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[simpinsimpleton]

forgive me father for i have sexualized an older man

[simpinsimpleton]

Can’t believe I joined the Cillian Murphy fandom 10 days ago and I went from “just Tommy Shelby” to “anything with Cillian Murphy’s face”

[simpinsimpleton]

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship. 

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive. 

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function. 

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but. 

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead. 

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright. 

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane. 

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease. 

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525. 

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it. 

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god. 

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything. 

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive. 

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GothamU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago. 

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear. 

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with. 

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee. 

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting. 

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh. 

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together. 

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody. 

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane. 

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out? 

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves. 

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago. 

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart? 

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch. 

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all. 

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face. 

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain. 

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked. 

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated. 

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway. 

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now. 

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office. 

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly. 

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not. 

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces. 

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated. 

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home. 

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park. 

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials. 

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze. 

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off. 

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation. 

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects. 

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab. 

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes. 

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark. 

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant. 

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting. 

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair. 

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly. 

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid. 

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.” 

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?” 

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years. 

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew. 

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment. 

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one. 

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him. 

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek. 

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed? 

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before. 

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever. 

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily. 

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes. 

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time. 

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair. 

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment. 

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him. 

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all. 

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly. 

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him. 

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back. 

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him. 

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts. 

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were. 

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch. 

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions. 

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed. 

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs. 

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body. 

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously. 

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling. 

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth. 

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand. 

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it. 

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands. 

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,” 

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly. 

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass. 

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling. 

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before. 

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt. 

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins. 

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him. 

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open. 

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth. 

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds. 

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in. 

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out. 

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.” 

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach. 

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him. 

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him. 

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm. 

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you. 

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments. 

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you. 

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come. 

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs. 

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior. 

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music. 

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair. 

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it. 

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid. 

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you. 

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch. 

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe. 

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily. 

[simpinsimpleton]

“Oh Ghost’s ass-“ “Ghost has great ass-“

“Soap’s tits are huge-“ “Soap’s chest is loaded-“

WHAT ABOUT PRICE HUH?!

WHAT. ABOUT. JOHNATHAN.

AHHHHHHH

P l e a s e

[simpinsimpleton]

Currently thinking about John bringing the 141 boys home to meet his missus <3

He originally only invited Simon. The most recent mission was tough and well… he didn’t want the lad to go home alone…

But then Soap found out and begged to come along who also roped in Gaz. They knew John was married but he never revealed any information about you. Not even your name. Whenever Soap would pester John about your name, John would respond with, “Mrs. Price.” Which always made Simon chuckle.

You didn’t even know he was bringing them home with him. It was a pleasant surprise when he came home with the 3 lads in tow.

However, what was even more surprising, was how different John was when he was on leave. When he was with you. Watching John walk into the beautiful secluded home in Hertfordshire, dropping his bags and wrapping you up in a hug that cures all his ails was… cathartic to say the least.

Watching how you both light up when you see each other, soft kisses and mumbles exchanged as you tell John how happy you are that he’s home in one peace. The house is filled with a wonderful aroma that makes each man drool.

You peek your head around to see the rest of Task Force 141 standing there awkwardly. John gives you a sheepish smile, worried you might not be okay with them all being here but his smile warms up when he sees you excitedly run over to introduce yourself.

During their stay, they witnessed multiple things which reminded them that their Captain has his own life away from Task Force 141 and things that remind them that their Captain has a warm heart reserved only for you…

On the first night, Soap realises he left his toothbrush and toothpaste on base and wandered through the house to find either you or John after everyone had retired to bed. You had told them all that if they need a single thing, not to hesitate to find you and ask…

Eventually, he finds the master bedroom, door already slightly cracked open. He peeks in and witnesses a tender moment between you and John.

His Captain, who he’d seen kill people with his bare hands, was sat on the edge of your shared bed with you standing between his legs. Your gentle hands tracing over John’s bare chest, sniffling as you rest your forehead against his.

You cup his face in both hands, “missed you so much, John…”

His hands squeeze your hips before travelling up your sides to pull you closer, “I’m right here, love. Told you I’d come back. Always will…” he mumbles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He brushes a stray tear away from your cheek.

Soap witnesses the tender exchange between the two lovers with a warm feeling in his chest. He decides he can go one night without brushing his teeth. God forbid he robs his Captain of this moment.

A few days later, Simon goes outside for a smoke, admiring the beautiful garden that you take so much pride in maintaining. He notices you out there, picking some fresh strawberries from the greenhouse.

John appears a few moments later, carrying two heavy bags of compost on his shoulders. He places them down and steals a strawberry from your basket, making you smack his shoulder playfully.

“John, those are for dessert tonight.” You scold. Simon watches as Price leans down to whisper something in your ear with a sly smirk on his face. Clearly something naughty judging from the way you blush and squeal when he kisses your neck afterwards.

John picks up another strawberry and places it in your mouth, pecking your lips afterwards. Simon can’t help the little twitch of a smile that appears under his mask when he watches you both spend the next 10 minutes feeding each other strawberries until the basket is empty, the two of you smiling and giggling like children who got into the sweet cupboard.

You made apple crumble for dessert that night instead and Simon didn’t miss the way John smiled when you made up an excuse about the strawberries not being ready to pick yet.

One morning, Gaz woke up early and went for a run. He expected to be the only one awake when he got back but to his surprise, he comes back to soft music coming from the record player in the living room.

You and John don’t notice Gaz but he can see the two of you in the kitchen. Bowls and ingredients scattered all across the counters. John is leaning against the island, whisking a bowl that you handed him whilst you place some homemade croissants into the oven.

“You don’t have to keep cooking them 5 star buffets every day, honey…” John sighs, “they’d be happy with a bowl of cereal and some toast.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be happy with it, John.” You hum, “I dread to think what they feed you boys when you’re away.”

John smiles to himself, placing his hand on the small of your back and grabbing the plates, that you were struggling to reach, for you.

You clearly take great pride in being a homemaker and host, Gaz thinks. He can tell by the way you rush around the kitchen, mumbling to yourself.

“Love…” John says, grabbing your wrist and pulling you against him when you rush past him to grab something from the fridge. “Breathe…”

You smile at him as he holds you against him, swaying you both to the rhythm of the R.E.M album that was playing.

“I just want to make a good first impression on them, Honey…” you sigh.

John places a kiss to your nose, “They love you, Sweetheart.”

“How do you know?” You reply, frowning at even the mere thought of John’s team not liking you.

“Because I love you…” John smiles, leaning down to kiss you on the lips.

Simon, Gaz, and Soap may not always see eye to eye. They have their little squabbles and get on each other’s nerves despite how much they love each other.

But if there was one thing the trio could agree on, it was nice to know that the man who always took care of them… had someone looking after him too.

[simpinsimpleton]

pirate!captain Price au

word count: 1.2k

warnings: none. pretty sfw

a/n: im so in love with him it's pathetic. that's all I have to say

I need pirate!Captain Price.

I need him smoking with his foot propped up on the edge of his ship, the wind making his long coat dance in the wind.

I need him to stroke his beard while listening to whatever poor excuse someone gives him while owing him money before he orders his boys to tie them up and throw them to the sharks.

I need him to be ruthless with a soft spot for the misfits and orphans, more than often giving money to the beggars when he thinks no one is looking.

I need him to be a huge tease and start trimming his beard with his knife, or sword when someone’s boring him with loads of bullshit.

I need him to kiss a Lady breathless right before he jumps out of her window after he and his boys just robbed them of their riches.

I need him to place his hat on his face and take a nap on his hammock, snoring loudly away while his boys are daring each other to jump naked in the cold sea.

I need him to be so confident in himself and his skills, but not feel the need to prove it to anyone. He can take up anyone in a fight and win. He could have chugged 4 pints and was a bit wobbly on his feet, but as soon as he has his gun or sword in his hand, he never misses. Or heck, even his own fists could kill a man even if he was drunk, with pink cheeks, glassy eyes and all.

He’s fast, rude and absolutely despised by the Royal Navy. He’s been caught a couple of times and thrown in prison so he could be hung for his crimes, but he managed to escape every time. And when he didn’t, he would be standing in the middle of a clearing, waiting to be hung when his boys come out of nowhere, raining bullets and fire on the Navy, rescuing their Captain like they’ve done it a million times before. And the only reason he allowed himself to stay in the hands of the Navy for that long is because his boys begged him to let them rescue him, because according to their words, “It’d be fun."

I need pirate!Captain Price to be loved by pub owners and whores. Because not only is he generous when it comes to paying for everyone’s food and drinks, he’s generous in giving out as many orgasms as his partner for the night wants. He would treat the whores like Ladies, even though they won’t consider themselves anything close to high-class proper Lady. And when everyone’s satiated and drowsy, Price makes sure to leave a hefty amount of money under their pillow before he leaves.

Pirate!Captain Price who wouldn’t want to settle down any time soon, who feels more comfortable in constantly moving around and being surrounded by his boys, who’re practically his family. He feels like he’s meant to be some sort of shepherd to those who the streets treat unkindly. He’d rather offer a job to someone than see them lost in the streets, with no one to rely on. So he’s some sort of Robin Hood in his own ways.

And when fate finally slaps him across the face with love, it happens in the most unexpected ways. It happens on a random Monday, Gaz shouts that there’s another ship not far off on the East and everyone gets ready to attack it. When they do attack the ship, swinging abroad and scaring the crewmate shitless, John finds himself in the middle of a wedding, a bride, groom, guests and the priest about to make them say their vows.

And everyone is obviously terrified, but John’s no cruel man, he can’t ruin a poor couple’s special day, so he thinks about leaving until he meets the bride’s eyes. She was pretty, oh so pretty all dressed in white lace and pearls, but she also looked terrified, hands trembling on her sides and he understands, she was scared for her life. John glances at his boys and tells them to leave without saying a word, and then he notices the tables with wine and champagne, and John has to have a sip or bottle, doesn’t matter.

And that’s how he makes the biggest mistake ever, he walks to the front, where the couple was frozen along with the priest with the table to their left, and really, why put the drinks at the front? Why not at the back? But John doesn’t care to think too much of it, he ignores an old woman flinching and slapping a hand over her mouth and he hums, picks a flute of champagne, and their biggest, most expensive bottle of wine.

Right as his lips were about to touch the edge of the flute, he sees a blur of ivory white in the corner of his eyesight, and everything happens so fast that he failed to stop the bride from grabbing his sword right under his nose. John meets her eyes and it was the first time he truly felt scared for his life, her eyes were dark and absolutely furious and he thought that was it, he was about to die by the feet of a priest and groom, stabbed to death by the prettiest bride he’s ever seen, truly an Angel sent down to pierce his heart and make him bleed for all of his sins.

But she doesn’t stab him.

Instead, she buries the sword in her groom’s heart and the ship erupts in horrified gasps and screams. John watches in real time how the priest faints and how the groom meets his bride’s eyes, unable to breathe while his clothes are getting soaked in pure red at a concerning speed. He curses her out and John is so lost, what the fuck did just happen?

And it seemed like that was not all because the bride is panting and had a wild look on her face, and she turns to someone in the crowd, screaming at the top of her lungs, “I TRUSTED YOU!”

John looks at the crowd and quickly sees an older woman with a guilty and terrified look on her face, hm, must be her mother, same eyes and hair. Then the click of a gun somehow reaches John’s ears in the chaos and he sees a man lift his gun, pointing it towards the bride, and John realises it’s the poor bloke’s father who the bride just killed. John’s hands drop the bottle, the liquid staining his clothes and he grabs the bride without thinking, he throws her over his shoulder and snatches back his sword and jumps out of the window, landing on his ship.

And he doesn’t have to say anything before his boys steer his ship away and they sail as fast and as far as the wind carries them, away from the mess the bride left behind. Well, she wasn't a bride anymore, was she?

When John’s senses catch up with his reality, he finds himself hovering over the bride, her see-through veil still draped over her angelic face, doing nothing to hide her wild eyes as she stared at John, chest heaving up and down. And he was still clutching onto his sword, the blade bloody and warm, matching the same colour of the wine that was now staining his trousers.

What did I just do?

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @silviafantin15 @reveluving @bobastayhigh @originalsimp @h-leigh @gxldyjess @msdrpreist @chaoticevilbakugo @Lacunaanonymoused @whore4dilfs @canadianmilkbag

[simpinsimpleton]

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You knew only one thing - you had been alone in your cove for a long, long, time. That was...until you first locked eyes with the fisherman.

WORD COUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Fluff, mentions of death, being hunted, vulgar language, price in a tunic (yes this is a warning by itself), awkwardness, nakedness, suggestive (?), implied age gap, etc.

A/N: I'm feral over this AU, ong. A million kisses to the Anon that brought this to my attention-btw this is definitely becoming a mini-series.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your family told you to never go beyond the deep waterways of the cove, never to brave the open sea. Times were changing. The Harpies, when they weren't as shrewd about their feathers getting wet, would fly down from their tall mountain spires and tell stories—ones about the hunting ships. 

They’d seen them, they said as your family listened on in horror from the rocks, dragging all manner of Merfolk up from the waters in large nets made of iron and hard steel. Spears that tore scales to take for profit. In other instances, the unlucky individuals were even sold to royalty to become showpieces in displays of high wealth and standing. 

But it wasn’t just Merfolk. It was all manner of mystical beast and being. Hunted. Sold. Humans, your parents had told you, were not friends. They were greedy and selfish; more than often cruel. 

And so they started to do the same unto them. Your family would lure them with their voices to the ends of the great ships that were brought close to your cove—watch as they hurled themselves from the sides into the grasp of the ruthless waves. They did it for you, they explained. To try and keep you safe. 

For years they did this until they were gone too. 

Suddenly the cove seemed more like a prison than a safe spot, and the Harpies no longer came to converse or tell news. Killed or taken you had no idea, but it was becoming fairly obvious that even interactions with your own people were impossible. Were you the only mermaid left? It was a good question to ask and one that you could never answer. All that you knew was that you had been alone for a very long time. 

That was, before you first laid eyes on the fisherman. 

You watch him now, yet again, from behind the sharp jutting body of the rocks; the water delicately bobs you up and down as your vibrant tail hangs limp in its otherworldly throes. Eyes softly wide and mouth parted in wonder. 

He’s walking along the deck of a small ship—not the large and intimidating ones of the other men that sail the seas—with a strong form. A hat on top of his head of brown hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color made him look gruff in appearance. 

Your hands shift over the sharp black stone, and the nakedness of your top is covered by the long strands of your wet, uncut, hair. This man wore a plain white tunic and brown pants stuffed into large boots. Even as far as you were, you heard the soft whistled tune dancing in the shell of your ears. Delicate eyes watch, head slowly peeking out more and more. 

He was tending to the nets he had on the bow and as you studied him you were mystified. 

“Fascinating,” you whisper, unknown emotions swirling in you. 

His muscles strain, large and expansive shoulders lead down to a tapered waist; legs that you blink at before glancing at your tail under the rippling water. There’s a large grunt before the fisherman’s net is thrown in a beautiful arc, hitting the water with a slap and a spray of liquid as it begins to sink. Startled, you flinch back, gasping loudly.

With a racing heart, you quietly scold yourself for the childish reaction, flicking your tail in annoyance. Slowly but surely, your head peaks back out with water dripping down the flesh of your shoulders. 

But when you shift back into the open, you find a deep set of stormy blue eyes digging into your field of view. You freeze, seeing his lids go back in surprise and shock as your jaw slackens. A cold fear enters your veins at the new attention brought to you but you find yourself unable to look away. 

The Fisherman is the picture of utter stillness, just as you are, like twin mountains of ancient stone. Your nervousness only seems to grow as he doesn’t do anything—teachings and lessons about those who walk on two legs and sail in ships poking holes into your mind. 

Gawking and spying were one thing…but being seen meant death. You swallow stiffly and go tense, shifting to half-hide behind your rock. 

“Oh, no,” your mouth murmurs, self-hatred and fear lining the tone. “Oh, no, no, no.”

And yet the Fisherman had not moved, nor made any attempt to pull his sinking net back into his boat. Fish panic in the rope grave they’ve been ensnared in. His eyes….why are they so curiously locked on you?

You spare one last glance before shoving away from the rock and disappearing under the water with a violent splash; making off for the deep underwater caves that offer salvation. 

When you’re down there—in the darkness with only silent ripples of light to guide your eyes—you find it hard to stop thinking about the Fisherman and his strong jaw. His genuine awe at the sight of you. 

Had he not heard the stories of the Merfolk of this region? Or…or were you truly the last of your kind? 

The thought troubles you, and, riddled with anxiety, you go over to your store of shiny trinkets that you’d collected over the years; grabbing them in your hands and fiddling with them to try to put your mind at ease. The walls of the caves bare down on you and you hope you’d not just signed over your own death warrant. 

Maybe he’ll go away, you offer yourself, face tight and tail curled close, maybe he’ll be afraid and won’t come back. 

It was a pointless belief. They always come back—driven by greed or a righteous authority. Humans were cruel. 

But your brain goes back to stormy blue eyes like pebbles and softly parted lips. Orbs glinting with wonder and shock. No attempt to shout or grab for the large knife you’d seen strapped to his belt. 

A fisherman, you told yourself, who hesitated to go after the biggest fish of them all. 

You didn’t quite know if that made you more afraid or more intrigued. 

—

It was only after you’d spent three weeks in the underwater caves of the cove that you’d finally decided the coast was clear. You’d cautiously gone back through the winding seaweed and schools of marine life to hide in your little rock fort; afraid but brave. From under the waves in the calm of the water you’d scanned the surface for the shadows of a boat, anything to indicate that the man had returned. 

Nothing. 

Tension leaves your shoulders and you travel upwards, vibrant scales shimmering like jewels. You were quite close to the mainland, you would say, back to the shore to look out over the open entrance to your home. At the first sign of danger, the rocks would be your first point of shelter if you wished to remain hidden but continue to watch.

Ears popping as your head surfaces, you only look out with the water swaying below your eyes; nose and chin hidden. Sand from behind you shifts.

“Knew I’d seen something, then, eh?” Your heart lurches—brain flashing to hooks and nets; you shove yourself back under the water with a garbled gasp.

Fish around your form dash away as you frantically look back at the surface, your scales shining as the light hits them. Fingers tense in the water, you shift your body so that your form has its back to the floor of the cove and breathe quickly in your own mermadian way with shaking fins. 

On the very edge of the shore, you see the shadow of a sitting body in the sand. He hadn’t moved, this Fisherman. Was waiting as inanimate as an empty shell.

What had he said? You ask yourself, hair disturbed by the flow of the waves above your head. A gentle back and forth. After a moment of contemplation, the large muscle in your breast slows itself and a nervous curiosity grows.

Yet still, the shadow stays completely motionless beside the occasional itch and brush as facial hair. Waiting. 

Waiting to attack, your hand twitches in the water and you flutter your tail to take you closer to the open air, or waiting to see me?

Taking what you can describe as a deep breath, the top of your head once more breaks the top of the water; lashes dripping salty tear-drops as you blink away the sting. Every part of you is ready to disappear once more if things go south. 

And then you lock eyes once more. 

The Fisherman sits in the sand with his boots pushing up the granules—his right hand rests over his bent knee while the other keeps him up in a relaxed position from behind his back. You stare, the sun reflected in your eyes with a small glinting and hair in your vision. A foreign heat builds in your face when the man’s head tilts; tiny eyes narrowing as if he’d just proven a point to himself. 

Why doesn’t he seem surprised?

There’s a moment of a smirk that slashes his hidden lips but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. His mustache moves as he speaks and your face slightly bobs lower instinctually. The Fisherman doesn't seem hostile—he has a kind of stern comfort to him. 

Stubborn gruffness. And his accent only amplifies that fact.

 “Well, wasn’t expecting to find you here,” his chest rumbles with his words. You find you quite like the sound of it. Shells grinding against each other and pearls that clatter in palms. Your eyes widen with innocence. The Fisherman clears his throat, still watching carefully as the water sloshes over his boots. “Else I would have stayed clear when I still could.” 

Your hands tread water around you, tail flickering in small movements. 

The man's gaze darts down to stare as well as he could through the ripples. 

“Bloody Christ,” he murmurs to himself, returning your eyes once more, “thought you were all mostly extinct. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Extinct?” Your lips flinch, chin caressing the waves as brows pull up. The Fisherman blinks as if surprised to hear you speak. To be honest, you were half afraid you couldn’t either—how long had it been since you’d had a conversation above water? You spent most of your time passing comments to rare traveling Hippocampus and Sea Serpents.

Not that they could respond, of course.

By now your face had entirely left the water, that word startling you. Your chest tightens.

“What do you mean,” you ask the older man, this strange Fisherman who was shifting his weight in the sand, “extinct?” 

Dark brows furrow and his back slightly straightens itself. 

“You aren't exactly what I’d be calling common, Love. No one’s seen one of your kind in years.” Your face stills. 

“Years?” Head angling itself down, you stare at your reflection in growing fear. 

The Fisherman makes a move to stand, and you dart back swiftly. A pale hand is held in the air as if to sedate you.

“Easy, now.” It’s said softly, a grunt stuck at the beginning. A small moment passes before the man fully stands up, dressed similarly to when you’d seen him before. 

Top, pants, hat. There’s also a flash of metal around his neck, some piece of jewelry hidden on the chain under the layer of his thin, flowy, tunic. Hands go to cross over his chest in a display of muscle gained from a long time of hard work.

You nervously plead for an explanation, “B-but that…that doesn’t make any sense! I’m not the only one left!”

“No,” the Fisherman slowly states, taking off the hat from his head and delicately placing it on the ground. “No, you’re not the last.” 

His eyes dart along your visible body, trying to catch a glimpse of that tail that was in all stories about your kind. 

“Your name, Ma’am,” he asks, blue returning to your own sights, “what is it.”

“Well, what’s yours?” You counter, getting snappy in your anxiousness. “You come into my home and expect me to answer to you? And where’s your fishing boat anyways—unless a male Selkie has suddenly managed to brave the deep sea?” 

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but you had sworn the Fisherman had smiled at you; it was a swift slash of something that pulled his mustache back and wrinkled his face. An amused thing it was. A sort of tiny tease, in its own right.

Your heart beats steadily at the sight, eyes watching. 

“Well, I suppose you’re right, then.” He scratches at his beard with one hand, still studying you with a tilt of his head. As if weighing what he should tell you. There was an air of intrigue but that did nothing to hide the hesitance. “I docked my boat in the sea cave, thought it would do more harm than good to leave it in the open. If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have shown, eh?” The Fisherman points and you look to the deep indent in the mountainside, the tiny ship visible as it stays stationary. You blink at it slowly. 

“And you can call me whatever it is you like, I don’t bloody care, but I’m not inclined to tell one of the Merfolk my name—I may have come ‘ere, but I’m not fuckin’ daft, now.”

It was true, what he spoke of. Names to your people have a stark and violent purpose. To know one's name is to own a piece of that person’s soul. Songs gain more power, words grow into orders followed without thought. Not that it was your intention.

You glower, brows pulling in. 

“A simple fisherman does well to know that it’s rude to speak ill like such in another’s home.” The man smirks, cheeks rising. 

“Simple, am I?” The already expansive build of his shoulders widens as he leans back on his heels, water sloshing at his boots. His eyes glimmer like lighting with humor. The look makes your cheeks burn with warmth, throat swallowing saliva.

“Why are you here?” You avoid the question, treading water and letting your tail drift. Willing the water to cool your senses. It was obvious that this man wasn’t a hunter—foolish, perhaps, but no hunter.

Or maybe just confidently brave. 

The Fisherman hums under his breath, grunting in the way you’d already come to associate with him. Rugged fellow, really. Weathered like a pile of old rope but still handsome, the sinews under the stain of dirt pure of color. You found yourself, however apprehensive, enjoying the squareness of his face; how the brunette’s hair would sweep in the warm breeze. 

He was attractive.

“Fishing, Ma’am.” A broad sweep of one of his hands, “You have a proper cove. Plenty of places to cast.” 

Your tight arms somewhat loosen. 

“Just fishing?” Your voice darkens. “Then why is it you’re here on shore and not doing just that.” Tail flickering, it lightly brings you back from him, eyes always darting away to stare into the background of his form—at the dark shadows of trees behind the dark rocks. At the open mouth of the cove in case of extra ships. 

If what he told you earlier was true, you were in danger just by living. 

Extinct? Not seen in years? No, that can’t be right. A deep knot forms in your stomach.

“I may be human, Ma’am, but I believe myself to be above intrusion.” The Fisherman splays his hands by his waist and shifts his thighs. He seems serious again, like a wave going forward and back he seemed to always revert to a crafted visage of firm resolve. “This is your home, and I’m asking to ferry my boat here when able. Nothing else.” 

You blink in surprise, brows pulling back. 

He was…asking you? 

“I…own the cove no more than the Manticore owns the desert,” your voice stutters, oddly touched by his sincerity. You pause and push yourself farther above a wave. This large man didn’t seem cruel to you. “I have no claim on the waters—they have been here longer than I. Do as you wish.” 

While that should have been the end of it, you found his blue eyes continuing to watch you, head tilted like a shaggy dog. Thinking deeply with a slight parting of his lips and rising to his lids. 

At the intensity of his silent wonder, your head goes light. Had you said something strange? No, it was just the truth. Then…why was this man’s face going to a modest pink shade? Why were his eyes darting away from yours and his feet shifting? 

You narrow at him before he speaks, clearing his throat and crossing his arms.

“Alright,” the Fisherman mutters, chest rumbling. 

A silence falls where your ears twitch to the lapping of the sea-foam and the feeling of blood in your veins which mirrors such movements. As you saw him do to you, your vision falls to the man’s body; looking across the tapering of his waist and the rolled sleeves of his tunic—showing off years of muscle 

“I don’t suppose…” Your tail flinches from the sudden noise from the brunette, expecting him to swim over to his boat and get to his business. You stare and listen, and for the first time, you believe a mermaid has been entranced by another's voice. “That I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again?”

The Fisherman speaks slowly, hands shifting on his biceps; thighs tense and settle. You allow the waves to connect and slide around your body and a feeling reminiscent of warm rocks in the sun grows in your heart. 

Strange, this man. This serious-faced Fisherman who asks one of the Merfolk for permission over the waters we don’t control. You tilt your head to teasingly mirror the brunettes. He humphs in his throat at your action. I enjoy him. 

At the first sign of danger you’d leave—but for now…talking felt good.

“Perhaps,” you say, lips twitching into a smile. “Would this nameless Fisherman enjoy the company of a mermaid? Not many would say yes.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not like those many, then, yeah?” He smiles, a small twitch of his lips. You begin backing up, getting to deeper water while maintaining eye contact. “I don’t care what you are, just that we have an agreement.”

“Very well,” your neck dips under the waves, tail momentarily peaking above the surface. Blue flickers to it, shoulders lowering in hidden awe. The Fisherman’s lungs still. 

He hears your giggle before you dive under, disappearing swiftly down to your caves with a splash. 

It’s a long while before the brunette picks up his hat and begins walking the length of the shore—strong steps taking him back to his ship with a tiny smile brightening his ruggedly handsome face. 

He runs a hand over his chin and chuckles.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

—

You perch on the side of the Fisherman’s boat, golden comb in your grip as you run it over and over through your locks. Tangles and knots are rendered useless to the fine and beautiful make of the object, the handle covered in small barnacles and seaweed. A nice breeze wafts in the air, and behind you, the padding of feet goes across the deck. With the sliding of nets and a small whistling from the Fisherman, you feel your tail gently sway from side to side; the bottom under the water whose waves rise and lower the vessel. 

It had been a week since your first meeting and you had become more relaxed about this man’s presence. He had been truthful—every day he would come and fish. 

At first, you’d watch from the black rocks, sitting atop them and studying. More than once you’d see the brunette raise a hand in greeting when his boat had entered the cove; an acknowledgment that you were there and nothing more. No expectation for you to come over or speak to him. 

Day after day you’d see the net being thrown from the side only to be reeled back by large arms, legs apart and firm to the deck. 

On day four, you swam over and grappled onto the side of the ship, curious. Before you could even realize he instantly knew you were there—despite his back being to you—the Fisherman spoke in a cheeky tone.

“Come up, then, if you’re that interested. No use watching from the water.” So you had, with a bit more fire to your cheeks than you thought mermaids could handle.

Now it was routine. The human man would pull into the cove and you would sit on the side of his fishing boat, doing whatever you wished as he worked. 

You pull your comb through the ends of your hair, placing it down after and closing your eyes before your hands grab the shiny strands, twisting them. Under your breath, you hum in tune with the Fisherman’s whistled song; the notes like a growing symphony in your head. 

Song to Merfolk is sacred and revered—everything sings, in its own right, and deserves careful crafting to fully understand. 

“You seem to enjoy that,” you startle to a stop, eyes popping open. Sharply looking over your shoulder, you pause your hands. Staring, the man has completely stopped his work; nets at his feet with slapping fish of all colors stuck in the rope’s limp weavings. 

He squints at your confused face.

“Rhythm.” 

“Oh,” you offer a smile and watch him look away only to kneel down and begin separating his quarry. “If you’re worried I’ll sing around you, think nothing of it—I know what that could cause.” 

The Fisherman hums, amused at you, “I’m not. I was complimenting you,” the knife at his belt glints in the light. “You have a pretty voice, Love.” 

You shyly watch him, hair partly covering your visage, and catch a glimpse once more at the necklace he seems to always wear. Silver and shiny but still hidden. 

“If you knew about my species, you wouldn’t be saying that.” Explaining lowly, the man grunts, sending a look your way as he tosses a Cod farther up the deck—you watch it flop around for a moment. 

“Well,” the Fisherman explains, hands pausing and body leaning closer as one of his knees connects to the wood. It’s a teasing whisper that slides into your drum, and you find yourself nearly shivering from it. Blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “I did. No worries, I’ll never tell.”

A deep chuckle joins a lighter one, and your tail shimmers in the open light; scales vibrant and rich-looking. From what the brunette can see on the deck—the smaller plates that extend all the way up your navel to stop at your belly button—you know he stares at them. 

Not a greedy, evil, stare…just one of hidden admiration. It was of no surprise to you that he found it beautifully uncanny.

You have no idea how to read this Fisherman; have no idea what he wants. You think he doesn’t want anything. On your face, a strange calm settles. 

“Tell me, Fisherman,” his gaze snaps from your scales to your face, momentarily stopping at the dip of your neck as you turn as fully to him as you’re able from your perch. Your hand rests at your side; spine twisted halfway. “Who are you? No, I don’t mean your name. I want your person. You don’t act afraid of me—of what I am.” He stays kneeling and lets the net rest for now, his heart beating steadily in his breast. “There is more to you than a human at sea, surely.” 

Your words are not accusatory, they lacked any sort of confrontation. Curiosity, though, like enclosed treasure, was stuck behind your tongue. He surprises you by standing and beginning to walk over, boots thumping. 

As he nears, he sits down with a huff on the edge, right next to you. 

There’s a moment when you both stare into each other's eyes as you feel the world shift. Blinking up at him, at the closer range you take into account the ancientness of his eyes and how it seemed, for such an alone man, it was making him look far older than he was. Still older than you, yes, but the sentiment still stands.

With his hat having been retired not five minutes earlier onto one of the many ship’s barren tops, you saw the streaks of sun-bleached strands in his brown hair. You unconsciously reach for your comb but stay your fingers as they flinch over the gold.

Storm-blue carefully glances away before coming back to you. 

“Not much to know, Love,” the Fisherman’s brow raises, “you understand?” 

“No,” you say, honestly, head tilting at him. He looks surprised, breath hitching. 

“It’s just…there’s not much to tell, Sweetheart.”

Humans are strange creatures.

Not knowing this word game, you take your hand away from the comb and bring it to his chest, slipping under the neck of his tunic to grasp at the necklace he always wears. A hand snaps to your wrist almost immediately—a startling speed that makes you flinch. 

Above your heads, seagulls squawk at you, but all you can gaze into are those pure blue orbs. They trap you, drag you down far faster than a whirlpool into the briny depths of hypnotic appeasement. 

Perhaps you were naive to the magical whims of males that walk on two feet.

The Fisherman’s jaw clenches, eyes tightly narrowed at you in hesitance and veiled threat. You blink at him softly, not doing anything besides twitching your fingers and widening your sight. Before long, his hold loosens but doesn’t leave, allowing you on whatever it was you were doing yet still touching your damp flesh.

Lips parting, you don’t make a fuss. Instead, you hum under your breath and allow his calluses to scrape you. The toughness becomes a stark contrast to your own make-up. 

Feels nice.  

Your digits peel out the article of jewelry and you shift closer to look; bare chest brushing against his. You can feel his pulse through the brunette’s tunic, the way his throat shifts in a tense swallow of nothing. 

The necklace held two pieces of small, round, silver and said the following. 

“Jonathan Price, Captain, 141st company under the King.”

As you read, your tail gradually begins brushing his leg in its swaying. Through it all, the large Fisherman only slants his chin down and watches, breathing half through his mouth and half through his nose. You hear his throat clear; feel his grip squeeze your wrist. 

It is a small and taken-aback kind of noise. He doesn’t move his hand.

You are happy he doesn’t. 

“You’re a…Captain?” Asking, you look up shocked and aren’t taken aback by how close your face was to his. Even if your cheeks begin to burn at the beard bristles itching your nose. 

“...Yes,” breathe puffs over the lower half of your face. Your fingers detangle from the Fisherman’s necklace and let it thump to his chest. “I was. Left.” 

Blinking, you whisper, steadily, “What’s a…Captain…?” 

A small sound is made in the back of his throat and he releases your wrist and pulls back before a loud bark of a laugh jerks his chest. You stare in innocent confusion, hair falling over your shoulders.

“What?” Gripping his mouth, Jonathan Price grounds himself by gripping his thigh as he chuckles.

“No, no,” he takes a deep breath and releases his face, smoothing down his beard quickly with amusement stuck in his smile. “Bloody hell, it’s nothing. Nothing at all, Love.”

He sends you a warm side glance and you huff, moving back and picking up your comb, getting back to brushing your locks again. You are acutely aware that you now know the Fisherman’s name, but refrain from saying anything until he does. Now you know why he reacted in such a way.

Your tail twitches in the water as fish brush past it and the brunette begins with a soft look. 

“I was in charge of a small group of men—we had a ship. Far larger than this old girl,” he pats the deck, and you slow your motion to show that you are listening, intrigued. “We did what was needed of us, but there was a thin line that needed to be drawn to keep every bastard sane.” 

Blue meets your eyes and the man’s expression darkens. Your fingers twitch as the breeze ravages his hair, chest tightening. 

“And yours?” You ask softly, entranced and open, “What was your line, Captain Price?” 

He hums after a small silence, sighing deeply. Along the hull of the boat, the waves rock the vessel gently side to side, and your mythical attention seems to entrap him far better than your voice could. His face loses that dark edge, well-trimmed beard relaxes as his jaw does. 

The past it seems, looms over him like a tsunami.

Reaching up a slow hand, his fingers brush the tendrils of hair that had slipped out of your hold and were dangling in front of your face; the Fisherman blinks and pushes them back behind your ear. By now your brush had long stopped and your breath was held in your chest. For the first time in your life, you think you feel yourself shiver at the delicate scrape of his skin on yours.

“John,” he mutters, and you suck down a shallow breath as he watches you like you were an idol of the Gods, “Just John.” 

Your smile leaves his fingers pressing deeper into your scalp and, perhaps a bit naively, you welcome him to you like a bird to the sky. You liked his gruffness—his beard and his face. The lines on his forehead that you could imagine tracing as if they belonged on a map instead of the squareness of this Fisherman’s profile. Tiny sockets that hold sapphire stones.

“Maybe I left because I couldn’t stand seeing such beautiful creatures being put to the hook, eh?” Your eyes widen, tiny gasp leaving your lips. 

Merfolk swooned with flattery, truth be told. They enjoy being doted on and praised; given gifts of both words and objects. You were no different. 

Oh…did he call me beautiful?

John smirks at your reaction, taking his hand off of you and standing with a low chuckle. Your tail flutters at the sudden absence, head following after him as he walks back to his net with a sway in his step. You blink in astonishment. 

“You’re a strange human, John,” calling to him, you grimace at the blatant disappointment in your bones at the lack of his skin on yours. At his humored hum, you sense your growing attraction to the grind of his vocal cords. His voice. “I don’t know what to think of you.”

“Then think nothing of me,” he explains easily, casually, re-gathering his nets in his toned arms. You try not to let your jaw slacken at the bulge under his tunic when he carries them. “I’m not offended by it, Love.” A sly look, “Do as you wish.” 

Your tail twitches so violently you’re afraid you might break the side of the ship. 

And so this strange dance between the two of you continued well into the longer months—John would come in his ship nearly every day and you would join him on the side of the deck. Sometimes you would hum for him and he would whistle a tune back, others there were long bouts of conversation about the ways of humans and beasts. John told you that the King had ordered the total extinction of all manner of ‘strange and unordinary’ creatures to secure his line safely to the throne. 

When he had explained it, the mad had gone red with anger.

“Fuckin’ muppet,” he’d spit, fiddling with his knife as you watched a small distance away, playing with his silver necklace in your hands. You twiddled it around and liked how it shimmered like your scales did in the light. “Bloody thought I would just go along with the deaths of innocent beings. He had no facts—no proof to back up his claim. I’ve done things. Horrible things,” John explained to you, sending you a stiff look, “but I’ve not forsaken my damn mind to reality. Takin’ the piss.” 

Muttering the last sentence to himself, you had felt your lips curve into a smile. “You have a proper conscience, John, done bad or not.” 

“Yeah, well, Sweetheart, I’ll be done in soon enough.” You only stared with care-drowned eyes and caressed his necklace. When he had seen this, his body had deflated with an exasperated grunt. 

You shared a chuckle and he got back to work; feeling his melting gaze drawn back to you every so often. 

Later, yet again, you found your form on his boat, this time with his hands across the small of your back as you studied the blade of his knife.

“Careful, now. Don’t run your finger along the edge.” His free grip points to the sharp side—breath fanning your ear. You feel your throat tighten and nod, caressing a thumb on the leather handle. 

John’s hand is hard on your bare skin and you sense his heat drilling past your veins into the very marrow of your bones. You unconsciously sigh when his fingers slide slightly higher, traveling the length of your spine; his scars catching on every knob of bone. Your exploration stills and your pupils widen. 

His breath is on your neck, nose tilting as his jaw does just above the meat of your shoulder. 

“Why’d you stop?” You stare off into the metal, lashes fluttering when his fingers finally curve at the swell of your neck. Lips drag on your flesh before a deep grumble of affection stems from John’s chest as he kisses your rapid pulse. “Distracted? Hm.” 

“It’s,” you breathe out, scales reflecting light as your lower body shifts on the wood. His opposite hand circles your waist, drawing your back to his chest. Skin burns and thoughts go to liquid as you feel his roving muscle. “It’s g-good. Pretty—” 

Words fail you as his lips continue to slowly travel.

“Could say the same,” John grunts; beard scraping down your flesh. 

Your eyes flutter, head tilting to give more room at the same time you whisper out, violently shivering at the compliment, “John…” 

“What is it?” The grip moves to run over your scales, right where your upper hips would be; the sensation of him caressing you with gentle, deep, rubs of his thumb was all it took for you to give in completely to him. “Go on, Love, speak.” 

You take a breath and feel his heart beating steady along your back—the texture of his tunic. “What…are you doing?” 

John moves your hair and places open-mouthed kisses on the back of your neck. He breathes in your scent and you turn your light head to stare unabashedly at his flushed face. Your tail sways, limp, over the side of the boat. 

Blown pupils hide that sea-storm blue like a lock and key to dangerous thoughts and attraction. 

In answer, his eyes flicker down to your lips hungrily and your gaze widens; a small sound in the base of your throat. 

“You’re somethin’ beautiful, y’know that?” He says and you let him lean in closer to your face, eyes threatening to close when you take in the musk of human flesh and sweat. Rope and wood oil. John’s words make you shiver again, hairs standing on end—responding to that deep growl with a roaring in your ears. 

You shouldn’t be enjoying this. Shouldn’t be enjoying his lips or his tight grip; his…his rough, large, hands that encapsulate your body and drown you. It terrifies you, this heart-stopping magnetism. You can’t get enough of him.

John presses his firm lips to yours, groaning into the connection as you sigh and part your mouth. Fingers shaking, you twist and place your hands on his chest, gasping mutely as his teeth nip into your lower lip and pull back before pushing back forward. Sparks of subdued pain mix with pleasurable agony at the scrape of his beard hair.

 “Every inch of you…” John’s grip captures you closer, hands ensnaring you against his chest like deeply intertwined strands of fabric, squeezing as he licks his upper lip. He catches his breath shallowly. Blue eyes burn through you. “...is fucking perfection.”  

You grab at his necklace and drag him back in, feeling him not waste a single moment to grip the back of your head and keep you trapped to him, tongues slipping out of mouths to tangle together like seaweed. Perhaps it was foolish, but a part of you knew that this Captain, this strange Fisherman—this Johnathan Price—was the only man or being on this planet, land or sea, who could make you feel like you could walk and fly all at once. 

When he lifts you in his arms and drops you in his lap as if your body weighed as much as a pebble, you knew you’d brave the open ocean for this man in an instant. His arm drips with water as it slips under the joint of your tail; where your knees would be if you had them, and you whine into his mouth at the slip of his fingers. 

Intoxicated, drunk off of his scent and his pressure. 

A dangerous mix of two different lives. 

It couldn’t last.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[simpinsimpleton]

The Deathly Devout

Pairing: Executioner!König x Nun!Reader (Medieval au) 

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Religious themes and settings, talk of death, religious guilt, nothing much this is pretty tame. I have very little knowledge of how catholic confessionals actually go especially in a medieval setting forgive me. probably many spelling errors im sorry. 

Author’s Note: was talking to @thesadvampire about @hffhifjou fucking amazing art of the 141 as knights and now we have Executioner!König. This is mostly just a word burst from this morning but I really like this concept and wanted to share with you all 

Tagging some mutuals I think might enjoy this: @sprout-fics @humanransome-note @moondirti @fnny-bnny @yeehaw-djarin @captainsamwlsn

_______________–

     It was quite amusing to see the executioner in the confessional booth. 

     That isn’t to say that he doesn’t visit often, no. If anything it’s the exact opposite, Father Montomgery sees him more than any pious banker or self-hating gambler in the city. But the man was monstrous, broad in his shoulders with thick arms and legs to match, resulting in him having to twist and fold his body to properly fit into the little wooden booth. He could see the silhouette of the poor man’s shoulders hunched in and head tucked low. 

     It almost made up for how absolutely aggravating he was to listen to. 

     “Forgive me father for I have sinned.” 

Keep reading

[simpinsimpleton]

For the delightful jorassicworld (Twitter), one of the biggest and most ambitious and MOST FUN AND HILARIOUS commissions I've ever done, the MADS KITTY CAFE!  Where you can go to enjoy a beverage and spend some time with an assortment of Mads kitties for some big, warm, fuzzy and purring company.  They are friendly (usually), but are known to be mischevious and some of them do bite.

Please see proprieter William Graham for a reservation and to sign a pain waiver.

FYI for potential visitors:

- Hannibal & Nigel fight. Constantly. Like, always.

- Duncan is extremely cuddly & will put his entire weight on you.

- Grindelwald has POWERS, OKAY. HE WILL USE THEM.

- Kaecilius ALSO HAS POWERS.

- Martin loves catnip. A lot. Entice at your own risk.

Kitty types 😼:

Hannibal: black tiger

Nigel: golden tiger

Duncan: snow leopard

Grindelwald: gray tiger

Kaecilius: caracal

Martin: lion

We have other Mads breeds available as well (not pictured). Please inquire with Will Graham when he's back from the hospital.

[simpinsimpleton]

tw: smut, pegging, degradation, dom oikawa

the thought of fucking oikawa and he is fully in control... pegging the dude but he’s got a collar round ur neck and yanking you forward to thrust inside him by a leash,., moaning an shit about how u should “put your back into it, whore�� and “fuck me like you mean it, stupid girl”.

after a bit of reassurance that you weren’t going to hurt him, he had got you to use full force, and you drilled into him. your pretty hips slap against his ass, you can see it jiggle between you. your shaky hands are on his waist, your grip had been slowly tightening as you fought your better judgement to fuck him harder like he wanted you to. One hand on the counter, one on the chain that keeps you in check. He moans, the lubed up strap sliding in and out of him with the perfect, rapid grind of your hips.

He growls when he feels your bated breath on the back of his neck, hand moving from the counter to reach behind and grab you ass. It digs the strap in more, and you both moan. You timidly start to kiss his neck, almost wondering if you should have, but he swears under his breath, do you think you have the right idea.

“keep-keep going little whore, giving it to me so good, fucking-“ he grunts, slaps permeating the room.

“I’m close slut, finish me off,” and he reached his free hand to his waist and brings you smaller hand to his leaky dick, dragging it up and down in his fist. The chain jangles as he yanks it tighter again, and you nestle further inside him, increasing with the pace of his hand guiding yours.

he starts whimpering shamelessly. you could hear your wet wet pussy squelch with the movement, so turned on by ur boyfriends body and moans and everything, and he hounds on you instantly. “your really getting off on this aren’t you? you’re fucking sick, maybe i should make you fuck me more. ohh fuck.”

youre hitting it just right, the huge dildo filling his tight ass to perfection. his hole clenches around it and your pace continues, fast and hard, kissing his g-spot, pulling the dirtiest sounds from him.

you’re so so so wet, you think you’ll cum from the minuscule friction of the strap on your pelvis and his whiny depraved noises. you whimper in his ear and his head tilts back, cumming all over his hand with a high pitched groan.

he breathes, dropping the chain as he steadies himself against the counter. you retract your hand from his pulsing dick, thighs shaking and pussy nearly dripping. slowly, you draw back your hips, leaving him to wince as you pull out of him. you let out a shaky breath, a little tired, and wrap your arms around his waist. Softly you nestle your head onto back of his shoulder, basking in his smooth warm skin.

“good girl” he sighs, loving your tender touch. You hug him a little tighter, and he smirks to himself.

he wishes he could see you right now, his collar around your neck, desperate tears in your eyes, wet pussy throbbing. It made him so hard thinking about how much you loved fucking him. And since you had done such a good job, it was only fair he repay the favour.

masterlist

[simpinsimpleton]

I'm brown tho??? 😭😭😭

White women be finding something like this in their dumpsters and putting a collar and leash on it and calling it sparkle cupcake

[simpinsimpleton]

toji may be a deadbeat dad,, but he fucks like he wants to put a baby in u and i think thats very unfair

[simpinsimpleton]

Do you ever binge read someone's work on ao3 and get the urge to serenade them, like, hello my fair fic author you have wooed me with your excessive flowery metaphors and complete lack of plot, even your messy 3am fics with very visible flaws are gorgeous, your self indulgent dynamics have enchanted me, please accept my kudos

[simpinsimpleton]

Kuroo Tetsuro was put on this earth to have children.

Before your little twins were even a thought, he’d look longingly at young couples with kids, watching with the most dazed expression. He was always the first to smile at infants, wave at toddlers, and if the accompanying parents seemed to welcome his affections, he’d ask the young children questions.

So, the gods blessed him with twins. And 9 times out of 10, he’s the most thorough father you’ve ever known, and he’s so quick to know which child needs what, when, and why.

Right now, however, is the 1 out of 10. And it’s funny.

“There’s a tiny human at the end of our bed,” he whispers against your head, the raspiness of his voice rumbling against your temple.

“I sincerely hope you mean one of our children.”

Your joke makes Tetsuro laugh, slowly sitting up to peek at the cutest intruder in your doorway.

“Good morning, baby,” he mumbles, thick fingers pressing into his eyes to rub the sleep from them. You smile at your daughter at the foot of your bed, sleepily gazing at your little girl. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good, dadda,” she mumbles around her pacifier.

“Yeah? Where’s your sister?”

“Sleepin’.”

“She’s still sleeping?” He says, yawning softly, an arm wrapping around you to pull you closer. “How come you’re not still sleeping?”

“Bluey!” She squeals excitedly, pointing at the tv in your room.

This, has your husband’s eyes furrowing. His body shifts slightly, and his eyes dart to span over her tiny frame.

“You want to watch Bluey?” He asks, and you cock your brow up at him in confusion for his confusion.

“Uh-huh!” She crawls onto the foot of your bed with a finger extended to the big screen, “Bluey, please?”

“What’s wrong?” You whisper, grabbing the remote and clicking the tv so your tiny child is occupied.

Tetsuro leans over, pulling you close, enough to where his warm breath spans over your face.

“I don’t know which one that is,” he whispers, and you let out a soft snort.

“You really don’t know?”

“I know Hanako likes Bluey, but Hanae’s favorite pair of pj’s is the one that’s being worn right now.”

Your eyes flick back down to the figure at the bottom of your bed, who indeed, is wearing Hanae’s favorite green pajamas (Hanako’s are yellow), but is watching Bluey like no one’s business (Hanae immensely prefers paw patrol).

And in his defense… they are twins.

Looking the same is kind of what they do.

“What about her eyes?” You whisper back. Hanae has eyes like her fathers, while Hanako’s are more akin to yours.

“Couldn’t get a good look, it’s too early!”

“Pacifier color?”

“Baby they switch those regularly, you know better than to ask.”

Chewing on your lip, your eyes shift over your child’s excited eyes watching the tv. It’s true, if they weren’t identical enough, now they have to go and switch the few things that make them different.

“Who are you?” Tetsuro asks to no one, though it does make you giggle.

Then, you smile and slowly sit up, patting your husband’s chest lovingly. “Hey stinky,” you call, and you watch her messy black hair swish as she turns to face you. “Who do you like to hang out with more, uncle ken or uncle ko?”

The tiny human beams around the pacifier in her mouth, “uncle ko! ‘Cause he plays pirates with me in ‘da pool!”

You and tetsuro look at each other and grin.

Hanae.

Hanako was absolutely whipped for her uncle kenma.

“We should see him soon, shouldn’t we?” You ask, watching as Hanae bounces excitedly.

Tetsuro rolls his eyes as he sits up, “not before we see uncle Kenma, he’s already pouty that you like uncle Koutaro more, and I gotta hear about it.”

“Of course she likes him more,” you tease, slipping out of bed to start the day. “Hanae is practically attached to Koutarou’s leg; she told us she was going to marry him one day, remember?

“Gonna marry Uncle Kou one day!” Hanae chirps. “N’ Hanako’s gonna marry Uncle Kenma, ‘nd we’re all gonna marry Uncle Kei, and-“

“Do not do this to me so early,” Tetsuro groans, patting the bed for the little girl to snuggle with him. She does, with a happy little noise and a quick scurry close to him, and you can only watch with a smile as they watch Bluey together in the rays of the sun before shuffling off to make breakfast.

[simpinsimpleton]

The Red Lord (Chapter 1 of 2)

On the hills above your village stands a magnificent but supposedly cursed castle where the mysterious Red Lord lives. Lord Sukuna is a man of breathtaking beauty. Too beautiful. Rumors claim that there is something wrong with him. But what happens when an accident makes you end up in the care of that mysterious man? Will you uncover the truth about him?

Pairing: Vampire!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: Vampire AU, gothic fairytale, smut, fluff Word Count: 5k Warnings: 18+, Sukuna is a vampire, blood, mentions of murder and death, mentions of past domestic violence and abuse (NOT from Sukuna! But Reader's father, brother, and the man she was promised to didn't treat her well), the smut will be in the second chapter, virginity loss, fingering, oral, creampie. All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

This story is part of my Halloween Special. It is set in a Victorian-style world. The reader comes from an upper-middle-class family and lives with her father and older brother, and is about to be married off to a wealthy man when she meets Lord Sukuna :)

It has been a week since you woke up in an unfamiliar room on a luxurious four-poster bed with blood-red velvet drapes and soft pillows wrapped in the finest silk and lace pillowcases.

You have no memory of how you got here. No one goes to the castle standing on the hills above your village. They all say it's a cursed place. Old women make the sign of the cross when they speak of it. Men make sure to never let their cattle graze too close to the old mansion. The ladies talk in excited hushed whispers about The Red Lord, the inhabitant of this castle. You had to listen to many spooky tales about him during countless teatime parties, where your friends grabbed their teacups tightly as they leaned across the table, their eyes gleaming with gruesome pleasure.

"I have never seen Lord Sukuna myself, but my cousin's friend's sister has! And she says he is a gorgeous man! Tall and strong and very handsome! But also terrifying! Apparently, one look at him and she felt like her heart was being squeezed inside her chest, and she couldn't breathe anymore!"

"I heard he eats people! My grandmother says he has lived here for decades, and yet he is still young and unmarred by the passage of time! He must eat the hearts of maidens to stay so beautiful! Or he drinks human blood! He is a monster! I would run if I ever saw him. Imagine meeting him in the forest!"

"I would never go up there! I get a weird feeling when I look at the castle! It gives me goosebumps!"

You always thought the castle looked very beautiful.

It certainly looks beautiful on the inside too. You know that now, first hand. 

Prettily embossed dark red wallpapers adorn the high walls. The windows are covered with thick, luxurious curtains from the softest velvet. Fluffy carpets are spread over the white marble floors. Rugs that are so deep that your toes sink into them when you walk over them. There are gold ornaments and beautiful paintings everywhere.

The paintings all show the same person. Though he appears to be in vastly different scenarios, vastly different clothes, and vastly different times. Some pictures depict ancient scenes which you know must have taken place over a thousand years ago. You assume the lord of this castle must be a great history lover and have a thing for getting painted in those old sceneries.

Lord Sukuna is definitely a man unlike any other you have ever met before. He is imposing, tall, and of a muscular figure. And his beauty is breathtaking. His hair is dark red with a pink tint to it. A hair color you have never seen before.

His eyes are so clear that they sparkle like a pair of jewels. They look red in the candlelight, making you wonder if Lord Sukuna might have a rare condition. You have heard of albinism. Maybe he has that? It would explain the strange hair color and the unusual red eyes. His skin is very white too. It looks flawless, almost as if it isn't really skin but rather something like polished stone. Cold and chiseled but awe-inspiring in its beauty.

His face is so pretty that you find it hard to look away. Sharp angles and handsome features. Lord Sukuna looks like a statue carved out of the finest marble. Like the lifework of the most talented and invested artist ever walking this world.

He is beautiful, just like his castle is beautiful. But you can't deny the wariness you feel about being here.

Lord Sukuna told you that he found you in the nearby forest, where you must have fainted and hit your head on a rock. He brought you to his castle and took care of you.

You smiled and thanked him, praying he wouldn't ask about the reasons behind your accident.

A few days after you have recovered enough to leave your bed the whole day, the Red Lord asks you to have tea with him in the posh drawing room. You only manage to take one sip of the rich black tea before you realize that Lord Sukuna is watching you curiously out of those glittering ruby-colored eyes. His voice is low and soft like velvet when he starts questioning you.

"You must be from a good family. The clothes you were wearing when I found you were of high quality. And yet, you were all alone. That makes me wonder, my dear. What was a young lady of your status doing all alone in the woods? Without a husband, or father, or brother to look after her? Without a chaperone to make sure she doesn't stray from the path of virtue? My guess is you were running away. Is that right?"

You feel your pulse flutter nervously. Why does it feel like this stranger can see right through you? You are worried suddenly, knowing what it must look like. A fallen lady running away from her family.

And yet, Lord Sukuna took you in without any judgment. And he gives you a chance to tell your story. So you answer him nervously.

"I... Yes, you are right, Lord Sukuna. I was running away. Or trying to... I wasn't very successful, apparently."

You avert your gaze, feeling shame wash over you. But Lord Sukuna's low voice carries to your ears, sounding amused and in good spirits.

"No need to be ashamed, my love. Look at me."

A long elegant finger touches the underside of your chin. Ice cold and hard like marble. Lord Sukuna gently makes you tilt your head up. You inhale deeply before your gaze meets his again. It feels like he is looking right into your soul, where he can see all your darkest secrets. All the things you are ashamed to admit to the world or even to yourself most of the time.

He smiles lightly,

"May I inquire why a young rich lady like you wanted to run away? I know there must be a good reason. Tell me your story, darling, don't be scared."

"My...my father wanted to marry me off to a man I can't stand. He...scared me. He is violent. His first wife died. He told everyone she had been too careless and fallen down the stairs herself. But everyone knows it was him. He pushed her down the stairs. I was so scared!"

You didn't mean to have such an outburst, but you are unable to stop once you start. Something about Lord Sukuna's voice is so soothing you find yourself confessing everything to him.

And he watches you with those strange red eyes and cocks his head, 

"Why would your father marry you to someone like this?"

"Because all he is interested in is money. That man is a rich merchant. He would bring more wealth to our family. That's why my father and older brother insisted I should marry him. They didn't care what...what happened to me. So I ran away."

Lord Sukuna's eyes are as hard as diamonds as they fix you with an intense gaze. The earlier amusement is gone from his voice when he inquires:

"Tell me, darling, did they ever hurt you? Your father and brother?"

You nod weakly, feeling tears gather in your eyes.

"S..sometimes...there were a few occasions where my father lifted a hand against me. He said it was to ensure I become a good obedient wife one day. And my brother hit me, too, once. Because my dress was too frivolous in his opinion."

You feel guilt wash over you, wishing you hadn't said anything. You shouldn't tell anyone about this. Especially not a man. He will know how unmannerly you are and agree with the treatment your family set upon you. More hot tears stream down your cheeks, sure that you have made things much worse.

But instead of a scolding, you get a firm but gentle hand cupping your cheek and wiping away your tears.

"Shhh, don't cry, little dove. You are safe here. No one will hurt you while you are under my protection. Those men are vile creatures. It was wrong what they did to you. They should pay for it."

There is a dangerous glint in those glittering jewel eyes. At this moment, The Red Lord looks terrifying. Just like those tales and hushed dramatic stories have made him out to be.

Goosebumps run down your spine. But strangely, you know that you don't have to be afraid of him. He isn't mad at you. He is mad at the people who have mistreated you.

Lord Sukuna is on your side, you realize. Finally, for the first time since your mother died, someone is on your side.

Three weeks later, you are fully recovered from your accident, and technically you can leave the castle now. But neither Lord Sukuna nor you bring up the topic of your departure.

Where would you even go? When you decided to run away, you had hoped to make it to the town where your distant relatives live, hoping they would take you in. Hoping that you could work as a nanny in their household.

But the more you think about it, the more foolish it seems. Why would they take you in? Wouldn't it be more likely that they would send a letter to your father informing him about your whereabouts?

Lord Sukuna's castle seems to be the safer option. And so you don't ever bring up the idea of leaving. Maybe after a while, you will come up with a good plan. But for now, you are fine here.

Lord Sukuna even sent his loyal servant Uraume to the nearby city to get you a bunch of the most beautiful dresses and nightgowns you have ever seen. He told you to let Uraume know what meals you like to eat and whether you need anything for your favorite past times. Maybe you were interested in embroidery?

You thanked him and smiled while telling him that you liked to read in your free time, and Lord Sukuna had blessed you with one of his dazzling smiles in return and led you to a large room one floor under your bedroom. His personal library. A room full of bookshelves that are overflowing with the biggest book collection you have ever seen.

So yes, your stay here in Lord Sukuna's castle is quite comfortable.

But the longer you stay, the more you realize that there is something strange about this castle.

It's too dark in here. The large windows are covered by thick dark red velvet curtains at all times, letting no sunlight stream inside. Once Lord Sukuna's butler catches you trying to pull one of the curtains open and tells you in a soft but stern voice:

"I have to ask you to refrain from opening the drapes, Lady (y/n). Lord Sukuna doesn't like bright light all that much."

The kitchen is far too small for a castle this big, almost as if it isn't needed. There are no kitchen maids or even a cook to be found. The whole household only consists of Lord Sukuna and Uraume. Uraume functions as a butler, valet, and housekeeper simultaneously. And apparently, he is also the one who prepares the meals.

The meals you get served are strange too. Or not the meals themselves. They are quite exquisite in taste and quality. But what is so weird about them is that when you sit down to eat, your host never eats himself.

Lord Sukuna only watches you, smiles, and sips his dark red wine. He shoves the food on his plate from one side to the other, but it seems like he never brings a single bite to his lips.

What is even more unusual is that the cutlery is wooden. It is in stark contrast to the wealth displayed otherwise in this castle. Why does an upper-class man like Lord Sukuna not own silverware and instead has this poor people's cutlery?

Another thing that doesn't make sense is that there are no mirrors. At first, you assumed your bathroom had no mirror because those living quarters hadn't been in use before you moved into the castle. It is a big castle, after all, and Lord Sukuna doesn't need all the rooms. But when you ask Uraume for a mirror, he politely declines and tells you that there are no mirrors in the castle and that Lord Sukuna doesn't wish to have any here.

That evening during dinner, you can't stop yourself from blurting out that you wonder how Lord Sukuna can go without a mirror. But he just laughs and tells you with a teasing smirk,

"Oh, I don't need a mirror to tell me I'm the fairest of them all."

You join in on his laughter but don't bring the topic of mirrors up again after that.

So yes, there are many strange things about this castle. But you have the sneaking suspicion that there is also something wrong with your host.

At first, the thoughts that creep unwillingly into your mind seem too ludicrous, too similar to the gruesome tales of blood-drinking and heart-eating monsters you had to listen to during those teatime parties with the other women in your village. And so you try to ignore them.

But they come back every night when you lay awake in your bed. In those moments between waking and drifting off to sleep, you catch yourself thinking that Lord Sukuna isn't human.

Whatever creature is sitting there across from you at the large dinner table every evening and watching you with those glittering red eyes isn't human. 

It's not that he is obvious about it. But there is this strange feeling you get. As if Lord Sukuna is just playing a role. As if he is trying hard to pass as a human man, but he isn't one.

He is too beautiful. A beauty that is terrifying because it cannot be human. His skin glows too much. His eyes are too unnatural of a color. His canines are too long. His nails look too much like glass. His skin is too cold to the touch. And sometimes, when you stare at him for several long minutes without seeing him make a single movement, you think he isn't breathing.

You try to shake those uneasy feelings off. You aren't one of those naive people who believe in spooky tales like that. Those are stories for novels, fictional worlds that a talented author created for people's amusement.

And yet, you can't get rid of the sneaking suspicions.

You are sitting on the luxurious red settee in your room, reading one of the novels you borrowed from Lord Sukuna's collection, when you hear a commotion outside the castle.

You hastily get up and pull one of the heavy velvet curtains to the side just enough so you can peek outside.

What you see makes you gasp. What appears to be an angry mob is marching up to the castle doors. People from your village. They hold pitchforks and axes and yell loudly that Lord Sukuna should open the doors.

Your heart beats to your throat. What do they want here? Did your father and brother lead them here in their search for you? Is the man they promised you to here to demand his bride back? You feel a knot in your stomach at the prospect of seeing them again. Or even worse, what if they convince Lord Sukuna that you are just a hysterical girl who cannot be trusted?

You come to your senses and drop your book carelessly onto the couch before you rush hurriedly out of the bedroom. Lord Sukuna is on your side! He won't hand you over to them! But there are so many! What if they attack him? You cannot stand the thought of him getting hurt because of you. Not after he took you in and treated you with so much care and respect. His kindness shouldn't get punished.

You stop at the top of the main staircase, where you are hidden from view but can hear what is being spoken at the door. You will reveal yourself if the situation threatens to get out of hand.

Lord Sukuna opens the doors, and for a moment, you want to scream at him that it is a mistake, that the angry mob will just kill him.

But then Sukuna's velvety voice carries up to you, and you feel a strange calmness settle over you. You feel almost drowsy when you listen to him speak.

"Welcome to my humble home, dear villagers. I feel honored by your visit, but your outraged demeanor makes me wonder if there is a problem?"

He sounds unfazed, and you see his tall figure standing in the doorway, powerful and awe-inspiring. His dark red frock coat is snug on his body, accentuating his muscular build. He looks impressive. Dressed in the finest clothes and giving off the air of someone of much higher status than the villagers who came knocking on his door.

The angry noises of the mob have died down, but one man steps forward and lifts his voice,

"We are here to demand answers! Three men were slaughtered last night! Their throats were ripped out as if a wild beast tore them out! And a young woman has been missing for weeks too!"

You almost gasp out loud, quickly pressing a hand over your mouth as your eyes widen, and you have to reach blindly out for the banister to keep yourself from stumbling forward and tumbling down the carpet-adorned stairs.

Three men were killed?

You remember hearing the soft thud of the door last night before you fell asleep, wondering where Lord Sukuna was going. He regularly goes out at weird times of the night. Sometimes you hurry to your window to pull aside the drapes and watch him curiously. He always seems to just take a stroll. Dressed in the fine clothes he wore at dinner, sauntering towards the forest.

When you asked him once why he went out this late at night, he laughed and told you he had trouble sleeping, and fresh air helped him.

His answer had sounded plausible enough. But now you remember those nightly outings again, and suddenly they don't seem so innocent anymore. What if there is another reason for them?

You hold your breath as you strain your ears to listen to the conversation. What will Lord Sukuna say?

His low voice is still calm, but you think you hear a trace of something dark in it. A threat, a warning not to cross him,

"That's very tragic. But I don't understand why you come to me with this?"

But the man who spoke up doesn't stop. Instead, he snaps at Lord Sukuna, his hysterical voice too harsh in the otherwise peaceful castle.

"Because we know the stories people tell about you! A monster must have killed those men! They were fine respectable gentlemen! No one would kill them this way unless he was a feral beast who preys on humans! We know what you are!"

Your nails dig into the fine polished wood of the staircase. You know what he will say before he opens his mouth.

Vampire.

There it is again. The thought that keeps you up at night. That stupid suspicion you cannot silence. All those things that don't add up.

You feel dizzy. But at that moment, Lord Sukuna's laughter fills the air, sounding amused and carefree as if he had just heard the best joke.

"Oh my goodness, not those accusations again! As much as it amuses me, it is getting tiring. My dear villagers, do you really want to believe in those old folk tales? Nursery rhymes? Things that get told to little children to keep them from straying too far from their homes? I thought you were smart people. Do you really want to believe in superstitions like that? Vampires? Really?"

You don't have to see his face to know he is rolling his beautiful jewel-like eyes mockingly.

The crowd in front of his doors stirs again. You can hear the shuffling of feet and the murmur of voices. Before anyone can speak up, though, Lord Sukuna continues in a tone full of confidence and his typical aristocratic demeanor. He sounds like someone you don't disagree with. He sounds dangerous.

"So tell me, my dear villagers, if you believe those mythical creatures exist and you think I am one of them, then why would I open my door for you in broad daylight? Hm? How do you explain that I can stand here and talk to you? Wouldn't I have already burned to ashes if your accusations were true? I have no business in your village. You should leave now and stop bothering me on my land."

You sigh audibly. Relief washes over you, and some of the tension leaves your body.

He is right! This makes sense. If Lord Sukuna was a vampire, he would burn in the sunlight!

Finally, your fingers loosen their tight grip on the banister. You were so stupid to believe those childish accusations! Ridiculous! Vampires and other mythical creatures are things for fairytales. They aren't real! You almost laugh out loud.

This evening when you join Lord Sukuna for dinner in the decadent dining room, you feel much more at ease.

It doesn't even bother you tonight that the Lord doesn't seem to touch any of the food Uraume put before him while you watch him from across the table.

The only thing Lord Sukuna seems to consume is the dark red wine in the filigree crystal glass he holds in his elegant right hand. A wine that is so thick that it looks syrupy. A shade of red that looks frighteningly similar to blood. But, of course, this is just a stupid comparison.

You scold yourself silently for your former stupidity. Maybe this is the female hysteria the men in your household always talked about. Your mind went wild with foolish ideas. Of course, vampires don't exist! And Lord Sukuna is just an eccentric, wealthy gentleman whose loneliness made him develop strange habits. On top of that, he really might have a medical condition that makes him act unusual at times.

You remember a conversation you had with Uraume not too long ago, where the butler said Lord Sukuna wanted you to join him for afternoon tea, and you had snapped at the servant:

"You mean the teatime, where Lord Sukuna won't take a single bite of the sandwiches and cookies you serve?"

Uraume's polite and distanced expression didn't waver at all when he informed you:

"My lord has a condition that doesn't allow him to stomach too much food. He has to keep a strict diet, and oftentimes he eats when you are already asleep, my lady. However, his hospitality demands that there is always food for his guest. So I would appreciate it if you accompanied me to the drawing room. I made the sandwiches you like the best. Lord Sukuna told me to."

You have to admit that the butler is right. Lord Sukuna is an amazing host. Polite and generous, always ensuring that you have everything you need.

Maybe it's time that you stop being so suspicious and wary.

You smile at Lord Sukuna across the table and lift your own glass of wine that isn't as red and thick as the one in Sukuna's glass.

He raises a surprised eyebrow at your sudden change of behavior, but then the corners of his lips lift in a smile too, revealing two rows of pearly white teeth, flawless like everything else about him. The canines are too long, but just a little bit. It's nothing strange.

When he inquires about your day, you answer him with a steady voice, add details and smile some more at him. It's the first time you have had a hearty conversation with him. He seems to be pleased by this, judging by the way his pretty eyes sparkle with amusement and by the way he laughs softly.

It's a lovely evening. Lord Sukuna is a charming man, and he seems genuinely interested in what you tell him, hanging on your lips as you speak.

He doesn't chide you when you voice your honest opinion about a book you read a while ago. Not like your father or brother would. Instead, he nods and asks you more questions about the novel and how you interpret it, interested in your thoughts and opinions. He treats you unlike the other men in your life treated you until now. He treats you like an equal.

The dinner is over too soon. Before you know it, two hours have passed, and Uraume has long since cleared the table.

Lord Sukuna looks at you with those beautiful eyes that glitter like jewels and smiles that handsome smile that gives you a fluttery feeling in your stomach.

"This is such a lovely evening, my dear. Do you want to accompany me for a walk in the garden? The roses are still in bloom."

You find yourself nodding and taking Lord Sukuna's offered hand, letting him help you get up from your chair.

You take his muscular arm and let him lead you to the rose garden.

He is gentle with you, always looking out for you, making sure you don't stumble down the stairs, making sure your long dress doesn't get caught in the door, loosely holding your arm, and pointing out irregularities on the garden path.

You catch yourself leaning against his side, marveling at how tall and well-built he is. Lord Sukuna is truly the most handsome man you have ever seen. Maybe he got tired of all the countless women who must have thrown themselves at him begging for his hand in marriage, and that's why he fled to this castle and sought solitude here? The thought makes you smile.

He shows you the magnificent roses, all in various shades of red, pretty and vibrant. When you tell him how gorgeous they are, he just smiles at you and tightens his hold on your arm.

"Thank you, darling. But they cannot match your beauty. You are the most delicate and beautiful flower of them all."

You feel embarrassment heating up your face, not knowing how to respond. But then Lord Sukuna leans closer and brushes a whisper of a kiss over your cheek.

His lips are cold but soft and so gentle. A stark contrast to the firm muscles that adorn his tall body and that you feel press against you now as Lord Sukuna's strong arms encircle your waist and he pulls you against him.

Your heart is fluttering in your chest. You shouldn't be so close to a man who isn't your husband. But you find that you don't want to step away from Lord Sukuna's embrace.

You tilt your head to look up at him, once again stunned by his handsome features.

It's you who abandons all chastity, and you wrap your hands around his neck, get on your tiptoes and touch your lips to his.

What is supposed to just be a quick brush of lips turns into a real kiss, though. You simply can't pull away. Not when Sukuna's lips feel so soft against yours, and his strong arms hold you so safely. Not when his mouth moves against yours in such a tender caress and when his lips taste so sweet.

Your heart is racing as you press your corset-clad breasts against Lord Sukuna. Warmth is flooding your body even out here in the chilly night air.

The kiss you share with Sukuna is enough to warm you. You have never kissed anyone before, but you think this is the perfect first kiss. Sukuna is so gentle and yet passionate, taking the lead and showing you how to do it. Caressing your lips with his and licking tenderly into your mouth when your lips part willingly, eager to feel and taste more of him.

You must admit that you once secretly read a steamy novel when visiting your cousin. Back when you couldn't imagine that you would ever like to feel a man's tongue in your mouth or feel his body press firmly against yours. But on this night in the rose garden, you finally understand the craving the girl in that book felt.

It's almost midnight when you finally make it back to your room.

Lord Sukuna insists on accompanying you to your door, striding next to you with graceful steps and his strong arm offering you a secure hold.

For a moment, you feel nervous at the thought of what he might expect of you. Does he want more than a kiss? But your worries vanish instantly when he gently lets go of your arm and takes a step back.

"It was a lovely evening, Lady (y/n). I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself this much. We should take more strolls through the rose garden from now on. And we should discuss more books. I'd love to hear your thoughts."

You smile gratefully at him. And suddenly, you can't help but feel a strong sympathy and affection for the man who offered a safe place for you to stay. The man who values your opinion, treats you kindly and kisses you tenderly in his gorgeous rose garden.

"Thank you, Lord Sukuna. For this evening and for taking me in when I was lost and injured. Thank you for letting me stay here."

"You're welcome, darling. Thank you for keeping me such lovely company."

He leans down to capture your lips in another kiss. Just a short one this time, a good night kiss. But it's sweet and tender, making you sigh softly when you part again.

It's not until Lord Sukuna wishes you a good night and lifts his hand to run it through his hair when you see it:

There are marks on his otherwise flawless skin. The back of his hand is red with burn marks.

Thank you so much for reading the first part of my Lord Sukuna story!! I am a sucker for Victorian things, and when I thought about writing Sukuna as a vampire, I just HAD to put him into a setting like this! The mysterious, gorgeous lord in his big castle. I would have fallen for him too :) I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of our love story with sexy Lord Sukuna! Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs make me very happy! Happy Halloween!

Here is chapter 2

[simpinsimpleton]

—𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 (𝐈'𝐦 𝐈𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮)

✩pairing: Villain!Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader

✩genre:smut, dark content.

✩word count: 3.5k

✩warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, predator/prey, noncon to dubcon (tagging both), a lot of heroes are mentioned as dead pour one out for them, dacryphilia, praise kink, fingering, unprotected sex, stalking, cum play, slight breeding, apocalyptic au.

✩authors note: repost from my old blog @/izuushi. title credit is: Let Me Call You Sweetheart by Bing Crosby 

✩excerpt: 

“Oh!” Verdant eyes meet yours as he stalks circles around you, as if inspecting you. “That’s so exciting I’m so glad I don’t have to introduce myself! Apparently my reputation precedes me. Always a nice thing to hear.” He places his hands on your shoulder, eyes bright and gleaming in the last few rays of the sunset. His fingers trace down your cheek and you shiver at the touch. He leans in close to your ear, his breath hot on your face and whispers, “I’ve been so bored lately, do you wanna play a game, doll?”

Hero society had collapsed months ago, and along with it: hope.

The society was flimsy like a house made of glass; as soon as the first rock was thrown at it, it wasn’t hard to tear down. The first rock was when the Hero Commission was exposed for the greedy pigs they were, easily allowing Shigaraki and his League of Villains to grow massively in size; the second one was when the Symbol of Peace, AllMight died; the third was when Number One pro-hero Deku stepped down, announcing he was joining the villains and killed a swath of heroes after doing so. Endeavor, Best Jeanist, Miruko, Hawks, and others were killed the day he went on a rampage and cursed Hero Society and all it ever stood for.

Keep reading

[simpinsimpleton]

You know what I love, I love the idea of a yandere forcing their darling to tight lace a corset. Their darling looks so cute when they’re out of breath, when they hold onto their yandere so they don’t fall over, how helpless they are while in the corset. Besides, their darling just looks so pretty wearing one.

THIRST!

goodiebag WARNINGS: humiliation-kink, immobilization-kink, obsession

YANDERE ! TODOROKI SHOTO

Shoto would do this. Though, he wouldn't be stopping at just the corset. 

First he puts you in one of those cloudy puffy-sleeved cotton-shirts, the one that you seem to swim in, then on with the corset on top. Don’t you worry, he’ll help you tighten it, and tighten it and tighten it and tighten it. Your ribs hurt in the beginning, but that pain subsides, next you catch yourself gulping up your breaths, chest tightening when you try to inhale more than what is allowed, yet your lungs needing more than what those shallow breaths gives you. 

You’re unable to bend to put your stockings on, which means Shoto needs to help you with those too, where you’re also unable to swat him away as he kisses up your leg and knee, trailing the soft fabric over your toes and up to stop mid-thigh. 

Then, the high-heels your toes cramp inside, leaving you wobbly at both the loss of breath and the unbalanced footing, looking like a flower in the wind. 

The under-skirt seems too heavy, yet needing to achieve the silhouette of a jellyfish. 

Lastly, is the heavy artillery. More intricate lacings tightened on your back, the extra weight pulling you down, yet Shoto keeping you standing, leaving you out of breath, warm, tired, with no hope of getting out of the getup without his help. 

You don’t understand how women wore these, everyday would be a war, everyday robbed of your breath, of your footing, of the ability of creating decent streams of thought, leaving you helpless at the hands of your man, dependent on holding their hand for balance, needing to nearly hang off of them for support. 

Once you’re done, Shoto loves whispering into your neck, listening to your labored breaths as he parades you in front of the mirror, twirling you around, dancing with you, loving to see how you’re just barely holding on. You look so preciously beautiful, like a princess, his princess, his little doll.