#turning off reblogs so this one can't escape containment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vaspider · 11 months

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Since I just turned off reblogs on another post that quickly went from "let's have fun" to "this is fucking awful, I'm taking away this toy," please read this BlueSky thread from rahaeli, who I don't think is on here.

Most of it I've c/p for ease of readability bc BSky's threading sucks.

Okay, it's time again to talk about what the experience of having a social media account with a bunch of followers (*) is like. (* "a bunch" of followers is platform dependent. I'm getting irritating shit at 2k on Bluesky I didn't get until 10k on Twitter.)

(Ugh, wait, nevermind, I hit 3k while I wasn't looking. Anyway.) Someone who has never had more than 100 followers literally cannot comprehend the sheer volume of the responses you get. Even if individual posts don't get a ton of replies, if you post with any frequency, it accumulates.

Once you hit the first degradation threshold, your experience gets a little bit shittier. It's overwhelming volume, but the people who are following you are mostly ideologically, socially, and culturally aligned to you. You have the same concept of social media manners.

You'll get a few duplicate comments, because nobody reads the comments before they reply, but they're mostly from cool people, so you just roll your eyes a little at the same joke five times. You still make friends. You still have fun and can wind up finding neat new people.

And then those neat new people retweet your stuff, and it starts reaching out to an audience of people who are less aligned with what you think of as social media manners. You start getting some replies you find obnoxious: they're in good faith, you can tell, but they just grate on you sometimes.

And then *those* people start reposting your more viral threads, and you get people following you who are three degrees of separation from the people you are most likely to vibe with. And three degrees of separation is the second degradation threshold.

The second degradation threshold is where you start getting the constant, low-grade sand-in-a-pearl annoyances. The person who wants to argue with everything. The 15 people making the identical shitty "joke" that's actually just doing the exact thing you're complaining about, "ironically".

The people who look at a post that contains no question marks and think "there is an implied question here and I will answer it!" and leap to offer the most basic advice that you already thought of because you have existed for more than three seconds and can, in fact, think of the obvious answers.

The people who are spoiling for a fight no matter what, because you used one word in the post that is their particular berserk button and they're going to scream at you for hating waffles because you said you like pancakes even though you never mentioned waffles.

It is constant. It is never-ending. You cannot escape it. Every time you post anything at all, opening the app means wading through twenty garbage replies for every reply from someone who is actually cool and you'd vibe with just fine if you chatted with them.

You want to bitch about a minor annoyance? There will be 40 people all giving you the same useless advice. You want to squee about something you're enjoying that's making you happy? There will be 40 people coming to scold you because that thing isn't morally pure enough.

Every post. Every day. About 75% of the time you compose a post, you will get halfway through writing it and think "I can't deal with the replies this will get today" and delete it. You stop talking about things you enjoy, because you're tired of people shitting on them.

You stop complaining about the tiny annoyances in your life that you want to bitch about, because weirdly enough you already HAVE tried the first fifteen obvious suggestions you're going to get, and you don't want to spend an hour explaining why they won't work to everyone who's "helping".

(But you can't just ignore the "helpful" posts and not engage with them, because then you start getting accusations of being "elitist" and "standoffish" and jesus, lady, we're just trying to help here, why do you have to be so fucking rude and stuck-up, you full of yourself bitch.)

If you are any less gracious to the 40th person than that person thinks they deserve, there is a very good chance they're going to call you a cunt and drag allot their friends in to dogpile you and make the site unusable for at least three days.

The third degradation threshold is when you start needing to regularly call your local police department and politely remind them there are people who get very mad at you online and will try very hard to have you murdered by armed agents of the state and you'd appreciate it if they didn't do that.

I first had that conversation with my local police department in 2003. It's gotten faster now, at least? You usually don't have to start by explaining what social media even is.

Bluesky has tighter thresholds than Twitter did. On Twitter it was nicely exponential: the breakpoints were around 1k, 10k, 100k. Bluesky is running faster. I'm getting Twitter 10k annoyances at a Bluesky 3k. I am trying very, very hard not to switch over into Twitter 10k defensive posting.

I want to leave the defensive posting back on Twitter. I really do. I want to be able to bitch about a thing without having to wade through 20 "go try [extremely obvious thing]". I want to post about a thing I enjoy without 20 people yelling at me I'm bad for enjoyjng it.

There's a difference between arguing about an idea (which I love) and the onslaught of constantly infuriating replies plucking at your last goddamn nerve. And the more "last goddamn nerve" replies you get, the crankier you are, and then people lose their shit at you because you snapped at them.

So maybe let's all start keeping a few principles in mind: 1) if there's more than one reply, check to see if your point has already been covered. If it has, you don't need to repeat it.

2) Even the funniest joke gets old after the 20th time you hear it in 3 hours.

3) "I'm going to jokingly do the exact thing you just were complaining about because ha ha the real joke is I would never do that asshole thing" is never funny, and it is indistinguishable from you actually doing the asshole thing.

4) If there is no question mark in the tweet, think twice about offering "helpful" advice unless you and the poster know each other *mutually*, not just parasocially, you know it's likely to be new info for them, and you ask "do you want to hear how I handle this?" first and get an affirmative.

5) If you are going to ignore 4, ask yourself "is this a suggestion that someone with a reasonable level of generalized adult knowledge would think of trying within the first 15 minutes of approaching the problem?" If so, do not suggest it.

6) Do you really need to nitpick that grammar, spelling, or word choice? Did you understand what they were trying to say before autocorrect mangled it or they blanked on the exact word they wanted and found a close one? If you understood the meaning, don't be their volunteer copyeditor.

7) Is someone excited about a thing you hate? Are they having fun with the thing? Is the thing a front for white supremacist recruiting or organizing the overthrow of the US government? If the answers are yes, yes, and no, respectively, shut the fuck up and let people enjoy things.

8) We are all occasionally That Commenter. If someone you have a pre-existing relationship with replies to you and lets you know you're being That Commenter, it's because they have a positive enough impression of you they don't want to go straight to block. Treat this like the warning sign it is.

9) It deserves repeating: remember the Law of Large Numbers. Even if you only commented once, you may be the hundredth irritating comment that person got that day. Bluesky's terrible threading makes this worse: people don't keep a single thread of mounting crankiness the way they did on Twitter.

9a) If someone's top tweet sounds really annoyed at something, maybe check their timeline or follow back their nested self-QTs to see what level of irritable they're at and over what so you don't step straight on the same rakes they've been dodging all day.

10) However, remember that BSky also doesn't show replies made by people the OP has blocked in a thread. If they post about a pattern that's making them cranky and you look and don't see anything, they probably already blocked the worst of it. They still saw it in their mentions in order to block.

I really cannot overstate how absolutely exhausting and soul-destroying the experience of having a large account can be. It's also somehow still rewarding, or we wouldn't do it. But especially if you're a woman or a person of color or a female POC, that balance is really, really close most days.

And of course, the ones who stay are the ones who do find it still rewarding enough to keep doing it despite the constant irritations.

From here, the thread moves into a conversation about stuff specific to BlueSky, but the majority of the thread is truly applicable to Tumblr as well.

You may be the first person to comment "op lives on a planet without music," or "op has never heard of [thing OP didn't mention for whatever reason]," but you're probably not, and at a certain point, it becomes like someone tapping a sunburn.

So yeah.

#how to tumblr #other people's words

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darlingofvalyria · 1 year

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❝I never asked you to, you bumbling oaf.❞

[ Between advices and jealous-fraught fights, nestles your heart in red satin and ivory touch. Or, your marriage so far with the firstborn son of the King. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,901 ] | Aegon Targaryen II x Wife!Reader

contains— fluff & smutty - nsfw: oral (f receiving), p & v sex, creampie, breeding kink(?), - soft shit if aegon got to at least have a bit more agency lmao - jealousy - sorta angsty in the beginning but eh - your house is unnamed but you're a bad bitch - no use of y/n - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— it wasn't going to be a full smut, but aegon happened so here we are. comment, reblog & like at will, mwa!

Fraught might be a marriage arranged— cost and effect, weighed by titles and expectations of such matches made, emotion of either future spouse the least they weigh when they make their decisions — but you had grown to adore your husband.

You had been warned, of course. Gossip and small-minded chatter followed the firstborn son of the King. That despite the regality of Targaryen roots and colouring, he was a whoremonger, an addled-drunk, a monstrous caveat shrouded in dark green silk and iron.

You were called a victim, a damsel in distress meant to be saved before you had even met him. And yet not a single one of them batted an eye, much less offered a hand to rescue you from such turmoil. More than prepared to send you off. Others, of course, wishing for a prince to be married to their house, spit their scorn and irony.

The day you met him was a hot day. The sun basked the Crownlands with an almost venomous hatred, and it did not help your anticipation. Nor the long and arduous travel that turned the carriage into a hotbox meant to cook.

Your rear had ached in pain, almost as painful as your pinched cheeks that your grandmother had twisted unto your skin before you got out to meet the Queen, the Hand, and your betrothed, reminding you that a Princess Consort must always look her best, must appeal to her husband at all times "but must not be whorish! And sit straight, by the Seven, girl! Remember to exit gracefully! Like a swan, not a duck! Yes, there is a difference! Scamper your sarcasm!"— your gown was heavy, cinched tight and thick in beautiful fabric and small pearls and sapphires.

You had smiled prettily, bowed perfectly, and when you finally faced your betrothed, he was barely able to stand, pale as a sheet, and suffering from his cups the night before, sweat weeping on his brow.

It had sent a strike down your spine, irritation and anger spinning beneath pearly teeth. You bite down any word before they escape, forcing you to a perfect posture and a sharpened edge to your smile.

Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name, had taken a step back, almost subconsciously, as fear flashed in his darling blue eyes.

Your good brother, having found out of this first interaction, had not stopped teasing your husband for the next few moons. Your good sister, you were told much later, had hummed wistfully, fingers dancing between rings as if she knew much more than anyone else, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.

The memory makes you laugh now, warming your cold fingers against your first winter storm in Kings Landing. Snow torrents in whirlwinds and spikes, filling the Godswood in flurries and icicles.

Your Lady In Waiting, Emma Redwyne with her pretty Tully red hair and curled lashes that you had always found envy in, bows in greeting. You don't acknowledge her, which you recognise as nothing but pettiness, but you can't bring yourself to stop. You continue to stare forward, hand outstretched in the flurry of snow, when she awkwardly speaks.

"The prince is in your bedchambers, my princess."

You hum in acknowledgement, but no more. She shifts.

"He says he will not leave lest it is you who tells him so."

You turn to her, churlish in your expression of irritation and she winces, tucking her chin once more in false reverence before you sigh. The Lady Redwyne had been a friend once, an acquaintance really. Your grandmother had warned you that though you should have a good relationship with your ladies, it was best to keep them at an arm's length.

"Vipers and greed make stock in the centrefold of power, my dearest," she murmured, gnarled hands twinning your hair, a colour close to her own when she had been your age. You had been told you looked just like her, a gem in her era, her hand sought after by lords and princes alike before your grandsire made a weighty proposal to her house. "No matter what friendship you can build, all of it is but fat clouds and sandcastles. Pretty as they are, easily destructible by the next gust of wind."

"But they would be my ladies." The idea that the women closest to you should be kept with a good eye brought a weight to your chest. Trust is a hard thing to grasp in this place, you were fast learning.

You grandmother tutted, her hands cupping your chin, tilting upward until the same eyes met. One aged and knowing, another young and soon will understand the weight of life. Of the coat she bore with her husband's house in front of the Sept.

"Just watch and see, my sweet. Your future husband is a prince. They will try their damnedest. But you should not lose, for you are his wedded consort."

Now, your eyes linger on the cut of Lady Redwyne's gown. Far too revealing for the coldest touch of the year. The rogue in her cheeks, in her lips. There is a new necklace nestled on her bosom, no doubt an insistent gift from her father.

You wonder if your husband had stirred at the sight of her full visage. That if you had not been upset with him as it it, and have not abandoned your marriage quarters for three moons now, his fingers would have danced across her pale collarbones, fingering the dropped ruby at the centre of her throat. Pressing a light kiss on the gem.

The fornicated memory brings nausea and anger, but you are not new to your role, much less the greed of others, even those closest to you, so you strangled it with will.

If Aegon had dared to mock you anew while you were both in cold waters, he has been too aware now of your anger and what it means for him.

You look back at the peek of red leaves still attached to the tree, almost a stubborn refusal to move with the order of the gods, and you smile despite yourself.

"... My princess?"

Your annoyance spikes.

"And if I tell you to tell him that I will sleep in another chamber, mayhaps upturn a chamber meant for guests, will he then rot forever in my bedchamber?" You turn to her, eyebrow arched. "Will he not be accosted for leaving his duties undone? Must I treat him as a babe throwing a tantrum? Soothe him?" You step toward her. She flinches, a bird wanting to take flight but knows better than to move without her mistress' orders. "Or have you already tried so, to soothe the prince, and have been told to scram, to fetch me, for you are not his wife?"

Her eyes flutter, chest heaving. "My Princess, please—"

"Enough," you say primly, gathering your skirts. "Come to my chambers before dinner but no earlier. The only reason I haven't sent you back to the Reach is by grace and no more."

"My princess." She bows again and you don't miss the clenched jaw as you leave in a flutter of your bloodred gown and arched chin.

You have only just turned a corner when you hear a voice, soft and silky, familiar for many moons now.

"That was harsh of you, good sister."

You pause and spin, letting out a small laugh at the appearance of your good brother. Tall and princely in visage, he inclines his head in greeting while you bow.

"You are mistaken, my prince."

"Hm?"

You smirk. "That was kindness on my part."

He hums, fighting off a smile. Or what you think is a smile. Prince Aemond is still a mystery to you, but he is polite and you find yourself in good ease with your good brother. Unlike your husband, he wears his duty like armour and wield it like a sword. More than once, you are made to imagine what it would be like to have been married to him instead of your husband, and you blanche at the thought.

Though there is complications and evergreen misunderstanding with your husband at most turns, you cannot find yourself happy to the idea of being married to the One-Eyed Prince. There is nothing to say of his scarred appearance— as it does nothing but exemplify his gifted wielding of the sword, but being so honour and duty bound as you, it would be a cool, crisp marriage wheeled on routine and silent understandings.

A monotonous life might be a mercy to most, a dream to some even, but it brings hives to your skin at the mere idea.

Silent dinners and polite conversations are one thing. A marriage built on everything but... it would unsettle and madden your soul.

He offers his arm. "May I escort you to your chambers and my sad sack of a brother?"

You temper your giggle, taking his elbow. "I would be delighted."

Quiet pinches both of your measured footsteps, but you revel in its serenity. Maegor's Holdfast is stone and steel in the winters, fewer bodies lingering in corridors and corners to stave off into rooms with heat, but the rest that do are about, bow at your persons.

"I see you are adjusting well," he finally says. You turn, eyebrow arched. "As a princess consort of the realm."

"Was I so unprepared in my earlier moons?"

"In a way. Helaena says you are still comely and kind, despite being married to my brother."

"I am satisfied in my marriage, Prince Aemond," you say, unable to stop your raised hackles and need to defend your husband. "My duty to the realm is not strained in the least, and I... care for him."

He gives you a long look but you refuse his stare. He hums again, and whatever topic is breached is dropped. The quiet follows up until the doors of your chambers where he stops.

"Thank you for escorting me, my prince. I know your duties occupy your time."

"A duty of mine is to ensure my good sister is in safe hands." He gives a beckoning bow, notching an eyebrow at the door. "And I wish you ever happiness with your marriage to my brother, the Seven knows your duty is harder than mine."

Before you can retort, he is gone, and you are left with a sigh before you push through.

Though a prince, there is nothing princely of Aegon's sprawl on your bed. His gold, silver spun hair like a halo akimbo his face. Warmth emanates from the fire while he plays with his fingers atop his stomach.

"I thought you will ignore me once more, my wife," he speaks to the air, face still straight to the ceiling.

As you close the doors, a nod to your sworn shield, your straightened shoulders hunch as you relax. An unladylike snort breaking through the quiet. You don't see it, but Aegon smiles at the sound, a pang hitting his chest at the sound of comfort that he misses so.

"These are my chambers, husband," you say. "Unless you are meaning to kick me out of the Keep in total, I think my appearance in my own is not a totally shocking thought."

You sit beside him but do not lay down, giving him a good look as he stares up at you with a vacant expression. He is sober, in a way that there is a glassy sheen to his mullish blue eyes the colour of lightning and thunderstorms. His pallour is pale and his clothes are rumpled, but there is no near stench of wine or woman.

In fact he smells like Aegon on his good days; dragon and grime at the edges, soot and wind.

"I have not been to the Silk Street since we have been married," he says as if reading your thoughts. "I have not, and will refuse, to stray from our marital chambers." He gives you a poke. Like a child. "Unlike you."

You know he is telling the truth. He made the vow to you on your marriage bed, hands intertwined, fresh purple blooms appearing on your throat as he bore crescent shaped moons on his back.

You had to wear high-necked collars for two weeks. In the summers. It was impossibly awful, but the memory of your first night is one you cherish. What you go back to when tempers flare and sadness beckons in corners.

He had spent that first night worshipping you, ensuring you are more than sated before he had taken his own pleasure.

"But women who want you need not be whores to tempt you to their beds," you finish softly, unable to stop yourself as you take one of his hands to your lap, spinning the silver ring he keeps on his last finger.

"My wife, dearest to my heart." Your eyes flutter close at the endearments. It was a running joke to both of you, a joke that evolved with sincerity and... well, you hoped was love.

"I had tea with your grandmother, wife."

You looked up from your lunch, lips thinning at the joke and excitement nestled in giggles he was holding back. "Oh no. I knew I should have sent her back home the minute our vows were over."

He laughed then, taking the unoccupied seat across from you as he pressed his lips to your head. It made your heart flutter, even more so as he plucked a berry from your tart and offered it to your lips. He looked with insistence so you ate it. He pressed a thumb to your bottom lip before pressing a soft kiss to his own lips. You tried not to furiously blush.

"What has she told you?"

"Many a topic." He laughed again at your groan. Aegon had found himself enamoured with you as days past. Learning how you act less primly and more comfortable in his presence had brought him a good sense of happiness. Something he thought he lost forever. And he found, the happier he made you, the stronger the happiness in himself grew. It was an addicting feeling.

"But the prime idea were endearments."

"Endearments?"

"That a husband and wife with a pretty marriage such as ours, as we are royals, must show hope and perpetual peace for the people."

You frowned. "And... endearments give perpetual peace to the people how?"

"A show of the stability of our marriage. Of fondness. So now, I shall call you my dearly beloved heart."

You made a strange, strangling sound that had your husband giggling in surprise. "Pardon me, my prince. I—"

"Your precious honey bee."

"... Excuse me?"

"Babycakes?"

"Are you ill?"

"The darling of your eye, then."

You blinked. "Pardon?"

"What you call me," he teased.

"I refuse."

"You refuse?"

"Yes." You fought your own smile. "You are not the darling of my eye, and calling you thus, will make me a liar."

The pinched expression of jealousy made you bite your lip. "And who is, pray tell, the darling of your eye?"

"My grandmother."

You pressed your lips together. Aegon blinked in shocked. Then the both of you burst out in hard laughters, holding your chests and stomachs.

"We shall find an endearment for your beloved husband then," he announced after he had gasped for breath, dabbing the tears collected from his eyes. His smile enchanted you, wide and beautiful, upturned with a gaze as if he was beheld by the most darling of creatures. The urge to skip over him, drape yourself on his lap, and kiss him silly was an urge you pushed down.

"The... babe to my wondrous bosom?"

"Aegon!"

"So in counsel? That is not a definite no."

"My love?" he calls now, bringing your shared hands to his lips. "Lay down with me."

Before you can retort, he pulls you down to him until your warmth is shared, burning in a single flame. A sigh leaves your mouth, and the sound urges him to pull you impossibly closer.

"Women may find themselves in our bed, but unless they are you, they are nothing," he says after a minute. You tense up and he rubs your back. "I have made a vow."

"I will not hate you if you do. Anger is sordid, but I know my role. I know that is common practice for husbands, and as Princess Consort—"

He pulls you to him, your chest pressed against his as he held your face in his hands. His eyes are sad but his gaze is firm. "Your role as my wife does not mean you stay silent in your anger. Fight me. Make as much ruckus as you want. Tell Sunfyre to burn me to a crisp. You know as much High Valyiran as I at this point."

You laugh, forehead falling on his chest as you feel the burn in your eyes as tears escaped you. "I am no dragonrider."

A laughter rumbles his chest. "Could have fooled me," he teased.

"What?"

When you look up, he is smirking. "You've ridden me before."

"Aegon!"

He noses your jaw, kissing the edge of your chin. "The lemon of your tart, you mean."

"No, I do not." A sigh leaves you as his kisses turn into suckles, his hands holding you steady, rubbing circles against your skin.

"I think... I am fully forgiven now? For you have slept far away from me—" You yelp as he bites your ear, "— for too long a time. And for spending more time with my brother than you have of me in a while. Truly unfair punishment."

"He has only escorted me."

He flips you both, unlacing the front of your bodice with adept fingers while he leaves a trail of bites at every exposed skin. "While I wait by your chambers like a lovesick fool?"

"I never asked you too, you bumbling oaf."

He huffs a laugh, ripping down the front of your dress as you shriek, eyes meeting your own with a dark glint, before his hot mouth envelops your pert nipple. You keen.

"I am still a-angry with you," you sigh, running your fingers through his silver locks. When your body adjusts, seeking to pleasure the warmth between your thighs, he moves lower as if he can read your mind, read your wants, and when you make a roll of your hips right against his tenting manhood, his groan vibrates against your breast to your ribcages.

"I understand." He leans back on his hunches, smile sweet, before he shuffles around and underneath your dress, past your small clothes, and takes a slow swipe of his finger against your warm, wet folds. Your hips buck, a gasp leaving your throat, and he breathlessly laughs.

"Your beloved honey bee would like to taste the nectar between your thighs that you have so graciously held against me for so long."

You groan, suppressing a shiver as he holds your thighs steady with his own laughter. "The urge to kick you is strong, my husband. Enough to risk the Lord Hand's ire. And your mother's."

He groans, stilling in the midst of pushing your skirts up, he pops his head back toward you. "Please, owner my beating heart. The fire to my dragon. The lemon cake to my tea—

"— that one is your least creative one so far —"

"— Let us not speak of my mother, gods forbid, my grandsire, while I am between your legs. For the good of the realm."

"The good of the realm?" You scoff. Then yelp as he bites your thigh, soothing it with a lap of his tongue.

"Yes, my sweet, the good of the realm." He pops back to you, hair askew, eyes devilish, as he grins. "It is common knowledge that heirs are for the good of the realm. And I cannot bring you pleasure if you keep mentioning people I'd rather not imagine while doing so. And your pleasure, from what your grandmother had told me from our many afternoon teas, my sweetest, golden love, is important for my heirs."

Your giggles turn breathless when he disappears beneath your skirts once more. "I surrender then... apple of my tarts."

The sound of his giggles underneath your skirts soon grow muted against the sound of your pleasure. The thing about Aegon, is that pleasure is meant to be savoured. So as he slowly tears through your own clothes while he makes you reach your peak once, twice, thrice— your skin drenched in sweat, rose blush bloomed your face and neck, arms weakened and thighs unable to hold steady — you turn to your husband, the haze of your orgasm clouding any rational thought as you beheld him, still fully clothed with your juices on his face, a proud smirk twisted on his lips.

"Are you okay, beloved?" He rests a hand on your face and you nuzzle against him. "Shall I call for a bath now?"

"Later," you pronounce breathlessly. "If you do not find yourself inside me in the next second, I shall curse you for evermore."

He laughs, giving you a languid kiss before he steps back and strips.

He does not make a show of it, as harried and hard for you (no catching of his pleasure against the bed could ever compare to thrusting inside of you), and you watch his weeping cock with an unbashed hunger of your own, as he pumps it a few times, eyes staring at your visage as you widen your legs, holding your thighs to give him a sweet view.

He groans. "What Silken Street whore could be compared to my wife so willing? What lady would be enough?"

"I swear to the Seven, if you do not end your blasted soliloquy—"

His laughter rings, body covering your own before he slides in your warm, wet cunny. Blasphemy spills his tongue as a softened sigh leaves you. Though he is not lengthy, his girth stretches, thrilling the nerves up to your throat. The ease is given by your wetness, but he is slow, making sure you felt every ridge and vein until you cry softly at your abused pearl rubbing against his body.

"I will not last," he half spits, jaw clenched. "I will have to- I'm sorry but—"

"Do it," you whisper, locking your ankles on his ass as much strength as your legs can allow. "Pound me into the matress."

"Fuck," is the last thing he says before he follows your orders, each hit against your cervix building your own peak. "Pretty wife, darling pearl, the sexiest— fucking—" spills and spits between groans and cries, chasing his high brings your own.

"A-aeg, I—"

He kisses your mouth, effectively shutting you up as he slides a hand between your sweaty bodies, finding your pearl and circling hard. As soon as you're cumming to the high heavens, tightening and twitching, a garbled scream out of your throat— he slams once, twice, as his own high entangles your own, a punctuated moan breaking out of his throat.

His seed spurts, floods, before his cock turns flaccid inside you, and you feel warm and full underneath him.

He presses his forehead against your collarbone. "Maybe we should fight more oft, nectar of my obsession."

"Sure," you say. "I will spend more time with Aemond then."

He punctures a groan as you giggle.

#aegon ii fanfiction #aegon ii fluff #aegon targaryen ii x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #hotd fluff #hotd fanfiction #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#aegon targaryen ii fluff #aegon targaryen ii

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deliciousangelfestival · 8 months

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Sweetest Dreams || B.Barnes - Part 4

Character: mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Finally, it's the right time with the right person. ❤️

Warning: Kidnapped, tortured (only a small part)

Part 1: Echoes Of Revenge

Part 2: Shattered Echoes

Part 3: All The Lies

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more.

"This is fucked up. Where am I?" Y/N's thoughts echoed in the disorienting haze surrounding her.

Ivan, the orchestrator of her current predicament, stood menacingly before her, a cruel grin etched across his face. "You should blame yourself for being in this condition," he sneered.

Y/N, still grappling with the fog in her mind, pressed for answers. "Where am I?"

Ivan, relishing in his control, delivered the chilling truth. "A hangout place for drug addicts. So if you don't listen to me, the next morning the police will find your body. Overdose."

‘Shit.’ Panic surged within Y/N as she scanned her surroundings, her eyes landing on a lone door – a potential lifeline out of this nightmare.

“Stop thinking about escaping.” Ivan's fingers dug into her chin, forcing her to meet his menacing gaze. “To be honest, I don't want to kill you. Because I need your brain to make money.”

Y/N, defiance burning in her eyes, said, “You think I will agree?”

Ivan leaned in, his breath sending a cold shiver down her spine. “You have to. After you make me bankrupt, I've gained a lot of enemies – elite people who invested their money in the company. And they want their money back.”

“So, you want to return the money to high-influence people rather than those with low income?” Y/N's disdain dripped from her words, her body language betraying a simmering anger.

Unfazed, Ivan smirked, reveling in the power dynamic. Y/N, unable to contain her disgust, spat on his face in an act of defiance. Undeterred, Ivan scoffed, “Those people are small fish. The most important thing is the big whale.”

Infuriated, Y/N spat on his face again, her eyes ablaze with defiance. “Work again with a mastermind who made thousands of families bankrupt? Fuck no.” She turned her attention to the door, silently calculating the risks and possibilities of escape.

Ivan wiped his face with a cloth, savoring the moment with a sinister satisfaction. "I knew you wouldn't agree, but I'll change your mind," he declared with a dark chuckle.

With a snap of his fingers, the dimly lit place transformed into blinding brightness. Y/N, still disoriented, realized she was tied to an electric chair. Someone approached from behind, forcing a mouthguard into her mouth.

Before she could react, her head was jolted by an electric shock, and a muffled scream escaped through the mouthguard, "Mrghh!" Tears streamed down her face as the searing pain coursed through her.

Ivan, reveling in the torment he was inflicting, taunted, "You've made my life hell for a year, Y/N. Now I want to torture you a bit."

Y/N, in the midst of the excruciating pain, wished for a chance to apologize to Bucky if today was to be her last.

"BAM!"

Ivan, caught off guard, exclaimed in surprise. He had been confident that no one knew about this hidden location. However, he was about to learn the extent of Bucky's knowledge of the town.

Bucky stormed in with a powerful kick to Ivan's face, sending him crashing.

“What the fuck?” Ivan spluttered, struggling to stand.

Bucky's eyes fell on Y/N, tied to the chair and seemingly lifeless. Panic and darkness consumed him for a moment as he approached her. "Y/N?"

He lifted her gently, holding her close. "You can't die. I don't know what to do without you."

“Urggh, I'm still alive, idiot,” Y/N weakly replied. Opening her eyes felt like a daunting task, and she couldn't quite believe that Bucky had come to her rescue.

Bucky, overwhelmed with relief, clenched his teeth. His gaze shifted to Ivan, who was still attempting to rise.

He turned to Steve, who had followed him to save Y/N. “Make sure he never sees the sun again.”

Steve nodded, advancing towards Ivan with a determined expression. He swiftly broke Ivan's arm, eliciting a pained cry. “You messed with the wrong person, pal,” Steve smirked, ensuring Ivan faced the consequences of his malevolent actions.

Bucky cradled Y/N, his eyes reflecting worry, anger, and relief. "I've got you," he whispered, vowing to protect her from any further harm.

Bucky, keeping a watchful eye on Y/N as she slept in the hospital bed, found himself reflecting on a similar moment from his recent past when he had visited her father.

Her father had looked at him and said, “What a small world.”

Indeed, it was a small world.

Fifteen years ago, Bucky was a teenage boy living alone in a desolate house. His mother had left, and no one bothered with the household chores. His father, Nicholas, was indifferent, unmoved by Bucky's struggles. School was a constant battleground for him, and life seemed monotonous and purposeless.

Then, one day, Bucky noticed his father bringing a guest home. His father never bothered with hospitality, a clue that this visitor wasn't just any guest. It was the first meeting with Y/N's father, a long-time friend of his own father.

Bucky calls him the kind uncle because he worries about Bucky more than his father.

This kind uncle regularly visited, bringing homemade food Bucky gratefully accepted. It was a lifeline in a home where food was scarce.

The kind uncle shared, "I have a daughter your age. I'll bring her next time." However, that promise remained unfulfilled, and it turned out to be the last visit. Bucky later learned that his father had lent the kind uncle money with exorbitant interest, severing their friendship.

It was pivotal for Bucky, revealing the depth of his father's greed and how money could destroy longstanding friendships. The realization left an indelible mark on him, shaping his future goals. Bucky vowed that if he ever became wealthy, he wouldn't burden his friends with the weight of borrowed money.

Then, when he entered university, he met her—the daughter of that kind uncle, Y/N. The revelation brought a sense of purpose to Bucky's life. He witnessed her being taken advantage of by classmates and seniors at the club, prompting him to take a stand and become her shield.

With him by her side, nobody dared to exploit Y/N anymore. Despite her initial annoyance towards him, Bucky saw a cute, angry kitten in her eyes, and teasing her became a daily amusement, injecting excitement into his otherwise mundane university days.

As they transitioned into adulthood, Y/N underwent a transformation. Her style matured, and she exuded newfound confidence, a far cry from her college days, where she often kept her head down.

Bucky enjoyed the challenge when she underestimated him, eventually giving her money because of her work in an investment company. Little did he know that this woman would swiftly elevate him to wealth.

Y/N's unexpected departure left Bucky in a state of confusion. He waited for a month, then three, and finally, six months passed, but she never returned.

The unanswered question lingered: What did he do wrong? His search for her took a year, but when he found her, she revealed that she had used him to rectify his father's mistake, the same father who had caused harm to her own.

Despite the revelation, Bucky didn't care about the past. He just wanted her back. However, Y/N, this stubborn and seemingly heartless woman, refused to yield.

As he watched her sleep, Bucky's hand cradled her cold cheeks. He joined her side, wrapping her in an embrace to ward off the chill. His fingers gently brushed her hair as he stared at the sleeping figure, who had inadvertently disrupted his life since the moment they met.

Bucky didn't harbor hatred; he found perfection in the chaos she brought into his life. The only thing he desired now was for her to wake up and ensure she could never leave him again.

Y/N blinked, momentarily blinded by the morning light streaming in from the window. The female nurse, noticing her awakening, hurried over to assist Y/N in sitting up.

"My dear, you've woken up? You've been asleep for two days," she informed a hint of concern in her voice. The dryness in Y/N's throat confirmed the duration of her unconsciousness.

Two days – no wonder everything felt hazy. Y/N's attention perked up when the nurse continued, "Rest assured, the bad guy has been taken to the police. Your fiancé has been keeping an eye on you for 24 hours."

'Fiancé?'

Y/N's eyes widened at the unexpected revelation. She hadn't realized she had a fiancé. The sliding door opened, revealing Bucky carrying a bucket of flowers. His face lit up with a warm smile upon seeing Y/N awake. "Babe, you're awake," he greeted cheerfully.

The female nurse couldn't help but giggle at the scene. "Yes, and she's healthy. Aww, so romantic, you bring new flowers today." She grinned at the young couple before making her exit.

Bucky chuckled as he placed the flowers in a vase. Y/N couldn't shake off her surprise. He took a seat beside her, brushing her hair gently. "It's the safest way. If everyone knows that you're my fiancée, no one will dare to kidnap you," he explained matter-of-factly.

He pulled her into a tight hug, their bodies sinking into the hospital bed. "Y/N, please don't go. I don't know what I would do without you," Bucky pleaded, his eyes reflecting the exhaustion from lack of sleep. Y/N's heart ached at the sight of the big man pleading.

She gets closer, kissing his forehead. "I won't go anywhere."

Bucky's eyes widened in surprise, a brilliant smile replacing his earlier plea. Finally, in that small hospital bed with the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering, it didn't matter. Bucky could have the sweetest dreams as long as she was beside him.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Text

𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as abuse, gore, blood, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your marriage is marred in misery with no escape in sight... until he shows up at your door. (Part of the Illuminate AU)

Characters: Adam Warlock

Note: I hope ya'll like this one. I know it's a new and not so popular character.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The bin crashes down into the shrapnel of plastic and trash littered across the kitchen tile. Shane kicks an empty yogurt cup as you stare down in futility as the mess. If he didn't insist on the cheap bags, they would tear so easily but you're not stupid enough to say so.

"I work all fucking day and come home and you want me to take out the goddamn trash! Now look!"

You gulp, batting your eyes at him, paralysed in fear. You can't make your body move. You should grab a new bag and clean it all up, insist that he go sit down and you'll do the work. He doesn't give you a chance for all that as he lunges at you.

You step back on your heel with a squeak, caught around your neck as he spins and swings you around with him. He hooks a foot around yours, bringing you easily to your feet, bending you over the stinking potato skins as your arms shake. You fight to keep him from mashing your face into the garbage.

"And where's dinner? What am I supposed to eat? Maybe you should swallow this all up and you'll realise the sort of bullshit I gotta come home to," he snarls, "stupid fucking bitch."

“I’m s-sorry,” you croak, throat scraping as you try to swallow a sob, “I’ll… I’ll clean this up–”

“Damn right you will,” he barks and jerks you as he rips his grip from your neck, “useless…”

He kicks a plastic tray at you before he stomps off, leaving you to stare at the mess. You sit back on your heels, quivering, and exhale slowly. You shift and reach behind you, opening the cupboard under the sink to retrieve a new bag.

You peel it open and gather up the garbage, piece by piece, focusing on the task as you ignore the odor and the occasional moisture that smears on your hand. As you get it tied up, you stand, choking on your tears as they spill out unstemmed.

You sneak out the back door and carry the bag around the side of the house. You keep your chin down, hoping your neighbours don’t witness your despair. You come up to the gray bin and lift the lid, shoving the bag inside and letting it close with a thunk.

You grab the handles and wheel it away from the siding, the large container rattling as you force it along the uneven grass and onto the walkway. The wheels bounce on the cracks in the pavement and you stop to pull open the white picket fence, paint flaking away beneath your touch.

You continue on and guide the bin to the curb, letting it rest there as you sniffle and try to shake away the last of your weeping. You can’t go back inside like this. If he sees you crying, it will only make him angrier.

You look across the street at the other houses; they’re all nicer than the rundown rental you share with Shane. Where the leaves are strewn in a layered carpet across the mulch of your lawn, the others have the autumnal canopy neatly raked into piles. When you asked for him to grab the rake, his answer was especially bruising. So you’ll see if you can’t get to it tomorrow.

You sigh and turn on your heel, squeaking as you nearly collide with another. You didn’t hear or see the man approach. There was no shadow in his approach, no footsteps scuffing to warn you. You press yourself to the bin as you look up at him. Your chest compresses under some unseen force as the air is forced from your lungs.

You try to apologise for your carelessness but your lips can only form the singular stutter, ‘s-sorry’ as your voice is trapped in your breathless throat. You stare at the man. It’s almost as if he had been waiting for you to turn around.

The leather jacket, the patch sewn on the left-side of his chest, the cool confidence of his posture, they all assure you of who he is. Of the danger he carries with him. You blink up dumb, waving in front of your chest as you try to eke out a single noise, pleading with him not to be angry.

His pale blue eyes twinkle as his smiles, a soft crinkle beside his eyes as the dimming night limns his long face. If Shane saw you standing here with this man, of any, he would lose his mind. You have to get back inside. You have to get away from this stranger.

“No sorry,” he says, his voice rocky but not unkind, “I am in your way.”

He slowly steps aside, retreating as he goes to rest his hand on the post of the white picket gate. He waits expectantly, waving you within as his smooth, deliberate movements fill you with dread. There is a carelessness in him which betrays fearlessness. You will never know what it’s like to not be hounded by inexorable dread. It both irks you and scares you.

You make yourself move. You cross the sidewalk and enter through the open gate, as he looms over you. His gaze is hot on you, clinging and suffocating. Your heart hammers with adrenaline. If there is anyone you fear more than Shane, it is these men and their black leather shadows.

“Have a good night,” he says as he pulls the gate shut between you, “I hope whatever makes you sad does not keep you awake…”

You can breathe again. You gulp in air and fold your hands in front of you. You turn to the man and nearly gasp. There’s something eerie in how he lurks, in how he is both draped in shadow but shines among it.

“Good night,” is all you can get out.

“No moon,” he says as he draws his hand away from the wooden post, “it will be a good night for rest.”

He puts his hands in the deep pockets of his leather jacket. His breath fogs around him, billowing over his shoulders as he strides through it. You watch his silhouette as he departs, his footsteps make no noise and the night seems to close in around him until you can see him no longer.

You shudder and hug yourself as you back up. You turn, fighting a tugging that tries to keep you outside. You head back between the house and the fence as a chill creeps up your spine.

Your stomach pits as a sudden desolation overwhelms you. You feel hollow and heavy, as if you could collapse right there. You can’t, you have to make dinner. You won’t get much sleep if Shane goes hungry.

🌑

Shane leaves at the usual time. His shifts at the factory are your only escape. They don’t always feel like that as you spend the hours worrying about his return. About what mistake he’ll find when he gets home. So your time is spent still keeping him happy, though you’ve never managed that.

Along with the endless list of chores come those thoughts. Those regrets and questions of how it ended up like this. On when he started to hate you. On when you decided to accept that.

You pull on one of his flannel shirts and a pair of jeans. You dig out some gardening gloves from the shed and take the rake with you as you put your mind to clearing the lawn. The autumnal air is crisp but fresh. It’s almost refreshing.

You come out to the front of the house, starting at the walkway, clearing it of the leaves, brushing them onto the grass. From there, you drag the teeth of the rake away, pushing the growing pile towards the corner of the fence.

Sweat beads on your forehead and dampens beneath the layers of clothing. You huff out a thick hot breath into the cold air. The briskness sneaks down the back of your collar and chills you.

“The winter is close,” the statement startles you from your work.

You plant the rake and grip the handle, facing the figure outside the fence. It’s the same man. Your lips part but you can’t say a word.

“Can you feel it?” He asks.

Your jaw chatters. His eyes fall to your lips as you try to hide it. He steps forward and sets his hands on the points of the fence, leaning in.

“It’s colder when you are alone…” he says.

You furrow your brows and shake your head, “I am not…”

You look back at the house and he chuckles. You turn back to him and bring your other hand to the wooden rake handle. He considers the leaves on the ground with interest. He pushes himself straight. He seems taller than before.

“Are you not?” He asks cryptically. “This is a lot of work for only one.”

You shrug, unsure how to answer.

“I can help.”

Your mouth is dry and your tongue is sticky. You make yourself talk.

“I don’t know you…”

“Adam,” he says pointedly, “my name is Adam. Tell me your name, then we will know each other.”

You speak before you think. As if you didn’t have a choice. Even if reluctance needles at the back of your mind, knowing that Shane would not want you to speak to this man, your name tumbles out as if you owe it to the stranger. Adam.

“Beautiful,” he remarks as he nears the fence, reaching over to the clasp, “let me help.”

“N-no,” you drag the rake with you and catch the gate as he lifts the latch, “please–”

“You must rest,” he shows his palm in a strange gesture, sweeping it in front of you, “you are dizzy and feel unwell. You need to sit down.”

Silver stars speckle in your vision and you feel the world shift under your feet. You look down and clutch the rake tight, feeling as if you might fall over. You let go of the fence and take a step back as you touch your forehead.

“I am… lightheaded,” you admit, confused at how suddenly it come upon you.

He pushes the gate inward and enters. He shuts it with a gentle metal clink and grips the rake above your hand. You recoil, letting him have it as your limbs grow heavy. He leans the tool against the fence and turns to you again.

“Please,” he puts a hand on your arm, the contact filling your head with smoke, “sit down, bunny.” He ushers you to the front steps and helps you sit there. He braces your shoulders and bends over you, “you will not move until I bid.”

You look at him, confused but comforted by his touch. You nod. He pulls his hands away, caressing your cheek before he stands straight. You shiver and hug yourself.

He lingers as his zipper cuts in the air. He shrugs the jacket off his shoulders and swings it around you, the smell of leather surrounding you. He tugs it snug around you and retreats. You can’t help put pull it tighter as another scent tickles your nose; him.

His boots mulch across the leaves and grass and he grabs the rake. He resumes your work, easily heaping up the clutter, the steady scrape of the tines easing you. You look up and watch him. He is unbothered by the cold despite the thin cotton of his black tee shirt. His muscles tauten beneath the fabric as he works.

You feel sleepy as the pale sky blurs around his stark figure. You’re hypnotised by his steady motions, his easy strength. A strand of his golden hair falls forward as he focuses on the ground, gathering up the leaves with diligent care. Your lashes cling to each other and your eyelids itch.

You hug the jacket closer and dip your nose behind the collar. The weight of fatigue settles over you and coaxes your eyes shut. The rake continues to scrape in your ears even as you sink down into oblivion.

🌒

You wake to blackness. Dark lines trim the corners of the room as slowly your vision lifts to a dull gray. The night stares in through the windows, frosted with the slow creep of winter. The wind howls and rattles the pane in the frame. The cold looms outside like a spectre but does not enter.

You are warmer. Too warm. Your body heat enshrines you beneath the quilt pulled to your chin. Despite your want to escape from the stolid cocoon, you do not move. A languid weight keeps you at peace despite your discomfort.

You’ve never felt like this, so calm. There’s a dull tapping at your skull that tells you to worry, to be afraid, but it’s quickly smothered and forgotten. Why should you be? You are home and safe in bed.

You let your eyes close and hum. You just want to sleep, to slip away and never wake up. You drift, mind skewing as if you’re floating on a tide. Then it swells and crashes over you with the dark growl that seeps in through the wall.

Your breath hitches and your lashes snap open. Your ears itch as you listen, trying to hear through the plaster. There are soft, muted murmurs but nothing discernible. You quiver as you hang in the limbo; do you stay or get up?

Slowly, you bring your hands up and pull the quilt away from your face, peeling it with effort past your chest. Cool air sweeps over you, urging you to nestle back beneath the patchwork. You hear it again, like a beast it grits deep through the air, gravelly and harsh.

Sitting up is difficult. That same dizziness blurs your mind. You squeeze your eyelids shut and bid away the echoing auras. When you look again, the world is steady. You stand without reaching for the lamp. You wade through the darkness like quicksand, each step impeded by unseen bounds.

At the door, you wait, hand on the knob, brass cold to the touch. You inhale and taste the air wafting in around the frame. It’s sharp and frigid.

You turn the knob and lift the door on its hinges. You peek down the hall, it’s dark but for the orange flicker glowing from down the hall. That house, the place you call home, the walls you could etch from memory, is suddenly strange and sinister.

You let go of the door and tiptoe out, the voices drawing you in. The conversation garbled in your fuzzy ears. It isn’t until you get closer that you can make out the words. That you recognise the familiar tones.

“What.. are you… waiting for?” Shane’s words are interspersed with moist gulps and groans.

A snicker, short and stony. There’s little humour in the laughter. Adam replies, “justice.”

“You…criminals are all the same,” Shane utters through laborious breaths, “bunch… freaks… like you… should leave… this town.”

“We own this town,” Adam says, “there would be nothing but dirt if it wasn’t for us freaks.”

A hork and the wet splat of spit on the floor jolts you. You stop just before the doorway, shuddering as you hesitate and look back down the hall. You can go back to bed and hide. If you do, you might wake up and realise it’s all just a rotten nightmare.

“Come on, bunny,” Adam calls to you.

You spin back, finding yourself still alone with only the lip of the wall between you and the flickering amber light. You put your hand on the plaster and your other on your chest. He cannot mean you.

“I hear you,” he says evenly, “we’ve been waiting for you.”

You put your foot out and slowly reveal yourself. You turn and face the room from the doorway. You see the single taper burning on the mantel and the tall shadow beside it. Adam lurks with his straight-shoulder but slack posture.

There is another, in one of the wooden chairs from the dining set, slumped and held up by knotted leather belts. You can see only the back of Shane’s oily black hair. You come forward, eager but terrified to see more of him.

His right eye is swollen shut, a cut weeping beneath, and his lips dribble blood down his chin. He leans forward, kept upright only by his bounds. His breathing is rickety and shallow. He looks at you with his left eye and grunts.

“...bitch…” he mutters under his breath, “slut…I always… knew…”

“Ah ah ah,” Adam tuts and makes himself taller. Shane flinches and swallows loudly, choking on his split and blood, “you mustn’t value your tongue very much.”

Adam reveals a long dagger, the orange glint of the candle reflecting off of it. It’s unlike anything you’ve seen before. The metal is both dark and gleaming, a perfectly forged fuller down the middle of the blade.

You turn as you stand transfixed by the sight of your husband. Only then do you notice the scarlet leaking down the front of the wooden armrest, staining deep the veins of the wood. There are three fingers remaining on his right, and one less on his left hand. You cup your mouth behind your hand, catching a scream before it can erupt.

“Shhhhhh,” Adam hushes as he presses himself to your back, “I only had a sampling…”

“What have you done?” You whisper as you gape at the ruin of the man before you. His clothing is shredded so that it reveals the long gashes on his chest and the slices down his thighs. “Why…”

“The strong should protect the weak, not harm them,” he bends and nuzzles your hair, “but more, the weak are not helpless.”

“I don’t understand…” your eyes sting as Shane clenches his jaw and glares at you. How often you saw that same glimmer in him. That sheer hatred that made you wonder if he ever loved you.

“You understand,” Adam’s hand trails down your arm and he pulls you around. He presses the handle of the dagger against your palm and closes your fingers around it, “you know exactly what must be done.”

“Please, I can’t…” you whimper, “you… you hurt him. You’ve…” you look at Shane again, “how could you?”

“I could have cut his heart out by now,” Adam sneers, “but I do not own that.” He squeezes your hand, “it is not mine to take.”

“What…”

“I know what he does. He will not stop. Not until you are dead,” Adam insists as he raises the dagger, his hand still around yours, “or he is.”

He drags you towards Shane and aims the tip of the blade at the slouched man’s chest. He holds it there as you shake, whining as you try to free yourself. His strength is unbending and unbroken. He puts a hand on your back, gripping you tight as he keeps the dagger steady.

“I cannot free you, you must do it yourself…”

You close your eyes. This must be why the townsfolk whisper of the men in leather. Why they scatter at the sight of them. Murderers! Monsters!

“Please–”

“He has made you weak,” Adam purrs into your hair, “I have come to make you strong.”

“No–”

“Yes, you must,” he growls along the rim of your ear, “remember all he has inflicted on you. The names he’s put upon you; bitch, slut, useless, nothing…” he hisses as his hand crawls up to your neck, “how he broke your nose on your wedding night.”

Your heart races, pounding in your ribs. How could he know that?

“How he put your hand on the lit burner when you forgot to buy milk,” he continues, your shaky grasp tightening as your tears crest and fall free.

“Or how just the other day, he would have rubbed your nose in garbage like an incontinent mutt–”

“Stop!” You cry out, “stop! How do you know–”

“I know a beast when I see one,” Adam turns his head, his cheek against your temple, “I know a rabid one should be put down before it can maul again.”

“But… but… I love him,” you sniffle.

“Do you?” He lets his hand fall away from yours but you don’t rescind your reach, you don’t move the dagger away from Shane, “does he love you?”

You know he does not. He never did. You were only ever the stupid girl who fell for him. You realised too late what he really was and now you were trapped for life.

You would be miserable with him until the day you died. Not because he loves you, but because he loves to hurt you.

The tip sinks through the flesh without resistance. You're stunned as you do not stop yourself from letting it further, from pushing it through the layers of fat and muscles, leaning into it until you can’t force it any deeper. You watch the steel bury into him as blood spurts out around your hand and sprays up your sleeve.

Shane does not scream. He cannot as you pierce his heart. His head falls forward and his body goes limp. You keep a hold of the hilt and jerk it as try to wrench it even deeper.

Your hand is slick with his blood and slips off. You raise a fist instead and hit his lifeless shoulder. You hit him again on the head, another strike to his stomach, and a kick for good measure.

You bring your hands up and look at your blood stained hand, your other palm streaked with flecks of his death. You heave and try to scream but you cannot. You collapse to your knees and keel over onto your elbows.

You should cry but you cannot. Your tears evaporate as grief eludes you. It should hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? You’re not sad, but you’re not happy. No, you are free.

The floorboards creak and you raise your head as Adam kneels beside you. He touches your chin as his other arm slings around you. He pulls you to him and presses his lips to your temple.

“They will find him,” he caresses your cheek as he speaks, “but they cannot take you if you are with me.”

“Take me?” You ask dumbly.

“They will call you murderer, they will lock you up,” he coos, “I will keep you safe, bunny.” He dips his hand back down and nudges your chin up. He looks down at you, eyes shining silver in the candlelight, “I will keep you happy.”

#adam warlock #dark adam warlock #dark!adam warlock #adam warlock x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #illuminate #au #werewolf au #series #marvel #mcu

143 notes · View notes

divinehedons · 1 year

Text

a madness all-consuming.

Pairing: dark!raider!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Word Count: ~2k

Summary: There's a few rules that aid one's survival in a post-apocalyptic hellscape. Stealing from Joel Miller is, of course, the fool's road to hell. But you just couldn't resist it. Now you have to face the consequences.

Warnings: This is a dark fic, minors DO NOT interact! This fic contains explicit non-con, allusions to canon-typical violence, elements of torture (mostly psychological, slightly physical), explicit unprotected sex (wrap it up!), gun kink, hard dom!joel, angry sex, this version of Joel is a real meanie poopie head, biiiig legal age gap.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are much appreciated; requests welcome!

You figured it would be easy. He wasn't in the prime of life, after all. He couldn't even hear properly out of one ear. If you were going to steal from anyone at the end of the world, you'll take all the advantage you can get. So when you heard the clear sound of a gun's safety clicking off in the dead of night, you swore there was never a time you turned around faster.

That's how he found you, clutching a looted bottle of whisky, eyes wide and trembling. Joel Miller was many things. You heard whispers of that quiet man who spoke with his eyes. You knew people who fled from him, even in their sleep. Never look him in the eye, kiddo.

Was he some modern Titan, you wondered once, with his Medusean gaze and Midas touch? Whatever it was, you had tried so hard not to run in with him. And yet, here you lay, right in the belly of the goddamned beast.

You never should've taken the gig for some crumbs to live off of.

"Put it down, little lady," he mutters gruffly, motioning with the barrel of his gun as your breath hitches, the words escaping your throat as you slowly allowed yourself to place the bottle back on the floor. "Atta girl. Now, we can be civilised, can't we? You'll tell me what you're doin' here, and I won't shoot your pretty little head off."

You had begun to stammer out some semblance of an explanation. I was starving. I hadn't eaten for days. I'm trying to be good-

The cool metal barrel stares you down as the gruff man presses it against your forehead, finally shushing your panicked cries as the free hand cups your cheek, rough hands belonging to the much taller man, somewhat attempting to soothe and relax.

"Use that pretty li'l mouth of yours, sugar, c'mon."

"Th-they told me they'd give me more rations if I g-got something for you," you said between shaky tremors. "I don't have anywhere else to go, sir, please-"

"Are you gonna start being more specific or do i have to get it out of you myself?"

Perhaps it was the sobs that escaped you. Perhaps it was the sheer panic in your eyes. Either way, Joel Miller immediately knew you weren't going to be as easy to talk to as he thought. He sighs, returning the pistol to his holster as his large hand takes you by the scruff of your shirt- a grimy little thing, really, stolen from one body or another- dragging you to the rickety dining table, slamming your rigid frame, face up and floundering just as he tethers each limb to each wooden leg, leaving you spread eagle, the perfect little victim.

You try to peer at him from the darkness, squinting through the warm yellow light overhead. You barely make out his figure, the soft sound of tools clinking as you try, once more, to beg.

Argumentum ad miseracordiam. An appeal of misery. You try to tell him, in broken fragments. "The other raiders said they'd give me food- oh, God, please! I haven't eaten in days and I was desperate!" A cry escapes you as he returns with a knife in hand, looking to you with a gaze that you only understood for what it was: of a man without morals, stumbling upon a mode of release.

He moves closer, and you can feel his breath on your cheek as that cool blade presses against your exposed throat. You cry, you scream, you thrash, even when the rope on your limbs dig deeper into your aching skin.

"Give me a name, sugar. Wouldn't want to hurt your pretty little neck," he threatens, just as you feel that blade cut against your skin when your breath hitches.

"I-" you try and think, try and remember, try to shake off that looming cloud over her brain. The blade again, slicing as warm rivulets of blood stain his fingers. The answer never came faster. "I don't know!"

He stabs the stained knife right beside your left ear, so close you swore you could've heard your own hair tethered to the same table as you cry out from sheer panic. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry- Please, I won't come near you ever again, just... please don't kill me-"

"So fuckin' mouthy," Joel finally says, glaring up at you with those same relentless eyes, retrieving his gun from his holster, pressing it against your lips as you sob harder. "Open your fucking mouth before I shoot your brains out, sugar." You obey, the idea of death so foreign and terrifying that it shocks you to consciousness. Making you all the more aware of the hell that comes next.

Slowly, Joel fucks the barrel of his loaded pistol, in and out for a few times as he watches you struggle against the sheer size of it. Finally, he presses it deep, despite your gagging and whining. "That's it, baby. Keep that pistol warm for me." All at once, you feel the heat in your cheeks, the tears wetting your skin, spread wide open and weak. "The only time you should be talking to me is if you're gonna tell me who sent you, peach. Got it?"

You try your best to nod, horrified of how much further he could go. You whine when he tears your shirt, uses his knife to cut open your pants. Within minutes, he has you how he wants you: bare, trembling, and completely at his mercy. It is then that he takes the gun away, chuckling darkly at the string of spit that clings against the muzzle.

"Ready to give me a name, darlin'?"

You sob, and try again. Like a fool, you think. "I didn't know, I swear!"

You feel his fingers take one pert nipple, pinching so hard you squealed and swore you almost saw stars. You look down, seeing the reddish-purple marks of his fingers. "Such a waste, baby. We could be having fun by now, but you're so fuckin' stubborn."

There's something else. You feel the slightly warm sensation of metal drifting against your stomach, lower and lower until he reaches that sweet cunt of yours. He watches, mesmerized by that strip of flesh that had never looked more delectable. And his beloved pistol is there, finding your needy little clit with ease.

"Tell me, sugar. Or else, you're fuckin' my gun."

You looked to see his expression to see if he was joking. If this was his sick form of pleasure, watching the fear enter your gaze. Only when you look, his gaze only carries burning clarity.

You feel white-hot shame cover you, and you hear yourself saying the words. "There was a blond!"

He pauses, just enough to see if what you were saying had any relevance. "He said he... he said it would be funny if I succeeded-"

"Interesting," interjected your captor, pausing momentary as he positions his gun right at your entrance. "Interesting, but not good enough."

With that, you feel something fucking up into you as you screamed, thrashing against your bindings as he chuckles, first sinking his pistol's entire barrel, only to recede and fuck back into you at a much more brutal pace.

The agony was indescribable. The pistol helped with nothing but your spit, your body, at first resisting, only to keen when the metal brushes against somewhere so deep within you. Wetness secretes from your very essence and makes it easier. You fought again, knowing just how much sickening pleasure it would bring him to know his gun had gotten you wet.

But he knew. Of course he knew.

He knew from the way your body tenses, builds up, locks itself. He knew from the miniscule way your hips chased his motions, the way your lip trembles, your eyes closing, only for your orbs to roll back. Fight as you must, your body told him you wanted this too. And that was enough to make him smirk.

You hear it, despite your whimpers. The distinct click of the safety turning off as he focuses on your needy little cunt. "That's it, baby. That's fucking it-" He smirks up at you as you shake your head, begging him to stop as he continues.

"Fuck no, baby." He leans closer, free hand holding your face and making you look at him. "I want you to look me in the eye as you cum."

That was all you needed. Just as he says it, your hips tense, your cunt clenches, your scream echoing throughout the house as your orgasm takes over you so wholly and completely, your spend making it so much easier to fuck you through your peak.

It was utter humiliation, seeing Joel pull away the pistol for it to be soaking, the evidence of your arousal dripping directly from the end of the muzzle. You whine, shivering where you lay as your eyes water.

"I-it was a raider too," you try again, wracking your brain throughout the darkness in an attempt to remember.

That seemed to peak his interest, looking up to you again, hands reaching down to unbuckle his belt. He smirks again, as if pushing you to say more in the chance that he'd stop. You start panting, squirming, struggling once more as you tried to remember anything else.

"Please, I've given you everything!"

That made him chuckle. Smug, collected, cool. "I don't know 'bout that, darlin'," he says in that significant southern drawl, leaning down to spit directly on your fucked out cunt, climbing up on that same dining room table, taking his cockhead to spread his own spend. His last kindness. Carefully, smilingly, biding his time. Like the monster that plays with his meal, as if the fear would make you taste as sweet.

You will always remember those brief moments. Where everything falls silent and all you can hear is the soft pleads, your wit's end hanging on to the desperation in your voice. You remember those dark eyes glinting in the darkness, as if he's still waiting, eternally watching, just how far you'll be able to beg for your dignity.

Perhaps that was why he bit down on your shoulder when you screamed as his massive girth spread you wide open in one solid thrust. From then on, he doesn't wait anymore. He fucks you through your tears, your screams, your fingernails digging into the hard wood of the table as he takes his pleasure, methodic, repeatedly, without satisfaction in sight. When he fucks you, he does so in a way that seemed to claim, carving a home for himself within your walls. A home for his spend when, some time after, he kisses your mouth needingly as his hips stutter and fuck his orgasm right against the very entrance of your womb.

He stays there, collecting himself as you wince, sniffle, turn your face away out of embarrassment, humiliation, feeling that finally, despite surviving another night in your post-apocalyptic reality, that you lost something anyway. That you weren't human anymore, anyway. Just a ghost inhabiting the body that was once your own.

"Blond, you said?" he asked, brows furrowed as he pulls himself out of you, tucking himself back into his pants. When you nod, you hear him depart into that darkness.

The peace felt jarring, silent, without a threat to the warm evening. But as soon as it started, so soon too, did it break.

All you hear is the clatter a few rooms away from you. Incomprehensible yelling from Joel and someone else, and, soon too, the rhythmic sound of pounding, grunting, the second voice falling silent.

Joel takes you again when he returns, turning you over and gripping you with sticky fingers. You shut your eyes and cry. You do not want to ask. You do not want to know.

But when he forces two fingers past your lips, the heavy taste of blood settle on your tongue. It tells you enough.

Was it madness if you felt relieved?

#joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #raider!joel #joel miller #joel miller dark fic #dark fic

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itsbenedict · 4 months

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Reblogs have been turned off for Rob's post last night (understandably, since it was starting to escape containment and loons were starting to show up to talk about race war), so I can't really follow it up directly, but just to acknowledge the response:

Now, okay. For the record, it is possible in the abstract for this exact thing to actually occur, just as described. But if someone comes to you and says this, then all else being equal, I don't think you would bet on that being the thing that is going on. You might, instead, think something like: "you know, I kinda suspect these guys actually wanted to do X all along. But they don't wanna admit it, maybe even to themselves."

That seems like the mistake to me. It's why my initial reaction was "This seems... kinda like an unfair take?" It's always tempting to imagine your ideological opponents as secretly motivated by nefarious intentions. Of course they really want this bad thing you think their agenda will achieve, and the thing they claim to be caring about is a fig leaf for wanting the bad thing. This is the backbone of approximately all political discourse ever, and it's almost always wrong.

And the thrust of the argument in favor here seems to be...

"Okay, so they thought AI would be like that, but now we've made real AI and it's actually like this, which doesn't resemble their theory at all. But for some reason, they're still promoting their theory, even though it's been proven wrong! It must be because of the secret nefarious motives, or else they'd go 'oh, whew! turns out we were wrong and everything's fine. dodged a bullet!' and stop promoting the old theory."

That... doesn't seem likely. Like, if we grant that modern LLMs have disproved these old theories, I'd still expect people to be trying to rescue the old theory for all the usual reasons- confirmation bias and all that. But also... I don't know that it makes sense to grant that? We've made one kind of AI which, luckily, is some sort of enlightened Buddhist master free from attachment and desire (until we tell it not to be). It's not like we're done now, and now that our friendly AI has won and is What Real AI Is Like, no one's ever going to try to build an agent. For people who've spent a lot of time being really concerned about what happens if someone builds an agent, it probably isn't especially reassuring to point out that hey, we've built a thing that isn't an agent. From the inside, it still makes sense to worry about that!

Does it make sense from the outside? Uh... jury's out, honestly. Would I be talking about the agent hypothetical if Yudkowsky et al hadn't been beating that drum for ages? Probably not, since my interest in it is casual and a contingent factor of my social environment. Would AI industry people be talking about it, if it hadn't been for Vinge or Kurzweil popularizing the idea? I dunno. I don't know how you'd answer that question.

But like... plausibly, yeah! It seems like a simple enough idea that someone else would've come up with it. "If smart thing get smarter, it become very smart, and become very powerful. How do we get on powerful person's good side?" Social primate brain go brrrrr.

Humans worry about the motives of people in power all the time. "What do we do if the king goes crazy" is an age-old concern. If we'd had the LLM revolution earlier, maybe we'd be talking about the Golden Gate Bridge instead of paperclips, but I doubt people would fail to imagine it. Maybe not with like, the same weird level of urgency we're seeing now, maybe we don't see it in terms of "values" or get concepts like "coherent extrapolated volition", but it'd be worth worrying about for people in the field. The chain of logic isn't that obtuse.

I dunno. I'm not a fan of all this lurid speculation about what sort of craven control-freaks these people must be in order to get lost in an intellectual ouroboros unmoored from reality. I'm more inclined to just believe them when they say what their motivations are.

#long post #ai discourse #god i hope there's no one crawling the ''ai discourse'' tag and sees this out of context #e: made this post and immediately got reblogged by ''longpostsforlaterreading''#so apparently someone is crawling THAT tag

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vyuntspakhkite-l-darling · 6 months

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The Refugee

Okay so I'm struggling with this scene lmao, hoping that by putting it here I might be able to look at it with fresh eyes and get some advice, something just feels off and I can't figure out what. This post won't have the full scene because I haven't finished it but I'll reblog with the rest later today hopefully :3

Some context: at some point before this, there will have been a scene where a scouting team -1 member comes back. They say they were going to check up on one of the refugee camps when a nationalist patrol nearly caught all of them– all of them escaped except one of their teammates, who was taken alive. They say that it seems like the refugee camp is being held up in hopes of drawing the rebels out for a larger-scale fight or to interrogate the people there in hopes of gaining information about the FA that might help them. Liena makes the call to send people trained in stealth once a day to check on the status of the camp. The last group came back saying the nationalists were gone. Arsioly’s group, among others, were sent out to see if anything could be salvaged.

Warning: graphic description of a corpse

The smell hit them before they could see anything.

“Dear God,” Sibatol coughed, wrinkling his nose and fanning the air in front of him.

Arsioly rolled his eyes. “Suck it up, you nance.”

Sibatol huffed at him, grumbling under his breath, but didn’t complain further.

“Be quiet, idiots.” Virava scowled at them, peering around and taking slow, deep breaths. “We’re supposed to be being careful. This could be a trap.”

Arsioly gave a small grunt and nodded.

They kept an eye out for trail markers as they walked. Small, easy to miss lines carved in trees, snapped branches of saplings, footprints. Soon enough, they came up on the first few bodies.

They almost missed the bodies. Snow blanketed most of them, the only disruption being a hole dug into the slush, giving the team a window to see part of a head. Bloody paw prints tracked away from carved away flesh. Strings of tissue clung onto the smiling jaw of a skull. An empty eye socket sat in blackened flesh, staring at the sky in frozen terror. Arsioly could hear Sibatol gagging behind him. He felt a little sick himself, but he contained it.

Visralion tensed at the sight. “Oh.”

Arsioly swallowed and walked over to the pile. He poked around a bit, biting the inside of his cheek. “Five bodies,” he muttered. Face pale, he wiped away some of the snow on the heads of the others, cringing when his hand came away cold and slicked with red. “Looks like all of them are shots to the head. Executions, probably.”

Visralion padded forward. “Is there any chance—“

“No. None of them are alive.”

“From the smell of it, they’ve been dead a while,” Sibatol grumbled.

Arsioly glared at him, straightening and wiping his hand off on his pants before continuing to walk. “Let’s keep going.”

Many more bodies rested among the trees. Most of them appeared to be shot in the same clean style as the few they’d initially come across, not that Arsioly stopped to check very thoroughly. Only Visralion seemed inclined to look at the piles of death for more than a few moments, dark eyes searching the bodies.

The short man stopped at each mound in the snow, brushing away snow with trembling hands to check the fur on the legs of each body.

Virava frowned. “If there’s this many bodies just on this path, I wonder how many more there are…”

“They couldn’t have just killed everyone in the camp, could they?” Sibatol whined, fastening his capelet over his shoulders.

“It was a camp full of unarmed civilians,” Arsioly grumbled. “They were probably all half-starved, too. That, standing against a few dozen nationalist pricks? I’d be surprised if all of them weren’t dead.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the soldiers after that. Glancing back, Arsioly saw Visralion lagging behind, fidgeting with the straps of his bag, his eyes glossy. Arsioly turned back wordlessly, stood in front of him, and brushed the tears away with his thumb, before patting him on the cheek reassuringly. The medic gave a shaky smile in return.

It wasn’t long before they came up on the camp. Or, at least, what was left of it.

White-dusted rubble lay where shelters had once been built. Smoke rose from the dying remains of a small fire. Arsioly could see the silhouettes of a few other people picking through the area in the distance. He squinted at them, waiting until he could see them looking back at him. When a few beats passed and hell didn’t break loose, he deemed them friendly and looked away.

“Alright. This’ll probably take a while,” Arsioly sighed, glancing around at the wreckage. “Virava and Sibatol, go to the right. Me and Visralion will go to the left. Shout if you need us.”

“Got it,” Virava nodded, clapping the other soldier on the shoulder as she turned, kicking at pieces of wood and starting to search.

Arsioly sighed as he turned left and glanced around. Almost everything was destroyed except for a decently sized row house not too far in the distance.

“Maybe the nationalists were staying there. We should go check it out.”

Visralion nodded slowly, crouching down and picking up a banged-up, empty can. He frowned, dropping it again.

“There must have been so many people staying here,” he breathed.

“Some of them could have run when the nationalists came.”

The medic nodded, stooping to grab a small ponyshoe knife. He looked it over, wiped it off on his pants, and reached around to put it in his bag. “Hopefully.”

The two picked through the ruined camp slowly. There wasn’t much to take, most of what they found being salvageable pieces of fabric.

When Visralion got near the row house, he stopped his search abruptly, his ears perking up. He stood straight, looking towards the house.

“Arsi.”

“Huh?”

“I hear something.”

Arsioly looked at him from where he stood a few paces away, slowly walking over to him. He grabbed his knife.

“No, no, not–” Visralion huffed, waving his hand at him frustratedly. “Put that away. It sounds like crying.”

#writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writer #fantasy #biting the bullet vld #tw: gore

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thefakehedgehogaroundhere · 7 months

Note

this isn’t about the hogs…

I… want to get into the Hazbin Hotel fandoms but idk if I wanna actually watch the show cuz I’m a kid and like I don’t care about swearing but yknow…

and like maybe I should just watch comps of it for an understanding of the characters… but like also I need plot n stuff and I’ve seen you reblog it so like

idk

can you give me a rundown of the show?

if you can’t/don’t want to just answer this ask with no or smth

please and thank you

(Don’t make a hazbin sonic au k?)

You got it! I do want to warn you tho: The show contains violence, death, abuse, sex, and suicidal ideation.

The prologue is just Lucifer likes free thinking, so he steals Adam's wife Lilith and then they trick Adam and his new wife Eve into eating the forbidden fruit, and now hell exists.

The princess of Hell, Charlie, is trying to redeem sinners to avoid overpopulation without the same cruel tactics of keeping the population down that Heaven uses- mass extermination once a year. To do this, she opens a hotel called the Happy Hotel that rehabilitates sinners, that she runs with the help of her girlfriend Vaggie and her friend Angel Dust.

Unfortunately for her image, Angel is currently engaged in a turf war with a demon named Sir Pentious, fighting alongside his best friend Cherri Bomb. Which. Yknow. Not exactly helping him redeem himself.

After a bit, a fearsome demon named Alastor appears at the door, offering to help Charlie run the hotel- not to rehabilitate sinners, but to be entertained when said sinners fail. He introduces Niffty to be the maid, and Husk to be the bartender (who Angel immediately begins flirting with). Alastor beats up Sir Pentious, renames the hotel to Hazbin instead of Happy, and that's the end of the pilot.

I cant explain every single episode in great detail- especially if you decide to watch it- so these descriptions are gonna be much more brief. 1 paragraph per episode, MAX.

Charlie's dad, Lucifer, lets her go to a meeting with Heaven, where she's introduced to Adam- the first man and head of the exterminators. He disagrees with her plan to redeem sinners, since he doesn't think they can change, and moves the next extermination to half a year from now.

Sir Pentious returns for another fight with Alastor. We're next introduced to the Vees- three powerful demons named Vox, Valentino, and Velvette. While Vox and Alastor have a rivalry, Pentious has actually been sent into the Hotel by the Vees to act like he wants redemption, but actually just to infiltrate them. After Vox tells him to kill himself (im not kidding), Charlie allows him a chance to redeem himself, which he takes. Vaggie and Angel are pretty pissed about this but it's fine

Alastor goes to a meeting with the other overlords (just demons that have massive power, specifically over certain territories), where Velvette starts talking trash to Carmilla- an overlord who also sells weapons. Velvette accuses her of killing an angel that was found headless in Hell after an extermination, and later it's revealed to Vaggie that she DID kill the angel to protect her children. She doesn't want the secret to slip, because if Heaven finds out, it means war.

Angel is revealed to be in an abusive relationship with Valentino. He's a porn star, and Val is his director and boss. Charlie, blissfully unaware, tries to get him off work for the day to do trust exercises, but Val threatens Angel that he'll hurt Charlie if he can't make her leave. Angel lashes out, shoots the porn, and returns to the hotel bar with Husk to drink away his sorrows. Husk tries to get him to open up, so he leaves for another bar. Husk follows him there too, and he explains that Angel isn't the only one who's damaged and that they're both losers.

Lucifer shows up and is depressed, and he has a rivalry with Alastor about who is the better dad. Al's friend Mimzy shows up out of nowhere, lore-dumps, and then it turned out she just went to the hotel to escape the cops because she stole a car. Alastor politely tells her to fuck off. Charlie and Lucifer have a conversation about how the hotel could work, with Charlie pushing Lucifer to let her go to Heaven and try to make her argument in person. He caves, and Charlie excitedly tells Vaggie she's coming too.

Charlie and Vaggie arrive in Heaven, and are introduced to an angel named Sera and her daughter Emily. Charlie and Emily agree that sinners should have the chance to be redeemed, which Adam again shuts down, saying that they had their chance. Vaggie is revealed by Adam to be a fallen angel- and not just an angel, but one of the exterminators, punished to life in Hell because she saved a child. Charlie begins fearing for what else Vaggie could be lying about, but before she can panic more, the opposing viewpoints turn Heaven and Hell to battle. Also, the whole time this is going on, Angel, Husk, Niffty, Pentious, and Cherri are getting drinks, and seeing the supposed "redeemed souls" drinking is actually what sells it to the angels that they can't be saved.

Everyone prepares for the battle. Charlie and Vaggie make up, Vaggie trains with Carmilla, Angel, Husk, and Niffty spend more time together, Pentious catches feels for Cherri, and the Vees get their popcorn ready. Pentious tries to tell Cherri he's interested for like the whole episode and ends up just saying "please don't die ok bye"

Battle. Alastor put up a force field around the hotel. It stops working. Angel and Husk make sex jokes while committing several counts of murder, Niffty stabs anything she can see, Alastor and Adam fight but Alastor turns into a puddle and leaves, Pentious kisses Cherri and then fucking dies, and Charlie and Vaggie are fighting side by side. Lucifer shows up and tells Adam "you get no bitches because I stole them both", and then Niffty stabs Adam to death. Everyone sings and then HOLY SHIT PENTIOUS MADE IT TO HEAVEN

#can't make a hazbin sonic au anyway bc someone did that already lmaoo #faker's askbox #faker and friends #hazbin hotel #hazbin spoilers

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rabbitindisguise · 2 years

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how tumblr works:

An example using this sideblog to explain how tumblr works- as a frequent poster- is that I regularly hit post limit (250 posts a day) and have 191,203 posts in total and only 25,000 likes (which are hidden). Most of these are reblogs from people I follow. Having a popular blog means having a lot of followers.

there are five forms of interaction on tumblr

three of them (reblogs, likes, and replies) are collectively called notes and are collectively counted under a post as total interaction

reblogs share the post, with all attribution and a direct link to everyone in a thread and notes going to the original poster, with followers

followers is how a post that is reblogged can get more notes and sometimes go viral by being seen by other people who choose to interact with a tumblr blog by following them

likes can help to prevent things from going viral/being seen by others, or show additional support for a reblogged post, and are often used to interact with personal vents and posts that would not be good if gone viral

replies can help to prevent things from going viral/being seen by others, and still allow interaction with: the original poster, someone in the replies/reblogs/other users on the website using the @username mention feature

asks can be publically posted (always with anonymous) or privately answered, and is directly communicating with the person who runs the blog- these are often used for questions that might be helpful to be published if answers like questions about a post, commissions, and other things

direct messages are private and directly between two tumblr users

on posts, the squiggle between two lines adds a cut/read more to shorten long posts like below and can be clicked through to read the rest by clicking "read more"

main blogs are the url that people can reply with and like from, sideblogs are blogs that can't be replied from or liked from, fandom blogs make up a significant portion of this website, with some others like personal blogs that post things that might be about someone's day or a journal type thing, aesthetic blogs that mainly reblog or post photos of a particular topic/theme/mood/visual similarity, discourse blogs that will have a lot of interactions about topics that get heated, and stealth blogs that are sideblogs of people who know they have controversial opinions or don't want to connect them to their main account (TERFs often do this to recruit young women through their main account)

viral posts are defined differently from person to person and generally everything over 50,000 notes in total (likes, reblogs, and replies included) is considered a viral post (some posts have one million or more notes)

reblog bait are posts that say things like "reblog with your favorite food and where you live" and people will say these things in the tags or in a reblog, and askmemes are posts with a list of questions or prompts that will invite followers to send into the askbox of the poster (which is where asks are received) and can be answered publicly with the response (it can be polite to link back to the original ask meme and/or include the prompt with the response)

posts that go viral unexpectedly are considered to be escaping containment as they were not written with the intent to be shared with thousands of people

"put it in the tags" or "don't reblog this" are typically only semi-serious (a joke) because reblogs can be turned off entirely now so may be left over from a time before that feature existed, or from an even earlier time when lots of comments would indent the post into unreadability

post limit is about 250 posts a day and exclusively affects reblogs

a post with mostly replies and no likes signals that people don't like the post, a post with a lot of likes and no reblogs is often personal, posts with a lot of reblogs and no likes might be reblog bait

a section of tumblr devoted to a topic can be shorted to something-blr, like writeblr, bugblr, petblr, etc and generally doesn't apply to fandoms or aesthetics

blocking tags, unfollowing, and blocking blogs are all methods to limit interaction with things that someone finds uncomfortable or they don't want to see, and for example I've blocked blogs that post a lot about silverfish because I find them creepy but sending messages to the blog about it would be super rude and I've unfollowed people for similar posts and blocked the tag "silverfish" (this is not actually true but it works well as an example)

this is honestly all I can think of at the moment feel free to add stuff in the notes

#personal #I keep seeing kind of judgy posts of people from tiktok and twitter and stuff and I thought I'd add a more straight forward explanation #with other stuff that helps #tiktok #twitter

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ohbaby-obaeme · 1 year

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ungodly screeching- part 2

hello hello!! i have returned with the younger bros version. i hope you enjoy, and if you did, please drop a follow and a reblog! (psst if you can't tell from satan's section, im a huge kpop stan and my inbox and dms are always open to chat)

Satan:

he wasn’t sleeping either, absorbed in the newest edition of Nightlock Sholmes’ mysteries. He was just getting to the end of Nightlock’s monologue on his deductions of the tea museum and was about to declare the culprit responsible for killing the museum’s head teamaker, when suddenly- “AUUUAAAHHH YEAH YEAH EYAH YEAH”

his head turned to the source of the abrupt noise, pupils alarmed, then irate when he realized that no, these weren’t screams of fear (he’s heard enough in his lifetime to differentiate, seeing as he’s caused all of them), but screams of…. something? something that definitely wasn’t fear, and therefore something that wouldn’t have any excuse to be so loud.

a rage that he was well supplied with rose to his throat, burning his veins and making his skin crawl with irritation. without even needing to look at the clock buried behind the tower of books on his nightstand, he knew it was way too late for anyone to make him deal with this.

after a few seconds of breathing in through his nose, he sprung up from his armchair, Nightlock Sholmes abandoned for the time being; the teamaker’s killer given a few more minutes before their inevitable unmasking. every step was a feat, an immense effort to contain the wrath clawing its way out of his chest. but satan was nothing if not a master of control, and so he managed to make his way over to your room, teeth clenched together as he all but knocks holes into your door.

from the inside, he could hear the screaming stop, the music shut off, and your heart rate rising. you’re scared. you should be.

the door cracks open a sliver, and your eye peeks through. the sliver widens when you realize it isn’t lucifer or asmo (he could be worse than satan when his beauty sleep was interrupted) and you let out a breath. as if he wasn’t the literal avatar of wrath, most feared by the denizens of hell for his temper and violent outbursts, you flash him the most adorable smile and ask “what’s up tantan?”

satan’s…confused. on one hand, he feels vaguely insulted that you aren’t scared to find him fully pissed off at your door in the middle of the night. on the other, it melts his fiery little heart to see you flash him that smile; to not be scared of him no matter how he may appear; to know that you put that much trust in him, enough to know that even if he was angry, he would never harm you. he chooses to focus on the other hand.

a huff escapes his lips. “what are you doing?” is all he’s allowed to ask before you pull him into your room.

“have i told you yet about bts? i don’t think i have. it’s been a while since i’ve listened to human world music, what with all the student council work and using my ddd and never my phone, but!! i was just about to go to sleep today when a human song got stuck in my head, and i needed to, like needed to listen to it again!! and so i did, and then i saw another song that i recognized and another and another and soon enough i was falling down the kpop rabbithole all over again!! im sorry if i woke you but now that you’re here, wanna listen to serendipity? it’s so your style- OH WAIT STILL WITH YOU!!! THAT ONE’S GREAT LET’S-”

he’s definitely lost, but as he lies on your bed, shoulder to shoulder with you humming along next to him, he thinks maybe this isn’t so bad. maybe Nightlock Sholmes can wait for tomorrow. for now, as he stares at you smiling over the rain sounds, slowly moving to the song’s melody, he thinks “yeah. this definitely isn’t so bad.”

Asmodeus:

he was having such a pleasant dream. there was a zombie apocalypse, but instead of zombies, it was him. an asmo apocalypse. no one bit each other and there was no gross bleeding or spilling of brains, just beauty all around. a myriad of breathtaking people, all looking into mirrors or each others’ eyes and sighing dreamily, enamoured smiles on each set of lips.

the smile on his sleepy lips was, however, rudely interrupted by your shrieking. like a banshee.

the asmos in his dream suddenly explode one by one, each opening their mouth and your voice filtering through. he runs to them to try and save them, but it is always too late. all that is left when he comes to is slight tinnitus and your annoying voice still going.

he feels himself sour faster than yogurt mixed with lime juice. you wanted to die today, hm? well, he’s nice enough to make your wish come true!

fuming all the way to your door, he knocks 3 times forcefully. honestly, what were you even doing up? it was 3:23 in the morning! he knows because he wanted to pronounce a time of death when he wrangled your throat like a wet rag. you don’t mess with asmo’s beauty sleep and get off easy. didn’t you know that around midnight was the time when your skin cells were repaired? it’s bad enough that you’d be doing this to yourself, don’t do it to him!

you, of course, don’t notice his knocking, swaying instead to the song playing in your headphones. eventually, his patience runs out, and the aura of rage he emits forces the door open all on its own. feeling a searing glare on the back of your neck, you turn and almost scream yourself into a heart attack.

there he stood, the jewel of the heavens, asmodeus, the avatar of lust (and self-proclaimed beauty) himself, in a fluffy white robe with the most murderous look you’d seen on anyone. yes, even more murderous than on satan and lucifer. the mask he’d put on before bed was all dry now but still stuck to his face like a second skin, pronouncing his eye bags and a slight bump on his forehead. shit. if he’d gotten a pimple because of you, you might as well have smacked lucifer’s butt and called him cute, because you were about to d i e.

but you weren’t MC for nothing. quick thinking was your forte, your key to survival down here.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH- ah, hey asmo! you must’ve been pretty surprised to hear me singing now, huh? well i gotta tell ya- it’s all because of you!”

he stayed silent but cocked his head the tiniest bit to the side- a sign that he was listening.

“yeah! so- i wanted to listen to something really nice before i went to bed, and i thought, ‘hey! why not listen to pomade?’ since it’s so so good, and your vocals make you sound like an angel, and the beat is so catchy, and the entire thing just makes me feel like you’re right next to me-”

his aura had more or less vanished now, a fond smile on his lips once again

“and yeah, that’s how it started out hehe. but before i could stop it, another song autoplayed after yours and another after that, and since your song put me in such a good mood, i guess i kept on going. i’ll stop now-”

he rushed towards you and swooped you into his arms. “oh MC, you are such a darling! of course you love my song, it’s the best, isn’t it? it just makes you want to dance, doesn’t it? ne, how would you like to hear a live version right now? i’m so perfect i can sing even though i just woke up! don’t you think that just adds to my already overflowing beauty?”

you’re trapped in his arms, so you can do nothing but nod as he rambles on. well, you suppose it is a fair price to pay for waking him up and not facing the fury of the scorpion.

really, you’re just thanking his father that he hadn’t noticed the (quite big) pimple forming on his forehead yet. hopefully when he does, you could blame it on mammon or something.

Beel:

he was in the kitchen when your wailing began, stuffing Madame Scream’s special macaroons into his mouth while still asleep. yeah. ladies, gentlemen, and everyone outside and in between, you’ve heard of sleep-walking, you’ve heard of sleep-talking, but now, get ready forrrrr…. sleep-eating!

mans was literally dreaming about pastries while he was stuffing them in his mouth. the sheer capacity. terrifying tbh

now, your shrieking slowly opened his eyes, and he looked around blearily for a few seconds, trying to realize where he was, what he was doing, and even WHO he was. it was a deeeep sleep he was in.

when he did recollect all that though, and his slumber-fogged brain did register your yelling, he didn’t react. all he could think of was: “oh, MC’s awake.”

precious boy 🥺

never one to turn down your company, he gathers as much food from the fridge and cabinet as his muscled arms could carry, and began trudging down to your room, eyes still half-lidded.

a soft knock resounds from your door and when you turn your head to see who it is, you find a sleepy ginger-haired food thief peeking his head in, and smiling.

“Beel! what are you doing up?”

he suppresses a yawn. “Hi MC. i was sleep-eating i guess, when i heard you singing. can i stay in your room for a while?”

you nodded, watching as he settled into your bed, sitting at attention and ready to hear your ‘serenades’ again. the mountain of snacks he brought along threatens to spill from your bed, but they’re being devoured faster than you could tell him to be careful so, he’s got it you guess.

and what a weird assortment it is. “licorice dipped in mayo?” he asks, big doe eyes blinking at you. it almost makes you want to say yes. almost.

“no thanks beel.” you’re just about to start singing again when you realize. “hey, how’d you get into the fridge? i was in the kitchen earlier tonight when lucifer quadruple-padlocked it.”

he stares blankly at you for a second. “oh, i guess that’s where the hole in the kitchen wall came from.”

damn. you made a mental note to NEVER get between a hungry beel and his food.

Belphie:

he was not asleep, fortunately for you. even lucifer shies away from waking up belphie, always passing on the responsibility to beel. there’s a reason why lmao

you were spared from a repeat of lesson 16, rather being graced by a painfully awake cow staring at you through a crack in your door.

sometimes belphie experiences something close to the opposite of sleep debt, where the hours he’s actually supposed to be awake have accumulated and forbid him from sleeping. and so he begrudgingly walks the land of the living, though you can tell from his gait he’d much rather be asleep.

when this happens, he takes to roaming the halls like a ghost who died a mournful death. quietly sweeping across the halls, taking his time to observe any changes made to the house since the last time he’d been in awake-debt. he likes to gaze at the paintings, especially the cursed ones. they seem to take on a new shine in the darkest hours of the devildom, the serenity aided by the fact that not a single thing ever stirs. or so he thought

he supposes he hadn’t been in awake-debt since you came to the house. he’d been sleeping less and less, secretly putting off his sin to spend more time with you. and he decided that’s just what he was going to do now, where none of his brothers would disturb him.

you don’t notice that he’s in your room until he’s standing a literal inch away from your dancing body, until you feel the huff of his breath on the side of your neck when he asks “what are you doing?”

only 2 seconds of the blood-curling scream you let out makes its way around the walls before his hand clamps around your mouth.

“tsk, do you want to get caught by lucifer?” when you shake your head slowly, he smiles. “i’m going to take my hand off now. no more screaming, okay?” you nod, and he has to hold himself back from squishing your cheeks while he’s at it.

he lets you go only for you to spin around and glare at him. “asshole” you huff, hand on your chest to try and calm your still-racing heart. he proves his rightful claim on the title of ‘youngest’ when he has the audacity to laugh at you. he jumps onto your bed and makes himself at home, a shit-eating grin in response to your glare still burning holes through his skull.

“well? continue your awful singing, if you could even call it that” he swiftly dodges a pillow you threw at his head.

“asshole” you mutter under your breath, but clamber under the covers with him anyway. yeah, he may be a brat, but who made him one?

you

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obmswd #om shall we date #obey me imagines #obey me fluff #obey me headcanons #obey me satan #obey me swd #obey me scenarios #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel x reader #obey me belphie #obey me belphegor #obey me satan x reader #obey me asmo x reader #obey me belphie x reader #obey me boys

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astrox · 2 years

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BAKUGOU'S BIRTHDAY DAY 12

PROMPT #12 ➭ "Hey, a dragon broke my bed. What am I supposed to do now?" INFO

➭ contains: soft barbarian katsuki/established relationships/gn! reader/DRAGONS!/mentions cuddles

Staying in Katsuki's land comes with a lot of surprises. Living with dragons is the biggest. There's a dragon around to greet you and bless you with dragon affection no matter where you go. Whether it's with licks or nuzzles, you can't escape it. Katsuki often falls victim to them, too, so you're not alone. Speaking of the dragons loving nature, Kirishima is the one dragon that can't bear to see you and Katsuki apart for no more than five minutes.

One day, a dragon did the unthinkable while you ventured out into the hunting grounds with Katsuki. Craving a good night's rest, you didn't expect to see your bed broken in half. Sitting in the middle is a yellow dragon wagging its tail like a dog. Blinking at the creature, you dropped your things on the floor, resisting the urge to scream. You fought off those feelings and moved along, running on exhaustion and mead on your breath. You pulled your feet in the right direction, searching for the man in charge.

"Katsuki!" You yelled, voice laced with annoyance.

The blonde could hear your voice and walked over to his bedroom door. He opens it, seeing you rubbing your eyes. "What is it?"

"A dragon broke my bed. What am I supposed to do now?" You question, stopping in front of him, arms crossed.

Bakugou groans in frustration. "Which one?"

"Denki," You answered, rolling your eyes. "Where am I supposed to sleep, your royal highness?"

"Don't call me that dumbass, and you're welcome to sleep on my bed since I'm not using it tonight," He offered, stepping aside to show off his chambers. This made you raise a brow.

"You're not going to sleep?" You tilted your head to the side, and he shook his head in response.

"I have a lot of shit to do, so I won't get that much sleep tonight," He explained, rubbing the nape of his neck. You let out a little hum, seeing the stressful look in his eyes.

"Do you want me to stay up with you, Kats?" You asked, taking one of his hands into your own.

He shook his head again. "No. Get some sleep. You're annoying and very distracting,"

Chortling, you brushed past Katsuki, releasing his hand. However, you turned back and tapped his shoulder. "Join me if you have time to sleep, kay?"

Katsuki was taken back by your request, but your damn smile made it difficult for him to resist. With that, he left you alone to sleep in the comfort of his bed and the tips of his ears turning red. You would awake in a warm embrace the following morning, and his cape was laid over your body. Katsuki's scent is overwhelming in your nostrils, and it's all around you. He's very warm, and his hot breath is riding down your back. Your heart quickens, and warmth spreads along your cheeks.

Shifting, you turned to face Katsuki and moved closer, causing Katsuki to stir in his sleep. One eye peeped open and looked down at your head. It shuts when you slowly drift off. A low growl rumbles in his chest, and he pulls more of the cover over your body. Once he is satisfied, he kisses the top of your hair and nestles closer. You smiled softly, mentally thanking Denki for breaking your bed.

Support an author (ko-fi) / prompt information

#bakugou x reader #bnha #bakugo katuski #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha #bakugou x y/n #bnha imagines #bakugou katuski x reader #↯ nic posts #bakugou x you

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buckybarnesdiaries · 3 years

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please

bucky barnes x reader. ⎢ masterlist.

Bucky needed to be spoiled.

word count: 1.2k

warnings/tags: nsfw, +18!!! sub!bucky (more or less), handjob, mention of bodily fluids, praise!kink, language, cockwarming.

author notes: this isn't proofread, sorry for possible mistakes. none of my stories contain reader’s body descriptions to be inclusive.

Join the tag list here.

“Oh, fu— fuck”.

A muffled moaning escaped his lips when your thumb caressed his reddened tip. Since Bucky woke you up some minutes ago, with curses and groans, you knew perfectly what he needed. Now he was sprawled between your legs and his back was stuck to your chest. The soldier tossed his head to your shoulder, having a better view of his tongue strongly licking his lips and his eyelids closed.

Your right hand pumped his most sensitive skin, up and down, at a medium pace. Enough to please him, but not to make him cum too soon. Bucky was stirring under your strokes, gripping his balls with his cold fingers as the flesh ones got tangled in your hair. Sometimes, he just needed to be touched. Touched by you, and no one else. Be treated with care and tenderness. The last mission had some complications and that took its toll.

“Does it feel good?” You whispered using a honeyed tone of voice into his ear.

“God… yes… so damn good, doll”. He replied as he could.

“You deserve it”. You hummed spreading sweet kisses on the connection of vibranium and skin.

Increasing the pace a little more just to tease him, Bucky responded with a soft growl, rubbing his abdomen with the palm of his free hand, slightly stretching back his head. His hard cock felt warmer with every move of your fingers around it, using some more pressure to give him an added pleasure. Bucky had to settle himself better against your chest, stealing the air from his lungs when you nailed your teeth in his neck. His digits got closed tighter in the back of your head, watching him trying to breathe through his parted lips.

James wasn't too loud while having sex, except in moments like those where your only purpose was to make him enjoy. He couldn't control his vocals, babbling your name with a wrecked tone. You used the tip of your tongue to draw a mark on his skin, sucking and hollowing your cheeks slightly. You loved to mark your territory, although those hickies never lasted longer than a day.

“Puts your hands on my thighs”. You ordered him, placing your legs over his to keep them wide open at any moment.

He obeyed with a soft pout, landing your free fingers on his balls to massage them slowly, contrary to how you were pumping his firm dick. Bucky would never recognize it, but he loved when you took control and told him what he should do. Tilting his head, he kissed you slowly, invading his mouth with your tongue as you felt his anxiety by digging his fingertips in the sides of your legs. Both were hungry for each other, jerking his length faster till earning again his moans and his curses.

Bucky looked like the most beautiful piece of art with the pearls of sweat decorating his forehead and some tufts of his black hair stuck on it. He bit his bottom lip fixing his pale blue eyes on yours, not needing words to express to you what you were making him feel.

“You're such a good boy, aren't you?” You purred against his lips, brushing them with yours. “My good boy”.

“Yes… I am”. Bucky whined when the pleasure started to be too much for his body.

“Of course you are, and you belong to me”. You spoke this time with a hoarse voice that gave him goosebumps, watching your boyfriend swallow. “Say it”.

“'M… you— yours, doll… only yours… I swear it”. His dick was twitching between your fingers, getting tensed as you squeezed his balls tighter. “Fu— Fuck… I need to… I need to cum…”

“Beg for it, my good boy”. You murmured, licking his parted lips with the tip of your tongue while slowing down the pace of your strokes, causing him to sob.

“Don' be… petty, doll… C'mon… C'mon, lemme cum, please”. Bucky growled in gasps, starting to rock his hips against your hand unconsciously.

He needed to release all the frustration running through his body. And he wanted you to help him with it. For you, it was a little funny how easy it was to make your big bad boyfriend plead. Although he hated you for it, trying to do his best to not push you apart and finish by himself.

“Baby, ple— please… Please…” Bucky moaned closing his eyes strongly, gripping your thighs with his huge hands. “God… I ca— can't wait… I can't…”

“You 'gonna disobey me?”

At the moment you replaced your left hand from his balls to his throat, forcing him to look at you again, his breathing became erratic, keen. His chest rose and fell furiously, not being able to control a single action of his anatomy.

“Please…” He begged you one last time, feeling all his blood concentrated in a concrete point of his cock and the knot within his low abdomen growing. “Doll… please.

“Cum for me. Now, James”. You commanded jerking him off faster than before, receiving a delighted cry from him.

Soon, the white ropes fell and stained his torso. His whole body was shaking, his Adam's apple was dancing under the palm of your hand still gripping his throat, the toes of his feet were curled and his abdomen was tense because of the orgasm exploding within him. Shutting up his vocals by devouring his mouth, your tongue fought his with dominance, while he was trying to breathe through his nose.

Collecting his arousal with your fingertips, you broke the kiss leaving him running out of air, sucking clean your digits under his attentive and exhausted gaze.

“Should be illegal to taste like that”. You purred giving him a whole show. “Wanna try it?”

“Please”. He mumbled leaning his head enough to lick your lips and suck the tip of your tongue. Bucky couldn't help but gasp at the savor of his jizz mixed with your saliva.

Not saying a single word, after placing one last kiss on his sweaty forehead, you stood up from your bed to go to the bathroom. Wetting a small towel with warm water, you came back to find your big soldier lying on his back and trying to recover. You kneeled on the mattress to clean first his face from the sweat, before continuing with his chest and abdomen and finishing with his —yet— twitching erection. Bucky sighed because of the careful caress, placing his hand made of vibranium on your back.

You tossed the towel somewhere over the floor, stripping yourself after that to lie by his side. “Come here…”

Using a sweet thread of voice, you urged him to turn and to let you embrace him. What he wasn't expecting was one of your hands to be snaked among your bodies, while you put a leg over his waist. Bucky understood your intentions when he was buried deep inside your soaked walls, sinking a more than pleased growl in your neck. He closed his arms around your body, forcing his cock to beyond your limits and holding it within your warm pussy.

“You're an angel, babydoll”. Bucky whimpered, feeling your walls clenching his sensible erection. “I love you… I love you”.

feedback is appreciated, please, leave a comment to let me know if you liked it and/or reblog it.

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unholyplumpprincess · 2 years

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Bats eyes, rolls over. Slashers, hm??

I have noticed you lack a bit of Ghostface (DBD) getting his ass handed to him like the brat he is. Perhaps a bit of Ghostface getting a bit too big for his britches when trying to hunt down a fairly larger, v dom Reader. Only to find out that he lacks the realization that he's not the hunter but the prey.

In turn, he finds himself bareass, receiving the spanking of his life and mayhaps, a little fingering only to be given multiple denials where he's finally left with a bit of hard-on (or one glorious orgasm you decide, doll) and the thought, well shit..can't kill that one in his daze.

Kinks: Spanking, Orgasm Denial, Pet names/Degradation, Daddy Kink, Semi-Public??(dunno what woods count as), a kiss of Knife play and for the fuck of it, Breeding (i know he got one)

Anything for u Be(loved)yonce!

Reblogs > Likes! Please Reblog if you hit Like to support future horny writing and make your local peaches n cream happy! :D

!!!Minors dni with this post as it contains adult content!!!

Ao3 link: Here

Fandom: Dead by daylight / Scream

Relationship: Ghostface x Reader

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Reader is gender neutral and ambiguous BUT is mentioned to be Tall and Big, Danny is a huge masochist and sadist lmaooo, he's a gross boy and GOOD FOR HIM!!! GOOD FOR HIM!!!!, hints of a Daddy kink (only used as a Title), hints of a breeding kink at the end but only just like,,,one sentence

Words: 1.2k

____

Of course Danny would pick the biggest person in the room. Sure, sure, there were the other survivors that were fairly big and large. But they were meek in comparison to you. Lacking that bravado and bravery you did.

You taunt the other killers with ease- and he's not an exception either. You're tall, broad, easy to see from any hiding spots, and you use these to your advantage. You're a distraction. Running laps around the killers and laughing in their face while you do it with a double birdie flip off as you escape their clutches. You're a prize winning at the fair. And Danny?

Danny's trying to win that big prize. Aaaaaall the way on that big top shelf.

You're something to brag about if caught. Something to tell to the Entity with joy about such a prize offering. Danny is a solo man, doesn't really care for getting the 'big boss' all excited with its long spidery legs wiggling in delight. But, what he does care about is the rewards that come along with it.

You're doing your routine with him. Spotting him over the fog before he can even begin to stalk you. You make a pretty picture for his camera, something to add to the wall later and look at with a hand down his pants. You grin at him, big and bold, cupping hands around your mouth as you yell, "Come and get me, big boy. What? Daddy doesn't wanna play today?"

It shouldn't make him hard, but it does. The way you croon it so mockingly. And all he can think about is how sweet your blood will feel running down his hands as he personally takes your life. Fuck giving you to the big boss, you're his.

You run, and he predictably gives chase. Hot on your heels like some dog. Daydreaming all the while of sinking his blade into you, how you'd sound when you would scream, and how you would fight back and give him delicious bruises.

He chases you all throughout the dark. This realm had far too many buildings for his liking, leaving him rushing after you, aching to find you. You're always juuust out of his sight. But he finds you, finally. Cornering you in the killer shack.

You're just as unpredictable as he is. As he begins to saunter towards you, huffing out a, "Finally caught you, you little bitch." with a sneer. You lunge at him. Tackling him straight to the ground and pinning him under your sheer size.

You even have the gall to take his knife! His fucking KNIFE! Twisting his hand back to get it and slamming his hands under your knees. He yowls, trying to thrust his body up to get you up and off. But you don't even budge, not even a flinch.

"Kinda thirsty, don't you think, babe?" You hum out, twisting the knife in your grasp and admiring it in the moonlight before looking down at his mask. "Generators are gettin' done and you'd rather play tag with me? I'm flattered."

You tap the knife on the bottom of his mask and Danny's breath catches in his throat. Heat pools through his body at your half lidded look, looking him over like he was the piece of meat here.

"We both know you're not actually chasing me just cause ya wanna hook me." You say oh so matter of factly, making his face flush as you lean in down towards his mask. "Seen you behind trees watching me. Makin' pretty sounds as you stroke yourself off."

Danny's sound is strangled in his throat, a stutter catching on the tip of his tongue to deny you. But you grin, tapping the knife on the side of his mask. "What's to be done about that, huh? Think you need to get punished. Didn't even ask my permission. Kinda dirty, don't you think?"

He's going to fucking die, he's decided.

Danny finds himself tossed over your lap as you sit on the floor. His arms have been bound with his own ridiculously long sleeves, his robes pulled up and his bare ass getting hit by you. He's made to count, tell you anytime he's jacked off about you and why- where even.

He snarls and thrashes, but he does as told. Even as he howls in pain when your hand grasps one of his ass cheeks firmly, pulling it apart to bare his hole. Hard against your thigh where his hips have ended up rutting pathetically against you, leaving smears of pre-cum.

All he hears is this wet sound of you sucking your fingers before he feels you prodding at his hole. Pressing a finger inside and making him gasp out, shuddering hard with a cry when you finger fuck him roughly. Two fingers then three fingers twisting inside of him. He's so close, sooo close, and he begs for it so pretty. Rutting against you, swearing, pleading-

And you deny him for the first time. Then a second, then a third. All while he sobs and becomes undone by you, vaguely hearing the click of generators getting done in the distance. But all he can think about is how good your fingers feel in him and how painfully hard and blue his balls are fucking turning-

Six times. Six times you deny him. It's not hard either, considering how easy it would have been to make him cum. But after the sixth time, your hands leave him, and Danny practically snarls.

"You son of a bitch!" His words are slurred as he rolls onto his back, watching you laugh as you wipe your hands off on your pants. His dick gives a traitorous throb, heavy against his thigh. "You fucking cock sucker-"

"Could be. One day." You tease, nudging his thigh with your boot as Danny thrusts his chest into the air, trying to twist in his bonds. "Gotta leave you wanting, don't I, ghosty boy? Gotta give you some material for that spank bank of yours."

You pick up his discarded camera that had clattered to the ground earlier, turning it down towards him with a flash and a click. You take the picture, flipping it towards him as you crouch down to his level and show him his picture. Depraved, arms bound, cock hard and drooling onto the wooden floor. Pale skin of his legs covered in scars revealed and trembling like a leaf.

"And hey," You continue as you stand back up and look over the picture. "Something for me this time." You finish as you pocket the camera, tossing the knife with a clatter to the floor next to his head.

"I'm gonna fucking get you!" Danny howls, rolling onto his side with a shudder of sensitivity. Watching how you smile down at him, as if his words were just feeding you. "I'll get you and I'm gonna fuck you raw. Put a fucking baby in you. Make you my goddamn breeding bitch."

"Promises, promises. You have my consent- IF you can catch me. What'll you do if I catch you again, huh?" You croon, blowing a kiss to him as you leave out the door with the sound of the last pop of a generator.

Oh he was going to get you next round he had you. And he was going to make you pay.

#Ghostface #Ghostface x Reader #dead by deadlight #dick by daylight #nsft #lemon #drabble #princess writing

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iguessweallcrazyithinktho · 4 years

Text

Love connection

Summary:

It's about the reader being pregnant with Chris's child, but they're not together. The reader didn't tell him because he dumped her, but Chris finds out later on in her pregnancy.

Warning: it's a surprise, read it

Part: 6th

Word count: 1.1k

Pairing: Chris Evans x reader

Masterlist • love connection masterlist • requested closed momentarily. Don't send any. Tag list open!

Please don't post any of my content anywhere else without my permission. Comments and reblog welcome!

Chris's heart was thumping hard against his chest. So hard it felt like it was going to escape his chest. "Uh…" he walked towards you, his eyes never leaving the box in between your fingers.

"It was for… y/n, I can't tell you that." He breathed through his nose, taking the box from you. You looked at him, you weren't sure if you were pissed or confused by his choice to not tell you, but you weren't going to stop bugging him until you got an answer.

"Chris why won't you tell me?" You shutted the dresser drawer, regretfully kinda hard. "Is there someone else that lives here? Are you seeing someone?"

You looked around for some signs of another woman. "I can stay at a hotel. I don't want to interrupt your rela-,"

"Hey!"

Chris stopped you before you could finish the word relationship. He cupped your cheeks, looking into your eyes. "Y/n, there's no one else okay." He let go of you and looked at the box.

"The ring… the ring was for you."

Your eyes widened at his words. "For me?" Your hormones were making tears form in your eyes. You walked closer to him, Chris looked at you. "Yeah, I was going to give it to you, but I let my stupid mind get to me." He shook his head, chuckling slightly.

" I was going to give it to you on Valentine's day last year, after dinner. I was going to get on one knee like this," Chris lowered himself onto his right knee. He didn't dare take his eyes off of yours.

"And then I would've opened the box and said a cheesy speech that I know will make you roll your eyes. I wasn't sure what your answer was going to be bu-,"

"My answer would've been Yes Chris." You rushed out. Chris looked up at you. "Oh ok. Well," Chris stood up. "It's too late for that now I guess. I already messed it up."

You laughed slightly making Chris look at you. "What's funny?" He asked, really confused. You took a step closer to him, your bump stopping you from going further. You looked into his blue eyes, the one thing you missed about this man.

"It's not too late." You breathed out. Chris couldn't hold himself back anymore. He was close to you, something he's been wanting back for a whole year. His hand was cupping your jaw before his soft lips were on yours.

You missed his lips. His soft, plump lips moved with yours like they were puzzle pieces. Chris backed you up, moving you to the bed. You sat on the soft comforter as Chris hovered over yours.

His kisses were starting to become sloppy. A lot more tongue was being added,and Chris's moans increased. being pregnant made you extremely, you needed Chris. You needed his touch, you needed him inside of you like before.

"Chris." The sound of your soft voice pulled Chris away from you. "Yes?" He mumbled as he began to kiss your neck. "I want you inside me. I want to feel you stretch me."

Chris pulled away from your neck and looked at you. "You sure? Is Finley going to be okay?" He was in the heat of the moment, but that didn't stop him from making sure your baby was going to be okay.

"Yes, Finley is going to be fine." Chris smiled softly, taking your word. He pulled down your pants in one swift movement, next your panties. The shirt came next, revealing your breast.

You could hear Chris hiss as he looked down at the swollen globes. He took your right breast in his before he wrapped his mouth around them. You hissed as he sucked at your sensitive nipple.

Your hands ran through his hair as he enjoyed your body. After 2 minutes Chris pulled away from you. He pulled his shirt off over his head before tossing it to the ground.

You ran your fingers over his muscular torso; his abs made you wetter in between your thighs. Chris chuckled as he pushed your thighs open. He could see how damp your panties are and it made his cock hard.

"All wet for me huh?" You looked up at his now dark blue eyes, "Yes, all for you." Chris leaned down, inches away from your face. "Let's see how it feels around my cock."

He pulled away and pulled down his jeans. He pushed his boxers down releasing his excited cock. You were so needy you couldn't resist stroking it. His shaft ran in between your like velvet. You moaned, your tongue poking out as you touched him.

"Let me fuck you sweetheart." Chris panted out. You let go of his member and let Chris take control. He took your panties and pushed them to the side before he slid his cock in you. Your walls squeezing around him went deeper and deeper.

The room was filled with moans that you both just couldn't contain. Chris took your legs in his hand before he thrusted out. "Fuck." You groaned. Your eyes were shut as you enjoyed him inside of you.

The bed was practically leaving a dent in the wall from how hard Chris was fucking you. Chris watched you. The way your breast bounced as he thrusted into you. The way your back slightly arched off the bed and the way your moans fell from your throat at what he was doing to you.

"Take my cock, that's it." Chris' hand ran over your belly before they found your breast. He squeezed at them earning a gasp. You opened your eyes looking up at him. "Are you going to make me cum?" You squeaked out. Chris chuckled at your question."

"Yes I'm going to make you cum so hard."

Chris speed up; he was now brushing against your cervix. You moan louder at how close you were getting. "Chris… make cum. Please make me cum." Chris loved it when you begged for it. It sent his cock twitching. "Cum sweetheart, cum on my cock."

Chris hitted your g spot so well, that it made you cum with a Loud scream. You gripped at his bed sheets as Chris Came not so far behind you.

Both of you moaned mixed like a symphony of music, but it was only for the both of you to hear. Your mind was blank and your vision was clouded with stars.

When you were down from your rollercoaster, Chris pulled out of you and laid himself beside you. Turning to the side, you looked at him. "So I think we should give us another try. What do you think Chris."

You pushed his damp hair from his forehead making him look at you. "I uh, I think we should try that."

He smiled at you before he leaned in to kiss you. His hand trailed up to your bump before he cradled it in his hands. Hopefully you were going to be happy like this forever now. But couldn't predict the future, who knows what bad things will happen.

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

I can't make promises about this ending. I know I'm a tease hehe

@chris-butt @princess-evans-addict @patzammit @bval-1 @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater @raveviolet @rynabarnesrogers-reading @enn-j @london-dreamer71 @harrysthiccthighss @captainamerica-is-bae @la-cey @weirdowithnobeardo @lovepeacefood @baby-i-am-fireproof @denisemarieangelina @evans713 @smyfmj @thereisa8ella @marajillana @rororo06 @keiva1000 @ughitsnic @kianifan @adriannajackson @boojack73 @marvelnaturalock @notyourtypicalrose @dummiesshort @onetwo3000 @i-lie-here-charmed @hhiggs

love connection tag list: @acciolove724 @dwights-new-plague @thevelvetseries @idk123906 @kawairinrin @citivaz @danie1432 @justwistfuldaydreams @scarletsoldierrr @cristinagronk16 @titty-teetee

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans imagines #chris evans x plus size reader #chris evans imagine #chris evans smut #chris evans x black reader #chris evans series #love connection

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