#warn: kidnapping

[submastrain]

Emmet in-- a situation ⚡

[bluerosefox]

A Fair Warning

It was only a matter of time, and a long awaited and well deserved comeuppance, when Joker tried to hurt the wrong person or people.

Not everyone was going to play his games like 'Batsy' does. Not everyone will hesitate or let him live should he put his hands on someone to hurt them. Not everyone will believe Arkham could 'fix' him, he just needed more time and help.

No.

This time Joker bit off more than he could chew when he kidnapped the newly hired Arkham psychiatrist Jasmine Fenton (and he had plans, so many plans, for her. With her mixture of Harley's mind and her looks matching Gordon's daughter would sure to cause some chaos and pain in memories) and the girl's visiting sister Danielle 'Ellie' (and did he laugh when he noticed the 'Wayne' adoptive looks the girl had, on the fun he'll have, maybe he'll beat her the way he beat the second Robin just for funzie's, it'll no doubt upset Batman) from Jasmine's apartment.

He had plans to keep the Bats guessing where he was and by the time they reach him it'll be far to late for them to save either of the two girls, he had just sent the little video he taped to the Bats and the police to get the ball rolling...

So...

So why did a shiver run down his spine for the first time in years when they both looked unafraid (it was their eyes that made him shiver, a look of already dead yet somehow alive, something he never seen before. He's seen the light fade from people's eyes before yes, he's even laughed as he watch people desperately cling onto life only for it to fade into nothing as they took a final breath but never have he seen someone, something alive yet dead at the same time before. It, their eyes, held a natural yet unnatural sense as they stared at him, stared at everything that made him Joker and it unnerved him), honestly they looked very bored, and one of them (the youngest of the two, and the one with more of the look of death than life in their eyes) said with a chill tune in their tone.

"Last chance to back out of this Freakshows Reject. You wont like what'll be waiting for you."

The tone alone was enough to send another bone deep chill down Joker's spine.

But instead of listening to his natural instincts, the deep inkling of run blaring at him, Joker merely placed a grin on his face, ignoring the strain he felt from doing so, and said as nastily as he could in order to scare the two girls (BOTH OF THEM STILL LOOKED BORED WITH HIM?!?! Not even a twitch of fear!)

"OH? And pray tell what is awaiting little ol' me hum?"

His mocking question got a wide feral grin from the smaller girl, a grin with sharp teeth and iris eyes beginning to bleed slowly from sky blue to neon green with each second he stared at her and he barely stopped himself from jumping in his spot when Jasmine answered his question.

"Your end."

-x-x-

By the time the Bats get to the warehouse Joker had taken Dr. Jasmine 'Jazz' Fenton and Danielle 'Ellie' Fenton they were prepared for anything and everything to go wrong. As much as they held the tiniest bit of hope that the two young women were still okay they knew better than to really do, this was the Joker that had them after all.

They had manged to narrow down his location much quicker than normal when they gotten Joker's first video and his little 'game' he was setting the Bats on, most locations he gave them were going to be red herrings or traps to keep them busy and it would had worked. Batman and the others would had been searching for hours for even a hint of the clue of where the Joker and his hostages were actually being kept.

It was nearly, not really, a shame all of Joker's plans went to waste when Red Hood had stumbled onto something when scooping out Jasmine's apartment with Red Robin.

You see, not only were they looking for clues at first but something about the apartment Jasmine rented seemed off, Red Robin noticed it first and called in back up encase there was more to oldest Fenton than what they could dig up (oldest daughter of Dr's. Jackson and Madeline Fenton, grew up in a small Illinois town, straight A student and a goal to become a psychologist, has two younger siblings, etc etc) and their suspension raised up more when the moment Red Hood entered the apartment and seemed to freeze for a moment.

Red Hood couldn't really explain it but he said it felt like something was... strange. Not evil bad danger strange but it felt familiar? Like he was a kid again on the streets and had walked into someone else's territory but knew the person wouldn't be too much of a hardass about it as long as he didn't stur up trouble or disrespect. A kind of... as long as you don't fuck around you won't find out feeling.

It was because of this feeling that Jason had manged to stumble across something in the room, his instincts telling him there was more to it, and they had discovered a clunky old custom PDA hidden away in a false floorboard in the office room. Thankfully Red Robin, was there in person because the old thing apparently had a rather ingenious firewall to keep others (aka Hackers) OUT but it did nothing against someone who held the main thing.

But still it took Red Robin almost frying the damn thing to get to open up, turns out the ghost and star stickers on the PDA was a rather large hint of the pass code. Once Red Robin was in the PDA he noticed some rather interesting files, one of them labeled "Gremlin Tracking" with a tiny green blob with red eyes and a green outlined star as the icons.

Curiosity taking a hold on the most curious of the Bats he opened it up, hoping it would need another password, and watched as the screen split into two maps, one was... strange, there was no land marks or anything but the star icon seemed to be right in the middle of wherever it was and the only hint of anything was the name "baby brother" and the map labeled as IR.

The other one showed an above map of Gotham, before zooming into the city, heading towards some abandoned warehouses Red Robin knew of and stopped right at one. This was the green blob icon, the short abbreviation for Gotham in the corner of the map, and the name for the icon was 'baby sister'

Red Robin immediately got onto coms to tell the others of what apparently was a tracker for Jasmine's younger siblings. Some questioned why the young woman had trackers on her siblings, though some of the others snarked back that "oh didn't know keeping trackers on each other wasn't normal. Mind if I loose the one you got on me than?"

After a quick sweep into the warehouses camera feeds, the very few up that could be accessed, done by Oracle they quickly discovered that yes the tracking on the younger girl of the two, Danielle Fenton, was correct and that was where they and Joker were at.

Despite this, Batman decided that in order to make sure Joker didn't have suspicion that they already know his actual location he made sure to send a few of the others to the fake locations.

So here they were now, staking out the warehouse where they could see a few of the Jokers goons walking around and looking for a way into the building without alerting any of them. As they talked low into coms, Robin mentioning a possible way in for Red Robin by how small it was, Red Robin hissing back a "just because you got a growth spurt doesn't mean you can poke fun at my height you little-"

"Wait!" Red Hood suddenly hissed shouted, his tone startling the rest of them and they all turned their heads to him. Batman made a quick and harsh grunt as a way to say "report."

Under his helmet Jason's eyes were wide and wild. He could feel something, something huge was on the rise, like something was out of sight but the energy of it was felt.

And if Jason could feel it from his spot, the Jokers goons all felt the same thing from the way they all dropped their weapons, turned toward the warehouse and looked ready to bolt like scared animals.

Jason opened his mouth to explain but fell silent when the feeling suddenly popped. Whatever was causing the feeling was here and like the calm before the storm he could only watch as the first drop of rain fall.

The next thing they know, was the noise and the screaming.

It was inhuman, a mixture of noise and sounds to hard to explain. The closest they could explain was a thousand voices coming in all at once mixing with radio static that kept changing volume so only few words could be even hinted at, and the angry cawing of crows along with the flapping of their wings as they took flight. The noise was so bad that many who heard it nearly ripped their coms out, or covered their ears. Thankfully it only lasted a few seconds.

Then, the air itself shifted. It felt like the coldest of winter nights and bone chilling shivers ran down their bodies for a moment. The air was suddenly that sharp cold that hurt to breathe sometimes.

The goons surrounding the warehouse fled in fear. Many scrambling to get far, far away from whatever was happening. If they felt even a fraction of what Jason could feel, he could understand. He honestly felt like a small animal cornered by a predator and there was no escape.

Then just as suddenly as it happened, everything shifted again. The noise of Gotham returned to normal, cars honking, a stray cat hissing or a dog barking, police sirens in the distance, hissing steam from a nearby factory. The air went from winter cold to a chill mid winter harbor feel now.

Once everyone registered what had just happened and not wanting to waste anymore time they bolted towards the warehouse, cautious and alert in case they needed to fight. Batman went in first, quickly making his way to the area he knew Joker would be with the Fenton sisters and wondered just what the fuck was that? Did Joker do something? Was he messing with things outside of his usual MO?!

He walked into the room and stopped.

There was nothing.

The room was in fact the room Joker had used to record his first message to them, the layout was correct and the evidence of two people who had been tied up were still there as well, ropes that weren't cut sitting on them, a lone lamp light above shining down from above no doubt to emphasize the two girls were meant to be the 'stars' of Jokers latest show. Thing was, the two weren't there despite the fact Oracle swore she could see them a few mins ago from a camera set up in the room, she would later explain that she heard the noise as well and that all her tech had glitched hard.

The only other thing in the room was, sitting innocently on one of the chairs was a green sticky note and on a tiny pillow was a tiny sickly green orb with hints of purple, white, and red swirling in it.

A note they would later read the following message written on it after carefully examining it over.

'Joker learned not to touch what is mine to protect. Sorry not sorry, but hey one less killer clown and he was warned not my fault he didn't take it seriously... The massive amount of souls wanting to rip apart the Joker's soul into nothing was quite a sight to be honest.

They were so ruthless. Best not mess with the vengeful dead am I right?

PS. I left a tiny gift for Jason Todd aka Robin Two. It's the tiniest piece of Joker's soul left over after everyone else got done. He can finish it off since he's a reverent and all, and well they need their revenge filled in order to peacefully move on later or else they'll be stuck forever in a loop of madness and revenge. So yeah. Hope he likes the gift.'

D.P.'

It took Jason less than a second after those words were spoken out to reach for the orb, ignoring the cautious and alarmed cries of the others, and could feel deep, deep, deep in his own soul the absolute pure weeping joy as he threw the orb onto the floor, the bottom shattering thus it didn't roll away and stomped hard with his reinforced boots. Crushing the broken orb into more pieces and if one listened closely they could hear the pure screaming terror that came from it.

And Jason for the first time in years felt his rage finally leave him.

[a-neru-neru]

its bad right now. here's a quick caedo

[thesummerestsolstice]

By the time Elrond leaves for Gil-Galad's camp, he's also been handling most of the healing at Amon Ereb for years. Few of the Feanorians can heal any more, bloodstained as they are, and even as a youth, it's clear that Elrond is remarkably talented at it.

Many of the Feanorians use sleeping draughts. Some of them, especially the former thralls, are plagued by nightmares. Maglor and Maedhros are so burnt out by the oath at this point that they can barely sleep at all.

Elrond is the one who mixes the medicine, quietly in the little room they've started calling the apothecary. No one watches. He gathers most of his own herbs too, from the gardens inside the fortress or the decaying land around it– no one goes with him, because the elves will be noticed by Morgoth's forces and attacked, but somehow, Elrond always slips by unnoticed.

Elrond leaves to get supplies. Elrond comes back. Elrond makes the sleeping draught, every afternoon. Maglor and Maedhros– and plenty of others– drink it without question every evening. They wake up the next morning, and there Elrond is, smiling and asking how they slept.

To most of the Feanorians, who've already started whispering about Elrond's kindness, this doesn't seem strange.

But Maedhros wonders. Maedhros knows that it would be near impossible to tell if the herbal draught had been tampered with. Maedhros knows that many of the herbs around Amon Ereb are poisonous, even lethal. Maedhros knows that the forested lands around Amon Ereb, sick as they are, would gladly shelter Elrond and Elros all the way to Gil-Galad's camp.

Maedhros knows all these things. What he doesn't know is why. Why Elrond stays, why Elrond helps them. And part of him– the part worn down by everything that's already happened to him– is suspicious of that. But he still takes the sleeping draught every night. And Elrond is still there every morning. And Maedhros never quite works up the courage to ask.

[call-me-pup2]

☺🥰

[yanyandere]

MY SWEET BUNNY CAGE // support the artist (eng)

[cupidsworstcrime]

toxic!johnny x f!reader

inspo - for you 🌸 hope it lives up to expectations

smut , some nondescriptive , some descriptive

please read responsibly

contains kidnapping/hostage holding , manipulation , dub/non con , emotional/verbal abuse , controlling behavior (including food + work out) , stockholm , pregnancy at the end (marked with a heart banner , feel free to end there)

Johnny wasn't the same after the bullet.

They said he died on the table for forty-seven seconds. No oxygen. No pulse. Then, a gasp. A miracle, they called it. But when he opened his eyes, Johnny wasn’t all there. Not the same “Soap” who cracked jokes between gunfire or who could recite Shakespeare while stitching a bullet wound shut.

There was a quietness to him now. A sharp, eerie stillness. And horrid mood swings that changed faster than the wind blew. Like something feral was pacing behind his smile.

You met him at a pub on a rain-soaked Thursday. You hadn’t meant to stay long — just one drink, maybe two. He’d clocked you from across the room. Piercing eyes. Buzzed hair. Scars you couldn't stop staring at. And he smiled like he knew you'd come to him eventually.

“Sit with me, pretty thing,” he said, voice soft with a Glaswegian lilt. You did.

You laughed too hard at his deadpan jokes. He liked that. Bought you drinks, then offered to walk you home, heavy jacket slung over your shoulders. The city lights blurred as the streetlamps flickered, and his hand was warm on your lower back.

You didn’t mean to take him home. You weren’t that kind of girl. But he looked so sad when you said goodbye at the door. So tired. So hollow. And you were soft. Soft enough to let him in.

You made tea. He walked around your flat like he owned it.

“Cute place,” he murmured, picking up a trinket from your bookshelf — then dropping it like it didn’t matter. “Suits you.”

You offered him the couch. He took your bed. You told him no. He laughed.

The sun cut through the half-closed blinds in thin, pale slats.

You woke up before him. His arm was draped heavy over your waist, like a lock. You stayed still for a while, heart pounding against your ribs, listening to his breathing — slow. Deep. Asleep, maybe. Hopefully.

You eased out from under his arm like you were defusing a bomb. Each breath shallow. You slid your feet onto the floor, quiet as you could, and tiptoed across the room. Your phone was still dead. You didn’t know where your charger had gone. You’d checked the kitchen last night and it wasn’t there either.

But your keys. Your keys were by the door. If you could just—

“Where you goin’, bonnie?”

His voice stopped you cold. Low. Rough. Still thick with sleep — but laced with something darker.

You turned slowly. He was already out of the bed, shirtless, scarred, eyes locked on you. One second later and he was on you.

You hit the floor with a sickening thud, breath punched from your lungs as your back slammed against the wood. His hand gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Why you tryin’ to leave, bon?” he murmured, mouth close to your cheek. You could smell his breath — warm, coppery, like he bit the inside of his mouth. “We were just gettin’ comfortable.”

“I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, squirming under him. “I was just—needed air—”

“Air?” His grin curled, but his eyes were dead. “You need air from me?”

He didn’t raise his voice. That made it worse. His calm was cold. Measured. A different kind of violence.

“You don’t need to run, sweetheart.” His grip loosened, just slightly, and he ran his thumb down your cheek. “Not from me. I’d never hurt you. Not unless you asked nice.”

You flinched. He noticed.

“Oh,” he cooed, tilting his head. “You’re scared of me now. Is that it?”

“I just—I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you whispered, shame burning hot under your skin. “It was one night.”

His smile faded. Slowly.

“One night,” he repeated. “Right. So I should’ve left. Let you wake up alone. Let some other bastard find you.”

He leaned in. His weight pressed into you. You could feel his pulse against yours.

“I saved you from that, didn’t I?” he whispered. “Took care of you. Fed you. Kept you warm.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed. His hand slid down to your throat — not choking, but there. A promise.

“You’re not leavin’,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Neither am I. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Now,” he said softly, “you’re gonna be good, yeah? Be sweet for me.”

And like a fool, like a coward, you nodded.

You stopped keeping track of the days. Time blurred into Johnny’s voice. Into his hands.

He didn’t leave. Not once. Not even to go outside. He told you it wasn’t safe. That there were people out there who’d hurt you. That the city was filthy, full of men who’d take one look at you and ruin you.

"But you're mine," he said. "No one's gonna fuckin' touch you again."

You believed him. Eventually.

Your phone was gone. He said it was broken. Then said you dropped it. Then said he threw it out because it was rotting your brain. You didn’t ask again.

Your meals changed. He measured what you ate. No more snacks. No more sugar. He watched you chew like he was keeping score.

“You’ll thank me later,” he muttered one night, running a hand down your stomach as you lay curled in bed, hollowed out from the meal he called “clean.” “Gotta keep my pretty little thing tight, don’t I?”

He timed your workouts. Told you when to start, when to stop. You’d never cared much about exercise before. Now it was punishment. Now it was praise. When you did it right, he’d kiss your sweat-slicked cheek. When you didn’t, he’d stand behind you in silence, arms crossed, watching until you cried.

And you always cried.

Your clothes vanished. The oversized hoodie you loved — gone. That short skirt you wore to the pub the night you met — burned. Literally. In the sink.

“Slag’s uniform,” he said, eyes glazed as he watched it smolder. “Never wearin’ that again.”

He picked your clothes now. He liked lace and silk. Chokers. Slippers that made no noise when you walked. He said you looked like a doll — porcelain and breakable.

He liked that.

TV? He picked it. Music? He decided. If you tried to read, he’d take the book and toss it. “Don’t need words in your head. Just me.”

And then there was that part. The part you didn’t speak about.

He was soft with you — sometimes. Before. After. During. But sex wasn’t yours anymore. It wasn’t a choice. It was a ritual. A schedule.

When. Where. How.

Sometimes rough. Sometimes sickeningly sweet. Sometimes in the kitchen, bent over the counter before you’d even had coffee. Sometimes in the shower, where his hands held your wrists against the tile and whispered don’t fight, bonnie, just take it.

And you did. You always did.

Because if you didn’t, he’d stop speaking. Stop touching. Stop looking. That silence was worse than bruises.

Worse than anything.

Because in the quiet, you remembered who you were before. And Johnny wouldn’t allow that.

“Forget her,” he’d whisper, hand over your mouth, sweat dripping from his brow as he drove into you with slow, punishing rhythm. “She’s gone, sweetheart. She’s fuckin’ gone. And now you’re mine.”

And maybe she was.

There was a knock at the door. Sharp. Familiar.

Your heart stuttered.

You hadn’t heard that knock in weeks.

You were wearing what Johnny picked out for you that morning — a white camisole and soft pink shorts, no bra. Hair down. Lip gloss he said made you look "fuckin’ edible." He was in the kitchen. Or maybe the hallway. You hadn’t seen him in the last few minutes, but you could feel him. Like static in your bones.

You opened the door just a crack.

“Hey,” your best friend whispered, breathless like she’d run the whole way. “Jesus. I’ve been calling—what the fuck, I’ve been texting—” She stopped, taking you in. The outfit. The gloss. The fake smile.

“You look… different.”

You tried to smile wider. “I’ve been busy.”

She frowned. “Busy? You disappeared. No replies. Your socials are dead. I thought you were—” Her voice cracked. “Can I come in?”

Before you could answer, you felt it. The warmth at your back. The solid weight of him.

Johnny’s arm slid around your waist from behind.

He leaned down, chin resting on your shoulder like he’d always belonged there.

“Hey there, love,” he said to her. Calm. Polite. Voice like silk over broken glass. “Nice of you to stop by.”

Your friend’s eyes widened. “Who’s—?”

“This is John,” you said too quickly. “He’s… staying with me.”

Your friend blinked. “Staying with—? Since when?”

You felt his fingers press slightly harder into your hip.

“Since the night we met,” he said for you.

You swallowed hard. “He’s good to me.”

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes darting to yours. “Seriously. Just blink or—”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, too fast, too loud.

Johnny chuckled under his breath.

Your friend didn’t move. “Come with me. Just for coffee. Ten minutes. We’ll talk—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Johnny said, softly. Not a threat — not exactly. Just a fact.

You turned toward her, pulling the door in just a little. “I don’t want to go.”

“Babe—” she tried, voice small.

“I said I’m fine.”

And that was that.

You closed the door before she could respond. The latch clicked like a coffin sealing shut.

You stood there, breath shallow, hand still on the knob.

Behind you, Johnny pressed a kiss to your neck.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Knew you’d be loyal.”

You didn’t speak. You just stared at the door.

And you didn’t cry. Not yet. Not while he was still behind you.

You waited until he was in a good mood. After dinner. After he’d eaten, after he’d fucked you slow and whispered praise like a prayer in your ear.

You curled up beside him on the couch, head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His hand stroked absentmindedly through your hair. You felt small. Safe, almost. If you didn’t think too hard.

“Johnny?”

“Hm?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. He felt it — you knew he did. His hand stopped.

“I was thinking… maybe tomorrow, we could go outside.”

Silence.

“Just a walk,” you added quickly, too quickly. “Nothing big. Ten minutes, even. Just around the block. I miss the sun. The air. You could come too— I want you to come.”

Another beat. His hand slid out of your hair. Rested on your hip instead. Firm.

“You miss the sun?” he asked, voice flat.

You nodded, cautious. “I do. I just— I haven’t seen it in so long. I think it’d be good for me. And you could hold my hand the whole time. We don’t even have to talk to anyone—”

“You think I don’t give you enough?” he said, and there it was — the edge. Sharp as wire.

“No—God, no, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You’ve got food. Clothes. Warm bed. Me.” He sat up a little, pushing you off him like you were just in the way. “And you want to go outside? Risk some cunt lookin’ at you like you’re available? Like you’re not already mine?”

“Johnny, please—”

His hand gripped your face, thumb pressing hard into your cheek, not enough to bruise — but close. His eyes were blank. That same blank.

“You wanna be seen?” he asked quietly. “Is that it? You wanna show off what I fuckin’ own?”

“No,” you whispered, throat dry. “No. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.” His grip tightened. “You’re still thinkin’ about it. I can see it.”

“I’m not. I swear. I won’t ask again.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then let you go.

“Damn right you won’t.”

You collapsed against the couch when he stood up, knees too shaky to follow. He disappeared into the kitchen, muttering to himself. You thought you heard the click of the drawer. The one with the knives.

The sun didn’t come up the next day. Not really. The blinds stayed shut. The lock on the door clicked twice that morning instead of once.

And you didn’t ask again.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out.

You were folding his shirts the way he liked — sleeves perfect, collars straight — and your fingers brushed the edge of the old British Army tee he wore to bed. You looked up at him, standing in the doorway, shirtless, scar gleaming faintly under the soft light of the living room lamp. Right above his temple. A brutal little crescent of pink, where the bullet hadn’t quite killed him.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked, before you could stop yourself. “The scar?”

He froze. Face blank.

The silence was immediate. Sharp.

You panicked.

“I didn’t mean— I just— I remember seeing it the first night and it worries me—”

“Worries you?” he repeated, voice flat. Cold. Like you’d said something dirty.

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Yes.”

He stepped toward you.

You took a step back. Instinct.

He grabbed your wrist, dragged you into the bedroom, the force of it like gravity shifting under your feet. You stumbled, tried to explain, but he didn’t want words.

“You don’t ask about that,” he snarled, throwing you down onto the bed. “You don’t talk about it. You don’t fucking look at it.”

“I didn’t mean—!”

He was already on you. Belt in hand. One hard crack across the back of your thigh. You yelped, fingers knotting in the sheets.

“You think I don’t see the way you stare?” Another hit. “You think you can fix me with your little slag eyes?”

You sobbed. Not from pain. Not entirely. From shame. Confusion.

One more blow. Then silence.

And then — his breathing changed. Slowed. Hitched.

He was still holding your leg down, hand shaking.

“…You said worried,” he whispered.

You blinked through tears. “W-what?”

He let go of the belt. It dropped to the floor like it burned him.

“You were… worried about me?”

You turned your head slowly. He wasn’t looking at you like before. Something broke in him — cracked open and leaking.

“I thought it was ugly,” he muttered, dazed, like he was talking to himself. “I thought it made me look wrong. Like a freak. But you were worried.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He sank down onto the bed beside you, hand hovering — not touching.

“Say it again.”

You hesitated.

“I was worried about you.”

His hand found your back, trembling.

“…Why?”

Because I used to think you were human. Because part of me still believes there’s something left inside you.

But you don’t say any of that.

“Because I care,” you whisper.

He exhales. Like it hurts.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

But he kisses your thigh where the belt left a mark anyway.

And you know he’s going to hurt you again. Maybe worse. But for a moment, he’s soft.

And that’s what terrifies you the most.

That night, he barely spoke.

Didn’t drag you by the wrist. Didn’t bark orders.

He just stared.

You were in bed, curled on your side, still sore from the belt. Still aching in ways you couldn’t name. Johnny stood at the edge of the room, shirtless, scar half-lit by the moon through the curtains.

You watched him, silent. Waiting.

When he moved, it was slow. Measured.

He climbed into bed behind you, peeled your shorts down like he was unwrapping something sacred. You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to ask, maybe to beg — but he was already there, already inside you, already moving.

No teasing. No commands.

Just fucking.

It was deep. Intentional. Not rushed — not this time. But not gentle, either. Like he was chasing something. Like he had to make you fall apart.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers practiced, determined. You moaned, body jolting, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. He whispered filth — what you’d look like dripping, what he wanted to hear when you came. Called you his good girl, his pet, his little doll with the sugar-slick cunt that only he gets to ruin.

You came once, breathless and clinging to the sheets.

He didn’t slow.

“Again,” he growled, sweat slicking his chest as he drove harder. “Gonna get three out of you. Maybe four. Maybe five if I hate myself enough tonight.”

You whimpered his name. He kissed the back of your neck like it hurt him to be soft.

The second orgasm tore through you fast, messy. You were already shaking when he pushed your legs apart again, dragging your hips up into his lap.

“I hurt you,” he murmured. “I always hurt you. All I fuckin’ do. And you still look at me like you care.”

You tried to reach for him — touch his face, his chest — but he caught your wrists and pinned them to the bed.

“I don’t get to finish,” he said, voice flat. “That’s the rule tonight.”

“Johnny—”

“You want me to cum?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “You want the freak with a hole in his head to cum with you like he’s normal?”

Your heart cracked.

You opened your mouth to answer — but then you were coming again. A third time. Harder. Raw.

He watched the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open.

And still — he didn’t let go. Didn’t let himself finish.

Even as his hips stuttered. Even as he bit down on your shoulder to keep from screaming.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you, breathing ragged.

Silent.

You reached for him. He let you, this time.

Let you hold him.

Let you whisper, “thank you...”

And he didn’t reply. But his hand found yours in the dark. Gripped it like a lifeline.

Like he was scared of floating too far.

You woke up to the sound of keys. Real ones. The front door.

Johnny stood above you with his jacket in one hand and your shoes in the other. The ones you hadn’t seen in weeks.

“Up,” he said.

You blinked, dazed. “What—?”

“You’re going outside.”

It took you a full five seconds to move. Then you scrambled to your feet, breath caught in your throat. He held out the shoes. You reached for them, but he didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm.

“You been good lately, haven’t you?” he murmured, eyes on yours. “Didn’t ask again. Didn’t whine. That’s what I like, pet.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. I’ve been good.”

A smile tugged at his mouth — lazy, sharp. Dangerous.

“See? You get it now.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “You get rewarded when you don’t beg like a bitch.”

You flushed. Shamed. A little sick. A little proud. You didn’t know which part of you felt what anymore.

Outside, the world was louder than you remembered. Brighter. Wind scraped against your skin like it hated you for leaving.

Johnny never let go of your hand. His grip was bruising.

You walked two blocks. Past a bakery. A flower stall. People. People. They smiled as they passed. One man looked at you twice. Johnny squeezed your fingers so hard your knuckles cracked.

“Let’s head back, yeah?” he said through clenched teeth.

You didn’t argue. You nodded like it was your idea.

Back home, the silence slammed over you like a door. You kicked your shoes off neatly. Looked at him. Waited.

He stepped in close. Close enough to smell the leather of his jacket.

“Good girl,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “That’s how this works. You obey, you get a little taste of fresh air. A little sunlight.”

He cupped your chin.

“Next time,” he said, “if you really earn it… maybe I’ll let you sit outside alone. Wouldn’t that be sweet?”

Your eyes burned.

“Yes, Johnny.”

“Say thank you.”

“…Thank you, Johnny.”

He smiled.

Then he kissed you hard — bruising, breath-stealing — and you knew your reward was over. The leash pulled tight again.

And you were back where you belonged.

It was raining.

Not hard — just the kind of soft, constant drizzle that made the walls feel closer. Time slower. The flat smelled like garlic and onions and steam from the pot he stirred with methodical focus.

You watched him from the kitchen doorway, bare feet on cold tile. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

His scar was visible in the kitchen light, a pale seam above his ear where skin met ruin. You thought of that night again. The belt. The whispered you were worried. The way he hadn’t let himself come.

And something broke open in you.

Not out of fear. Not obedience.

Something smaller. Realer.

You stepped closer. Slow. Careful.

Wrapped your arms around him from behind.

Your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, arms looping under his. A quiet hug. No words.

You felt him go still.

Utterly, completely still.

The spoon clinked against the edge of the pot and dropped. He didn’t pick it up.

“You okay?” you whispered against his spine.

Silence.

His hands were still at his sides.

“I wanted to,” you said softly. “That’s all. I just… wanted to feel you.”

Still nothing.

But then — slowly, like something ancient learning movement — he turned in your arms.

His eyes were unreadable. He looked down at you like you were speaking a language he hadn’t heard in years. One he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.

“You…” he started, then stopped. His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to fake that. I’m not fuckin’ stupid.”

“I’m not faking.”

Your voice was steady. Honest.

His hand came up. Hesitated. Then settled gently on the back of your head.

And for a second — one long, impossible second — he melted.

Let you hold him. Let you press your face into his chest. Let the kitchen and the rain and the outside world fade.

Then, just as fast, it shifted.

His grip on your hair tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who he was.

“You do this again without permission,” he said softly, “and I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.”

You nodded against his chest. “Okay.”

But he didn’t let go.

And he didn’t move away.

Not until the pasta burned.

She showed up at your door like a ghost from another life.

A knock. Firm, fast. The way she used to knock when she brought cheap wine and gossip. You froze, dish towel in hand, pulse skipping hard.

Johnny was in the living room.

He looked up from the couch, face unreadable. Then—slowly—he nodded.

“Answer it, pet.”

You opened the door.

There she was. Same eyes. Same concern. Same disbelief as she looked you over.

“…Hey,” she said. Soft. Suspicious.

You smiled too wide. “Hey. Sorry I haven’t called. Things’ve been… hectic.”

She glanced past you.

Johnny stood just inside the hallway now. Barefoot. Shirtless. His scar caught the light like a warning.

“Hi,” she said to him carefully.

He just nodded. Didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

You stepped aside. “Wanna come in?”

You weren’t sure which of you was more surprised when he didn’t say no.

She stepped in slowly, like the floor might bite her.

“Place looks clean,” she murmured, glancing around. “New decor?”

“Johnny’s idea,” you chirped. “He’s got… good taste.”

You could feel him watching you. Heat behind your spine. Like a wolf breathing down your neck.

She sat on the edge of the couch. “You’ve lost weight.”

You forced a giggle. “Been working out. Clean eating and stuff.”

Her eyes didn’t move from yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, really.”

Johnny moved to the arm of the couch, leaning against it casually—but his eyes were locked on you. Burning. Daring.

Your friend looked between the two of you. “You… sure?”

“I’ve never been better,” you said brightly. “Really.”

Johnny’s voice slid in like a knife.

“She’s thriving. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You looked at him.

Your mouth said, “Yes.”

Your eyes said, Please.

And your friend?

She saw it. Just a flicker. A tremor in your smile.

She stood. “Right. I should, um. Let you get back to it.”

You followed her to the door, heart pounding.

“Text me,” she said, too quiet.

“I will.”

“You promise?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

She glanced past you one more time—at Johnny, who hadn’t moved.

Who hadn’t blinked.

Then she stepped into the hallway.

And suddenly Johnny was there, closing the door behind her.

Locked it.

Turned to you slowly.

You were already backing up when he said, “Three minutes.”

You swallowed.

“I gave you three whole fuckin’ minutes to pretend.”

You frowned.

Not the kind of expression Johnny liked to see.

It wasn’t bratty. It wasn’t scared. It was confused.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you said quietly. “I meant it. I don’t know why she didn’t believe me.”

Johnny’s eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened — like your confusion was an insult. Like it made him angry that you couldn’t see what he saw.

“You think that makes it better?”

You opened your mouth.

He was already dragging you by the wrist.

Down the hall. Into the bedroom. You didn’t fight him — but your chest was tight, breath shaky, not from fear exactly, but from not understanding.

You didn’t want to leave.

So why did she look at you like you were a victim?

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

His hand was already in your hair, pushing you down onto the bed.

“You wanna act like you’re mine?” he growled, voice rough and ragged as he yanked your panties down. “Then you take it like mine. Don’t pout like some kicked puppy.”

You gasped when his fingers came down hard — not soft, not teasing, but mean.

A hard pinch to your clit that made you jerk, whimper.

“No—Johnny—!”

He didn’t stop.

He rolled the sensitive nub between two fingers, cruel and tight. “She looked at me like I fuckin’ chained you to the radiator,” he spat. “And you looked at her like you were confused. Like you missed her.”

“I didn’t—! I swear—!”

Another pinch. A twist. Your thighs shook.

“Then prove it. Say who you belong to.”

“You, Johnny—!”

“Say who's this is.”

He slapped your inner thigh. Another tug. You sobbed.

“Yours! It’s yours!”

He spread you open, spit on you, fingers coming down again — quick, sharp flicks to your clit that made your back arch and tears spring to your eyes. Over and over. Burning. Overloading.

“Too much—Johnny, please—!”

He didn’t stop.

“I need you,” you cried. “I love you—!”

That made him pause.

Just a second.

His hand still between your legs. Breathing hard.

He leaned down, mouth at your ear, voice like gravel and heat.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Say it while I break you.”

He slid two fingers inside you while the other hand tormented your clit again. Fast. Ruthless. Overstimulating. Your body jolting under him, every nerve on fire.

You were sobbing when you came — a raw, cracked sound that didn’t sound like a word.

And still, he didn’t let up.

“I said again.”

“I—I love you—!”

His lips pressed to your temple, soft and strange in contrast to the way he worked you over.

You’d never felt more owned.

More kept.

More honest.

You didn’t remember when the pain stopped.

Just the warmth.

The slow drag of a wet cloth between your legs, gentle. Careful. His touch finally light, reverent almost, as he cleaned you up.

Your breath came in tiny shivers. Brain fogged. Muscles loose. Eyes barely open.

You didn’t think you could move even if you wanted to.

Johnny sat beside you on the edge of the bed, tucking a blanket around your thighs. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing sweat-matted hair away from your face.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice like honey, like a balm. “Took it so well, didn’t you?”

Your lips parted. You leaned into the touch without thinking. Nodded slowly, cheek pressing into his palm.

“Mhm…”

He chuckled low in his chest. “All that crying. All that noise. But you needed it, didn’t you?”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused. “Needed you.”

His smile was soft. But his words weren’t.

“Needed me to remind you what a needy little thing you are. Can’t think without me, yeah?”

You nodded again, dreamily.

“Can’t keep yourself clean. Can’t cum right without bein’ slapped stupid. You like that, don’t you? Like bein’ put in your place.”

Something in you fluttered.

Not fear.

Not shame.

Something… warm.

You let out a tiny whimper and nuzzled closer. His hand stroked down your arm, your side, his palm settling on your hip.

“You’re precious like this,” he cooed. “All broken open. Mind quiet. Good for nothin’ but takin’ what I give you.”

You didn’t notice the words. Not really.

Just the tone.

You melted into it, clinging to every soft edge.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what, sweetheart?” he asked, all mock-surprise.

“For… for taking care of me.”

His smile grew — sharp and full of teeth.

“Always, pet. I’ll take real good care of you.”

And you believed him.

Even if your body ached.

Even if your heart did, too.

Because it was the first time he ever held you after.

And somehow, that made everything feel like love.

You woke before the alarm.

Eyes open, lashes heavy. The ache between your legs bloomed the second you shifted — sore, stretched, raw in places only he ever touched.

But you didn’t wince.

You smiled.

It wasn’t happiness. Not quite.

It was clarity.

You knew what to do.

You slipped from under the blankets quietly, careful not to wake him. Johnny’s arm twitched on the mattress beside you, his breath steady, deep. You paused for a second to look at him — the scar on his temple, the mess of his hair, the muscles beneath the sheet — then you padded barefoot to the kitchen.

He liked things clean.

Precise.

So you followed the recipe exactly.

One egg, over medium. Two slices of toast, not buttered — drizzled with olive oil. Tomatoes pan-seared in the same pan until blistered. A single slice of bacon. Never two. He didn’t like “greedy portions.”

You ate standing at the counter.

Half a piece of toast. No toppings. One tomato. Water, not juice. You didn’t need the same kind of food he did. You’d earned different things.

He made sure of that.

You had it all plated by the time you heard him rise.

The door creaked open behind you. His footsteps slow. Heavy.

You turned, plate already in hand.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

He blinked.

Took in the food. The spotless counters. You — wearing what he liked, the little pale robe he’d picked out and told you not to cover up.

He sat down without a word.

You placed the plate in front of him. Napkin. Cutlery. Perfect.

You didn’t sit.

You stood by the side of the table, hands clasped in front of you, watching him take his first bite.

His brow lifted, just a little.

“You remember the oil.”

“I remember everything.”

A beat.

His tongue dragged across his bottom lip. He chewed slowly. Swallowed.

Then he looked up at you.

“You always this obedient when you’re sore?”

You nodded once, eyes low.

“I want to be good.”

A pause.

“You’re getting there,” he murmured.

And for the first time, he offered something: a piece of tomato, speared on the edge of his fork, held out like a prize.

You leaned in. Took it from his hand.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Smiled.

It started that evening.

You were folding laundry, his shirts crisp and lined up in perfect little rows on the bed, when he came up behind you — wrapped an arm around your waist and spoke against your ear.

“Y’know, pet,” he murmured, “You’ve been so good, I think it’s time we make it official.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

By morning, your days had rules.

Rituals.

A quiet set of commandments written in Johnny’s voice, carved into your brain like a holy text.

Wake before six. You wore only what he picked the night before — laid out at the foot of the bed like a uniform. Something sheer. Something short. Something soft.

Breakfast made and served by six-thirty. He’d eat first. You only ate what he allowed after he was done — his leftovers, sometimes. A single egg. A bite of bacon. Your hunger became a test.

Clean the flat, every corner. But not robotically — lovingly. He wanted to see effort. Pride. Gratitude.

Midday check-in. If he wasn't at the flat, he expected a photo. A voice message. Something that proved you were home, obedient, still his.

Workout by four. The routine he picked. Push-ups. Squats. You counted out loud, breathy and strained. If you missed a rep, he’d make you start again. Shirtless. On video.

Dinner by six-thirty. The same care, the same portions. If he liked it, you got a kiss. If not, the plate went in the bin and you didn’t eat.

Kneel by eight. Naked. Waiting for him in the living room like clockwork. Quiet. Ready.

Every minute accounted for.

Every moment designed to mold you tighter to his shape.

You didn’t fight it.

You thrived under it.

It felt safe.

Structure. Purpose. Proof.

By the end of the week, you weren’t checking the rules anymore — they lived in your spine.

You’d say, “Did I do good, Johnny?”

And he’d smile.

Run his thumb along your jaw.

“You’re gettin’ perfect, pet.”

And that meant everything.

You didn’t expect a reward.

You never asked for them.

You just… wanted him to be proud.

So when Johnny came home and saw the floor scrubbed spotless, the candles lit just the way he liked, and you—kneeling by the bed in the soft lace slip he’d mentioned was his favorite once in passing—he stopped in the doorway and stared.

Eyes heavy. Breathing slow.

“Christ, pet.”

You looked up at him. Glowing.

“I just… wanted to show you,” you whispered. “That I’m yours.”

His expression shifted. Not a smile. Something darker. Deeper.

“You’ve been more than mine.”

He stepped closer.

“You’ve been perfect.”

You felt your heart flutter. Hips rocking instinctively where you knelt. “I want to be.”

He pulled you to your feet—no resistance—and pressed you to the bed, soft and slow, like you were made of glass.

Not like punishment.

Not like the cruel claiming he gave you when you disobeyed.

This was different.

He kissed you.

Really kissed you.

And when he pulled back, he whispered, “Think you’ve earned something special tonight.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Special?”

He tugged his belt loose. Dropped it beside the mattress. Pulled his boxers down with his pants—bare. Hard.

“No rubber.”

Your breath caught.

Your thighs twitched.

He smirked when he saw the way your pupils blew wide.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”

He ran his hand over your lower belly. Pressed down, just a little.

“You’re ready to carry me, yeah?”

Your breath stuttered.

You weren’t sure if he meant emotionally. Physically.

But the thought made your spine melt.

You nodded.

“Please.”

His hand cupped your face.

“Good girl.”

He pushed inside slow—and raw.

No barrier.

No filter.

Just skin to skin.

And it was different.

Hotter. Deeper. More final.

You gasped, gripping at his shoulders, your body already trembling around him.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s me. Givin’ you everything.”

You whimpered.

“I trust you,” you said again, tears pricking your lashes.

And he smiled.

But it wasn’t soft.

It was triumphant.

“Then take it all,” he growled. “Take every fuckin’ drop. You're gonna look so pretty stuffed full of me.”

You didn’t say no.

You couldn’t.

You only wrapped your legs around him tighter.

Because if this was love—

You wanted to drown in it.

It started small.

You didn’t even realize it, at first.

Your usual breakfast—the half piece of toast, maybe an egg—made your stomach churn. The smell of bacon had you pressing a fist to your mouth and bolting to the sink.

Johnny caught you that morning, bent over, trembling.

He just rubbed your back, quiet. Didn’t tease you. Didn’t scold.

And for once—he let you eat more.

He didn’t say why.

Just served you bland rice and banana slices, set the plate on your lap, and said, “Eat up, pet. You need it.”

You blinked at him.

“You're… letting me?”

He knelt beside you, ran his hand over your belly like it was something his.

“Not letting you,” he murmured. “Telling you.”

The next few weeks passed in a haze of nausea, cravings, and fatigue.

Your thighs grew softer. Your face a little rounder.

You dropped the laundry once—dizzy—and he didn’t snap.

Didn’t punish you.

He just carried you to the bed, tucked you in, whispered, “That’s alright, bonnie. You’re doin’ so well.”

Then you missed your period.

Once.

Twice.

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

Some part of you knew.

And you weren’t ready to know.

But he was.

Johnny came home with a bag from the pharmacy one evening, placed it on the bathroom counter like it was a gift.

“Go on,” he said, voice gentle, but not optional.

You stared at the box. Pregnant. Not pregnant.

Two lines.

One.

You touched the plastic with trembling fingers. “Johnny…”

“You’ve been feelin’ different, yeah?” he murmured, stepping behind you, his hand sliding over your stomach from behind. “Tired. Nauseous.”

You didn’t answer.

He kissed your neck, slow and firm.

“S’not just you anymore, pet. You’re carryin’ me now.”

You let out a soft, broken sound.

“I—if I am, I—”

“You will be.” His voice went low. Serious. “Took you raw. Filled you up like you’re meant to be filled.”

You looked in the mirror.

His arms wrapped around your waist. His chin on your shoulder. His hands over your belly.

You didn’t see yourself anymore.

You just saw his.

[chanelle-lize]

I used to have a really hard time bringing up the fact that I graduated from high school a year late without feeling the need to explain why and insisting that it wasn't my fault while simultaneously kicking myself for how much I sounded like I was just making excuses for something I should take responsibility for.

Then I watched Dimension 20's "The Seven" and suddenly I could simply say that I was a super senior.

The first time I heard the phrase "super senior" was in reference to Antiope Jones, a Black girl who had been held back a year after getting kidnapped and imprisoned by members of a fundamentalist cult, and like, girl, same.

So, since then, instead of anxiously spinning out any time I tried to tell a personal high school anecdote, I could just say I was a super senior, and then my brain would auto complete that statement with "like Antiope Jones" and I'd feel good about myself because Antiope Jones Is That Bitch.

That's what the problem had been the whole time. I wasn't worried about how other people would perceive me; I had been struggling with how I perceived myself.

Thanks, Aabria.

[angevinyaoiz]

Patrochilles x Troilus

A goofy scenario I’ve had in my head where instead of getting Super Murdered Troilus just gets kidnapped and this causes lots of problems and annoyances for everyone. Take notes folks, remember to do ur research and consult ur partner before impulsively attempting to add a new member to ur shared harem…

[b2geeta]

Perfidious Hero

Izuku Midoriya x Quirkless Fem Reader Warning⚠: Abusive behavior, noncon, gas lighting, slight violence, dark Izuku Midoriya, female anatomy reader, yandere Izuku Midoriya, kidnapped reader, Pro Hero Deku

Description: Izuku Midoriya has trouble controlling his quirk and strength when he is angry. You running away was the last thing he needed to deal with today...you will learn that the hard way.

You didn't bother wearing shoes. The dirt and concrete didn't matter in this situation, matter of fact, you were happy to actually feel the earth beneath you once again. Even if it was slightly painful to feel sharp pebbles stab the soles of your feet, the adrenaline made you appreciate the pain. The adrenaline also kept you running while you your lungs pleaded for a break. A couple people looked at you bewildered, but you don't have the chance to care because he could be returning back to the apartment any moment, or he could be patrolling the area, either way, you were not gonna take the chance of being caught.

When was the last time that you were outside? Maybe about 3 weeks ago. You don't even know what street you are on, but you have the layout memorized in your mind from the countless times you watched people walk to and from it. The corner you were approaching was the end of your mental map, what lies beyond that? Hopefully a damn pro hero or police officer. All you know is that as soon as you get the chance to, you're going to do everything in your power to put Pro Hero Izuku Midoriya under the fucking jail. The thought of that monster locked up, his public image ruined makes you feel a sense of relief, even safety. Everyone should know how deranged their favorite "Underdog Hero" is. He acts like hardworking, youthful hero that could do no evil, but really he is a chronically online man who spends his free time lurking on news articles and writing blogs about heroes and villains. The worst part is that you aren't even a hero OR villain. You're just a random civilian who happened to witness him tweak out in an alley way on your way to work. You never made it to work that day.

The corner turn you hit was sharp. Your shoulder even hit the brick exterior of the building as you moved. But before you could even muster a yelp of pain or even a curse, you stilled in your tracks. That green suit was an obstacle you prayed you wouldn't encounter. His back was facing you, engaged with some lower ranking hero who possibly was on patrol. You did not care to think about whatever Midoriya was doing, you just swiftly turned back around the way you came, and crossed the street. Maybe if you go into a store or an alley way and wait for him to pass by you can make a break for it...right? Everything would be okay, right? Then why is your legs shaking, and why does your throat sting?

"I'm scared," is all you can mumble as you try for the nearest exit. "Oh god, I'm scared."

There's no stores, but there is a small alley way you can hide in. There's a dumpster with a couple bags of trash piled around it. Perfect. You feel ashamed that you are willing to hide between bags of trash, but pride means nothing to you right now. You just squeeze your eyes close and try to still your breathing. The people passing by fills you with a sense of hope.

If he does somehow find me, I can just scream for help. That calms you slightly, but only for a second.

"This is how I end my fucking day at work," your body freezes. Your gaze sees the green hero suit, this time it is in the alley way facing you. "I'm walking home tired from saving people all day, only for someone to tell me that they think there's someone hurt in the alleyway...and it's you." Midoriya's voice quietly fills with rage the more he stands there looking at you hiding in trash.

"I-." you just open your mouth to scream. The idea of you alerting people nearby died when a gloved hand crosses your cheek. The pain from it makes you yelp. But he doesn't even give you time to make another sound because he cracks another slap across your face, and another, and another. All you can do is cry in pain. Can anyone see him hitting you? Does anyone care to ask what's going on? Pushing through the pain, you fix to scream again, and pained sound muffled behind the Hero Deku's hand. No amount of hitting and biting makes him pull his hand away. If you had a quirk, you would've used it on him.

The moments after happened fast. He pulls you out of the trash, hand still on your mouth, and picks you up. You struggle, which makes him squeeze your face with the hand that's covering your mouth. You know that once you leave this alleyway, the chances of you ever being free again is gone, so you fight with everything you can muster, but there isn't much you can do against a prime hero. All it does is make him lean into you ear and whisper threats.

"When we get back home, you're gonna wish you weren't fucking quirkless." This doesn't hurt your feelings, but it does scare you enough for you to stop your struggles for a second. And a second is all he needs to use One For All to jump up the walls and onto buildings back to his apartment balcony. He sees the open glass door and the tied together sheets.

"So you ruined my All Might sheets too," his lips presses together, "Now you're really going to get it." He walks into his front room, and exhales. You weren't exactly clean when you tore his sheets apart to make a rope. The anger evident on his face made you shrink into yourself. Midoriya brings you to his All Might decorated bathroom and drops you into the shower. "You smell like garbage." He turns the water on for the shower, watching your clothes get drenched. You grit your teeth at the cold water, humiliated.

"Stop it." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

"Take your clothes off." His voice is flat.

"Please just stop this-," The heroes gloved hand yanks at your clothes, taking what little freedom and safety that you had left. His hero suit starts to soak with water and he shreds your clothes off your crying form. He only stops when he sees that you have nothing left covering you. He grabs a bottle of soap and pours it onto your body, the suds quickly disappearing under the water.

"Hiding in trash like that, ripping my All Might sheets and dirtying my living room; you must've really wanted to make me mad." The shower shuts off, and he grabs your arm, yanking you to his bedroom, you know what that means. Izuku Midoriya had a weird hobby. He liked to fanboy over heroes and villains even though he is a Pro Hero himself. His hobby did not only stop there, you discovered soon after he first kidnapped you that he got off to making you dress up, or even cosplay as his fellow colleagues that had hero costumes he found attractive. Sometimes he made you dress as his favorite anime or video game character. Either way, watching him jerk off to you dressed in outfits you would never dare to wear yourself disturbed you.

You're confused. He isn't digging through his closet looking for clothes to make you wear, and he isn't sitting on the edge of his bed janking his dick while dropping random knowledge of the person you're cosplaying as. He is on top of you, hands gripping your bare chest with an intense look in his eyes.

"You should've stayed home while I was working. I would've just made you dress as Mysteria and called it a day. But you had to make me mad, you had to ruin my belongings. Look, there aren't even sheets on my fucking bed." Midoriya starts to ramble more to himself than you. "I really wasn't going to do this to you until you came around more, but you're just so stubborn. I felt bad for what I did, but now I see that you deserve to be treated this way. Maybe I did justice by taking you off the streets." You don't what to think, you just push at his body, his muscles twitch underneath your fingers. Whimpers and cries and pleas do nothing to stop his hand from pinching your nipples. It wasn't unusual for him to grope you when he masturbated, but his hard dick pressing against your stomach was a line he never crossed before.

"I've been wanting to see what it felt like to be inside a girl," he mutters as he stops his groping to undress out of his uniform. "You really did happen to show up at the right time." His hands now bare, were making their way to your naked cunt. His middle finger slides between your slit. There was barely any wetness at all, and if you were honest, you did feel slightly aroused whenever he dressed you up and jerked off to you, but this is something completely different.

"Please, I'll buy you new sheets, I'll do whatever you want just please don't do this." You were ignored.

"Not even wet, you're lucky I'm being so considerate, because I really just want to put it in now and make you regret what you did." Lube pours all over your lower half. The cold from it makes your body flinch, but the impact of his finger shoving its way inside you cause you to cry out in discomfort. "It's warm." The face Midoriya makes causes your stomach to churn, he looks utterly focused on fingering you as if this is a new hero he discovered. You can tell he is starting to fixate on your vagina, and this scares you. Another finger is added, you grunt. His inexperienced hand pushes in and out of you, the lube dripping down your ass and onto the bed. He pulls his fingers out and starts lubing up his dick. You take this as a chance to try and and run, but unfortunately, he is always faster. One hand on your throat, and another holding his cock, the tip pushes into you. It stings. Doing anything you can to make him stop, you scream and kick. That doesn't matter to Midoriya, he just pushes his fat cock into your pussy and starts thrusting without a care in a world. He gives low grunts and huffs.

"Fuck, ngh, I should've done this way sooner." He tightens his grip around your throat as he fuck your pussy. The stretch of his dick makes you cry, but it's bearable because of the lube. You don't want to admit it, but it feels slightly good. Each thrust jolts your body, your hips now being grabbed by both hands. He doesn't care that you can't keep up with his pace. He just speeds up, slamming into your body with hella force. The sound of skin slapping makes you feel humiliated. "Yeah, mh, just lay there and take my cock," he doesn't allow you to have any pride, he fucks that too. Your entire body flushes, you feel warm. If anyone were to find out what he has been doing to you, you would never be able to live normally. He knows this.

"If I get you pregnant, I can just tell everyone we are planning for a family, nh, fuck- I'll even marry you."

"W-what?! Oh god, no, please, no, why are you doing this to me?!" You're kicking, screaming and crying. You pull his hair, his head yanking downwards towards your chest. This does nothing to stop him from filling you up. Cum oozes out your pussy as he pulls out. Your grip on his hair drops as you lay there, stunned. The back of your throat dry, and your face is stained with tears and sweat.

[notawheelwalker]

None of the IC were aware of feysand’s death pact, which is the main reason they did what Rhysand ordered and didn’t tell Feyre that her pregnancy would be fatal. They don’t care about her outside of who she is to him. If he was willing to step aside and let his mate die while birthing the heir to his court, they didn’t care either.

[poly-yandere-lovers]

Yantober, Day 2

WARNING: Spider, kidnapping, drugging

Author's Note: Find the Yantober writing challenge here!

Tag: none

You fight the thick, sticky ropes that's caught you. You and your colleagues flew out to the jungle to observe the animals there. You'd wandered too far from the group and you're certain you've attracted some sort of predator while trying to get back.

The glimpses you caught of this thing is nothing like any creature you know of. It's easily 8 feet tall, a hulking thing with several eyes that glow in the dim light. Who knows what it'd do to you, if it caught you?

The foliage crashes and shakes. "What have I caught this tiiiimme?~" A loud, rough, hissing sort of voice sings as they trample through the bushes. "Hello?! Please, help me!!" You call, trying to rip away from the ropes. Maybe they'll get you out? You hope they will. "Oh, I've finally caught you, my dear!" They sound ecstatic. They're frantically crashing through the plants to get to you, now.

Finally? Finally caught you??

You're stuck between relief, fear and confusion. What do they mean, caught? And my dear? You don't recognize their voice at all.

You don't get anymore time to logic it out before they come scrambling out from the brush. The first thing you notice about them is that they're lacking human legs. Their bottom half is made up of a giant black spider. Their legs are as thick as yours. Their torso is built like a masculine greek statue; chiseled abs, big pecs and smooth skin. They're about 8 feet tall.

You gasp as you look at their eyes. Those eyes...! They have 8 eyes in total; Two where a human's eyes are, two where their eyebrows should be and the other four under their human-eyes. They light up when they see you. "My dearest human!! I've found you at last!" They scuttle to you and snatch you from the ropes. The spider-creature hugs you tightly, "I've been dreaming of your face for years, dear. Now, I can finally hug you, touch you." They nuzzle into you. "Dreaming of me? What are you talking about??" You start struggling against their grip. "Stop that," They warn. Their hold doesn't lessen. "But what about my colleagues? My friends back home? My family??"

"None of those other humans matter, dearest. I've taken care of those that were holding you hostage already," They hiss against your skin. "H-hostage?! No!! I work with them! Let me go, right now!"

The spider-person sighs, "They've corrupted your mind. They don't care about you." You try to argue with them, but they aren't listening anymore. You try to pull out of their arms. "Stop. That. This is your last warning," They growl. You finally notice that you aren't where you were when you were caught. "Where are you taking me?" You ask, voice quivering slightly.

"Home, where you belong," They explain with a smile.

"H-home?"

"Yes! Far, far away from the filth of this awful world."

Ice fills your veins as you realize that you're going deeper into the jungle. You start kicking and flailing in desperation. A strong hand grabs your neck and forces you closer to the spider-person's face. Their mouth is opening, revealing sharp teeth and long fangs. They bite into your neck, you feel fluid rush into your bloodstream. They pull back as quick as they bit. "Behave," They growl. It hits almost immediately. Fog fills your mind and dark spots cloud your vision.

[starleska]

if it weren't obvious, this absolute freak has captivated me. Butter Roll Cookie is out here creating doughy abominations like the Amalgamates from Undertale without an ounce of guilt. ...but he's gorgeous, so he gets a pass 😂💖

[zu-is-here]

[ ? ]

Aftermare Week by @bluepallilworld

Geno by loverofpiggies

Nightmare by jokublog

[oddberryshortcake]

I think the Knight of Dawn being "a coward who is unable to stand up for what is right and does as he's ordered to" and "someone who cares deeply about his family and did everything he could so that Silver could live a happy and normal life in the future" are two statements that can coexist.

[cry-bastion]

CHRIS SARANDON as JERRY DANDRIGE in Fright Night (1985), dir. Tom Holland

Of course, uh, now that I've been made welcome I'll probably drop by quite a bit. In fact, anytime I feel like it.