your expression unreadable. "I'm not running, Natasha. I'm fighting. Just like you."

Natasha took a step closer, her heart pounding. "We don't have to be enemies, Y/n.. Let us help you." Your gaze softened, and for a moment, Natasha saw the vulnerability beneath the tough exterior. "You don't understand. I've crossed too many lines. There's no going back for me."

Natasha reached out, her hand brushing your arm. "It's never too late to make a different choice. You can Trust me.“ You looked at Natasha, your eyes searching for something. Then, with a sigh, you pulled away. "Maybe in another life, Romanoff."

Before Natasha could react, you leaped off the rooftop, landing gracefully on a fire escape below. Natasha rushed to the edge, but you were already disappearing into the night.

—

One fateful evening, you found yourself cornered by a gang of criminals. You fought valiantly, but the numbers were overwhelming. By the time the dust settled, you were grievously wounded. Blood soaked your clothes, and every step sent waves of agony through your body.

Desperation set in as you stumbled through the dark alleys. You knew going to a hospital was out of the question. The police would arrest you on sight, and SHIELD agents were everywhere. You tried to treat your wounds in an abandoned building, using whatever you could find. With shaking hands, you attempted to stitch a deep gash on your side, but the pain was too intense and your vision blurred.

Realizing the severity of your injuries and your inability to treat them alone, you remembered, „You can Trust me.“ You had placed a small tracking device on Natasha’s shoe during one of your fights, anticipating you might need to find her someday.

The rain pelted the city in relentless sheets, washing away the grime of the day. You stood in front of Natasha's apartment door, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You leaned heavily against the frame, your vision swimming. Despite the pain, you forced a playful smile onto your lips. You had to get inside. You had to see Natasha.

With a trembling hand, you knocked on the door. It felt like an eternity before it finally swung open. Natasha stood there, her expression a mix of surprise and annoyance.

"How did you find me?" Natasha asked, her voice cold. You tried to straighten up, wincing as you did. "Miss me already, Romanoff?" you said, your voice weak but carrying a hint of flirtation. "Couldn't stay away.."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here. Why are you here?" Ignoring the question, you leaned against the doorframe, your legs barely holding you up. "Thought I'd drop by... see your lovely face," you managed, your vision beginning to darken around the edges.

Natasha's patience snapped. She grabbed her phone, her fingers quickly dialing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number. "Enough with the games. I'm done with this."

Your heart sank, your body swaying. You tried to take a step forward but stumbled, your strength failing. You collapsed into Natasha, who caught you out of reflex. As your full weight pressed against her, Natasha's eyes widened in horror. Blood soaked through your clothes, warm and sticky, covering Natasha's hands.

"Oh my God.." Natasha whispered, her phone slipping from her fingers as she cradled your limp body. "Y/n, what happened??" Your head lolled to the side, your eyes struggling to stay open. "Guess I... pushed it too far this time..“ you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Natasha quickly assessed the situation, her mind racing. "We need to get you inside.“ she said, her tone urgent. She half-carried, half-dragged you into the apartment, laying you on the couch. Blood pooled on the floor, and Natasha's hands shook as she grabbed her first aid kit.

"Stay with me, Y/n," Natasha urged, tearing open your shirt to reveal a deep, gaping wound along your side. The sight of old scars crisscrossing your chest made Natasha's heart clench. "God, what did you do?!“

She worked quickly, her training kicking in. She poured antiseptic over the wound, her hands moving with practiced precision. Your body trembled with pain, your fingers digging into the couch. "God, that burns," you whimpered, tears streaming down your face. "F-Fuck, Natasha, it h-hurts..“

"I know it does," Natasha said, her voice softening. "But I need you to stay with me. I don't have any narcotics, so this is going to be rough."

Your eyes were glazed with pain, your breathing shallow. "Just do it…" you managed to say. Natasha threaded a needle, her fingers slick with blood. She began to stitch the largest wound, her focus intense. Your body shook with each stitch, your teeth clenched to hold back screams. The raw pain was almost unbearable, and low moans of agony escaped your lips despite your best efforts.

"You're doing great," Natasha said, her own voice trembling. "Just a few more." Your fingers clawed at the couch, your knuckles white. "Natasha... please, hurry," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper.

Natasha's heart ached at the sight of your suffering. "I'm almost done," she said, her tone soothing. "Just hold on a little longer."

Your eyes fluttered, your strength fading fast. "Sorry... for your couch...and for everything," you whispered, tears mixing with the blood on your face. "I never wanted it to be like this.."

Natasha's eyes were full with understanding. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Right now, I need you to hold on." She finished the stitches, then bandaged the wounds as best she could. Your body relaxed slightly, your breathing still labored but more steady.

"It's done," Natasha said, sitting back and wiping her forehead. "You're going to be okay." Your eyes closed, exhaustion overtaking you. Natasha grabbed a blanket and covered you, then sat beside you, holding your hand gently. "I'm here," Natasha whispered. "You're safe now. Rest and we’re sorting everything tomorrow out, okay?"

You whimpered softly, your body shaking from the pain and the cold. Natasha gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, her expression tender. "I never thought I'd see you like this," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes fluttered open, focusing on Natasha with difficulty. "Guess... I can't always be the strong one.“ you murmured, a weak smile playing on your lips.

Natasha's heart tightened. "You don't have to be strong all the time," she said softly. "It's okay to let someone help you." You nodded weakly, your eyes drifting closed again. "Thank you, Natasha.“ you whispered.

Natasha squeezed your hand gently, "You're going to be alright," she said, her voice filled with determination. "I won't let anything happen to you."

As she sat there, watching over you, Natasha knew that this was a turning point. You had come to her for help, and that meant there was still hope. She would find a way to bring you back from the edge, no matter what it took.

Part 2

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #dom!natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha

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cordeliawhohung · 2 months

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 10]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

crooked fingers and christmas cheer

cw: minor gore, panic attack, anxiety

wc: 4.6k

You’re dreaming of your dad again.

Crooked fingers grip the steering wheel in front of him as he sits in the driver's seat, maneuvering through swirling streets with faceless pedestrians. You’re cuddled in the back of the car, blankets weighing you down to the seat like a prison. They’re tight. Serpentine binds. So much so you find it hard to breathe. Fat snowflakes flutter past your window as the engine revs, speeding through London with no regard for traffic lights or stop signs. If there were other cars on the road, he would have crashed long ago.

Quiet megrim suffocates you as your ringing ears make sense of the song playing on the radio. Static drowns the notes, fuzzies them until you can barely hear it. Your dad hums the tune in a different key. Sweet, and off beat. He’s always been tone deaf.

“Silent night, Holy night.”

The acrid scent of blood fills your nose the moment you find his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thick patches of it stain his face, crusting around fat lacerations on his eyebrows, lips, and nose. It dries; flakes off his skin just to be replaced by a fresh stream. Pulled stitches fray at the ends as they protrude from his skin like grotesque teeth, being devoured from the inside out by wounds he can’t outrun. Wounds that will never heal.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

You attempt to shift but the cocoon of blankets grows tighter around you, hugging your limbs close to you like a straightjacket. It’s so crowded that your ribs have trouble expanding, and a breathy cough leaks from your mouth. It burns, like smoke in your lungs or mint on your tongue.

“You should slow down,” you warn him.

“Silent night, Holy night.” The song repeats. You don’t think you’ve heard it make it past the first stanza. A bent record, forever scratching, doomed to repeat a song and never finish it.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assures you.

“Dad, please slow down.”

The engine sputters and quiets down as the brakes engage with a gentle tap. Wheels dwindle and slow until the car halts in the center of the road. Traffic dashes by with quiet whooshes. You don’t know where the cars came from. Maybe they had been following you the whole time. They’re all black — like a funeral procession. Exhaust mixes with iron. The concoction is enough to turn your stomach as it burns your sinuses.

“Silent night, Holy night.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to end up like him?” he asks. Disfigured, bent, and disgusting fingers still grip the steering wheel despite the motionlessness of the car. You try not to stare, but the horror of it has you transfixed. “Like Row’s dad?”

Your bottom lip juts out and trembles. “You already did.”

He laughs at you, and it’s warm like velvet. Comforting just like it was when you were a kid. It reminds you of when he would read you stories before bed, keeping his tone even yet engaging — just calming enough to get your eyes to grow heavy. Your skin itches to throw the blankets off of your body and wrap yourself in his mirth instead, but as usual, you are not strong enough.

“I’m right here, darling,” he chuckles. “I know the accident was hard on you, but it’s not your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

“Silent night, Holy night.”

Leather seats shift under your dad’s weight, and his eyes no longer look at you in the rearview mirror. You want to ask if he looks away in shame, but the question doesn’t quite reach your tongue.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “I don’t know. I just… wish you didn’t leave me like that.”

“But I didn’t leave,” he assures.

“You died and now I have nothing,” you retort.

There is no denying that you are aggrieved. Betrayed in some aching way that still haunts the marrow of your bones and the ridge of your spine. How many years have you felt this way? Are you even able to recall a time when you felt normal? Felt loved? Felt safe? Maybe you had, but you’re not sure if there was ever a moment of your life that you lived where your father’s shadow wasn’t following you.

You’re not sure if you ever will.

How long had he been haunting you? Did his ghosts only come out to play after his death?

“Silent night, Holy night. All is calm, all is-”

The radio dies just as the engine does and a wave of tinnitus rings so loud you’re certain it can’t be coming from inside your own head. Someone else must be hearing this agony; it can’t just be you. You blink and witness in abject horror as your dad twists in his seat, hands leaving the steering wheel, torso turning so that he can fully face you.

He looks just like he did all those years ago. Clothes perfectly pressed, dress shirt steamed, cuffs neatly creased. He always joked that the first time he would ever wear a suit would be at your wedding — instead, it was his own funeral. They did a good job making him look normal. At covering the abrasions and ruptured blood vessels. At setting his fingers and nose straight. Still, there’s something wrong with his skin. There’s no fresh blood, it’s all pooled in the side of his body. Heavy. Weighing it down.

The mortician did a good job, but no amount of wax can fix the chunk of bone and flesh missing from the side of his skull.

“But you do have something,” he says bluntly. “I just hope you can escape it before it gets you, too.”

Your only solace is the alarm on your phone.

It vibrates next to your head where it echoes throughout your box spring mattress like a hollow cavern. It kick starts your heart, which pounds so violently in your chest you’re certain your sternum will shatter. You need it to stop. Need it to shut up. Need to kill it. Sucking in a shuddering breath, your hands fumble with your phone as you tap on the screen, shutting off the alarm and plunging your apartment into silence.

Throwing yourself on your back, you stare at your water damaged and stained ceiling as you try not to deliquesce into the bed. You can already feel it happening. Muscles convulsing until they liquify, bone marrow seeping out from your pores, soft duvet soaking up the essence of everything that once made you human. You feel the pillow beneath your head and the cotton of your pajamas, trying to ground yourself to the earth that threatens to crush you everyday but the mind is always stronger. There is nothing you can do to free yourself from the heat of a car engine, or shattered glass in your lap, or the gunshot pop! of an airbag —

Once more, your phone buzzes. Something soft and non-intruding. A gentle nudge that pulls you back into your bed just as the heater kicks on. You breathe in the scent of your apartment. It’s stale. Stagnant air and old dish soap. You’d like to invest in a candle or wax warmer, like the ones your mom used to have. Maybe that way you could pretend that you were still with her, if only for a moment.

Everything feels lighter when you realize just where you are. That doloriferous anxiety wanes until it’s nothing more than a dormant beast in your chest. You sigh, body twisting to once again grab your phone. It’s just before eight in the morning, and a text from Simon has your heart fluttering so fiercely you swear you feel your stomach shrink and swell in one fell swoop.

Good morning sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour. Need me to pick up anything for the trip?

Not even the primal terror lurking in your chest can stop the small smile that pulls at your lips as you read his message. Always so proper. So kind and considerate. For a moment, you can forget all about crooked fingers and half formed skulls. You swallow back any tremulous sensation as you type your response back to him.

no thanks, should be good (: excited to see you

You regret the message as soon as you send it. Excited to see you. Groaning, you shut your phone off and hit your forehead against the screen like you can beat the embarrassment out of yourself. But there’s not enough time to dwell on it. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve got somewhere to be.

A quick shower is all it takes to get your mind functioning properly again. Lukewarm water washes away the nightmare sweats and leaves you with a clean slate. Fresh, untouched skin. Eardrums lulling into the quiet hum of the water hitting the cracked tile that lines the tub. There’s a draft that seeps through the gaps of the window, causing your skin to prickle and tighten as you dry yourself off. On windy days, you can hear its whistle. It prompts you to get ready with a sense of urgency, and it isn’t long before you’re swaddled tight in comfortable travel clothes and shoving last minute items into your bag.

Simon arrives just when he said he would, and you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but his jumper seems to hug tighter around his shoulders than usual. Muscle shifts, hands twitch, and you find your greeting tumbling out of your lips on a tongue that feels too fat. He stares at you with careful eyes, always assessing you like the good worker he is. Soaks up the buzz tingling through your nerves as you fiddle with your travel bag, heat drenching your skin so thickly he can almost feel it from where he stands.

Smirking, he reaches forward, fingers brushing against yours as he slips the bag out of your hand, and you have no choice but to relinquish it. He keeps the straps firmly in his hand as he steps back, gesturing to the stairs.

“After you, sweetheart.”

Breakfast and warm tea brewed in a to-go cup waits for you in Simon’s car. It’s the very first thing you notice when he opens the door for you, and the sight has you biting into your lip. You try to mutter something about how he shouldn’t have, but he only shushes you as he ushers you inside. Really, it makes a good distraction. Focusing on trying not to leave crumbs as you devour a bagel sandwich leaves you little time to worry about why he didn’t get anything for himself.

It’s good. Better than good. Perfectly toasted bagel, melty cheese, seasoned avocado — something too fancy for you to have ever ordered on your own. The tea is still warm by the time you hit the motorway, and a comfortable silence settles over you as the engine hums along the road. Towering grey buildings dwindle into quaint homes which then shapeshift between natural scenery and city views in the distance. You try to remember the last time you left London. Escaped the prison that’s held you by the throat for the last few years, even if it were only temporary. The only time you can recall is the trip your family took to Italy when you were a child.

Simon shifts in his seat next to you, and your eyes dart over to him. He’s only adjusting himself, getting his legs comfortable for the long ride ahead — he mentioned something about arriving around one — but your eyes can’t help but wander. You glance at the roll of his hips and the way his thighs fill out the fabric of his jeans. The tight line of his lips as his eyes scan the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, thick fingers wrapped around the edge —

You blink and they’re crooked. Bruised, bent, and wrong. Compound fractures — bone piercing flesh. Jagged knuckles, fingers like the ridge of a mountain; you feel your stomach twist as that nightmare continues to haunt you.

Before its tendrils have the chance to wrap around your spine, your hand dives into your pocket. Frayed string brushes against your skin, and you hook it like a fish on the end of your line before yanking it free. Cat’s Cradle is always your go to distraction. It keeps you moving. Mind focused on string formations as you twist them into designs just to move to the next formation; always flowing, never stagnant.

Even now, you can hear your father’s voice. Feel his hands as he guided yours all those years ago when he taught you how to play. Move your left hand. They’ll cross if you don’t.

You move your right hand, and it knots; candle sticks now a cross.

“Cat’s Cradle?” Simon asks.

As you unwind the string from your fingers, a nostalgic smile pulls at your lips. You don’t think you’ve ever had someone recognize it before. “Yeah. Play it sometimes to keep myself occupied.”

“Didn’t know you could play it by yourself,” he admits. “Always thought you needed someone else.”

“You can’t do as many moves as you can with someone else, but it’s still fun,” you chuckle sheepishly.

He hums, hand adjusting on the wheel, free arm resting on the center console next to you. “You should teach me.”

A breathy laugh escapes your lips — you think he’s joking. It’s a stupid game with string. Nothing that means anything. Yet when you look at him and find his eyes flickering to you, dark hue reading your expression, you realize he means it.

You swallow, then smile. “If you’d like.”

He shifts once more, leather seat creaking beneath his weight. You try to ignore the way your heart hurts at the sound. “I’d like doin’ anythin’ with you.”

The whole ride feels warm after that. Bubbling mirth lurks beneath your skin, lighting it on fire, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears. It’s that same feeling that afflicted you the previous week after Christmas shopping. This fervor. This want. It grows more intense the closer you are to reaching Manchester as the reality of your situation hits you. You’re going to be meeting his family.

But as a friend, or something else?

That question plagues you as Simon pulls up to a small home with effulgent lights lining the rooftop. They illuminate the extremely thin layer of snow that coats the city in crystalline sparkles, and for a moment you’re convinced you’re seeing stars. A thick evergreen wreath sits on the front door and the sight of it is so nostalgic it nearly hurts. A tremble ails your knees as you climb out of the car, useless joints turning into jelly as you watch Simon retrieve both of your bags. Your hands reach out, ready to receive yours, but he raises his eyebrow at you as he closes the door with his elbow.

“C’mon,” he urges. “Freezin’ out here.”

He leads you up the stairs and before he even knocks on the door you can already hear the commotion going on inside. A TV drones in the background as quiet chatter mixes with whatever programme is playing — giggles and cracked jokes and faint music. Voices cease as Simon knocks on the door, and you’re certain you hear a high pitched gasp, followed by what you think is someone asking for Uncle Simon.

You swallow your heart thudding in your throat as the door swings open and you’re met with a mess of bright blonde hair. Simon was right, Tommy isn’t bigger than him yet he still towers taller than most. He grins at his brother, crooked teeth and all as he slaps his hand on Simon’s shoulder.

“‘Bout time you showed up. Joey’s been beggin’ for you all morning,” he teases, though he can’t quite mask the way his eyes flicker to you standing meekly to the side. “C’mon in, we just started a game of Candyland.”

The moment you and Simon step through the threshold of the house, you’re enveloped by fresh cinnamon and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas buzzing on the TV. A fat evergreen tree sits in the corner of the living room next to a coffee table with board game pieces and snacks strewn about its top. You recognize Joseph and his mother Beth, who sit next to the table on the floor, rug cushioning their knees from the hardwood floor. The very moment his eyes land on Simon, little Joseph bolts to his feet.

Suddenly, it’s a reunion. Everyone stands on their feet to exchange hugs and kisses, Simon attempting to return them with his hands occupied with bags; the walls echo the laughter shared between everyone. And you? You stand there with a quiet smile, soaking in the familial love as you stay out of the way. Joseph clings to Simon’s leg, white teeth on display as he looks up at his uncle, and you swear you’ve never seen him smile or laugh so hard before.

“Simon,” a voice speaks up from the kitchen.

You turn to find a grey haired woman drying her hands off on a tea towel. She’s short; surprisingly so for the two boys she’s brought into this world. Rose dusts the apples of her cheeks as she slowly crosses into the entryway, arms spread wide to envelope her son as best as she can with her frail frame.

“Missed you mum,” Simon whispers as he returns the hug.

“It’s always good to see you,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. Her lips tighten as her fingers squeeze the side of his arm. “My sweet boy.”

It isn’t long before her eyes begin to wander, and they’re drawn to you, not even bothering to fight against the magnetic pull. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think she was eager to see you. She removes herself from her son as she approaches you, hands reaching for yours as she pulls you away from the front door and into her home.

“It’s so good to meet you, Chip,” she says, hand patting yours.

She already knows your name.

You swallow. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Riley,” you stutter back in response.

Everything falls into place after that like a perfect line of dominoes. Simon vanishes for only a short moment to put your bags away in some unseen room and returns just in time for Joseph to drag the two of you into the living room for a game of Candyland. There’s hardly any time for proper introductions as Joseph directs the game all the way down to what color pieces everyone uses — both you and Simon are assigned green — and despite your apprehension, it’s like you’ve been here the entire time. Instantly welcomed and assimilated into the Riley Family like you’ve never belonged anywhere else.

You learn so much in such a little amount of time. Questions are thrown about as everyone takes turns drawing cards and moving pieces along the board. You learn that Joseph’s favorite color is red because it reminds him of his mother’s hair, and how Beth works with preschool aged children as a teacher. Tommy works as a mechanic and is one of the reasons why Simon has a motorcycle. Both Simon and Tommy can banter well enough to go pro, especially with one another. The table erupts into laughter and playful cursing more often than not.

They ask questions about you, too. Gently poking, prodding, and peeling back the layers you try so hard to wrap yourself in. They don’t allow you to hide, and after a few hours of games, snacks, and movies, you start to think you might not want to anymore. Tucked into Simon’s side, lazy arm around your shoulder as he chuckles and laughs with his family, you start to realize this is the most at home you’ve felt for a long time.

You try to remember the last Christmas you attended that you enjoyed, but the memories that emerge taste sour on your tongue.

Halfway through How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Simon squeezes your shoulder. It’s soft — a gesture that warns you he’s going to move well before he does. He removes his arm from around you, body shifting forward on the couch yet making sure to replace the airplane themed blanket on your lap that Joseph gave you because you look cold.

“Gonna step out for a smoke,” he assures.

“Okay. Well, I’ll keep our seats warm,” you smile as he stands.

Manchester gets darker later than London does, so it’s a welcome surprise when Simon steps out into the backyard and faint rays of sun still ignite the sky above him. It is colder, though. So much so that his skin tenses and trembles through the fabric of his jumper as he lights the cigarette sitting between his teeth.

Truly, he is happy to be home, but those walls make his skin crawl. Old scars burn and itch every time he sees those old photos hung up on walls or the wood floors creak a certain way. No amount of pine tree pollen or holiday cinnamon aroma can fully cleanse the stale alcohol that permeates every pore in that house. Each time he visits, he tries to override those memories. Create something new from the lingering pain. He’s tried to convince his mom to let him buy her a nicer place, or at least fix that damn bathtub, but she refuses every time.

He swears one day he’ll tear out every tile in that bathroom.

A squeak sounds behind Simon as the sliding glass doors open, then quickly shut. He hurriedly exhales the smoke in his mouth before turning around, not surprised at all to find Tommy approaching him with his arms hugged tight to his chest.

“Tryna bum a smoke?” he asks as he shoves the cigarette back between his lips.

“What, and have Beth maul me in my sleep?” Tommy chuckles. “Been clean for nearly six years and I don’t plan to throw that away now.”

Dead grass crunches beneath Tommy’s feet as he approaches, but Simon’s chuckle drowns it out. “Good man.”

Tommy hums as he stops next to Simon, still a good distance away so as to not get the stale scent of nicotine on him. Blue eyes keep flickering to the door where you, Beth and Joseph continue to watch the movie, idle chatter filling the gaps of the film you’ve seen a million times over. He smirks, and it looks an awful lot like Simon’s. Two sides of the same coin.

“Didn’t realize you were bringin’ a girl,” he admits. “No wonder why mum seemed extra adamant about cleaning. How long have you two been together?”

At that question, Simon takes a particularly long drag. It expands in his lungs, fills the space until there’s nothing left, and when he exhales it leaves through his nose. “We’re not together.”

“Oh?” Tommy asks with a poorly restrained grin. “So you just brought this completely random girl home to see the family? Nothin’ more?”

“It’s complicated,” Simon deadpans.

“Ah. Complicated. Bullshit,” Tommy retorts.

The brothers fall silent as laughter bleeds through the doors behind them. Both men turn to find Joseph wrapped in Beth’s arms, swaying side to side as he points at the TV. You cover your laugh with the palm of your hand, but Simon catches on to the way your shoulders shake with the movement.

“When are you gonna settle down? Start a family of your own?” Tommy questions, eyes still on his wife and son. “Sure mum’ll appreciate you gettin’ married before she’s too old to know where she’s at.”

In an attempt to hide his laugh, Simon chooses to scoff instead. “I couldn’t do better than you ‘n Beth.”

“Couldn’t you?” Tommy challenges.

For a moment, Simon entertains it. The thought of a family. The thought of you. He’ll admit, he thinks of you often, but he can’t determine if it’s because he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, or because he’s still trying to solve the mystery of you. Of Andrei, of your reclusiveness, of everything. He can’t tell if his heart quickens because of you, or what might be chasing you.

What a silly idea. With his line of work and your anxiety, he’s certain you’d want nothing to do with him if you ever found out.

“I mean it,” Simon says, standing firm. “Buildin’ the life you did after everythin’ you went through, findin’ an amazing woman and havin’ a good son… I’m proud of you.”

Tommy scoffs at Simon’s adulation like he’s about to spew something sarcastic at the man, but instead his lips pull into a reverent smile. Nodding, he sighs, breath spewing out in a fit of frost that’s quickly smothered by the bitter air as it rises and vanishes. The sun sets quickly, so much so that it’s almost a distant memory by the time he’s able to find his words.

“As the older brother, I think I’m supposed to be praisin’ you but… yeah. I’m proud of myself, too,” Tommy admits. “To think about all the shit I had gotten caught up with. Fuck, surprised Beth ever saw anythin’ in me. Nearly got myself killed over drugs. Over that fuckin’ debt. Needed my little brother to come save my ass. Still, I’ve got them. Somehow… I have them. Wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Hot embers begin to burn too close to Simon’s fingers, and he discards the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and stomps out what remaining life it has left. He looks up at Tommy, but his eyes are focused on the smoldering remains of ash on the ground.

“Do you ever run into him at all?” Tommy asks.

“Who?”

“Marco.”

Ravenous acrimony eats away at Simon’s chest at the name alone. Memories resurface — an overconfident prick with beady green eyes. He rubs at his knuckles as if he can still feel the way they split all those years ago, and then he presses against them until they shift. Their crack echoes dully off the dead grass and glass door.

“If I did, he’d be fuckin’ dead,” he assures.

Tommy chuckles, clearly caught off guard by his brother’s bloodthirst. “Well, I wouldn’t ever ask you to go that far, but… the cunt would deserve it. Besides, with your line of… work, I reckon it’s not too difficult to make people vanish.” He coughs, clearing his throat of any lingering smoke before he continues. “Speakin’ of that… does she know?”

“Know what?”

“That you run with Price?” Tommy clarifies. Simon’s silence is the only answer he needs. “You haven’t told her?”

“It’s complicated,” Simon reiterates.

Some facetious response dances on the tip of his tongue, Simon can see it in the way his mouth twitches, but Tommy stays silent. He sighs, then nods before looking back through the door. Their mother is on her feet, slowly maneuvering around the living room in a slight waddle in order to open the door.

“Yeah. I know it is. Just… be careful,” he mumbles, just as the door slides open.

“Dinner’s ready. You two should come back inside. It’s freezin’ out here,'' she urges.

Both men glance at one another with a curt nod before trudging through the grass back to the house. The very moment they step back into the warm embrace of their childhood home, everything else seems left behind. Any worries. Any sour memories and old scars. All of it lingers in the backyard with the smoking remains of Simon’s cigarette; unimportant, and long forgotten.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #in limbo #f!reader

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incidentallysunny · 3 months

Text

I Was Never There.

Death Island Leon x Reader

Real!Dad Leon

Dead dove warning.

13k word count. Proof read 3 times until I got to around 11k then I stopped worrying and just skimmed. Critique is welcomed and my skin is thick for it.

I’d like to appear in the tagz pls so here’s a warning. My writing is not ever meant to be taken literally and is just for the sake of writing f*cked up content that I enjoy writing. If you do not wish to read this, please do not as my intentions are not to offend or make you intentionally uncomfortable but if you choose to read- don’t be hateful. With that out of the way, extremely sensitive content and dead dove material ahead.

Specifically blood-related incest, smut, suicidal ideation, mentions of grotesque imagery, light mentions of gore in a hypothetical scenario, daddy-issues, age-gap, overall disturbing topics.

As far as smut specifically: this includes talking of public sex, mentions of oral, fingering, unprotected sex, cream-pie (wrap your willy irl pls) praise, dirty talk, any probably some other irrelevant shit I’m forgetting my b.

PROCEED if you read the above, are okay with it, and are mentally unwell like I am. Happy reading, it’s a long one.

The drive from your college town to where your home had been all your life was as expected. Nostalgia and homesickness being mixed in your gut like a can of paint in one of those weird machines at the hardware store that your dad would take you to. Speaking of dad, you hardly remember him. He was present for a short while, your mom always excusing his absence with work this and work that. He really did get busy, though. Almost dying several times. You still remember your moms panicked phone calls, her countless prescription drugs for the same problems you now suffer from, and her late-night bathroom breakdowns. Apparently he couldn’t get out of this job though. Some real fucked up government shit he was tied to, your mom explained. All you know about him is that he saved the president’s daughter. Whatever.

So yeah- a perfect life with a perfect set of parents. One being mentally driven through the dirt and the other that you haven’t seen in 8 years or maybe more. You can’t seem to remember if the last few times you saw your dad were daisied dreams or reality. Bastard has never FaceTimed or video called you, either. Dunno if he even had a phone capable of that. Either way, it must be for the better, because your grades had been sufficient without stressors on your mind. And we all know a low-effort dad would definitely be one. But perhaps he’d rather just be there in person. Older people are like that.

You grunted, trying to drag your over-packed suitcase up the steep suburban driveway before sighing and standing in place. Sure, you didn’t need to bring so much shit home, but would you really want to risk some bitch at college stealing anything from your quad-dorm?

Before you could think and figure out how you’d even get the plastic luggage up the pristine, hand-painted porch steps and inside (without scratching them up and having your parents on your ass about their perfect house having a flaw) a voice called out to you. Unrecognized and not ringing any of the bells in your head. (If there were any left)

“Hey there, sweetheart. It’s been a while, huh?”

You turned to see a middle-aged man, similar to the last memory of your dad that had been printing-pressed into your mind for safe keeping. He was just emerging from the front door, broad chest accentuated by a well-fitted T-shirt. You immediately felt angry that his tits were bigger than yours. Would probably look better with a bra, too.

You didn’t answer.

Fuck- nerves were getting the better of you. Your palms were slick with sweat and you didn’t know if it was from the building summer humidity or anxiety. Was this normal? No the fuck it wasn’t.

“Uhh.. dad?” You queried- almost certain the gorgeous man at the door was just a hotter, older version of your dad and not actually him. The fuck is wrong with you? You’re getting this worked up over your father? Did college drinking really rewire your brain to be this fucked or is it all of the anxiety meds? Maybe both. Maybe you’re just overwhelmed. Maybe it’s because you rarely saw him and have zero attachment.

“Yeah, it’s me. Your old man. Missed you, kiddo.” There’s a pause for a moment- because you’re not sure why he’s talking so casually as if you see each other every weekend- like it hasn’t been years and years since you’ve seen him.

“Don’t remember me,huh?” He laughs satirically- like you’re supposed to be so sure. It makes you slightly furious and the feeling of anger bubbles up again- replacing any strange thoughts you were having moments ago.

No, my apologies dearest dad. I totally recognize you despite having met you enough times to count on almost two hands.

But the better part of you that managed to exist underneath the scores of problems you had just replied in jest- like someone without said scores of problems. It was best to keep the peace for now.

“You look a little different… sorry.” Is that all you can manage? It’s pitiful the state that your sullied mind is in.

He chuckles, though, like he knows your’re right. The sound is more pleasant and striking when it’s genuine. Makes you feel damp in other areas than just your armpits (thank you, heatwave).

“I suppose there’s truth to that. But It’s alright, sweetheart. I know it’s been a long time. People change, right?” His eyes scan you in an undecided way.

“But you, shit. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman. College treating you well?” His words sound a little huffed then, he’s clearly beating around the bigger issue with a stick. But him calling you beautiful and being all fucking sappy makes your face feel hot and sticky like it’ll melt off. Got you wanting to rip the hair from your scalp to hear him say it again.

“Please?” You called out gently- gesturing to the suitcase and ignoring any other question. You were very much overstimulated- having overexerted muscles in your arms by being a weak bitch about a crammed carry-on. Just get your ass out here and help your daughter, thanks.

He shook his head- again laughing hotly while looking down as he stepped off the porch- his brown bangs were peppered with greys and they brushed his face on one side, his hair somehow pornographic on its own. Christ. He looked like one of those men you saw on Viagra commercials that obviously didn’t actually need it. Even the sight of your perfectly trimmed lawn and faux-looking home completed the scene. Where was the camera?

He walked over to you- there was a slight stiff in his stride; like he had a bad back or something. Maybe he did. Almost dying was the likely cause for that. Serves him right for leaving you with issues on top of issues. Maybe you should stop being mean, you’re the one getting hot over your own father. Again- because of him. Circle back to square one.

Leon towered over your frame as he hinged at the hips, picking up the suitcase with ease- the muscles in his arm flexed with each small movement. His face was a tinge of smug with a mix of something else…satisfaction? Maybe he was just pleased he was able to lift it without rupturing a hernia. Jesus Christ, his veins. You wonder if he has them anywhere else. No- maybe you should be wondering about taking your ass to an inpatient facility immediately. A few screws are loose and you don’t exactly have the tools to tighten them.

“I guess college did treat you well. You’re here in one piece.” He says- cutting you thickly from your thoughts and answering his own question from earlier. His blue eyes are sweet and gently lined with signs of aging. Which only makes him hotter- just like the fiery pits of hell that await you.

You scoff.

“Well, it’s not like I went to war or something.”

“Still. It’s nice to see you, sweetheart.” The word rolls off his tongue again. Your insides are trapezing around in their own miniature, fleshy circus- you’re wishing you could stab yourself in the stomach to stop the swarm of butterflies that don’t even feel metaphorical anymore. You’re sure they’re real now.

He continues, though.

“I know I haven’t been around much in your life- this fucking job and-“ You stare up at him- glossy doe-eyes and stupid look on your face. An apology- or even an explanation from your daddy might be part of what your scrambled brain needs.

“Work kept me away, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you every day. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there for you like I should have been. Shit… What I mean to say, is- things will be different. I’ve retired. Your mother wanted me to tell you over dinner later but I figured you’d be happy to know. I’m not the best at keeping secrets.” He jokes at the end, but how is that true in the slightest? He’s kept his job a secret for your entire life, so he clearly can’t be that horrible at it.

“Oh.” Leaves your lips quietly, ghosting over Leon and leaving him wondering if he said something wrong. But then he realizes it’s probably just overwhelming for you. The worst part of him thinks you hate him. A feeling overcomes you though, and you rush in to wrap your arms around his waist- hugging him tightly. You now wonder why he didn’t hug you to begin with. Maybe he wasn’t an affectionate guy.

He says nothing at first- he’s even more awkward than you are if it’s possible. But he’s trying. He sets down your suitcase before returning your hold. One arm comes around the back of you and the other is overlapped on top- a hand nestling on the back of your head. Seems he’s getting a bit emotional, too. The attention from him is nice, though.

When you make a small grunt as to wanting to end the hug, his hands linger on your shoulders and he smiles at you. You actually return to, not feeling anything horrid become of your thoughts right now. Whether it be anger or incestual lust.

—

Your dad pushes the front door open with one of his large hands encased on the knob. Hands you immediately find attractive, wondering if they’d feel nice scissoring your cunt open. You now begin to understand why your mom was getting suicidal over him possibly not returning home. You’d kill yourself over him too. But that’s too morbid- especially after the moment you just shared.

That’s already lost to you.

He shut the door firmly, sighing, then gestures to the stairs.

You went up first, self conscious about your backside being right in front of his view but he was your dad. Wouldn’t be looking at you that way. You’re just brain-rotted and have an ill opinion of men.

Your old bedroom still looked the same, basically. Just emptier and more hollow without your things. But the walls were still painted a babydoll-pink and lined with the few girlish decorations you left on the wall. No way you would have been caught dead with those in your dorm. Not unless you wanted to endure torment and bullying that’d lead you to jumping off the dormitory roof.

He sets your luggage down and takes a seat on your bed. A groan escapes him as he puts a hand on his lower back for a moment.

“I see this room hasn’t changed much, has it?” he muses, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Your mom and I had a blast putting it together for you when she was pregnant.”

Yikes. You almost feel guilt for both the incestuous thoughts and the fact you may have ruined your parents' marriage. Maybe that’s not true. It was his work- not you. After all, he’s insinuating how happy they were to have you brought into this world. Plus- they were fine. Never argued or anything.

“I’m sorry. I dont- I don’t know what to say.” You laughed awkwardly, throwing your hands slightly up by your side.

His face doesn’t drop, though. It seems he understands perfectly fine.

“It’s okay. We can start from scratch. Not talk about… your room or childhood stuff. I know it’s a sore spot for you, sweetheart.”

Wrong. It’s more like a festering wound with the rusted knife still wedged in it. The knife being Leon and the wound your daddy issues, by the way. And having no attachment to him as a father figure makes the attraction worse. Notably when he calls you any term of endearment. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

What the fuck. Was he sculpted by Satan himself as some kind of hell-on-earth punishment? Is this purgatory? Everything he did now was driving you up the wall like a roach- every movement and small flex showing a vein or bulge of muscle. And his arm hair didn’t help. Fucking Christ- shave it off or something. You don’t know how you’ll be able to stand it.

“Okay…. How does that work?” You cocked your head to the side a little, shifting your weight onto one leg. A nervous habit.

“Well- what do most parents do with their kids? We could go out for dinner, catch a movie, just… hang out. I’d like to spend time with my daughter, you know.”

Okay, so maybe he did care. That’s a start.

“Uh… all three?” You questioned, an eyebrow lifting along with the infliction of your voice towards the end of your sentence. You’re indecisive like your mom.

He smiled, lines and the corners of his mouth pressed. Happy. Something you heard wasn’t common for him, anyways.

“Of course. We can go out tomorrow, honey. Your mom just wants us to all have dinner together when she gets home. She missed you- not as much as I did, I bet.” He does that stupid fucking wink again. It makes you switch emotions and want to throw something at his head. Maybe your lamp. You feel bad, It’s not his fault you’re acting like a mental freak about him. You don’t even bother to fixate on the fact you’ll have to have dinner with your cunt of a mom. Okay, maybe that’s harsh.

“Okay.” You breathe out, looking around your room. Leon takes that as a cue to stand up from your old bed- the thing creaking from his weight and leaving an indent on your comforter.

“It’s a date, then. I’m going to start dinner. As much as I love your mother, she can be…scary.” He says, still rocking that pressed-in-cheek smile and cracking your door closed behind him. By the way, what he really meant was probably ‘bitchy’- not scary. But dad seems too kind to say that. He loves your mom.

You can breathe again without his presence. It was smothering, like you had to overperform. You find yourself rushing to your dresser mirror to check how you looked. Hair looks great, face too- though a little tired from college over-studying and then driving 4 hours home with no break.

You might as well write ‘whore’ on your mirror with lipstick. Or a marker- since that’s a more permanent reminder with the way you’re acting. But part of you wanted to know what he thought of you- how he perceived you. For now though, it doesn’t matter. Had barely been 15 minutes since you arrived. You turn your attention to your suitcase and push it over flat, unzipping it before the teeth give out and some of your things spill from inside.

You had less than a sufficient amount of energy to care about it being broken now- so you just put your things away quickly before plopping onto the bed and indulging your senses with the smell of the floral detergent your mom always used on your sheets.

—

It’s some time later when you’re abruptly awoken by your moms manicured hand shaking you awake by the shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’re sleeping when you could be spending time with your father. He was excited for you to be home.”

‘Way to wake me up.’ You thought. She was always having a stick up her ass about this kind of thing. Or anything, really..

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Besides, we’re going out tomorrow to do a bunch of stuff.” You argue sleepily, sitting up as your back aches with your vision still adjusting. She cuts on the lamp, sizzling your retinas.

Her face perks up but is pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, okay..” silence.

“I’m sorry, honey. It was just a long day at work and I’m just over-the-moon for you two to finally have some daddy-daughter time.”

You wrinkle your face in disgust, but not fully disgust since you were just fawning over your hot dad earlier. Maybe daddy doesn’t sound so bad.

“Ew- mom. He’s just my dad. I’m not five.” She laughs, waving her hand off at you.

“Well anyhow- come down for dinner, will you? He put in a lot of effort to cook something for us.”

You cursed under your breath and straighten out your shirt- hoping she wouldn’t bitch about it being slightly wrinkled from you sleeping in it. You seat yourself at the table- adjacent from your mother sitting at the end. She’s already changed out of her office clothes and sure enough, here comes your daddy dad from the kitchen with utensils.

“Sorry ladies- almost forgot these.” He laughs, placing down everyone’s set before seating himself next to you. Fuck.

“You know- your father has only been home a few months and he’s already shown the extent of his memory loss.” She jokes, giving him a loving yet teasing look that makes you want to vomit. And yet jealousy curls up like a cat in your lap, wanting to be lavished with attention from you. The metaphorical jealousy pounces off your lap as you’re met with your dad’s hand on your denim-clad thigh. It’s an innocent gesture but you want to his hand to go further than just sitting politely.

“She’s right, but I can be useful otherwise.” He’s bantering back with her- and you realize he’s making an innuendo when you look over at his face. But it’s weird that he’s saying it while his digits cradle your thigh so gently.

“Gross.” You take a bite of your food- momentarily shocked that a dad of any sort could make such a pleasant meal, especially when he’s spent such little time doing domestic duties.

“Oh honey- you’re grown. We’re just teasing each other.” Your mom nods to Leon, taking a bite off of her fork. His hand slides off of your thigh and he grabs his whiskey glass to take a proper sip.

Jeez, he drinks that shit like its water. No grimacing. No face was made when he swallowed it. Just a guy thing you suppose.

Dinner drags on- the both of them forcing you to talk about your less-than-thrilling college experience. No mom, no boyfriend. No dad, I’m not failing. No you two, I’m not having unprotected sex- fuck off.

After that eventful meal and conversation where your parents basically eye-fucked each other over dinner, you’re left to clean up the mess while your mom gets ready for bed. She has to leave for work early in the morning- as usual. Guess she’s going to take your dad’s spot for the absent parent now that you’re grown and traumatized full and proper.

Sleep came and went- leaving you to trudge out of bed and do your morning routine. It felt out of place trying to do it back at home- but it was also a sentimental feeling to be doing just that.

Leon is already in the kitchen, shirtless and cooking. Seems impractical, but holy fuck. You’d gorilla glue your eyelids open just to not miss a single second of what you’re seeing. Maybe that wasn’t needed- because you've been staring long enough that your eyes prick with tears. You remind yourself to blink and you seat yourself at the high-top, the stool swiveling slightly when your bottom meets the material.

“Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?” He asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder. His traps are distracting you. You want to chew your fingernails past the nail bed- bite a finger off too. You can’t stand it. For a moment- the way he talks to you- you’re pretending you’re not his daughter. And then a moment later, you’re not being delusional anymore.

“Mhm.” You mumble sleepily- wishing you’d have stayed in bed longer. But piercing morning light, lack of blackout curtains, and the chirping of birds outside made that idea inconceivable. Leon chuckled to himself- turned away from you.

You decide to scroll through your phone for a moment’s time before he slides a plate to you from across the island.

“Breakfast a la Leon.” He says- clearly being silly. Corny as fuck, anyways.

“You’re old.” You snort, setting aside your phone and grabbing a fork to pick at your food until he turns away again. You didn’t enjoy the idea of having a hot, shirtless man watching you eat.

He shakes his head, sitting down next to you at the island.

Christ. Fucking go away. It’s actually enraging now.

You want to scream at him- it’s irrational and crazy- but you do. Screaming at him and being sent away to a ward sounds more appealing than the anxiety crawling up your spine like a horde of fire ants. Potentially- just like the butterflies- they’re real too.

He seems undisturbed as he settles- taking a bite. You do the same- trying to ignore the fact he's so close you can nearly feel his arm hair touching you every second or so. He breaks the silence after a moment.

“So- after this, I’ve got a whole day planned out. Mall, movies, and dinner. Sound good?” You nod, a soft ‘mhm’ reverberating on the roof of your mouth.

He finishes before you and makes his way upstairs- the occasional pain in his back unmistakeable every few steps. And yet he wants to take you to the mall to walk around? You didn’t even know how to feel about a day with your dad. What’s a dad? What’s daddy-daughter bonding? That’s lost to you- well- more like it was never even discovered. Not even Columbus could have ventured out and conquered it.

Since he’s no longer in the room, you hastily eat the rest of your breakfast before you discard the plate and fork into the way-too-elaborate dishwasher your mom had installed (you totally didn’t spend 10 minutes trying to turn it on).

Back in your room, you settle on a simple, totally not underlyingly slutty outfit. Shorts and a crop top. Can never go wrong with that. It’s just soft/core prom enough for an outing with your dad. When you leave your room- Leon is just headed down the stairs. He turns to look at you, his smile is as jovial as it has been since you’ve seen him. For a moment though, you think you catch his eyes landing on your exposed legs- but you know you’re just crazy. You’re the one lusting after him, not the other way around. Your dad isn’t abnormal like you. His head is on correctly- even if it’s been battered and spun on his shoulders throughout the years.

“Ready?” He asks, stopping in place to wait for you. You nod stupidly, breaking from your trance to follow him in a descent down the stairs.

He’s dressed similar to how he was yesterday- jeans and a t-shirt that should be considered indecent. If you were your mom, you’d beg him to wear something that doesn’t highlight every curve and dip of his chest. Hell, if you were your mom, you’d never let him go outside. Too risky. But you’re not your mom. You’re just unusual.

As a perfect man does, he opens the door for you. Then opens the SUV door, allowing you in before shutting it behind. You’re sure you've never met a guy that does that in real life, but maybe it was a ‘you’ problem and not the guy. Who knows.

When he gets in, he cranks the vehicle only for rock music to start playing from the radio- making the corners of his mouth dimple with a pleased look. Really are the simple things for him. As for you, you’re suffocated in a Hellish torment by both his presence and the expensive scent of cologne and leather seats combo.

The ride isn’t long, nor bad. Albeit you two only talk here and there so he can focus on the road- and so you can focus on not dying (he’s not a perfect driver, but not terrible either). Just enough to keep your nerves teetering between a light anxiety attack and full blown panic.

You’re relieved to get there alive. Maybe not. Your thoughts have you thinking suicide may be your only option for now disgusting they are. And it only gets worse when he helps you down from the step up of the SUV- a hand on your exposed waist and the other on your shoulder. It’s harmless. Just a dad being gentlemanly. He was shaped and carved out in that perfect, chivalrous image with only a mallet and hammer. No reason to make it weird.

Inside the mall is a tad busy- the perfect amount to be comforting. You feel a bit more at ease in a public setting since you can now focus on anything but your dad’s chest. As long as he doesn’t require eye contact or talk to you, that is.

He looks around, arms crossed. It’s almost whorish. He has to know his arms look good. Or that his everything looks good. The fuck.

“So…” He cranes his head to the side, bangs brushing over his nose for a moment. The way he looks around makes his Adam’s apple and neck muscles a little more prominent. A perfect, stubbled spot to attack with your lips.

“What do you feel like doing first, kiddo?”

You. Is what you want to say.

He looks back to you, smiling down amused. He seems genuinely happy to be able to take you out. But really- his face is making you nauseous. Obviously not because it’s bad. But because it’s good-bad. Too good it’s bad.

“Uhh… “ you look away from him, scanning the entrance area and looking at any signs. Almost like an escape.

“How about new clothes maybe? Seems like something got ahold to the other half of your pants anyways.” He nudges you with an elbow, gesturing to your shorts with his head.

So he probably did look at your legs earlier. Maybe not in the way you think, though.

You glare at him.

“Seriously?”

Leon puts his hands up in defense. He’s always on the defense in life anyways.

“Joking, joking. You’re…grown.” His forehead lines crease when he raises his brows. You did get rather annoyed at his comment, however.

“I could always buy some even shorter.” You spit sarcastically.

“Yes- because every father wants to walk around with their daughter who has her ass out.” He’s quick to remark, this time he seems grumpier when he talks. Sorta like he’s uncomfortable with the conversation. Or that he’s mad.

“Sorry my legs make you so uncomfortable. I guess I should’ve left them at home.” The back and forth here could go on forever between you two but he catches you off guard.

“Shit- no. It’s not that- ‘s just you’ve got nice legs. Can’t have these…shitheads eying down my little girl. I may be old, but I can fight when I need to.”

You know he meant his words innocently enough, but the fact that he said nice legs has you giddy inside. Same feeling when your crush calls you pretty. Yeah- that sorta feeling. And his little girl. It has a ring to it. Could even legally change your name to it so that he can call you by it more often. Maybe he’ll even let you jump on his dick right away.

Your face is pure rose-shaded. A perfect, neutral shade to make your embarrassment pop on your skin. You’re sure it’s visible to him, too. Your mom always teased you about how blotchy it would get when you were humiliated. Particularly when she would tell awkward stories about you at family dinners. Bitch.

“What’s wrong? Don’t be pissed at me, sweetheart. I was just teasin-“

“It’s not that.” You interrupt- heart thumping into your rib cage. If it doesn’t stop, or you don’t stop your word-vomit, it might crack a rib or four. Probably more. Better have hospital bill and therapy money ready, dad.

“Then what’s the matter? I just want us to have a good time together. I’m not trying to upset y-“

“You said I have nice legs.” You’re quick to cut him off again.

“And…?” He trails off, cocking his head to the side like he’s confused. Because he is confused. You stare off to the side- eyes glued to the fountain. Maybe you could go drown yourself in the penny-flavored water that you guarantee hasn’t been changed out since you were still the unlucky sperm in your dad’s ball-sack.

“I like that. You saying that.” You speak a little lower now- afraid someone will hear. Or because the tinnitus is so loud in your ears. What you’re getting at is almost clear now. Or at least clear enough.

Leon’s expression is taken aback but still confused to an extent because he’s not even certain what you’re saying. Though, he has an idea.

“Oh- uh. Okay. Sweethea-“

“Holy fuck- stop calling me that. You’re not making this easy. Wanting to fuck you. I know- I sound mental.” You spill it out, guts on the floor and the sword still in hand. Holy shit. Just told your dad you want to fuck him. You could have backtracked- fucking dumbass. You won’t be shocked if he packs his bags and leaves off again tomorrow.

He’s silent for a moment.

“Okay- clearly I wasn’t around enough. I get that. But I mean- fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair, looking around. Probably thinking the same thing about the fountain that you did. Still- he looked hot while having a crisis and contemplating immediate suicide. He paces while your nerves are being electrocuted in your body. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

“Just- sweetheart, no. None of that’s.. I can’t.” He starts, turning back to you. It seems he can look you in the eyes now. So maybe he’s not entirely disgusted by you. His face isn’t contorted with disgust, so there’s a chance. Yeah, you’re off your rocker now. You know.

“Look- let’s not talk about this. C’mon. Let’s go catch a movie like I promised.” He starts walking- leaving you standing in a puddle of shame and embarrassment for a moment before stopping to let you catch up.

Luckily- the theater is joined to the mall. It’ll be a short walk.

—

Leon is lax on the couch until he hears the crunchy sound of tires on concrete. You’re home. Despite his shitty back, he's huffing as he gets up fast and is already opening the door. The air is hot as it greets his skin and he watches you struggle with your suitcase through the heat-haze that spans over the distance.

He calls out to you- making your head snap in his direction. Your face is that of awe and confusion. You don’t seem to immediately recognize him- okay. He gets it. It’s been a while. Nevertheless, you’re beautiful. He’d seen pictures of you from your mother, but he’s in awe just as you are. Though, he doesn’t think that highly of himself so he often wonders if you’re even his kid. Couldn’t have made something that perfect, in his mind. He helps you with your bag and follows you to your room. But your demeanor around him is noticeably mousey. At first, it doesn't seem like much. You’re just getting used to him.

Plus, Leon knows he can come off intimidating. Sometimes. But for him, he’s got a good eye and his job has led him to being able to read even the tiniest bits of body language. Doesn’t take him long to see how you’re worming around shyly- subconsciously smoothing your hair down and biting at your lip. Same way your mom acted around him before they started dating. But again- maybe it’s just in his head. Leon’s been wrong a time or two.

A better man would have left it alone. Leon gets that. But an innocent thigh squeeze at dinner can help him test his theory. A thigh squeeze that’s under the guise of friendly, fatherly touch. You tense- he can hear your small, sucked in breaths as long as his hand is there, along with heat radiating off your body like a wildfire. If wildfires could be horny college-aged daughters with daddy issues, that is.

The idea disgusts him. Because he should feel disgusted and just kill himself. Where did these thoughts come from? He even has the urge to let his hand wander other places. Bets that you have a cute pussy. No matter what it does or doesn’t look like, it’s yours and he knows it's cute. He’d give you two thick digits in your hole (three if you allow him) and have his tongue kitten-lick your clit.

“There we go. Good girl.” Is what he envisions saying before diving back in for a mouth full of you. Girls like you love being praised. Especially by their estranged father-figure or a middle aged man. It’s all the same. He’d pry the daddy issues right out of you with his dick. It’s long and fat enough, and solves all of his matters properly. Your mom is in a bad mood? His dick will fix that. He can’t sleep? His dick will fix that. His daughter is a horny freak and begging for it? His dick will fix that, too- obviously.

It’s only when your mom makes some stupid fucking joke about his memory loss that he snaps back into reality and he loses the momentum he had going for an erection. Which is good. Maybe thinking about fucking your mom will make him normal again. So he drops a quip right back- something about… being useful. Yeah. Again, his cock is useful. Your mom bites at his words, but you’re annoyed and disgusted with his comment- especially with his hand on you while he says it.

Trust me, baby. Much rather be splitting you open than having performative, mandatory spousal sex. It’s like a switch flipped. He’s not interested in your mom. Should’ve had that realization years ago, even. Technically he did. He’s just now saying it in his head finally. Mostly he was exhausted because she had nothing to do with Leon even when he was home (unless it was for dick). Too bad he was a golden retriever following after her every step like a good doggy. Marriage did that to a guy. He just did what he was supposed to. Kept the lights on, blew out her back occasionally, listened to her complain, and took care of the lawn when he could. Easy enough. That’s what men do, right? He doesn’t really know what being a man is, honestly. Thanks, Major Krauser. Anyhow- he chokes down his food with a smile. The need to upchuck after everything he just thought up is a given.

He takes the liberty to fuck your mom later that night as promised per (faux) flirting over dinner. He has her face down-ass up, though. For… imagination’s sake. At least fucking a pussy and imagining you is better than his hand and imagining you. Or so he tells himself. Call it killing two birds with one stone, satisfying your mom and quelling his own desires. And it’s not hard to imagine any of it, because you look so much like your mother. He lies awake for a short while after- contemplating his existence and fucked up thoughts. He’s still holding back vomit and the urge to grab his gun from the nightstand and off himself all over the wallpaper, while in the process, traumatizing your mom. After an hour of this- he figures it’s fine, men think of perverted or weird shit sometimes. Jerk off to weird shit too. He hasn’t technically done anything morally wrong… sort of. It’s denial. At least he’s good at playing the part of a genuine, loving father. Because he is! He loves his family. Always has!

Spending time with you would make you happy, him happy, your mom happy. He loves you dearly. All is great. He’s swearing that his brain won’t be smoothied in his skull by tomorrow. It’ll be normal and function rationally.

But Leon wakes up with the thoughts being real as ever while he stretches an arm out to feel around for your mother- bed empty since she leaves at the ass crack of dawn. Leon had just missed her leave, he’s still getting used to sleeping in ever since he retired.

He gets up and heads downstairs- immediately starting breakfast to take his mind off his…mind. Breakfast is his favorite meal of the day, it makes him feel better to indulge in it right now. Though, he doesn’t bother putting a shirt on at any point- just rocking those generic, green and blue tartan patterned pajama pants. Cooking shirtless is weird- but he’s hungry and part of him wonders if he’ll get to see your priceless face when you walk into the kitchen. He shakes his head- telling himself that he just had this talk with himself last night. None of that shit.

He was right about one thing. God, he could make a killing in betting. He sees your reflection behind him in the small window above the counter but you didn’t know that. Just stood, gawking. It’s okay. He’s observative, you’re not. You’re his dumb little girl. Dumb in the way you shift in your stool next to him when he sits down, dumb how you hold your breath when he’s near, dumb how you can’t even eat next to him, and dumb how your thighs seem to wriggle when his arm ‘accidentally’ brushes yours. Oh, he’s definitely not wrong.

Still- he knows when to back off. He hounds down his food, before you even make a dent in your plate, and heads upstairs to shower. He’s analyzing every detail of himself, contemplating how he can get under your skin the most- his knuckles gripping the sink with distaste for himself. Because it’s wrong. He’s acting like a teenager. This is a date with his daughter, not his highschool girlfriend.

Leon skips over shaving his face. Likes to keep it a little grown out but not too much so. Just in case he gets the chance to eat (your) pussy or kiss (your) a neck. Then comes the Dior ‘Sauvage’ body wash he never failed to keep with him. He takes pride in smelling good if anything. And this particularly expensive wash, plus the cologne, was his lifeline for that. When he traveled for work- the D.S.O. better have god damned had some sent to his room as courtesy. Ever since Raccoon City- he’s adamant about not smelling less than great. He swears he can still smell the sewer on himself sometimes, even if it’s not really there.

His hair routine was even more extensive and involved a weekly hair mask. Hey- it wasn’t wrong for a guy to have nice hair. It paid off.

Heat protectant, blow dry, hot-comb to get any cow licks or fly-aways he might have- though it’s unlikely- and a little spritz of biotin spray to keep it healthy and shiny. All of that in reasonable time, too. And no- it's not weird for him to spend longer on his hair than your mom does.

Besides, you seem to appreciate the way he looks when you come out of your bedroom- watching him descend the stairs. Leon looks back at you- eyes on your legs momentarily then coming back up. He knows it was a quick look- quick enough to make you question it. You do. Very much. Still, taking you out in public wearing those shorts is less than ideal for him, but he’s the one who needs to be watched closely. Aforementioned, Leon’s great at pretending. Pretending to be normal. Pretending to not have ulterior motives. Pretending to not want your legs on his shoulders as he-

“All ready?” He interrupts himself here. Can’t let his thoughts keep going too far. Even if he does want to rest a hand on your leg while he drives. Or veer off the road and into a tree so that he can’t continue to be disgusting. He’d die with the image of being a good, wholesome dad in everyone’s mind. And if you did or didn’t die too, at least you would have died not having been fucked silly by your old man. He manages to not kill you both, though. He wasn’t planning to- his driving is just ass. He knows whiskey with his breakfast isn’t ideal but when you’re a recovering alcoholic plus post traumatic stressed failure of a father, it helps.

Can’t complain though since he gets to put his hands on you while helping you out of the vehicle.

Now you’re both in the mall- Leon questioning what exactly he’s supposed to do now. He hasn’t been to one since… he doesn’t have enough fingers for that. But you’re seemingly calm. Until he makes a stupid joke about your shorts. Sure. As much as he’s thinking about ripping a hole in the crotch to fuck you cause he’s impatient and stupid- he said it out of genuine concern.

He still has fatherly instinct. Some sick bastard could get a glimpse of your exposed legs and go jerk off to it or take a photo. Ironic coming from him right now. The call is coming from inside the house but the dad is too busy fiending after his own daughter to answer.

You’re royally pissed. He knows it. Women don’t like having it insinuated that they’re dressed like a whore. Big whoop, though. Someone has to say it. Then you blindside him. Big, needy eyes and saying you like it when he tells you your legs are nice. Then something about how you want to fuck him. Christ. What the fuck. He’s not sure if this is some kind of screwy set-up or you’re actually just so slutty that the only dick you’ll accept is your dad’s. He’s rocking a semi now. Would be a full hard-on if he weren’t in public but his head spins cause all the blood went to his loins too fast.

Leon doesn’t accept the advances yet. Not now, anyways. He’s mortified. He really thought he had himself going in delusion about how you were behaving- but he was actually right. And now being confronted with it… he’s fucking scared - that’s for sure. Hmm. Be a morally acceptable human or fuck your needy, whore daughter silly? He shakes his head and lets out an exhale.

That question needs some thought. No, it doesn’t. He knows better than to do any of that shit, right? He takes a moment to start walking while you follow along shamefully- the two of you headed to the theater. A movie is perfect. Don’t have to talk or anything. No interacting, really. But how the fuck is he just going to forget what you said? Sure, he’s been having questionable thoughts but they’re just thoughts. Your words, however, spoke it into existence. Like a fucked up, frankenstein’s monster of father-daughter reality.

Don’t mind us, everyone. Daughter’s got it real bad for me but I’m just going to take her to the movies and pretend it’s normal. Reality was distorted for him ever since the existence of zombies and BOWs anyway.

He lets you pick the movie- telling the attendant that he needs two tickets. It’s a horror movie. Of course. Something to trigger his PTSD, maybe. Then he could say anything he did after that was just accidental. A mental slip. He goes to fork over the $60 for tickets and popcorn- god, when did shit get so expensive? As he’s pulling out the cash, he sees you give him a look like you want to say something. His mind is racing looking at you- it makes him nervous.

“Uh.. what about candy?” You ask, looking away from him and at the display.

“What? Sour worms?” He questions you, laughing. Not in a mean way- but because it’s your favorite. So insignificant but he remembers. You were still a kid when he and your mom took you to see some milked out children’s movie that was a part of an entirely too long series. He bought you two boxes of sour worms then. You were a weird kid, though. The worms were split into two colors, and you’d always bite them down the middle and make him eat the side you didn’t like. But he’d do it. Gladly.

You nod, a little befuddled that he’d remember something like that. Cute. Too bad your weird ass just told him you wanted to fuck him about 15 minutes ago. So not entirely a cute moment.

“Oh- and two boxes of Sour Worms, please.” He adds, now pulling out a little more cash.

You both respectively grab your own drinks- Leon with popcorn in tow and you, your worms and cherry soda. His hands are full but he manages to flash the movie ticket between his index and middle finger to the usher, who then ripped it in half and pointed to the left end of the hallway.

You both don’t say anything, but you immediately race to the very top row like a child once inside the screening. Leon swears under his breath as he follows you like a geriatric snail. If a snail could have lumbar issues. He’s able to make it up the stairs to you quite some time after and takes the seat next to you that’s closest to the aisle. Safety and all that jazz.

Previews are already playing so it gives him peace of mind to not address the awkwardness between the two of you. Your soda is in the cup holder that’s separating you both, but you lean over to take a sip, cheeks hollowed out while you drink. Of course Leon looks over, fuck.

Pretty little lips wrapped around the straw until you pull off of it with a satisfied sigh. Cause you were thirsty from anxiety- like someone shoved gauze and cotton into your mouth.

He shifts in his seat and looks back at the screen. He doesn’t even know if you’re doing it on purpose. You’re not, however. He’s just a perverted dickhead.

Time passes and not a single soul has come into this screening. It’s Monday at 11am, after all. Who the hell would come watch a horror movie at this time? No one except two fucking weirdos. It’s making Leon’s nails dig into the armrest with the other set scratching at his jeans.

The movie doesn’t start off bad, to Leon’s shock. He’s actually enjoying it and you seem just as entranced, pulling open the box of Sour Worms without looking down. You do wind up looking down, however, to bite one in half because it just so happened to be a blue and orange combo, and you hated the orange side.

“Here.” Leon turns to look at you- your eyes coming up to meet his blue ones that are oddly blue enough to the point that any light from the screen makes them pop. Pretty.

“The orange half. I know you don’t like them.” His voice is husky and low since the speakers are blaring some generic string-quartet horror piece. He nods down to the half chewed candy in your palm.

You pinch it between your fingers, bringing it to his mouth as your cunt throbs. He was expecting you to hand it to him, but the way you confidentially yet instinctively brought it to his lips isn’t entirely unwelcome. The emptiness of the theater makes it that way. Allows room for incest of whatever. He opens his mouth for you, and you go to place the sour treat on his tongue. His lips gently close around it, before he grabs your wrist to hold your arm in place. A hold gentle enough to tell you that if you want to snatch your hand away- feel free to do so. But you don’t. And you won’t. He knows.

Candy in cheek, he brings your fingers to his lips and nurses your knuckles with a kiss before puppeteering your hand with his larger one, working each digit so that he can equally suck each one clean. You’re amazed, aroused, and alarmed all at the same time. Amazed because he looks so gorgeous sucking on your fingers. Aroused for the obvious reason. Alarmed because duh, he’s your father and things can only go further from here.

Leon places your hand back onto the arm rest between you, chewing the halved sour worm now. As if he didn’t just give you the most visually appealing form of sexual affection in the history of womankind. The dryness of your mouth returns and you take another sip of your Cherry soda. Maybe you can drown yourself in it. No, stupid. That’s what the public bathroom toilets are for.

Right before you set the plastic cup into the cupholder again, Leon speaks.

“Ah, ah. Put it over there.” You don’t even hesitate to listen. Record timing for you doing anything. You don’t even know why you followed his instructions so quick.

“Good girl.” His words send lightning of excitement down your nerves and straight to your clit as he pushes the armrest between you upwards and out of the way. Because that’s a thing, for some reason. It’s like theaters want people to fuck, give head, and spread their diseases everywhere. And why does he know they move? You don’t even want to question it. Maybe he’s just a knowledgeable guy.

“Come here, honey. Let daddy kiss that pretty mouth.” Fucking Christ. This can’t be real. Doesn’t matter, ‘cause again, there’s zero hesitation on your part. Leon likes that. A woman that can follow orders. He’s so used to taking them, not giving them. And your mom isn’t one to listen to other people. Either way, if this goes south, Leon can always just off himself. He wasn’t around much so what difference would it make if he was permanently gone? The reassurance of being able to log out forever gives him courage here. It’s rational.

You scoot over since you’re free from any barriers or restrictions, and he puts an arm over you. You swear you almost hear your skin sizzle from the contact. You’re not a witch- and as far as you know, he’s not water. Even if he gets you wet. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and swipe a thumb over your bottom lip- teasing you.

“D-dad.” You stutter a protest- cringing that you sounded the way you did just now. Maybe you shouldn’t be embarrassed ‘cause he’s your dad- but you are embarrassed ‘cause he’s hot. You can’t even figure out why you wanna back out suddenly. Probably because the idea was better than betraying your mom and knowing yourself as someone who fucks their dad. Anywho- didn’t he say something about kissing you? Cause he’s not even doing as promised.

Your dad leans in, his free hand is now on your neck and angling it just to show you how easy he can manhandle your body. He plants a kiss on your earlobe before saying anything.

“What’s wrong, baby? Can’t go giving daddy blue-balls now. It’s not polite to start things you don’t wanna finish.”

Leon’s words simultaneously gross you out and turn you on in a self-deprecating, disgusting kind of way. Not to mention he’s literally contradicting himself since he would gladly eat the half of the sour worms you didn’t want to finish- therefore entirely enabling you to start things you couldn’t finish. Hm. That must explain a large portion of your life, then. And besides all do that, doesn’t the know blue-balls is some kinda stupid myth or whatever?

His thumb falls down your lip and traces your jawline with intentional slowness while his eyes look over your face appreciatively- but it also seems as if he’s looking for or at something specific.

You get the courage to speak, air sucked fully into your lungs.

“Sorry, daddy.” The fuck is wrong with you? You could have said anything but that. It’ll only spur him on. But you want that, obviously.

He smirks, lips pressed together as the corners of his mouth do that same, pitted thing they do that you like so much. Must go hand in hand with how his chin is also dimpled. It’s sexy. But little do you know, it’s one of the reasons he keeps his stubble. Doesn’t feel like having his butt chin on display to the world- even if every woman that’s ever laid eye on him sees it and wants it buried in their cunt.

“That’s my girl. Didn’t even have to be around much to teach you that, did I?” Leon queries, grabbing your chin to crane your head just so that he can plant his lips onto your neck. His other hand is on your knee, unmoving. You want it to move, though. God- you’re sure whatever higher power is in the great sky is throwing up right now, moments away from pressing the reset button. The same higher power will make a new rule on humanity.

No free will and absolutely no incest. Yeah. Probably should have written that into the books ages ago, one fears.

You fidget as he kisses your neck, stubble scratching your epidermis yet tickling all the same.

“Not gonna answer me, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your throat, the neck kiss he gives it uses a bit of tongue- making your body jolt. “I know your mother taught you manners.”’

You mumble something pathetically apologetic, hands gripping the fabric over his shoulders. Hopefully your mom won’t notice his shirt being stretched out there- cause she notices everything.

“N-no, daddy. I knew it on my own.” You huff, that hand you wanted him to move is slowly doing so- fingers dragging along your inner thigh as if everything he’s doing to you is purposefully meant to be some kind of forewarning. But for what, exactly?

“Such a smart girl. Get that from daddy, you know it?” Ok, cocky…

Leon kisses his way back up your neck, jawbone, and then your cheek. It’s sweet- if being lavished with saccharine, sexual and inappropriate attention from your dad could be sweet.

You nod, feeling his grip loosen from your chin and now sliding up the back of your neck to tangle in your hair, threading it. He’s slow and deliberate- part of you wishes he’d not give you time to think about your actions. Not that you can really think anyways. Your heartbeat is muddled in your ears and the movie is still rumbling through the speakers while someone gets murdered on screen. Lucky them.

The hand on your thigh presses firmer into the skin just below the edge of your shorts, a silent telling for you to keep your attention on him.

“Sorry baby, daddy got distracted. Just so pretty.” He must be able to tell you’re impatient because he kisses your cheek (with an oddly dark undertone to it) before slimming the distance between your lips. He pauses right when they touch and you’re breathing in the taste-turned-scent of the sour worm you fed him earlier. Sugar and that weird orange flavor that is only specific to orange candy. You’re obviously not a fan, but it suits him.

You don’t get any time left to process before it’s a full on kiss- well, make out, actually. It’s slow. You can’t recall being kissed like this, ever. Normally it’s straight to tongue with guys, and not in, like, the good way. The ‘having an eel invading your oral cavity’ kind of way. Eugh.

But your dad’s tongue does brush yours, tastefully. You can actually feel the texture and it’s easy to tell there’s an erection fueling his actions- but not so much so that it takes over the whole kiss.

He uses your hair to pull you closer, teeth clashing momentarily. Not exactly the best feeling but everything else envelops your senses to the point that it’s only a flash of a moment. Your thigh is neglected by his touch, hand moving up and around onto your backside. He gives a squeeze to the fat of your ass and groans against your mouth before pulling you into his lap- legs folded on either side of his thighs.

You break the kiss, looking over your shoulder and to where the entrance is- the exit sign casting a nearby glow that gives you anxiety..

“Can’t- we’ll get caught.” You pant, that weird feeling that’s the grotesque love child of nervousness and excitement is swimming in your gut like a parasite before settling. The severity and realness of the situation sinks in.

Leon laughs low and mean, retracting his hand from your hair and moving to run it through the top of your scalp to push it back. He juts his hips upwards to prod his denimed erection into the cunt of your shorts. You mewl quietly, or maybe it was loud. The movie is just too deafening to distinguish which.

“Suppose you’re right, baby.” He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, leaning in to give you a light peck on the lips. “Told you you’re a smart girl, didn’t I? Can’t let me go around thinking with my dick, huh?”

His hand pats your thigh as if to tell you to get off.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Up.” He commands you with a huffed voice- not because he’s annoyed but because he’s a middle-aged man. Moving is hard. You ignominiously climb off of his lap, putting your bottom back onto the seat next to him. He’s looking at you, meandering a hand back onto your thigh just to rest in place.

You stare at the screen- but you can’t even register it because you’re too disassociated from what just happened. You almost want to beg him to fuck you right here- plead for forgiveness that you suggested stopping in the first place. And you can still taste that damned orange sour worm in your mouth.

Leon behaves, though. He’s good about that. Respectful. In the way of consent- not in the way of not tongue fucking his daughter in a public space. When the movie ends, he gestures for you to stand and you walk past him, carrying your empty cup and boxes of sour worms while the uncomfortable feeling of your slick clinging the gusset of your panties to your cunt. You look back at your father, the sight of him in the palely lit theater is a bit intimidating. He’s adjusting his pants for obvious reasons. You look away quickly and keep walking- a giddy feeling of satisfaction overcoming you. Shortly enough, you’re both back in the main area of the mall. You brush your shirt out and fix your hair- the thought occurs to you that maybe you look a little mussed and should have straightened up sooner.

But the daylight beaming through the sky roof brings you back to your senses.

“Hmm. What does my sweet girl want to get up to now?” Leon asks, intersecting his arms as he looks over you.

You think, mind fizzling as it short circuits. You almost smell smoke emanating from your head, too. How can you look him in the face right now?

“Uhh..” You really don’t know what to say. What can you focus on doing after everything that’s happened today?

“How about this? We can go home a little early and I’ll cook something up for lunch. The drive will give us time to work up an appetite.” He says, nonchalant. Right back to his same fatherly tone from earlier today instead of the ‘I want to split you open with my dick’ tone he had moments ago. Maybe he’s just being sweet and you’re overthinking.

You’re befuddled that he’s not saying anything else about… that. How can he so easily go from publicly groping you to acting cheery and normal? It’s frustrating. Disturbing even. Leon can see the disappointment on your face- but you don’t know that. You assume it’s well hidden, just like the fact you kissed your own father. He thinks it’s cute though. You’re just cock dumb for him. On the other hand, this whole situation is something he has to deal with.

“Got it.” You manage to say, walking a little faster than he does. This is the second time you’ve walked off from your dad, and it does irritate him because he can’t keep up like he used to. Displaced disc in his spine or whatever. Plus, he thinks you’re pissed. Which is worrying. Should have known better than to mess around with his own daughter, he supposes.

The drive back is silent and less terrifying than the previous, part of you thankful. Maybe he was only a bad driver in the morning. Unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe it was the fact that he drank whiskey with his breakfast. Hm. ‘Responsible’ in hindsight.

It’s still early in the afternoon when you arrive back home. The concrete is sizzling from the heat and the sun beats down way too uncomfortably for even a walk from the driveway to the front door.

Leon side-steps you to unlock the house before he urges you in. He may be morally reprehensible but he still didn’t want to let any cool air out- AC’s expensive. You plop down on the couch and he locks the door, walking past you and straight to the kitchen.

The tension is thick for you- but for Leon- not at all. You watch him disappear through the doorway as he goes to prep food. Why is it so hard to read his emotions? He’s like a fucking light switch. You’re annoyed- leaning back on the couch, until he calls for you. You’re quick to get up, scrambling into the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetheart. Mind giving me a hand?”

“Yeah. What is it?” You faintly cock your head to the side.

Leon looks to the side- directly at you. You’re cute when you’re confused. He can tell that all you’re thinking about is continuing where you two left off earlier. Shit, you’re no better than your mother. ‘S just that you’re not crabby and sour all the time like she is.

“Can you grab the saucepan from the bottom cabinet. Your old dad can’t exactly bend over too well.” He laughs- shaking his head. Yes, dad. I get it. I know you have a bad back.

You walk over to the cabinet where he’s leaned onto one hand which is rested on the marbled countertop. You feel a bit apprehensive to be close to him again. Mostly because you don’t trust yourself to not jump his bones, but Leon’s already ahead of you. As soon as you bend over, he pulls you back by the hips so that your ass is flush with his groin.

You’re taken aback but definitely not surprised. He’s a dirty old man, as you’ve learned.

“Gonna let daddy fuck this pussy now, or are you getting flaky on me?” He coos against your ear while he runs his hands up your sides and down again- creeping his hands to your front and over the buttons of your shorts- unhooking them through the slits.

“Yes.. want it.” You breathe in quick- the word coming out on its own. If god could hear you right now, he’d set your house ablaze with lightning.

“Need you to loosen up if I’m going to. You’re way too stiff.” Your shorts are the opposite of you, loose and unfastened fully so they fall to your ankles, and Leon nudges your feet apart with his boot. You realize he’s got a point as you feel his calloused hand glide down your hip and yank you in place. The other hand is spreading your pussy lips apart before finding that fleshy bud between them. A moan rumbles in your throat as your legs almost give out below you. He mutters a curse under his breath, and you realize his cock is now out while he rubs up against your ass- getting off on not only playing with your pussy but from dry humping you.

“Fucking christ. Got the prettiest ass, baby. Think daddy needs to see it bouncing on his cock.” You can practically feel that stupid, smug look as he grabs his dick- slapping it on your ass. It makes you cringe a little, but maybe you should be cringing at the fact your dad is the one doing it. You figure it’s just something he saw in porn, so it doesn’t leave your expectations high at the moment. Great. Leon adjusted himself back into his pants, for now.

His finger continues circling that bundle of nerves, your legs shaky as you’re being pressed into the counter, a hand is on your lower back to keep you down so he can do what he wants. You sound stupid- tears welling in your eyes as you babble nonsensically about wanting to cum. He moves his hand off of your back and sinks to his knees to be face level with you (even if it makes his back hurt a little), sliding his fingers up your inner thigh until there’s a digit prodding your hole, slowly pushing in.

He watches your cunt swallow his finger, barely able to fit it inside.

“Fucking shit, baby. Gonna have to stretch this pussy out if I want my cock in you, huh? Think you can let daddy do that?” He asks, breathy and sounding like he’s trying not to bust all over himself.

You eagerly shake your head.

“Yes, daddy. Need you to get me loose.” The words spill like a hot cup of tea from your lips, scalding Leon with desire.

“God damned. Such a polite fucking girl I’ve got. Might have to eat your mother out later to thank her for making you so respectful.”

You scrunch your face in disgust.

“That’s fucking gross.” You moan, Leon slipping a second finger into you, which should technically feel like four with how worn and big his hands are.

He tuts, planting a kiss to your asscheek.

“Now, didn’t daddy just compliment you? Could be a bit more grateful since he’s trying to make you cum” He grits, sounding a bit (terrifyingly) stern.

You apologize again.

“Sorry, daddy. Just don’t wanna hear about you and mom. Makes me jealous.” You admit, briefly thinking about their dinner conversation last night. Then about how fucking weird you are. You’re really hoping you get the courage to bash your head on the marble countertop and get amnesia.

Leon laughs, but in a way that makes you think he’s amused more than actually laughing.

“God. Want me to stop fucking my own wife just ‘cause you’ve got a needy pussy?” A third finger slips in, making an almost unbearable stretch as you feel a slight ache, but the previous two fingers already did enough work that it’s not completely unbearable.

“Maybe you’re not that grateful. Giving you three fingers here and she’s still too tight.” He twists his hand, letting the inside of you feel every inch of his knuckles and calluses. Your knuckles, however, are ghost-white as you grip at nothing.

“Maybe your fingers are just too small.” You say- mostly from built up tension and annoyance that you didn’t get to let out yet. But you regret the words.

He’s silent- which scares you. He pulls his fingers out of you- the stark contrast in emptiness is clear and the cool air stings you.

Leon groans as he stands up, kicking off his boots before yanking you by the arms to stand straight. He leans into your ear.

“C’mon. You’re gonna come sit on daddy’s dick, since you’re too fucking picky.” Goosebumps form all over you as he leads you to the couch. Leon leaves you standing there so he can get comfortable and discard his clothing, lying back with his hands behind his head. You make a mental note of how his biceps look with his arms bent in this position, even if you kinda feel like it’s lazy. But holy fuck, his toned stomach is perfect- sprinkled with a happy trail that will definitely lead you somewhere that will make you happy. Speaking of, his dick is nice. Fat. Not sure how big it is since you have not much to compare to, but you’d imagine taking it would be a bit of a proper challenge.

You step a little closer- crawling awkwardly over his lap- ass faced towards him so that you settle on his waist. It’s hard not to feel self conscious about your backside in this position, even considering the fact that he was just fingering you from the back moments ago. You’re mostly just upset you can’t gawk at his tits or stomach.

You grab him by the base, shifting yourself to hover directly over him, letting the tip graze your wet hole before slowly sinking down- a drawn out moan escaping you.

“Fuckkk. That’s it. Sit down on it. Take all of daddy.” You glance over your shoulder as you bottom him out; his eyes are half-lidded. Well, at least he’s got a pretty face while you’re fucking him. You almost failed to realize his hands moved from behind his head to your ass- gliding up your back and down again.

You take a moment to adjust, breathing shakily ‘cause his dick is so fat you think you might die. Or maybe you’re having a heart attack at your ripe age.

“Didn’t tell you to take any breaks, did I baby?” You’re annoyed at his pushiness, but you did have a bit of a sour attitude earlier. So you can only blame yourself.

You’re not sure how to entirely do this, but you move yourself up and down. Not at a fast pace, yet. Just that savoring your dad’s dick seems like a reasonable ordeal.

He doesn’t shut up, though. You’re learning just how much he likes to talk- as if he just wants to hear himself. Is he even getting off on you or the sound of his own voice? It makes you roll your eyes even if you do like hearing him say dirty shit.

"That’s my girl. So fucking good. Ride it nice and slow... Work that sweet pussy on daddy's cock.” You just might fall over dead hearing him say any of it- it’s disgusting but sweet Jesus are you eating it up. He must know it too because of how you clench around him involuntarily when he talks like that.

“You like when daddy praises you? Yeah, you love me telling you how good you are.” His words are husky and yet pleased with the previous tidbit of information.

“See how nice I am? Letting you sit on my cock after you made me wait earlier. Wasn’t very nice of you, now was it, baby?” His words have an underlyingly mocking tone, but you’d do anything to make him change it.

“No, daddy. Was really mean of me.” You whine pitifully, bouncing yourself on his dick like it’s your major in college and you’re trying to pass with flying colors.

“I know, baby. But daddy forgives you.” He murmurs, sitting up with you still on top of him. He’s flush against your back now- reaching in front of you to make those same tight circles on your clit. You both exchange your pitchy moans and his grunting and groaning- working up to a good point in both of your impending orgasms.

“Gonna cum in this pussy, got it? Daddy doesn’t like to pull out.”

You scramble a bit, squirming on his lap.

“Fuck, dad! You can’t do that!” You whine as his other arm holds you onto him- wrapped around your stomach. Your nails dig into his forearms, hopefully not leaving noticeable scratches.

“I think I can, baby. You’re squeezing me at the idea- I’m not fucking stupid.” He’s quick to be mean again, but you’d be a liar to say you’d don’t want him to cum in you. And you’re not a liar, that’s just deplorable- coming from someone who is literally fucking their dad with enough energy to power a small village for a month. And yet, you don’t stop riding him.

And your silence tells it all.

“Yeah- my baby wants a nice creampie.” He sounds more strained now, letting go of his hold on your stomach and using his hand to now guide you to roll your hips on him.

Sweat beads down Leon’s forehead, bangs sticking to his face as he watches your ass grinding against his lap.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that. I’m gonna cream this tight fucking pussy. Want that, don’t you? ‘Cause daddy’s gonna give it to you whether you want it or not.”

You should be a little more upset or concerned in any regard right now, but the last two days have made you into a proper whore to the point that you don’t even give a shit. Self respect crawled itself into a space shuttle and launched off of the planet, probably to never be seen again. Stuck in orbit, if you will.

You’re sucked out of the motions when Leon speaks again.

“Stop, stop.” He pats your bottom.

“Turn around, baby. I wanna see your face. Wanna kiss those lips while you’re on my dick.” Your stomach flutters with nervousness and a sickly sweet feeling. You lifted yourself from him with a trail of arousal to follow and maneuvered to turn around- this time he was holding his cock ready for you. Moments went by of you staring, getting a proper look of him since everything had been a quick blur so far.

“Come on, baby. Need you to mount daddy’s cock again. Told you I wanted to kiss you, didn’t I?” He exhaled, sounding a bit pent up. Jeez- seconds without pussy and he’s getting upset. Maybe he needs a therapist and anger management, not his college-aged daughter spearing herself on him.

You replied, yes, daddy. Sorry, daddy. Didn’t mean to make you wait, daddy.

You dropped yourself down onto him once more- only this time it was easier since you were able to get accustomed to his dick.

“Start moving sweetheart, make daddy cum.” He instructed, leaning in to take you in a kiss. It was more dirty than the last kiss, somehow. His tongue slipped between your lips- Leon lifted you with his hands on your waist before jutting his hips up to slam his cock snugly into your heat, groaning against your mouth delightfully.

His teeth nipped your lower lip- giving you a little further taste of just what kind of lover he is. Or maybe this is just the version you get. Either way, you can’t complain in any area. You feel lucky to receive even a sliver of it.

The familiar roughness of his thumb returns to your already throbbing bud- circling at the same pace he’s now moving at. Despite his age, he seems awfully enthusiastic to do strenuous work involving his hips. Bad back, my ass. Or maybe he’s able to put that on the back burner to please you. Probably worried if he doesn’t give you good dick then you’ll go tattle on him.

Leon didn’t break the kiss whatsoever while he pounded into you ruthlessly, he swallowed up every moan and noise you made like it was alcohol. ‘Cause that was his favorite, obviously.

When he pulled his mouth off of yours, a trail of saliva lingered- stretching out while you giggled on top of him. Something about you laughing almost made him nut immediately, but he held out just to prolong this and let it engrain into his mind for certain.

“Got the prettiest baby- look so good on my cock like this. Want daddy to bust in that pretty pussy?” He asked, looking for your approval.

“Uh-huh. Need daddy to knock me up.” The words came from god knows where, making even your eyes look bewildered for a second.

Leon laughed darkly at you.

“God, baby. Daddy’s so fucking close.” He muttered stupidly, almost like he was drunk. At least this could be an ego boost for you- but the fact it was your dad canceled that out. Dick only counts if it’s from someone that’s not related to you. His eyes did that half-lidded thing from earlier that you found so hot, and he pulled you down onto his cock one last time, spilling thick ropes into your blood-related hole. His dick pulsed as he let out a muted grunt, head lolling back and his adam's apple on full, stubbly display. You could bite it, just like a real apple.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He moaned. Jeez. He was a whore, honestly. The way he made noises and didn’t shut the fuck up was honestly… a case that should be studied. Maybe he had been turned out a time or two himself.

His cock didn’t soften though, nor did he not forget about you cumming. He lifted his head back up, looking down at where his thumb was. It was almost like he read your thoughts, not saying a word as he concentrated on making you cum. ‘Cause earlier he had been too eager to get in you and you were too eager to get on him.

Your nails dug into his shoulders (hopefully your mom wouldn’t notice any marks on him when she gets home from work later) and he gently fucked into you while you received proper attention on your aching clit. The combination of his dick keeping you full and the sensation of his digit sent you throbbing through your orgasm around him- low curses and other disgusting things coming out of both your mouths.

‘Cause you’re both disgusting.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy death island #leon kennedy vendetta #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader smut #leon s kennedy #tw inc*st #tw #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #leon s kennedy smut

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reasonandempathy · 8 months

Text

The Israeli military has been posting grotesque videos of dead Palestinians on a racist Telegram channel. It’s typical for the ‘anything goes’ platform. Representatives from the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) admitted to running a notoriously violent and racist Telegram channel following an investigation from Haaretz. On October 9, 2023, the Telegram channel “72 Virgins—Uncensored” started posting gore-filled photos and videos from the frontlines of Israel’s war on Gaza. An investigation from Haaretz revealed in December that the Israeli military ran the channel. The IDF initially denied the accusation but reversed course after an internal investigation, Haaretz reported on Sunday. It’s an unsurprising revelation that highlights the grotesque appeal of Telegram, and how governments increasingly use the platform to spread propaganda. Videos and images on the channel included the dead bodies of Palestinian civilians and resistance fighters alongside racist text. “Exterminating the roaches…exterminating the Hamas rats…Share this beauty,” one post said above pictures of captured Palestinians. Another post showed an Israeli soldier dipping their gun into a liquid. “What a man!!!! Lubricates bullets with lard. You won’t get your virgins,” the text on the video said, according to a translation from Haaretz. In the past months, several unconfirmed videos have gone viral on social media purporting to show soldiers mocking Palestinians by dipping their bullets in pig fat, which is forbidden under Islam. Since October 7th, Nearly 30,000 Palestinians have been killed by the Israeli military in Gaza, where Israeli occupation forces have blocked almost all humanitarian aid from entering the densely-populated Palestinian territory.

Some quotes:

"What a man!!!!! Greases bullets with lard. You won't get your virgins."

""Garbage juice!!!! Another dead terrorist!! You have to watch it with the sound, you'll die laughing."

The IDF wants the world, and Israeli citizens, to know of and revel in their genocide.

#idf #genocide #haaretz #iof #gaza #original content #ethnic cleansing #palestine #palestinians

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expirednukacola · 5 months

Text

ORANGE COLORED SKY 🏜️ || The Ghoul x Fem!Reader

𐚁⊹₊ ⋆☆

AHHHH! The first chapter is getting so much love and attention! I can’t believe it- This is making me cry! I love you all so, so much! SUMMARY: After two hundred years of some much needed beauty sleep, reader wakes up and realizes she has been given a second chance at life.. only to look like a piece of scorched summer sausage.

TW: GORE + GHOUL CANNIBALISM? + A BRIEF MENTION OF A “BIG IRON” 🔫

og gif made by: @lousolversons

“Don’t they know it’s the end of the world..”

“..‘Cause you don’t love me anymore.”

As your limp body fell to the brown, dead grass beneath you, you look up at that disgusting orange sky with such hatred and contempt before — Darkness. Nothing but darkness shrouded your senses alongside Death’s eery, cold chill.. At least death provided some relief for your decrepit, burnt body.

You finally felt.. free. Free from life’s fleshy binding that attached you to the mortal plane. Free from life’s troubling trails and tribulations that would’ve dragged like heavy chains on your body until the weight of them became too much. Free from pain, free from suffering, free from fear — Free from the horrible world itself.

…Until some asshole decided to turn the damn lights back on.

You woke up with a loud gasp and almost immediately, the pain of hunger and thirst was overwhelmingly evident in your facial expression. “Fuck- W- Water..” Like a zombie who was ran over by an 18 wheeler, you stood up on your little “Bambi” legs and looked around the wasteland that surrounded you. Nothing but patches of dead grass, cracked and crumbled dirt, and the occasional tumbleweed was all that you could see — Besides the dilapidated remains of Mr. Shit-Stain’s house.

“..How the hell is this thing still standin’?” You rasped out as you fumbled towards the tumbledown remnants of the house, the P.O.S. glass shard still sticking out of your leg like an annoying family member that never wanted to leave when it’s Christmas- or any holiday for that matter. Carefully stepping over the pieces of glass, you cautiously entered the house through the large broken windows and looked around what used to be a living room. Some things were still standing, like the couch, the television (minus the ginormous crack its screen had), and one of the most rinky dink coffee tables you have ever fuckin’ seen. “..Pretty sure ‘Bobby’ picked that shit out-”

You cut yourself off by letting out a much needed laugh and after a few minutes of laughing and snickering like a hippie high on mary jane, you staggered on over to the kitchen.. and that’s when you saw your saving grace- THE FRIDGE! Somehow, that piece of metal was the only thing unscathed from that damn blast! You thanked the heavens for this one of a kind gift that you most definitely deserved and you opened it to find-!

…A shit ton of mold and one dead and pretty large roach. “…After all I’ve fuckin’ gone through, I am gifted THIS?! THIS IS WHAT I GET?!” After kicking the fridge door shut, you went to pinch the bridge of your nose only to find out that you no longer had one. That’s when you finally looked down at your hand and your arm. With your heart now starting to collide with your ribcage, you quickly inspected both of your arms and then both of your legs, noticing how one of your arms was more skeletal than the rest of your limbs. “No, no, no, no..!”

You quickly ran around the decayed bits and pieces of the house until you finally found what used to be a bathroom. Immediately gazing into the shattered mirror, you saw how your once beautiful and youthful face had now become twisted, corrupt — grotesque, if you will. On one side of your face, it resembled shattered porcelain and your eye was milky white.. the other side was just a burning memory of what you used to be.

After a few minutes of pulling yourself together, and pulling that damn piece of glass out of your leg, you finally ventured out of the house and back to the “wild, wild west” of Lost Angeles (see what I did there?), and began your little adventure to find something to eat and at least a pond to drink out of. As you hobbled around the wastelands of an already wasteland-like city, you finally stumbled upon the rotting “corpse” of someone who looked just like you. He had the same red, fleshy blotches all over his face and his entire body, and his nose was missing as well. You guessed it was some type of peculiarity people like you shared.. well goddamn-

But something else about him struck a tender little chord in your hungered state.. His chest cavity was busted wide open, like the doors of a Golden Corral on a Sunday afternoon. Your mouth started to salivate, your stomach started to rumble, an animalistic growl spewed from your vocal cords.. and you ran as fast as your legs could, despite your leg that was still in its healing process. Once you were right next to the decaying and rotting body, you quickly dropped down to your knees and began to feast.

Dark, thick blood covered your hands, your chin, and those sweet lips of yours as you stuffed your mouth with that man’s flesh and what remained of his organs that once nestled underneath his ribcage. The only thing that was left whole was his heart.. his delicious, succulent heart. Slowly, you lifted his blackened heart out from his body and began to suck the little bit of blood that dripped out from the aorta, lapping it up as if it were the best water you have ever drank.

“Oh, sweet heavens above!” -were the first words you have uttered in a hot minute when you finally had your hunger satisfied — your thirst quenched by your newfound animalistic appetite for flesh and blood. “..Fuck- Thanks for your help, sir.” As you stood up and wiped your bloodied hands on your top, you heard the familiar sound of a gun getting cocked.. Well shit-

“Hold it right there, missy.” That voice.. That southern twang.. That teeny tiny lisp that’s barely noticeable unless you really listen.. You quickly whipped your head around, but instead of seeing your beloved cowpoke with those sweet dimples you love oh-so much, you saw someone who merely looked like him. You let out an audible gulp and reached your skeletal hand out towards the creature’s face, but he stepped back in response.

“..Cooper?”

“..Y/N?”

Your vision slowly began to fade in and out and the one to catch your collapsing body was that sweet, tender man you knew and fell so deeply in love with before The End. “I got you, missy.. I got you.” Were the last words you heard before you finally gave into the darkness once more. The Ghoul cradle you close and tight to his chest — Oh, how he craved feeling your comforting warmth against his own once more. How he yearned to hear your sweet, gentle voice again. How he ached to gaze into those kind eyes of yours; those pools of life that he had to be careful with because he didn’t want to drown in them.

Now, he’s finally got you safe in his arms..

..Or does he?

———————

I apologize for this chapter being shorter than the first one so consider this chapter 1.5! I was a little busy today with some personal stuff but you all asked so kindly and I hope you all liked this one as much as the first one!

TAG LIST: @lexiway121 @onyxclown @hellolettuce444 @leo4242564 @minaxcarter @a-case-of-attachment @hiddenworld666 @looneylooomis @sunnexaltation @coolrobloxkid28 @enaelyork @foggyturtleknightangel @ghcstvibess @haleymaccosplay @classaysstuff

#the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul fanfic #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard #cooper howard fanfiction #cooper howard x you #cooper howard x reader

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artthatremindsmeofhannibalnbc · 2 years

Photo

Markus Åkesson, We two are one, 2016, Oil on canvas

Thanks to @obviouslybiased for pointing me toward this artist.

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #art that reminds me of hannibal #Markus Åkesson #paintings and mostly 2d art #gore #grotesque #organs #human hearts #murder valentines #could be part of some murder art #contemporary art #queue

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leviathanleva · 5 months

Text

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[5.1k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 4 "The Plea"

You stretch and groan.

The sound comes out jumbled and is drowned out by the violent vibrating of the washing machine you’re perched upon. You strain your legs, flexing your thighs and working out the sleep from your numb muscles. Your toes squish against the inside of your boots before you relax and rub at your eyes, wiping away the tears your incessant yawns were causing.

You’d seen plenty of pictures of children hollering in front of a fan on a hot summer day, some sort of weird way to entertain themselves because the beat of the fins distorted their voices. It was a good commercial for any fan whenever summer rolled around. Sadly, now when you were free to wander and do as you pleased, much of the mundane experiences you wanted to dip your toes in were impossible to achieve. You were two hundred years too late. You took what you could get though, hence why you’d let curiosity guide you on top of the washing machine once it had started centrifuging.

The steaming coffee mug sat on the L-shaped kitchen counter just next to you and after a moment of being thoroughly jostled around, you picked it up with as much care as you could. Lips latched onto the edge of the mug with haste before you took a big sip, slurping audibly before the coffee could spill out from the violent thrashing causing your arm to quake.

Wet hair clung to your bare shoulders and the aromatic droplets of water dripped and soaked into your dress. It had taken you a good hour to get the ghoul inside the shower after you’d gotten out, all squeaky clean and smelling of lavender soap. How he managed to bear being a grimy crusty prune was beyond you, but as soon as the generator had kicked back to life and restored some power in the vault, you’d jumped at the idea of a nice hot shower.

His clothes were strewn on a dangling cable, as clean as they could get after being worn for who knows how long without a proper wash. Some stains persisted and the washing machine couldn’t do anything about the faded colors, but at least they didn’t smell of death anymore.

He’d dismissed your proposal to launder his rags at first, bumped the butt of his shotgun against your stomach hard enough to make you wheeze and still you hadn’t relented. It was the least you could do, you’d said, begged even. After everything he’d done for you, you wanted to repay him outside of the hefty tato sack stuffed to the brim with bloody Pip-boys and medical supplies and provisions. You’d chewed at his ear until he’d given up with a sigh and hidden behind the shower curtain before tossing his clothes at you layer by layer.

In truth, you just wanted to prolong his departure. Thinking of anything and everything because you didn’t want to be left alone in this haunted vault, you’d come up with ploy after ploy and the power coming back had only aided you in your private battle. So traumatized by the last day that you clung to him even if he was a demented, deadly wastelander probably no better than the raiders he’d slaughtered.

Your sleep had been plagued with nightmares that night; grotesque sceneries of violence and gore were painted in detail over your closed eyelids, making you stir and whimper in your bed. The ghoul was a light sleeper, trained to spring into action at the slightest noise and you tossing and turning and making the bedframe creak gave him all the rights to chuck a cushion at you. He’d scared you half to death with that, but the reminder that he was still there, grumbling on the couch and trying to catch a wink of rest, had given you enough comfort to sleep peacefully for a few hours.

When the washing machine stilled, your reminiscing ended.

You tipped the mug, suckling at the last few drops of sweetened coffee, before setting it aside and hopping on your feet. After pulling the foggy lid open, you drape your socks and your old dress over your forearm and a scowl pinches at the corner of your lips.

Apparently, Abraxo wasn’t strong enough to wash away radroach intestines. You mourned the ruined dress, bitter with wasting the cleaning product for nothing, but decided to hang it up regardless and let it dry.

Who cared for stains anyway? You had bigger problems on your plate.

The screech of the shower tap and a curt whistle have you automatically groping at the ghoul’s clothes.

“Be right there, Mister!” you call out and bunch them up in your hands, placing his hat over your head to save space, his coat is still damp but you doubt he’d mind. You skitter to the edge of the shower and leave the pile next to his weaponry before your manners lead you away to give him some privacy.

The half-empty coffee pot caught your attention once you were back in the bright yellow kitchen area. Despite your low tolerance and the apparent twitches in your fingers, you refilled your mug, deciding that adding sugar wasn’t needed this time.

You were free now, you could drink all the coffee you wanted.

Once the rustling of clothes and buckling of belts and straps ceased, the ghoul appeared from behind the wall, finding you sitting on the counter with ankles crossed and kicking your feet rhythmically. You beam at his slightly less disheveled state, eyes darting from him to the full mug waiting for him. He scoffs and accepts your silent offer.

“Feeling better?”

“Like a new man.” he declares with a sense of peace to his tone and leans back against the fridge before taking a long sip from his lukewarm drink.

Cooper was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He’d caught on to your innocent scheme quickly. From the coffee to your constant close proximity, to washing his clothes. The biggest giveaway was you trying to hide your nervousness and biting back victorious smiles whenever he accepted any of your domestic offers. You were kneading him like sourdough, nice and good and gentle, hoping for something in his brain to click and his simple plan of taking his things and leaving to take a different course.

That’s why he fought against melting in the shower and suppressed a genuine smile when he saw the coffee. He kept his guard up, concrete walls so high one couldn’t see the top, locking away whatever humanity was left to rot, untouched and undisturbed. Joy was an illusion, peace was the quiet before the storm.

Nothing lasted, neither would you.

“Take me with you, I won’t be useless, I promise.”

He could almost hear those words twirling on the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill but never being voiced. Like hell, he’d ever entertain that idea.

“So what now, Mister?” you ask casually, hiding pouty lips behind your mug and looking up at him in question. “Where you headed off to?”

“Well, – ” he rasps and clears his throat. “ – considering my bounty’s prob’ly dead. Gonna head off to Tillburry.” he nudges his chin at the sack resting by the exit of the suite. “Gonna sell some o’ that, make me some profit.”

Your vigorous slurping stops and you swallow the mouthful of bitterness before cocking your head.

“Tillberry?” you test the unfamiliar word with hesitation. “And that’s…what?”

“Tillburry.” he corrects and rests one foot against the fridge door, the spur on his boot clanking against the metal. “It’s a settlement, Darlin’. Quite the big one too.” he mulled over a particular memory, looking down at his drink. “ ’Bout three hundred people last time I checked.”

“There are settlements?” you choke and cough out the spit tickling your throat with a fist to your mouth.

The thought that a good number of people had survived and were thriving enough to start rebuilding was unfathomable. Even if said settlements were based on the ruins and scraps of the cities from the old days it was still such a groundbreaking piece of knowledge.

Considering the raiders and the ghoul, you’d assumed everyone on the surface was deranged and out for blood. A man-eat-man nightmarish hell in which not even the strongest survived for long.

But no, there were people, honest hardworking people, that were coming together to build safe havens and restore some order to the chaos they had been born into. Sure, they had probably seen their fair share of hardships and were rugged and hard-skinned, but if they’d managed to keep the peace and grow towns and develop businesses, they couldn’t be that bad.

You had to see this. You needed to.

“Plen’y of em.” he pipes in, then tips his head and his voice acquires an almost mocking twinge. “Wasteland’s not as dead as you think, Sweetheart.”

“Take me there.” you blurt out before even realizing it.

“Pardon?” he’s surprised for only a moment before his demeanor shifts to dangerously sharp and his eyes harden. He moves in an instant, large palms planted on either side of your thighs and you have to jerk back to avoid him smashing his forehead into yours. “Mind your fuckin’ tone with me, Missy.”

When you squint and recoil, he eases, satisfied with your reaction.

“Just cuz I been toleratin’ you don’t mean I can’t stuff a bullet in your belly.”

“I’m sorry! Sorry, Sir.” you rush to undo your mistake, having spent too much time with him while he was docile to remember that you weren’t dealing with a friendly neighbor. “I meant no disrespect.” with a lowered gaze and a lump in your throat you continue. “I’d just really like to see such a place…”

“And I’d like a fifty-acre ranch to breed horses.” he sneers at you, yellow teeth peeking under his chapped lips. He shifts his weight around, resting from one hip to the other as he pulls away just barely. His fingers still grip the counter, still around you and ready to subdue another fuss. “But we don’ always get what we want.”

“Maybe I could…live there?” you didn’t believe your own words, but you still persisted. Flickering lashes swatted over pity eyes as you stared at him like an expectant street cat waiting to be adopted.

A preposterous idea. You didn’t know the first thing about surviving on the surface, couldn’t tell a radroach burrow from an anthill, and yet however difficult it would be anything would be better than living by yourself in a hole in the ground. Maybe you would have managed if the raiders had just left and the ghoul never crossed your path. But now, after knowing the bliss of company, of a friend who didn’t talk about medicine and made-up cures, now you couldn’t.

You needed him and not just for his skills or his wisdom of living off a toxic land. You needed him for him, just the ghoul, just the man who’d shown you kindness.

“Sweetheart, you needed t’ read the manual before turnin’ on the washin’ machine.” he states in a very mocking matter-of-fact way and snorts with a half-smile. “Twice.”

“But I did it.” you say back, struggling against a lost battle but how could you not when there was a blueish limp hand peeking from beyond the complex exit.

He gives you a once over, considering for a second before shaking the thought away with a bitter glower.

What the hell was he even thinking?

“You don’t really fit in with the common folk.” he counters again and he’s confident that soon you’ll wane. “Don’ think they’ll take too kindly to you.”

“What’d you mean, Mister?” you tilt to the side, leaning on one hand with a faint pout.

“Yer too clean.” he mumbles while skimming over you with a judgmental expression, his mouth pursing as he took you in. “Too pretty. Too kept.” he leans back to cross his arms, a half-frown of disapproval glooming over his face. It wasn’t a compliment; it was dry facts that he offered you to get through your thick skull that you’d be in more danger than you realize if you ever managed to reach a local town. “Surface dwellers don’ like your kind.”

“Then I’ll work on it until they like me.”

The back of your boots hit the counter each time you kicked your feet, egged on by the caffeine overdose. You kept your eyes glued to his because you didn’t know of a better way of pleading without sounding pathetic and getting on his nerves.

“You can’t even fire a gun, Darlin’.” the ghoul sighs in defeat, not because you’re getting under his skin, but because you fight this ferociously for your demise.

Both of you are aware that you wouldn’t last long outside. You were defenseless and had no usefulness, you weren’t accustomed to radiation, and everything on the surface was soaked in it. Most available jobs either needed you to get your hands dirty or break your back with overtime and you’d nearly passed out after walking half a day in a desert and thrown up at the sight of a dead body.

He’d be damned if he let you abandon a life of comfort and security because you didn’t know what you were asking for. Letting go of constant food and fresh water and hot showers just because you were too scared to learn by trial and error on your own was too much for him. It was stupid and you rebelling against him tooth and nail made it worse.

You weren’t winning anything; you were just giving him a headache.

“Someone would be willing to teach me.” the naivety in your comeback makes him laugh and your brows rise and furrow at his reaction.

“Ain’t nobody gonna do shit for free.” that was his last pushback before he made up his mind on ending your charade. His hat dipped and his tone lowered to an even rasp. “You’ll be just fine here, Darlin’.” he takes a few steps back and chugs the remainder of his discarded coffee before grunting in satisfaction. “Good cup o’ coffee…Now be a dear ‘n show me the way out.”

“I could make you more if you stayed a bit longer, Mister.”

A drowning man’s attempt to keep from sinking.

You give him a tiny smile and roll your ankles to release some tension. You knew you were pushing it, from his stiff shoulders to his thinned upper lip, but you didn’t want to stay here anymore. Disregarding the steady supply of provisions and the regulated temperatures, the medical supplies and the safety. You wanted to go with him. Wherever he went, no matter the danger, you want to be in his shadow. The radroaches and raiders forgotten, ignorant of just how hostile his world was and selfish by continuing to thrust your life in his hands when he didn’t want it.

“Das enough, Darlin’.” he mutters while picking up the supply sack and flinging his bandolier over his shoulder.

“What if – ”

“– Enough!” your mouth shuts at his command. His glare is piercing while he stands by the door with his back turned to you, giving you only a stern side-eye. “Move.”

You slide off the counter without another word and pat down your dress, not that anything could be seen underneath the thick tights but common decency forced you to. He waits for you, motioning with his hand once you're by his side and you walk forward, through the dingy corridor and past the raider he’d gutted the day before.

You try not to look, but it’s difficult when the deep red hues contrast with the metallic white of the wall and floor. It’s an abominable sight. There’s a cut spanning over the entirety of the man’s neck, horizontal and precise, so deep that amidst the flesh and blood, you see bone.

You could almost simulate the pain and you struggled to swallow.

He was a raider… he was a criminal. He was a bad man, he’d tried to murder you and failed by just an inch, the ghoul did what he had to do. There would be plenty more with much the same mindset if he agreed to take you with him. Scenes like this would probably be a daily occurrence, but you wouldn’t be the one doing the killing and still seeing the raider nearly decapitated scarred something deep within you.

Were you really willing to go through this again just to stay with the ghoul?

Maybe, for him, maybe.

“Fuckin’ piss stain…”

You look to him at that remark, then down at the center of his attention. He had one foot set in a puddle of blood and pieces of flesh, both attached to an unmoving vault dweller. He wiped his boot in the corpse’s suit and spat with malice.

“You really don’t like this place, Mister?” it’s more of a statement than a question, but your quizzical expression gives him enough room to reply.

You had noticed his visible disdain once he’d first entered the vault with you, but you’d blamed it on him being an experienced bounty hunter who knew better than to let his guard down. Then you’d seen his complete lack of empathy for the dead bodies littering the hallways and even a drop of anger edging his default scowl. He had a personal vendetta against the inhabitants, a distaste that went so deep he’d preferred to sever the wrists of the corpses over just unclasping their Pip-boys and claiming them for himself.

You’d never brought it up because it wasn’t your place, but now you had a reason to, and your curiosity was peaked.

“Vaults ain’t my thing, Darlin’, nor vaulties.” he speaks with spite, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips when he raises his gaze to you. Then he kicks the mess out of his way without a hint of shame, splashing the gore over the floor, and continues after you.

“Why?” you peep and it’s so innocent and light because you don’t understand the gravitas of the answer you’re reaching for.

There’s a small pause as you glance at the ghoul with a blank visage. There’s a certain lethargy to your step and a bounce to your slack shoulders because you’re relaxed and clear-minded and you have no idea just what you’re asking him. He could be angry, you’re poking around topics that are beyond your capacity, ones of resentment and shrewd grudges that span over such a long time that you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

But he wasn’t upset, there was no point. You were just a stupid little thing trying to sow a light chat before your paths diverged.

The memories are knocking on the front door of his consciousness, but he refuses to indulge them. Not now, maybe later when he was alone and could recollect everything in peace.

“That ain't none o’ your business.” his words are snippy but his tone is placid, he doesn’t even reciprocate your prying eyes, just stares straight ahead with a tense jaw.

His reluctance to delve deeper and the shift in the air give you a good enough hint to not press the matter further. You would have reached to pat his arm, a benevolence he undoubtedly deserved along with so much more, but refrained from doing so. Despite you having placed him on a golden pedestal for all he’d done for you, which wasn’t much, but enough to leave you with an unforgettable impression, he didn’t see you in the same manner. His life had hardened him both physically and emotionally, he hadn’t even trusted you to sleep together in the same suite, having tucked one of his pistols under his pillow with a finger on the trigger.

You’d seen it, you just didn’t mention it.

He didn’t need your pity nor your good-heartedness, he didn’t care and that’s why you kept from overstepping even if you wanted to comfort the restless beasts pacing somewhere within his being.

“You’ve been nice to me though.” you put forth a honeyed smile and steered the conversation to a lighter note. A small sugary quip to oppose his hardened exterior and alleviate him of his hissy mood.

He chuckles, a raspy chortle that tickles your ear and curls your lips into a grin.

“Ain’t nice, Missy, just tolerant.”

Your chirpy chat continues as you pass through the whey field and into another brightly lit tunnel. He doesn’t have to know that you could have led him to the elevator three times already through a shortcut. You like him, harbor such fondness for him in all his gruffness, you might have agreed to lead him out but you never said you wouldn’t take the scenic route. An extended detour while you continuously banter with each other and you always relent because you want him to be happy with having the upper hand in the conversation.

But no matter how long you tried to prolong the inevitable, eventually, you found the way to the elevator. Before it had been your savior, taking you away from those vile people before they could sink their grimy claws in your flesh. Now it was an unwelcome vestige, the last step before the ghoul left and you were abandoned to waste away in an underground prison.

He entered first and leaned against the steel wall, a thumb tucked in his belt and hat tipped over his eyes. You turn your back to him and press the button and it’s suddenly awkward and silent.

You wished the damn thing moved slower, but it propelled up, passing by vault levels within a blink. Such a cruel construct…

Misery didn’t thrive for long, you didn’t let it.

Maybe one day you’d meet him again. You’d learn to shoot a gun, there had to be at least one stashed somewhere for emergencies, then you’d learn to sustain yourself and grow crops, fiddle with the mechanisms of the vault and read every book and article and document regarding medicine. You’d prepare well and one day leave again to explore the world outside and maybe if fate was kind, you’d run into him on your journey.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember, maybe he would, but you’d be happy all the same.

And you’d be different then, stronger and more independent and not useless. Maybe he’d take you with him when you proved that you wouldn’t be a burden anymore. He’d take you on his adventures and teach you how to be a bounty hunter like him and you’d make the best duo the surface has ever seen.

Your self-assurance dwindled when the elevator reached the top level and the door slid open. He walked out unbothered and you struggled to keep the calm façade going.

It wasn’t healthy to form such attachments so quickly, but it happened and you were torn between begging him one last time and giving him the solace he craved. But could you really be blamed when you’d known only solitude?

He stood at the vault entrance and tossed you a slow, expectant look and you fiddled with the Pip-boy. Stiff fingers scrolled through the menus, determined to take as much time as possible while you prayed for a miracle. Your pleas remained unanswered, the time for stalling ended as the gate screeched and rolled to the side. A hot gust of wind crept through, drying your eyes and making your throat scratchy after a few silent breaths.

“Best of luck, Vaulty.”

He raised his arm and flicked his wrist in a goodbye after readjusting his hat, boots clinking as he set forth with an even pace. You watched him leave, heart asunder, mouth cracked open but no words came out. Gripping onto the control panel, frustration flaring, desperation so intense it made the hairs on your arms lift up.

Was this really it? Was this the end of it? Was this the last time you saw him? The only friend you had, the only person you knew, the only warmth ever given to you.

He could let go without a second thought, but you couldn’t.

“Go…GO!”

A shaky step, then another.

With each step, the quake in your legs eased, determination overpowering hesitation, and before you knew it you were jogging and then running. The sand wasn’t kind to your shoes, you nearly tripped, wide strides bringing you closer to him because, unlike his tempo, yours held intention.

He knew you’d do this, he knew and he had the common sense to pull out his pistol and threaten you back inside.

You might have tumbled him over if you had the strength, but instead, you splat yourself against his back and drape your arms around his abdomen. His hand faltered, resting on the holster of his gun as you squeezed him and slid your fingers past his coat, grabbing at his vest.

“Please.” you force through a clenched throat, choosing to beg him instead of breathing. Saliva pools in your mouth and tears form in the back of your eyes as you press your cheek against his spine. Your eyes squeeze shut as if cutting off your vision would make you deaf to his answer. “Please…I’ll – ”

He’d taken what he needed, completing your transaction and wanting nothing more, but maybe you could find something else he had use for. He sighs and you’re so regretful, but you can’t let it go without a final push. And he’s fed up enough to maybe just shoot you, but if he was you’d have a chance at bargaining again and keep him around for a few more minutes.

“ – I’ll pay you.” you sniffle back the runny mucus seeping through your nostrils and swallow a mouthful of thick spit, it distorts your voice just a bit. “Please take me to Tillberry. I’ll find a job – I’ll – You can have everything I earn, I just need enough to buy some food.”

“Tillb – ” he grunts and pinches the space between his eyes as they shut.

He wanted to rip you off of him and leave, with no mercy and no care, but you just had to play nice. You had to play house with him and make him coffee and wash his clothes and be soft with him. The sweet gestures and light words did things to him, he was no fool, they reminded him that humans still existed and they were still kind. A peek into the past.

“I won’t be useless. I’ll learn quick and stay out of your way and do anything you ask…Just until the settlement.”

Whines and sobs and sniveling sniffs and chokes, they crawl up his skin like maggots and try to burrow and find an ounce of empathy, but he has none.

“Right.” he whirls around with such force that if it hadn’t been for the iron grip he clasped over your jaw, you would have fallen. He’s an eyelash away from your face, with a fowl snarl carving into his gaunt features and he spats poison at you. He speaks the truth. “Do you fucking know what the hell you’re asking for?” he’s so pissed that his accent dissipates. “You’re gonna fuckin’ die out here. With or without help.”

“Plea – ”

“ – I ain’t no God damned babysitter!” he snaps and forces you back. You stumble and curl your hands over your chest instinctively as he points his pistol at you, forefinger on the trigger. “Now get the hell outta my sight.”

His lips pinch in annoyance when you don’t move.

He didn’t give a damn if you lived or not, but you’d shown him respect and generosity and he repaid you by not shooting you down on the spot. He gave you a chance at survival, exterminated the pests in your home and made sure to leave enough provisions to live off of while you worked out how to take care of yourself. You wouldn’t receive half of what he’d done for you in the wasteland, it was a cutthroat fever dream that no one could wake up from.

Precious things lived in castles, not in the wilds.

But then you finally move. You move and it’s the wrong fucking way.

The tip of the gun glosses over your cheek as you enclose trembling fingers around his wrist and his sleeve is pulled back enough for you to find his skin, marred and leathery and disgusting and safe and wonderful. Your eyes close and press into his glove as the barrel rests against your bare shoulder and all it would take was a click and you’d be dead.

“Please, Mister.”

You sink to your knees, bringing his arm down with you.

A lost little dove, fluttering in his palm, trusting and willing and kneeling at the gates of hell because it already knew what heaven was. Or maybe it didn’t, maybe you knew a different hell he was unfamiliar with so you begged for his instead of going back to your own.

“I’ll do anything…”

He’d seen plenty of people beg for their lives, for food or water or help. He’d heard it all, from bargaining to taunting, reverse psychology, and manipulation tactics all in the name of living to see another sunrise. This was the first time anyone had ever pleaded for him.

He should have left yesterday, the moment you’d found the storage unit he should have taken his things and been on his way. He should have tried to find the exit while you were sleeping and never looked back. He should have done more, everything in his power to not be in this damnable situation. You fed something within him, a slumbering behemoth forgotten over time, you sated a need he’d developed so long ago, a need so constant he didn’t realize was there anymore until you.

“Get the hell up.” he grips your arm like the brutish man he is, pulls you to your feet, and spins you around like a puppet.

You don’t fight, drained by both the searing sun and your turbulent emotions, letting him latch his hand to the back of your neck and drag you forward, back to the vault.

Back to solitude. Back to hell.

“Three hundred caps.”

You muster an inquisitive hum and dare to steal a glimpse of his expression. It’s haggard, annoyed, defeated.

“For your safe transportation t’ Tillburry.” he offers you nothing, not even a peak, but his hold on your neck tightens and you wince. “Now use your fuckin’ legs. We’re loosin’ daylight.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 5 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

Tag list: @bountydroid @windierhades @ultimatereality @gruffle1 @v3lv3tf0x @fallout-girl219 @one-of-thewalkingdead

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #fallout tv series #the ghoul x you #the ghoul fanfic #the ghoul x reader #fallout the ghoul #the ghoul #x reader

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weebsinstash · 10 months

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When I say with my entire being in my heart of hearts that I know with certainty that this-this-this THING right here would do the absolute most unbelievable petty gross obsessive dahmer level shit to you

He's petty he's evil he's got a childlike fascination for seeing what breaks people down and I hate him I hate him I hate him but ALSO what that dick do tho? 🤔

Mahito is the yandere over here doing shit like imprisoning you for his own selfishness and perhaps genuine affection but making you live in absolute deplorable conditions because He's Not Fucking Human And He Doesn't Even Know How To Feed You. He locks you away and disappears for an entire day and comes back with like a single can of wet dog food that he watches you eat from a squatting position like 5 inches away looking at you like Harley Quinn and the egg sandwich. Motherfucker would take all your clothes because he wants to see more of "the natural shape of you" and then doesn't understand why you start shivering. Or he deliberately keeps you like that because he wants to see how long it takes you to crack and beg him for help. He wants to see the depths of your pride as you refuse to grovel, curious of the lengths you'll go, the limits of your body against the chill

This depraved fuck will do dehumanizing little emotional experiments on you where he does shit just because he wants to see how you think and feel and what you'll do and I mean like he'll do SOME REAL SHIT. I'm talking maybe he's stalking you and you can't fight or use cursed techniques and you think he's just like, a human shaped spirit or something who's just a trickster, he's not being violent or getting you alone or anything yet, and then you come home to your apartment one day and he's literally disemboweled your cat on your coffee table and he's playing with pieces of it and says you were giving it more attention than him and sits there pouting as you scream and even tries to like touch you or hold your hand or hug you with. The fucking blood covered hands. like he would be so fucked up on purpose, "awww do you need me to hold you? You're so sensitive but i dont mind :3"

This man out here like "wdym you want me to stay away from you, all I did was kill your cat kill your mom kill your neighbor kill your best friend kill your boss' cousins' landlords' newborn baby BUT WAS THAT REALLY SO BAD 🥺" and does something infinitely worse to scare/coerce you into tolerating his presence

I'm not really uh into body horror or gore but as a side detail I feel like. Uh. There's like a legitimate risk of him actually unintentionally REALLY hurting you and has to use his powers to heal you. Like the one good thing he does is if he were to have you on death's door or like horribly injured he could just. Fix it. He twists a limb in a way he doesn't know it's not supposed to go and breaks it and then puts you back together like a broken toy while ooo'ing and aaa'ing at the way your skin stretches over the grotesque misalignment. Dare I say the horror of "him putting things that are way too big or weirdly shaped in you" also yeah he's one of the things he's putting in you and he's got a really gross like fascination with learning all about that stuff

He's really living just to see how many different ways he can make you cry and how many different emotions he can get you to display, just absolutely dedicated to terrorizing you while also chasing his own internal weird repressed desire for his own sort of belonging. You could be sitting there sobbing and he's either borderline getting off on it or he's standing there MAKING FUN OF YOUR CRIES like deadass even fake crying back to you

And the worst part is he'll do all this fucking shit to you and then the night comes and he'll still be over here like "and you'll let me cuddle you while you sleep right? 👉👈" and he'll be doing that Every. Single. Night. And what are you gonna do, try and kill yourself? Have fun risking accidentally making yourself a Curse and being stuck with him basically FOREVER

#yandere x reader #mahito x reader #yandere stuff #yandere jjk #also sukuna would say disgusting shit out of yujis mouth face just to embarrass you both zend post #sinprompts

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eunxhan · 4 months

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❝ A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism. ❞

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Ꮺ Anon Requested ⨾ hii can u do a ticci toby x cannibalistic gn reader?

Ꮺ Eun Replies ⨾ Greetings! I apologize for the late response as i got more focused on working on my ocs — This is quite short compared to my other works but I do hope you'll like this one! I've searched on how cannibalism works just to make sure.

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Ꮺ Disclaimer — GORE!SUGGESTIVE! I do not condone this kind of behavior in real life situations.

Reader ⨾ CANNIBALISTIC!GN!READER. YOU/YOURS

Words used ⨾ 624 words 3,502 characters

Character ⨾ TOBIAS ERIN ROGERS (Ticci Toby)

Art credit ⨾ @/kousomii on tumblr

Links ⨾ My Navigation

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Toby felt a strange mix of fascination and horror when he first encountered you. You were out, eating the corpse he just sliced up. He couldn't help but wonder how you got into your current situation, what led you to become a cannibal, and how you were able to maintain the facade of being a normal, functioning member of society.

Toby sometimes feels tempted to try what you are eating, but he always stops himself from actually doing so. If you manage to have some influence on him or try to convince him, he'll do so.

So whenever he goes out to do his missions, if you were allowed to he would let you follow him to clean up his mess. If you weren't, he would come back with a bag full of the parts you prefer.

If you happen to have a biting habit, whether biting yourself or someone else. He's be fascinated by it as he also have a biting habit, he doesn't mind you biting him as he doesn't feel that much pain as long as you let him bite also. He just watch you bite him and look at the bite marks, just don't bite him when he's in a sour mood.

If you cook them, Toby is intrigued and impressed by your skills as a cook, especially if you have a talent for preparing human flesh in a way that's palatable and delicious. He enjoys the idea of sharing a meal with you that is both unique and delicious.

He may or may not say some jokes about you being a cannibal. Toby's sexual jokes about you are him comparing your appetite for human flesh to his imagined prowess in bed. He'll make crude remarks, such as "You're tearing through those organs like you'd rip through a woman's panties."

Toby's indifference towards your post-feast appearance is a direct reflection of his own descent into depravity. Once disgusted by the mere thought of cannibalism, leaving him numb to the grotesque reality surrounding him but who knows? He's also a killer.

He knows that he himself isn't much better, for he too has stained his hands with blood and consumed human flesh. His ambivalence towards your plight is a twisted acceptance of their shared fate, a grim acknowledgment that they have both become monsters in their own right.

For Toby, he just eats the people he chops for survival and if you happen to have a different reasoning Toby listens to your dissection of cannibalism with a mix of repulsion, curiosity, and a twisted sense of familiarity. The gruesome details of how your body processes the consumed flesh, the nutritional benefits, and the sensory experiences, all serve as a morbid testament to the transformation you have undergone.

As you delves into the biological aspects of cannibalism, Toby's mind can't help but conjure vivid images of digestion, the human body breaking down its victims in the most base and primal of ways.

With the knowledge of cannibalism fresh in his mind, Toby's approach to his missions takes on a new, more methodical quality. Instead of the wild, frenzied attacks that once characterized his hunts, Toby now dispatches his victims with a chilling efficiency.

With each slash of his blade, Toby is careful to target specific organs, his actions driven by the newfound knowledge of their nutritional value. He takes the time to slice off limbs, and as he does, he can't help but recall yout descriptions of the sensory experiences. A strange, twisted thrill courses through him as he works.

Once he's collected his bounty, Toby methodically collects the parts into one bag, taking care not to mix the organs with the flesh. You'll be eating with no problem in your mind.

•◦✦────•◦ᘡᘞ •◦────✦◦•◦•

Ꮺ ⨾ I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING COPIED OR TRANSLATED.

#Eun.writes #Eun.asks #ticci toby headcanons #tobias erin rogers #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby creepypasta #creepypasta toby #ticci toby #ticci toby x male reader #ticci toby x you #female reader #male reader #gn reader #creepypasta

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gav-san · 1 year

Text

Cursed | Sukuna x reader

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna / Fem Reader

Length: One-Shot

Summary: The greatest punishment in this life wasn't your brother Gojo Satoru embarrassing you into leaving Sorcery.

It was what happened when he was gone.

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Sexual Violence, Inferred Violence, Inferred Assault

You remember the day Gojo told you that you would never make it as a sorcerer.

The day you graduated from Jujutsu High School your arrogant older brother wrapped a hand over your shoulder and told you that you had less talent than the first years, and he wouldn’t allow you to be anything more than a third-grade sorcerer.

Of course, he did it at the podium, in front of everyone there.

You had ripped off the slim golden necklace he and Geto had bought you, but you could never bear to trash it entirely.

That was also the day you refused to speak to him again. But you soon found he was good as his word, and any attempt to do any sorcery was blocked at every angle. After all, who would openly disagree with the master of the Six Eyes and Infinity?

You were more or less exiled from the entire society of arrogant jujitsu sorcerers, forced to go to the nearby college and turn into a glorified secretary for the high school. He tried to rebuild your relationship, but it was never the same.

It took you years to understand why he would hurt his only sibling that deeply. It wasn’t until he was dead that you understood how much he was willing to sacrifice for your well-being.

You were the number one target of all Satoru Gojo’s enemies, and revenge came swiftly.

The clinking of the chains could almost sound like that piece of jewelry, lost in the rubble of your apartment if you imagined hard enough.

And all you had was time to try and imagine that you were anywhere but here, locked to the throne at the feet of the King of Curses.

You could hardly bear to watch as people were brought in, some more chained than you, dangerous perhaps. You wondered if their collars had been crafted to deaden cursed energy as yours had. Not that Sukuna thought you were any threat, but he disliked ‘swatting at flies’.

When you had first been captured, after everything had gone to hell, you had hoped that there was someone, anyone, who had the power and strength to end Sukuna, but nothing came close to his power.

Even Gojo Satoru had fallen, taking hope with him.

Now Men, Women, and children, all met the same fate if they did not kneel and give reverence to the great Ryomen Sukuna.

And even that was not always enough.

Blood spattered the marble floors of the shrine, and you swear that over time it’s taken on a pink hue. The room fills with lesser curses who clean the blood with their grotesque mouths, and Urame carts away choice bits for Sukuna's later pleasure.

You screwed your mouth shut as people cried to you, mistaking your position as something other than a slave for Sukuna to torture.

As the last of the Gojo line, you weren't above holding you responsible for a century-long grudge. Any pleading from your lips only made his rampage worse.

Any attempt to flee into your head was met with a violent tug on your throat.

There was no turning away, not when your master held the deceptively delicate chain around your neck, yanking whenever he thought you weren’t paying enough attention.

He loved to see you cry in pain, and you hadn’t the ability to stop, especially for those young ones who were cut down.

And it was almost certain that after witnessing another moment of terrible brutality you’d somehow forget your head, turning upon him and glaring like a feral animal, yanking the chain away so you could hurt him, just once.

But you would only be met with the face of the wolf.

His teeth clenched in a wide smile, he’d return a smirk so vile, that he specifically reserved for the moments you spit venom. He loved to see you struggle, but trying to bite back always ended poorly.

Ryomen Sukuna was not a kind master.

And though he certainly thought of you like a pet, he wasn’t below forcing your head under his foot, smushing your entire face in the remains of corpses. If you dared throw up, you still stayed and were unable to leave until you wiped it up with your ragged robes that had gone thin from wear.

But that was better than his other punishment, on days where you felt a terrifying hardness as Sukuna held your face between his legs, using a single finger to paint fresh blood, using you as a macabre canvas as he painted.

Those days he would have Urame fetch a mirror, and both would cackle as they examined his work. Often, it was lewd words and signs, but other times it was as if he was painting his marks on you.

Bastard.

After a long, cruel day, you dared to critique his work, sneering at his lack of finesse.

With a snap of his fingers, he had Urame strap you down, leering over you as he assembled his petty revenge.

A curse user was summoned, bringing along the tools of his trade; a short bamboo pole with a needle attached and a jar of thick onyx ink.

If that hadn’t been enough, Sukuna cut his wrist, pouring black blood to mix into the lot.

He instructed the curse user to tattoo you exactly like him, with no imperfections else his head be separated from his body.

You endured unbearable pain for nearly a week, stripped down under the gaze of Sukuna, a reminder to watch your tongue. And after, when the tattoos were done, he commemorated it with a new kimono and a portrait of you at his feet. A wretched ugly thing, as you now were.

He loved it, and let the painter live.

The recovery took twice as long, as your master hardly let you rest, or even leave his side. And as the days passed, you felt less and less like a human.

Forced to accompany him almost daily, you had an unfortunate insight into the casual cruelty of the Cursed King who knew nothing of kindness.

You eat less, hardly sleep and the whole blood-shed thing was sort of muffled, probably thanks to the sheer amount witnessed. You figure terror is the only thing keeping you alive.

Day in and out you followed the creature, just waiting for the day he tires of you.

And that day doesn’t come.

It’s still a surprise that you’re alive, you muse too often, laying on a cushion at the entrance to his rooms. Though he did take off your left arm the day he took you, he claimed it was an accident, and fixed it.

You’d rather that happen again than to be forced to enter his rooms.

At least your position at his shrine was more or less a pet, or when he was gone, Urame’s.

And despite your treatment, the concubines were in a far worse condition. The way Sukuna treated other women was abhorrent. Some days, bored, would reap the land looking for fresh, beautiful blood, and when he found some, he’d bring them back. Some girls even offered up to him, in hopes he’d show mercy.

Wide-eyed women, much like yourself, you realized as you watched them enter one day. But you felt these were much prettier, much more docile than you. Some even fawned over him, though their manners probably rang as fake as your docility. Were they trying to secure a safe place by him, or just trying not to be killed was hard to say. You didn’t blame either. Humanity was no longer civil.

It didn’t matter. They all get dragged into that black hole of his room, sometimes four at a time, and their screaming often lasts for hours.

Women who entered his rooms never exited alive, thankfully Urame thought your time could be much better spent working than sitting at the door, listening in.

Yeah, it was much preferable to be a tortured slave to Sukuna than to be seen as a woman.

“You’ve been quiet this last week, pet.” Sharp nails dig into your head, turning you to look at the man sitting on the throne above. “Perhaps you no longer find my pastimes so alarming.”

Meaning, his pastime of killing and eating humans.

Something shared by the court of curses below him, warily watching for what next he commands and desires.

Unfortunately, that was you. You despised the looks raked over your chained form, the greedy mouths that drooled, awaiting the day the master turned tired of the remaining Gojo, and hoped to have their turn for revenge.

If they couldn’t have Satoru Gojo, you’d do.

“Apologies… master.” You said, tension forming at the back of your neck as he tugged harshly on your head. Even so, your words remained smooth. “I find it hard to do anything but serve with your foot on my back.”

His dark chuckle was an answer in itself.

“Such a mouth, even when disguising your words so pretty.” Sukuna let go of your hair, amused enough today to let your words pass. You drop your head, but only enough to quell the pain. “It was such a shame for your kin to have died so easily, but it seems my desire for entertainment continues to be fulfilled by you.”

You hated him so much.

You clench your mouth, but the insult escapes before you can stop it.

“Bastard.”

You go stiff, but Sukuna merely pauses.

“Oh?” A single finger of his lifts your chin up again, before moving to your lips. And without warning, he pushes it inside your mouth.

“I thought I may torture you for a while, then be rid of you, but…”

You will yourself not to bite down on his finger, as he probably wanted an excuse to bite you back. But you don’t, and after a moment he pops it out with a small sound before another hand grabs your shoulder.

“Leave.”

For a moment you think he’s speaking to you, but the tension in your throat holds, and you see him looking at everyone else.

“My lord?” You question but his eyes flash down in warning.

All the curses and curse-users who attend minor tasks in the shrine are gone in moments. Urame is the last, shitting the door and ensuring the desired privacy, which means, something horrible is about to happen.

The moment the ornate handle clicks, Sukuna picks you up with a third hand. You can’t help but exhale as he sets you down on his knee. The finger that had been in your mouth returns, and you gag as this time it delves in, choking you.

“Not a very good reflex, but it can be worked on,” Sukuna says with an almost bored drawl, tugging his finger back out, and you wonder if he just sent everyone out because he wanted to do just that.

You cough, hands rising to hold your face, and don’t ask.

Sukuna laughs, clearly happy with annoying you, like a child. You so badly want to lash out but the fear of retaliation is far more effective than any shackle.

He has killed villages for less.

“See, this is why I didn’t kill you when I got rid of the rest of the scum!” He jokes, tilting his head to gaze with all four of his penetrating red eyes. “Such pleasing reactions!”

Friends, you think darkly. Those scum were your friends who were more like family. Gojo, Nanami, Geto, Nobara, Yuuta, Yuuji and so many others.

Tears fill your eyes as a soft voice seems to be at the back of your mind.

Megumi.

Though Sukuna was fully transformed, pain filled you thinking that Megumi might be in that monstrous body, trapped and unable to escape.

His knee shifts up, causing a terrible feeling of butterflies and cockroaches to churn in your stomach from the feel. The move was far too personal, and you tried to shift so he wasn’t pressed so intimately against your rear.

Even trying to fall off would be preferable. But your throat is raised, thanks to the gold chain in Sukuna’s hand that pulls up as he twists.

The benefit of having four arms is he can manhandle you as he pleases.

His thick hand raised your chin and refused to let you turn an inch as you gazed hatefully into his eyes

“What a beautiful sight. You know, from the first moment I saw you, I knew you were special.” Another hand moves to pull back some stray hair behind your ear.

“I hate you.”

Your hands shake, clenched in fists.

“I know.” He says with a smirk. “You know why I keep you around, pet?”

You have nothing to say and don’t even care to know. But that won’t stop him.

He strokes your face, his thumb holding you in a position others might think lovers would use.

“The first time I gazed upon you, I felt a most unique heat in my chest that has persisted till this day. Love, perhaps.” He mocks.

“Disgusting.” You spit out, but he doesn’t pause.

“From the moment we crossed paths your fate was set, but only recently have I understood the extent of what you mean to me.” Sukuna seems to be smug, revealing this, and you think he’s probably just messing with your head again.

The grip on your chin is starting to hurt.

Your chin shakes, and you grab the giant hand holding your face, digging in your fingers. You are certain he is going to kill you now. But you won’t cry or beg for mercy.

No, as a Gojo you would face down death and spit in his face.

So you do, hitting Sukuna right under his lower left eye.

“Go to hell, monster.” You growled, despite feeling the creak of bones in your face.

And for a moment the world is deathly quiet.

Until Sukuna throws back his head, startling you with a loud howl as he releases your face to laugh. In pain and confusion, you are tongue-tied as he tilts his head, the look on his face almost fond.

“I could kill you, but I have a better plan. I think you would make a very interesting wife.”

You would have fallen off his leg had he not quickly placed a palm on the small of your back.

“I despise you.” You reply, seeing as there isn’t anything else to say. But Sukuna doesn’t get mad at you for speaking out. Instead, he grins, which is much worse. “I’ll never be yours.”

But his mouth grows wide, and he tugs you forward, pushing you against his chest. Your lack of elegant words doesn’t bother Sukuna.

“Not as a human. I recently acquired a certain cursed spirit on my travels, and by imbuing you with her powers, your transformation should be complete. Rika would suit you well. You’re already halfway there, thanks to those marks suing my blood.”

You had been eating less, not hardly sleeping and the whole blood-shed thing was sort of muffled…

You gape, twisting to try and escape or even to move enough to allow your brain to function.

What?

He gives you a long look that you don’t know how to interpret. “You've lost enough of that wretched humanity that your body won’t break when you bear my children.”

You straighten, horrified, reeling back, but stopped.

Oh gods, there wasn’t anything more ridiculous than Sukuna talking about reproducing with you?

“No-“ He waves off your rejection, like a wisp of wind. You don’t remember starting to shake so hard, but it seems like you can see yourself from above, trembling a leaf in a storm.

“Of course, pet. You didn’t think I’d keep a stupid thing like you around to look nice? I even practiced on those pathetic humans.”

You dig your fingers into his chest, ripping it open with fury alone.

“I’ll kill you.” You say, “I’ll kill myself-“

Sukuna chuckles as blood pours from his chest, but the wound heals faster than you can dig. Sukuna's hand shoves your head into his blood, and iron fills your mouth.

“Heh, brat. Look at you, a Gojo doomed to be the queen of curses. A fitting end to that cursed line.”

“Someday, the chance will come, and one day, I’ll kill you.” You swear, teeth dripping in red.

“Women like you never leave their brats, so I’ll breed you till you have no escape,” Sukuna says, bending down and giving a soft kiss to your painted lips.

As he pulls away, his tongue licks away the blood. “Of course, if you try, I’ll kill them and breed you again. Isn’t that what husbands do?”

#notromance #jjk sukuna #sukuna x yn #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna #sukuna smut #one-shot #dark #dovedove?#probably qualified for all Sukuna content #Hurrah second season!#jjk #jjk x reader #Gojo!Reader

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