#Floral Stab

[tallovines]

THAT LITTLE THINGY HAS BEEN GOING AROUND TWITTER, AND I FOUND IT SO FUNNY THAT I COULDN’T JUST *NOT* DO IT AS THEM HEHEHE ^ . ^

(original under cut!!!)

[luna-the-shark4254]

Blows them both up!!!

[non-requestable]

@monigote001 @tallovines hi guys

[max-starcatcher]

💜🌿Tallovines / FloralStab🌿💜

Click on z image for better quality 😨(it actually looks so bad low quality that it's making me embarrassed)

TW for below image: Blood, slight gore, disturbing imagery

@tallovines 💜/Platonically

[tallovines]

TALLOVINES MENTION HELLOOO???

THANK YOU???

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH??? /P

I LOVE SEEING PEOPLE'S SCP OCS. they all make me so sick /vpos

i also loooove seeing peoples OC X Canons.......... my personal favourites are Clex, TalloVines, and Icecream Shipping

-🦈

.

[skarloeyspa]

floral train!!!!

[the-needle-witch]

Today I did this magnolia wreath on a new friend, Indigo, as my half of a tattoo trade!!

[eratosmusings]

Loyalty (II)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: your husband returns to consummate your marriage

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, smut, oral (fem receiving), piv, arranged marriage, manipulation, abortion allusion (moon tea), lot of religious references

word count: 2.4k

previous chapter / dividers

Daemon takes more than an hour to return. Handmaids came in his absence. They take the pins from your hair, bring fresh water and fragranced soap for a quick wash before leaving you in a single shift made of silk. You pace the stone floor as it grows cold from the dying fire. Why has he not returned?

The fire dims and dims until it is no more than a low red glow in the hearth. The silk is frigid against your skin. It chafes against your breasts in a way that has you squirming. Your husband finally returns. It appears he too has bathed and changed. Gone is his embroidered jacket and red sleeves, replaced with a simple white shirt and a simple robe hanging off his shoulders. His hair is damp and a floral scent wafts from him as he approaches.

“I’d thought you’d be in bed,” he says. 

You attempt a smile, though you fear it appears more as a grimace. Guilt weighs too heavy on the corners of your lips. The wait was intolerable but as is knowing how imminent the act is. Knowing what you must do on the morrow. “Is that where you wish me to be, my prince?”

He frowns. “I had only meant I’d thought you’d be asleep.” His eyes dart over you, only to return to and linger where the peaks of your breasts stab into the shift. "Is that all they gave you to wear, jaesa?" He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You must be freezing.” He pulls the robe from his shoulders and comes to drape it over your own. 

More kindness that you do not deserve. You bow your head. “Thank you, my prince.”

He tisks and turns his attention to the dying fire. “Such formality.” He lowers and begins to arrange new logs over the embers. “We are married now, you must call me something more fitting. Daemon would do well.” He takes a piece of kindling and allows it to catch fire before placing it on top. “Or dear husband, perhaps.” He looks back at you. “Valzȳrys if you’d like to truly capture my heart.”

“Valzȳrys?” It slips out before the rest of his words register as you meet his lilac gaze.

“Wonderful pronunciation,” he murmurs approvingly, standing. “It means husband in Valyrian.” The fire spreads, growing brighter and casting him in its warm glow. It strikes you, rather harshly, that Daemon Targaryen is unparalleled in his beauty. You've always thought him handsome, but in the light of a blaze he is breathtaking.

“I shall try to remember,” you say through the lump in your throat. If you can never allow him children, at least you will give him the allusion of a good, dutiful wife.

His head cocks appraisingly to the side. “Come.” Your feet obey. The warmth of the fire joins the heat beginning to prickle across your skin. His gaze is searching as you come to stand in front of him and you can’t tear your eyes away. “Why wait for me to return?”

Your brows furrow at the question. It’s answer so obvious. “We have yet to consummate our marriage.”

“I did not consummate my last.” His hand comes to toy with the collar of the robe. “I refused the bedding ceremony this evening.” There’s humor in his tone. “Perhaps I did not intend to bed you at all.”

You try to match his easy banter, though there's a tremor in your voice. "Perhaps the sun will rise in the west and set in the east."

He laughs and the sound sends a flutter through your chest. What a beautiful sound. "Do you think I as wanton as a whore?”

"No!" Your hands reach for him, taking hold of his arm. It is solid in your grasp.  "I am sorry, my prince, I did not intend offense."

He laughs again, eyes crinkling. "I merely jest. Your only offense is your continued use of ‘my prince.’”

"Valzȳrys," you offer with relief, letting go of his arm, “I shall do better.”

“My sweet wife,” his other hand comes to hold your face as the first continues to fidget with the robe, “so eager to please.”

Your lips part, but the words die as his fingers follow down the edge of the robe and brush the raised peak of your breast. The sensation, torturous and intoxicating, has you gasping. He takes the distraction as invitation and captures your mouth in a harsh, bruising kiss. Your fingers curl against the cloth of his shirt. Neither to push him away nor pull him closer, but to find a tether in the unfamiliar depths his touch has plunged you into.

He pulls back slowly. Lips plush, pupils blown wide. Hands cupping your breast, thumbs stroking the peaks. Overwhelming, sinful need steals your thoughts. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can't breathe. Your entire focus is on remaining standing. 

"Tell me, jaesa, have you ever touched yourself here before?"

Speech is too difficult. Your head shakes.

"Have you ever dreamt of it?"

Another shake. You had not known it could be used for pleasure. Air greets your lung like a knife when one of his touches disappears.

"How about here?" A hand dips under the hem of your shift, skims along your thighs.

You shake again.

His nose edges along your jaw. "Here? His fingers glide along the apex.

You jolt. No. Never. The words don't make it past your lips. They're trapped somewhere in the shock, the pleasure.

"No?" He speaks for you, his voice low, laced in fond mockery. "What a pure, untouched thing you are, jaesa." His mouth meets yours again. This time his kiss is slower. A whimper leaves you, unbidden, when his tongue sweeps against your bottom lip. His touch continues to move along your most intimate of places. It’s intoxicating.

He draws back, forehead pressing against yours. His breathing is heavy, matching yours. “Now I wish for you to be on the bed.” 

The air feels like ice as he steps away, leaving you bereft of his warmth. You turn, seeking the bed, and stumble forward. Your toe catches on the edge of a table. The pain is sharp and you nearly drop to the floor.

Daemon's arms wrap around you. "Careful."

His touch is maddening. "Yes, valzȳrys."

There's a sound that seems to stick in his throat. Your feet are no longer on the ground. "The bed, jaesa." A surprised giggle leaves as you fall back on the bed. It's plush, more so than your own. And warm. Daemon climbs over you, bracing his weight on his forearms. The firelight casts his features in a soft glow, giving the illusion of gentleness.

He presses his lips against yours, hungry. Your hands cling to his arms. A small moan vibrates from him. There's a firmness pressing into the apex of your thighs. The pressure is nearly as wonderful as his fingers had been. You arch towards him. He presses back.

Then he's gone. Your mouth falls open in protest, a small sound escaping. Daemon sits on the edge of the bed. He’s smug as he tugs off the simple shirt. He stands and drops his trousers, revealing more of his toned physique. Your cheeks burn. His member, juts up proudly. You swallow and avert your gaze. Surely, that cannot fit inside of you.

"Does my cock offend you?"

"No," you say quickly. "It is," your mouth sticks like you'd eaten too much honeyed bread, "large."

He laughs boisterously. "You will find, sweet wife, that it is a gift." He kneels back on the bed, his hands grasping at the hem of your shift. Your eyes snap up. His dance with mischief. "May I remove this?"

Your throat is dry. You nod. The fabric lifts. Your limbs move as they're told. You help him rid you of the silk. The air is cold.

"Beautiful."

Your body trembles under his gaze.

"Lie back."

Your body obeys. His hands slide down your thighs, pushing them apart. Then he is between your legs, kissing his way up your inner thigh. Your mind reels. No one had told you this part. When his mouth finally meets the place his fingers had toyed with earlier, you wonder how anyone could not enjoy this.

A gasp fills the air. Your hands fly to his head, tangling in his hair. Divinity lies between his teeth.

"I have decided," he whispers against your flesh, “that your taste is far better than any berry’s.”

Your hips roll of their own accord. He groans, his grip tightening on your thighs. Then he is back to licking. Your eyes screw shut and your hands grip tighter. There’s a pressure building. The tightness nearly unbearable.

"Valzȳrys," the plea is breathless. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but he must. 

He hums and the vibrations have you bucking. His mouth continues its silent prayers. Your eyes beg to close, but the glow of his lilac gaze refuses such a sin. He watches, equally as enraptured, as he pushes you higher and higher. Ecstasy. You cannot breathe, cannot move. His name, his title, every version of him, is on your tongue, begging. The pressure cracks your walls until they crumble and it is blasphemy that leaves your lips. A moment passes with the wave that follows and then another, your body trembling. The pleasure is slow to subside. His tongue has eased, but continues with languid strokes. Warmth tingles across all of you. His eyes have not given you leave.

Slowly his mouth leaves your sex. A whine leaves you at the loss. "Are you well, sweet wife?" His mouth glistens and the bed shifts as he crawls over you.

"Mhmm," you reply, letting your hands fall from his hair. More than well.

His lips curve, pleased, as they meet yours. They taste nothing near as sweet as a berry. Something presses against you. His member—his cock as he called it. His lips travel down your neck. "Are you ready?"

This is where the pain shall be. Perhaps so terrible it makes all you've done forgettable. There's no other reason you can think of that women would hate it after the pleasure you'd just received. But it is duty. At least, you must keep the appearance of it. You take a deep breath and nod. "Yes, Valzȳrys."

He presses forward and the stretch is uncomfortable. He pushes and a burn begins that makes you squirm. There's a pause."Forgive me," he breathes then his mouth returns to yours. A sharp, awful pain tears through you as his hips slam forward. Your vision blurs with the sting of tears. Your nails dig into his arms.

"The worst is over," he promises

You nod at his falsehood, still unable to see, and attempt to slow your breathing. It is for naught as the pain continues with the movement of his hips. The gods punishment for your sins, even the ones you've yet to truly commit. He whispers something that could be an apology and kisses the tears from your cheeks. You do not say anything. To suffer this for him is your duty.

"Breathe, jaesa. Just breathe."

You force yourself to match his rhythm. Breathing deep, his steady strokes begin to dull the ache. The tenseness in your muscles begin to release. There is some pleasure hidden beneath the discomfort.

"That's it," he encourages, his hand snaking between you.

You cry out as he circles his fingers sending a new wave of ecstasy through you. It spreads like Wildfire. You don't understand. It's supposed to be awful. How can it feel so wonderful?

"I am not a man of patience," he lets his forehead rest against yours, "but these sounds were worth the wait."

"Valzȳrys," your eyes shut and the pleasure builds. It drowns out any lingering discomfort. Only cries of prayers and profanities filling the room as his movements grow more erratic.

His breath stutters. It sounds as if he curses in Valyrian, though you cannot be sure. Then he stops, retreats, and leaves you painfully empty. Something warm and heavy falls across your stomach in thick strings. Your eyes open to his. Breathing ragged. Hair damp with sweat. He presses a kiss against your temple. "I shall bring the basin."

Your brow furrows. "Are we done?" Your body still tingles, tense again. Anticipation rather than pain.

His eyes crinkle but he says nothing, climbing from the bed. Your eyes stay glued to him. It's an enticing view. He returns to the bed with the basin in hand and sits beside where you lay. You know that the seed should sit for a while before it's cleaned away to ensure it takes. That's what the Septa had said. You do not repeat it to Daemon.

The rag is cold and your gasp at the contact leaves your husband issuing a humored apology. He wipes between your legs first, tinging the rag red, before cleaning the seed from your stomach in short, slow swipes. When satisfied, he sets the bowl on the floor and lays beside you. You wonder how you'll be able to sleep when your body still pulses with desire.

"Straddle my face."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Straddle my face," he repeats, "as if you were mounting a horse."

You think you understand the intention, but it seems unnecessarily dangerous. Could he not simply lie between your legs again? "But I will hurt you." Or suffocate him

"You will not."

He helps guide your leg across him, settling your knees on either side of his head. "Lower yourself, do not deny me your taste," he commands. His hands grip your thighs and you obey. He groans. The sound is muffled and then his mouth is back on your sex.

It is different. Not better, not worse, but different. Your body sings and hands fist in his hair. Your husband's tongue is skilled. A blessing instead of the curse you'd been told. For he has you quaking in only a few flicks. Pleasure courses through you like lightning. Yes, his years in pleasure houses were as divinely ordained as your years kneeling in the Sept. Your chest heaves as he coaxes out a final shudder.

When you can breathe again, he grins at you from between your thighs. The image deserves its own depiction in stained glass. "Now, I believe we are done."

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[tallovines]

I LOVE WRITING TALES FOR MY STUPID LITTLE SCP OC X CANON SHIP 😈😈😈

[ataraxiaspainting]

Morningstar's Road.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan Feitan.

Synopsis: Your routine is average, to say the least. But due to Chrollo’s orders, Feitan cannot snatch you up yet – so he simply mirrors your behaviors instead for self-satisfaction. His boss does so too.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, kidnapping, a few suggestive actions, manipulation, some descriptions anxiety/depression for the reader, animal death, and violence/some gore.

Word Count: 4.4k.

*~*~*~*

Feitan is so close to you that he can just about hear your beating heart. He could only see the back of your head, hair loose and surely will be knotted by the morning sun, but he can smell you whenever he is this close.

You always smell so nice, but for some reason, you smell even better – of that floral-scented oil you put on your neck and wrists before you go to bed. Maybe you added extra because it is the weekend.

You are on your right side – the fetal position was always your favorite – and hugging a plush that resembles your childhood cat. This was typical behavior for you; you had cried for days when your older sister called to say he had passed from old age. You weren’t weeping anymore, but you were when you saw the stuffed animal near the window of that dollar store you pass by daily on your way to work. You named it Silky, the same as the real thing, and tuck it in whenever you are in and out of bed. Feitan somewhat wished he could get the same treatment, to be in your arms as you sleep and to feel just a hint of your comforting warmth.

Feitan brought his own blanket.

It isn’t pastel pink like your sheets or your pillowcases or your pajamas and it has holes from moths and years of being stretched as he grew and his fights came to have higher and higher stakes.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time he was stabbed were just under the giant white skull pattern, although since most of the blanket is black it wouldn’t show even in the brightest of lights.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time it was stolen are still there too; on the bottom right corner.

“This type of nen won’t last forever, Fei.”

Feitan turns his neck, his bandana doing little to hide the slight scowl on his face. “I know.”

“Now, now… I never said you did not.” Chrollo responds while giving a small smile, still having the Bandit’s Secret in his right hand while your diary is held in his left. He turns to the next page while Feitan goes back to snuggling up beside you.

If Chrollo had a third arm, he could have the rest of your coffee you didn’t finish and left in your fridge. There is a lipstick stain, the color of that tint you often sport when in your office space. A light taffy color, he muses. 

Very fitting.

“I simply wanted you not to fall asleep too slow or too deep, we do have to leave by dawn after all.”

Feitan said no answer. Chrollo is used to that – a little too used to it, maybe, but Feitan has always stood out from fellow people from Meteor City even by the Phantom Troupe’s standards.

“Same oil?” He asks, and on cue, Feitan gives a loud sniffing sound.

“Yes.”

“Cute.”

Around your waist Feitan’s left arm lays, and his right hand holds the blanket tighter than a noose.

If Chrollo were to guess, if Feitan had a third arm he would put two of its fingers on your lips to feel how soft they were. Chrollo had done so before, but his friend hadn’t. He almost chuckles at the irony. The member of the Troupe the most intimate when it comes to matters of anatomy and torture felt that his fingertips having pink on them was a line he could not cross. It’s almost funny in a way. It’s adorable.

“Boss.”

“Hm?”

“For just a while,” Feitan starts. His tone is shy, like a little boy about to ask his classmate crush for their hand in marriage. “Can you read it to me?”

“‘It’?” Chrollo teases slightly, yet he knows what Feitan is talking about.

“The thing in your hand.”

“‘Thing’?”

Feitan huffs a bit and follows it up with a sigh.

“The… diary. Please.”

*~*~*~*

I think I’m getting worse and wondering if I have ever been happy with myself.

There is this girl that sits at the desk across from mine, Lyra is her name, and I don’t hate her by any means.

I just wish I was her, you know? She gets along with everyone in our office, Her hair is always nice. She has only been here since February and has already been promoted to the status it took me three years to get. 

Don’t get me wrong, she is incredibly nice and I always have a few laughs with her from time to time. Maybe it’s just my insecurities getting to me.

I wonder if sometimes she has similar thoughts when with other people, or even me if that were possible. I know she has a habit of procrastination and has a record of not handing in her work until a few days or weeks later – those are qualities I don’t have, but maybe she doesn’t feel anything negative about herself.

I’m known as the quiet and sweet girl at my job.

I’ve always had a bone to pick with the title, in a way. All my life that is what I was labeled as. People come to me for advice, and it does make me feel good, but I wish I could be a jokester like Lyra too.

That’s all I have… at least for now, I guess. I’m going to drink tea with honey and go to bed.

May 8th

*~*~*~*

The duo entered through the front door this time. You were gone tonight, as evidenced by the messy pile of umbrellas and house shoes that flooded the entrance, so they could break in without much sneaking around. They know where you headed to – and for now, Chrollo orders Feitan not to slit the man’s throat and gouge out his eyes. Your boyfriend, the only one of your past romantic interests not yet dead. Francis.

He’s quite the simple fellow as Chrollo had noted. Feitan was only focusing on where his organs started and ended when they both saw you with him near midnight months before.

“Not yet.”

Chrollo turns his head and looks down at Feitan as they walk down the hall. 

“I know you’re still thinking about it, but your actions may cause our plan to fail.”

No verbal response, though Chrollo notices how Feitan’s steps get slightly louder.

“Fine.”

“Are you saying you’re fine? Or are you still agreeing to not go haywire on the man yet?”

“New one.”

“Hm?”

“New word.” Feitan’s nails retract slightly from your walls as he rolls his eyes. “Hay… wire.”

His hand stops at a photo of your dead cat framed on the wall – he’s a kitten in this one, with his first collar and teenager you hugging him – but your face is cropped out.

He moves the hand away from it for just a few steps. Chrollo finds it polite of him – as polite as Feitan can be with others, anyway.

At the same time, they consider bringing the photos you took off your walls and onto whatever penthouse walls Chrollo has rented out for the next few months or so. It would be cute seeing smiling pictures of you all over, especially since you’ll be switching locations soon enough, and in turn, that expression will soon enough become rare. 

But when Chrollo thinks about the idea further, a problem arises. Your photos aren’t focused on you. They’re focused on your friends and family. You are always in the corner or hidden behind someone else. It’s of your own volition. Chrollo is sure of it. Perhaps he can get Shalnark to work his magic on them and ignore the teasing. Feitan would do nothing more than threaten to bash in his teeth, as with friends he is nothing more than a ‘grumpy wet cat’ – those are Shalnark and Uvogin’s own words. Not Chrollo’s.

“No.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll cut ‘em,” Feitan suggests while putting his sharp nails on your bedroom’s door frame.

“How do you intend to do so when there’s near nothing to cut out?” Chrollo asks. Feitan goes silent until he sits on your bed.

It’s still unmade. You must have ignored that chore list of yours again and opted to work extra hours instead.

Chrollo sits down at the small part of your room that is clean; your desk. It’s mainly used for just reading and video games, hence why the only two things not neatly in piles are a book and your computer. Shalnark told them both the password, but neither of them had decided to tread into that territory for multiple reasons. Firstly, neither of them knows a single thing about the internet and simulations. Secondly, Shalnark can just get whatever information they need without them looking inside it themselves anyway. Thirdly, they already know you enjoy wholesome things on there – the opposite of what you’re reading, if the books on your unfinished read pile mean anything to Chrollo – so there is no point in venturing for unneeded facts about you.

You’ll surely tell them yourself one day. 

Eventually. In maybe weeks. Months. Years. 

Eventually.

It’ll feel like forever and a day if you decide not to talk to either of them. Chrollo and Feitan have agreed without any argument that if you want something, you will ask them. Nicely, of course. 

Broken fingers aren’t necessarily something people flaunt. 

You wouldn’t brag about being forced onto a lap for hours out on a balcony either. 

You’ll eventually tell them. You have to. For your sake.

Eventually. Nothing lasts forever, after all.

“Fei. I promise you that this will be worth the wait.”

Feitan shakes his head, scoffing. “Will it? It would have been easier to just grab her and run.”

“I know,” Chrollo leans in a little, putting his elbows on his thighs. “I know. But you’ll lament it. I would have too if I had agreed with you to go down that route.”

A stare is the response.

It isn’t anger, Chrollo knows that much.

No. 

In all the years Chrollo has known Feitan, Feitan has never gone back on his loyalty to him and the Troupe.

But. But.

Chrollo hasn’t ever seen him have such a concurrence when there is still such division in his eyes.

“Are you sad?” He asks.

“No,” Feitan replies, looking at your cat plush instead of his leader of the full moon outside.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

*~*~*~*

Francis lives outside the city in a farmhouse. It’s up a tall hill with no pathway aside from little rectangular stones here and there – and if you ignore the animals and their housing, people would think that the place is deserted.

Feitan and Chrollo make their way to the white picket fence surrounding the chicken coop. They continue to bite down into the soil for worms or leftover grain. All female. Only three were brown; the others were smaller in frame and white.

“I’ve heard his eggs go for high prices in markets,” Chrollo grins a little. “Maybe I’ll raise some chickens of my own in my later years.”

Feitan raises an eyebrow at him.

“I was joking, Fei.” He clarifies.

“Ah.”

Feitan continues to walk with his hands still stuffed into his coat pockets. 

Chrollo looks at the farmhouse up at the top of the hillside. The lights are still on, meaning you were most likely still up and about in there.

The rooster resting on top of the mailbox makes eye contact with him for a few moments.

“Don’t scream,” Chrollo murmurs, his words sweet as sugar.

“What?” Feitan asks, not even bothering to turn around.

“I’m talking to the rooster.”

“[First]’s rubbing off on you too much.” His friend rolls his eyes and makes sure not to step on a twig.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed how these animals look at us.”

“They’re animals now. What came before… that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Maybe to you – but I find it intriguing.”

“Talk later,” Putting his hand on the fence gate that leads to Francis’ garden, Feitan turns his head for just a moment. “Near. Quiet. Look.”

For once, Chrollo is the one that does the nodding.

The gate gives off a little squeak as it is opened. It reminds them of Francis’ prized pet pig Annie – though she is only allowed to be inside.

There are all sorts of vegetables and some fruits back here. Cucumbers, chili peppers, watermelons, corn, tomatoes, peaches, pears. They’re all in pristine condition, and so are the flowers growing in pots near the far-off window sills.

Feitan considers giving you the daisies. 

Chrollo considers giving you the marigolds.

They both look at the pig’s head hastily buried under the soil, her ears still popping out and facing the moon. Despite the interment being new, perhaps even being dug today, flies have already spread to the top part of the head and ears. They’re happy you didn’t see her because that would be quite an awful gift from your boyfriend.

Francis is probably happy too, not that they care.

From what Shalnark was able to gather from someone who barely has any social life, Francis moved here from another country about four years ago. He acquired this farm and its land almost immediately afterward. 

From a lottery, Shalnark had explained to them. Or an inheritance. Either way, man’s life is going pretty dang good. Too good, actually, because my senses are tingling too much.

Shalnark was right in that regard. Francis may adopt animals from time to time from farmers’ markets, but a majority of them suddenly appear a few days or weeks apart. There were three white chickens he had purchased. Then after a month or so, there were twelve. The three brown ones came all at once one day.

“Where’s Annie?” They hear you ask as you open one of the windows to get some fresh air. “She usually runs to the door to see me…”

Using hatsu to conceal their presence, the pair aren’t detected among the plants.

“She ran away.”

Feitan almost snickers at your boyfriend’s answer, looking down at the flies and corpse rotting beneath his feet. He didn’t mind the smell of rotting flesh – he has almost always enjoyed it since he was in his teenage years.

Chrollo’s feet don’t dig into the soil – he has opted to instead stand on the few pieces of stone that are by the cucumber plants. He makes a note to go to the laundromat after this; even though it has already been the third time in a row this week alone.

If he can convince Feitan, they’ll steal some things from your place to wash up too – Francis has always been touchy, after all.

“That’s weird,” You say worriedly, not looking into the garden anymore but instead inside; to Annie’s little bed huddled next to the window. “Did you leave the gate open?”

“Yes, I’m still rather upset about it but I’m sure she’ll be found soon.”

Soon. Chrollo grins a bit as he closes his eyes, imagining the moment he’ll save you from this man. Soon isn’t enough. No. This…

This is the moment.

This is the day.

This is the time.

“Feitan.”

“Hm?”

Francis will die today. Or tomorrow maybe, Chrollo isn’t completely sure.

“Don’t make it too bloody,” He instructs, getting off the stones and onto the dirty tiles of the garden’s path to the back door. “I’ll focus on her. We’ll leave the others alone.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you, Feitan.”

Feitan looks confused for a moment. If Chrollo were someone who hadn’t grown up beside him, he wouldn’t have noticed the small millisecond of his friend showing emotion. ‘For what?’ He wants to ask. 

Chrollo knows it. He knows it so he answers the silent question. “For being more vulnerable with her and I. [First] seems to have rubbed off on you too much too, huh?”

“I don’t like your jokes,” Feitan replies as he stuffs his pockets even more – perhaps to hide his balled-up fists. Whether they were made from the hatred of Francis or the annoyance of everything else is up to interpretation. No one will be getting an answer anyway, even Feitan himself. “You’re very happy lately.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Chrollo’s grin widens just a smidge more. “We’re about to rescue a princess.”

From that look, he knows Feitan agrees with his reasoning and is happy as well.

*~*~*~*

“You’re beautiful, darling.”

You’re laid out on Francis’ bed. It’s rather large for a room this size, but it is comfortable to undress on. You picked a periwinkle blue dress today with buttons on only its top front side. Francis wanted to help but you declined. You don’t decline a lot of things, especially when it comes to him. Francis is annoyed by that but he tries not to let it show. He hides a lot of things from you.

“Thank you.” You sheepishly smile, a light flush on your cheeks as you start to undo your buttons.

“Of course,” You’re his favorite by far. You aren’t stuck up or are with him just for his money. You’re so nice to him. You’re so sweet to him. “I wouldn’t lie to you, honey.”

You aren’t like those whores, those sluts, those fucking cheap little bitches.

“I’ll take it slow since it’s your first time and all.” He promises.

You look up at him.

Your frown is just barely noticeable – but noticeable enough for him to see.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asks.

“Lyra’s still missing… I’m worried.”

“Why?” Francis asks, getting more annoyed the more time you spend covered up. “Why are you so worried about her right now? It’s not the time for that.”

“I don’t know,” You look at the open window, cool air still blowing in along with the slight scent of flowers. “I really don’t, I just… have suddenly gotten a little sad just now.”

You’re shivering a little.

“Ah, you must be cold.” He deflects. Having only his shirt on now, he walks up to the windowsill and looks at the vegetable patch. With both hands, he pulls the window closed. “Better?”

You must not have heard him, because you keep playing with your buttons instead of being fully undressed already.

“Could you…” 

Ah. You did hear him, but you seem concerned for something else. That’s fine, as long as you aren’t playing with him and will soon attempt to run away. 

“Close the curtain? Please? I’d really… appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Francis replies, his smile returning to his face. “Anything for you. Just get comfortable, pumpkin.”

The wicked thing came all at once before either of you could blink. Shards of glass flew into Francis and into the bedroom walls. Francis screams as his bleeding hands are quick to go to his eyes, his fingers attempting to get the glass shards out of them before his vision is gone for good. In front of you was a stranger in a suit – he pushed you out of the way in a fraction of a second and onto the floor. The bed had shielded you and him. 

“Are you alright?”

You’re too shocked for words, peeking from behind the bed to where Francis is still screaming.

In front of him was a man in all black stepping on the back of his head with one of his feet. The soles of his boots seemed lodged into Francis’ scalp, and it takes you a moment to realize why. There were spikes on them; not that you could see them much because of how hidden they seemed to be right now. They’re silver judging by the color of their slight sparkle, but the rusted kind. No. Maybe that’s just the bloodstains.

The feeling in your chest is so horrible like you’re very sick. There’s pressure on your heart. It’s strangling you, despite the taller stranger’s grasp on your shoulders being so pleasant. So tender.

“What are you doing?” You screech. The sound doesn’t make either of the intruders flinch. Francis does instead. “Let go of him!”

The shorter man doesn’t look at you, opting to wedge the spikes of his shoes further into Francis’ brain. You try to get up but the man in the suit pulls you back down, shushing you as you protest and cry. “Don’t… it’ll be over soon. I told him to be gentle, you see.”

“Gentle?” You repeat.

“Yes, my dear.” One of his hands rises from your shoulders to where your eyes are. You struggle some more and the stranger whispers something in your ear. “Behave – I can always tell Feitan to torture him the amount he deserves if I wanted to. I know he wants to.”

You deflate and your eyes are forced shut by his palm. “Please stop… I don’t know what we did, just please-”

“You didn’t do anything,” The other man – Feitan if the taller man had named him right and he wasn’t just some assassin he hired; he said his name so tenderly too like he is an old friend – interrupts you. “He did.”

You feel like you’re about to throw up all the wonderful food you just ate. Chicken pot pie, beef tenderloin, roasted pork belly – it all feels like it is about to release from your throat and onto the wooden planked floor below.

“Oh dear,” Another hand covers your nose and mouth. Instead of blood you now smell cologne – sandalwood and amber. “Can you please hurry up, Fei? She looks like she’s about to collapse.”

*~*~*~*

“It’s a wonderful time to be alive,” Chrollo says as he puts the key into his car’s lock. It’s embedded with little multicolored jewels – he had commissioned some artist to customize it for him a week or so ago while Feitan went into your home on his own. “Or at least a wonderful night. Wouldn’t you say so?”

You’re in the passenger seat. You fell unconscious after Francis’ barely alive body got its fingers broken one by one. Some of his blood got on your skirt, but Chrollo is sure that the laundromat will fix that just like the workers will fix his clothes. As long as he pays them enough or threatens them enough. The latter would be more fun for Feitan but the former would let him be seen as a kind patron. Whichever way the coin flips. 

He doesn’t blame you for fainting. If he hadn’t been born in Meteor City and hadn’t been raised in a constant state of fear and a constant battle for power over others, he would most likely do the same. 

Feitan is in the back, silent. His hands now have gloves on them and are now brushing through your hair.

“Should we make the pit stop or go straight?” After the second question, the car’s lights turn on.

“Bed.”

The car starts moving into the barren street. 

“Alright,” Chrollo chuckles a little at the insistence in Feitan’s tone. “We can get some of [First]’s clothes tomorrow then. She’ll probably sleep throughout the day.” 

He doesn’t explain why because they both already know the reason. There is a short chain attached to the main bed. Depending on your behavior early on, it will either lengthen or become briefer. 

There are also some syringes in the mirror vanity that Feitan asked him over and over to keep in case of an emergency. He doubts there will be any real threat where they would have to use them. 

Feitan doesn’t. Feitan doesn’t doubt many things.

“Blankets too.” 

Feitan doesn’t ask for many things either, much less demand them.

“Ah,” Chrollo makes the left turn as his fingers tap on the steering wheel. It’s a song you enjoy listening to on your avenue home. He knows you aren’t listening to it but that doesn’t matter right now. He’ll continue to do so until your mind associates the tune with small controlled adventures to and fro and not you having a life of your own. “All of them?”

“Yes. Please.”

“You don’t say that word very often,” He teases, looking at the flat glass mirror overhead.

“Hmph.”

Putting his hand on your thigh, Chrollo continues to drive while still glancing upward now and then. 

*~*~*~*

Your heartbeat has calmed down. Feitan is now able to look at your face as you sleep. 

You look at peace now. When he had placed you on the bed, your eyebrows furrowed for a moment – perhaps your subconscious being afraid – or disgusted – by him.

The flowery scent of your perfume vanished long ago and has been replaced by a stinging one. Feitan doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

Unlike the bodies of those who have died by his hands, Feitan places the white blanket on top of you gently like you would shatter if he was just a tad bit rougher. 

Well… Body bags don’t really count as blankets, do they? They are meant to be ripped open and stuffed full of parts no wandering soul hopes to find.

Chrollo decides to break the silence. “After she adjusts a little, we’ll leave. Or you can stay if you want. I can carry her things on my own.”

Feitan turns to look at him.

“Pictures.”

Chrollo sighs. “Alright. But we’ll get Shal to edit them. No cutting.”

“...Tch. Fine. Silky too.” A thumb is pressed against your lips. After it is lifted, there is a light pink that covers its print.

“It’s a pretty color, isn’t it?” Chrollo muses, hanging his suit jacket on the edge of his sofa as he holds his book. “I’ll try to get the same shade for her when she runs out of it. Though I suspect it will be a while before then, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Feitan states, rubbing his thumb against your lips more. “She will always be pretty to me.”

“Never took you for the romantic type, Fei.”

“Hmph.”

[catwouthats]

There are actually many grasses/plants that make them sick! Farmers have to make sure those weeds aren’t growing.

The floor is just as much food to us as it is to them.

We have dandelions, broadleaf plantain, violets (but only the ones native to the Americas are edible), clover, mallow, mint, Onion grass, Creeping Charlie (my fav for a spice), chickweed, and then a shit ton of grasses native to America are edible.

Now go forth and forage!

[everyonewooeverywhere]

MDNI 18+ BLOG -> ageless blogs and minors WILL BE BLOCKED

pairing ✭ bf!yunho x gn!reader

word count ✭ 0.8k

genre ✭ fluff

rating ✭ pg (but please still mdni. it's a personal preference.)

notes ✭ this is 1000% based on my ungodly work/sleep schedule. i'm a barista who works the morning shift, so like four times a week, i have to wake up at 4am to get to work at 5am. it's a blast 🙂👍

✭ ✭ ✭

The dread you felt when your alarm blared at four o’clock in the morning was always the same, but it was just as terrible every time. Sometimes the feeling was nullified by the presence of your boyfriend, who for some reason still wanted to stay the night despite knowing the terrors of your work schedule. 

But even his soft, snoozing face, most of which was buried under your blankets anyway, couldn’t bring you enough comfort. Though you did have to admit he looked adorable underneath your puffy green duvet, and the pink floral pillow under his head was the cherry on top. 

He barely stirred when you removed his arm that was draped gently over your waist and slipped out from under the cozy sheets and away from the warmth of Yunho’s body. You kissed him softly on the forehead before sliding off the bed completely.

Turning on the lamp across the room from your bed in an attempt to not wake your sleeping beauty, you sat down on the floor next to it to fix up your hair and apply as much makeup as you had the energy for. 

Yunho, clearly unbeknownst to you, watched your every little move from under the covers. He watched your nose crinkle in the mirror when your concealer came out a bit patchy, and he had to stifle a giggle when you nearly stabbed your tired eye with your mascara wand.

He knew you hated these mornings, and, even though he hadn’t told you this, that’s why he was here. He wanted to be at least a presence for you when you left the house hours before the sun even came up. If he couldn’t remove the burden from you, he would at least be there to help you through it.

He watched you peacefully as you went through your little routine, and he did it all without you noticing for a good few minutes. Until you caught his eyes in the mirror. You turned around to face him. Only his messy brown hair and his eyes were visible, everything else buried by your covers.

“Go back to bed,” you spoke softly. He rolled over to the edge of the bed, certainly tempted by your demands. You watched as help slipped off the bed and approached you, still wrapped in one of your fluffy blankets. “Yun, what are you doing?” You asked as he sat down behind you, wrapping you in his arms (and the blanket that encased them).

He smiled when you leaned back into his chest. “What can I help you with, baby?”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

Chuckling and pinching your thigh, “Help. Do you need it?”

You pondered it for a second. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that he could assist you with something as simple as trying to leave for work in the morning.

“Did you eat?” he asked, resting his chin on top of your head. You shook your head. “Ok. Let me grab you something to eat, and I’ll make your coffee, alright?”

A protest bubbled up in your throat instinctively, but you resisted. Because god it would be nice to finally eat something before work. You just nodded, watching as he left your bedroom, keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

You hadn’t realized until you started dating Yunho a couple of months ago, how much you enjoyed being taken care of. You had spent so much of your life fighting to prove you were independent and self-sufficient. Trying to prove to the people around you that you didn’t need help because you were strong enough to do things on your own. 

But something about the way Yunho cared for you without making you feel weak had been really freeing for you. He genuinely just wanted to make sure you were comfortable. And you never felt like a burden around him. 

He came back in with your coffee in a travel mug, he added too much cream but the thought was there, and a muffin he’d found in your pantry. “Does this work?” He shook the muffin in his hand.

You smiled and nodded, “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Of course, baby,” he handed you the items before sitting down facing you with his back to the wall. He placed a hand on your thigh, “You want me to drive you?”

You shook your head, “Get your sleep. I’ll be okay driving myself.”

“You sure?” You nodded. “Okay. I’ll make us lunch when you get home, and then we can cuddle for the rest of the day, okay?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” you said after applying the last bit of lipgloss. “Thank you, Yun. I really appreciate your help.”

He smiled, grabbing your hand and kissing your knuckles, “It’s no problem at all. I just wanna make sure you’re taken care of.”

The smile on your face made his heart swell in his chest, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby.”

[merakiui]

eden.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, non-con, captivity, obsession, menophilia/period sex, vague references to the story of adam & eve note - a self-indulgent paradise crafted by rollo's generous, gracious hand.

Silvery slivers of moonlight spill through the space in the curtains, illuminating the fluffy sheets you’re currently entangled in. A sharp sting in your abdomen rouses you from your dreamless slumber, so agonizing it causes you to slowly curl in on yourself. Miserable and defeated, you groan and bury your face in the neighboring pillow. Now muffled, the sound can only carry on for however much capacity your lungs possess. It eventually fizzles out into a solemn, silent resignation that forces you to accept the third day of the monthly curse that is the menstrual cycle.

It’s a natural facet of your biology, but that doesn’t stop you from moping when you register the slick sensation between your legs.

This wouldn’t be an issue if he got me pads or tampons, you think, bitter with resentment and worn to exhaustion even though you’ve only just woken.

Awkwardly, you attempt to sit up and pull the covers back to check the damage. Rollo’s sheets are always spotless and fresh; he washes them every two weeks on Sunday afternoons, dedicated to following his schedule down to the letter. But then the pain persists, stabbing through to your very organs, and you resume your pitiful fetal position in hopes that the severity may abate.

It does, but you think you’re just tricking yourself into believing so.

You can feel the blood soaking through your white nightgown, and the sodden fabric molds itself to your rear in a very unpleasant way. Shuddering, you blink back tears.

I wanna go home.

Home, as it happens, has felt less and less temporary with each passing month spent in Twisted Wonderland. You’ve come to associate the familiarity of Night Raven College and its student body with comfort and contentment. It’s your home away from home. A long, long way from home. But it’s all you’ve ever had since the Dark Mirror beckoned you forth, and it’s served as your solace for a while.

Initially, you felt trapped and alone, uncertain of your fate and what this could mean for your life. But now you realize that no amount of feeling stuck at school could ever compare to this—to real confinement.

Your capture and, subsequently, your captor’s inexplicable infatuation are the result of arbitrary observation. In his frigid, heavy-eyed stare, you fit the criteria for a definition of purity he has constructed for his own abstract conduct. Untouched by magic, unable to conjure even the simplest spell, you are the speck of hope within Pandora’s box—a blessing enshrouded in sin.

“It must be taxing to live amongst mages so often,” he had said, as if to extend sympathy.

Foolishly, not quite understanding where those words were coming from, you replied in jest, “Believe me, it is. The amount of times I’ve nearly been caught in the crossfire when my friends get into heated arguments… Yikes.”

Rollo Flamme is a righteous man, and thus it is his duty to build a pristine paradise for you. An Eden of his own creation, its sole purpose to safeguard you from the pollution that is magic and, by extension, mages.

But purity cannot be found here, for Rollo is a devil in this garden. Potted plants adorn the floor; it’s something of a floral jungle, filling the room with perfumed scents and pretty sights. You’ve made note of their habits—of every flower that wilts and rises once it’s watered, of every petal that pries itself open under the moon’s glow and closes come sunrise, of every stem that’s trimmed to prevent excess.

Rollo Flamme prefers tidy spaces, so this well-kept garden is sterile and peaceful. You’ve likened it to a morgue filled with dead things—or soon-to-be dead things, as most plants cannot thrive forever no matter how diligent the botanist.

He barked a humorless, monosyllabic laugh at your declaration. “Unless you’ve chosen to view yourself as a rotting corpse, which you are not, your comparison is both unwarranted and untrue,” he muttered, and that was the final utterance of that subject.

Conversations with Rollo are always impossible, which is why you’re dreading this next one when he turns the key in the lock. The sound is like a gunshot in an empty room: explosive. As if echoing your discomfort, your cramps worsen in their intensity and you suck in a shaky breath through grit teeth. You hear the door shut and lock, sentencing you to an exchange with an unwanted warden. He walks into a mostly serene scene, his glacial gaze sweeping across the room to pick apart any interruptions in this slice of Shangri-La.

“I’ve brought dinner,” he announces, and you lift your head to peer at the tray in his hands.

“I don’t want your grapes and croissants,” you spit. “I want something warm.”

“It is warm.” Stepping closer, he sets the tray on his desk. You spy wispy tendrils rising from a bowl of soup. “Sit up and eat before it goes cold.”

You attempt that, halfway up on your elbows, but then your abdomen tightens and you slump back into the sheets. “Hurts,” you whine, clutching your stomach.

Rollo sniffs at the air, brows furrowing. His shoes click out an even rhythm against the floorboards, stopping at your bedside. Without ceremony he yanks the duvet away and you hiss at him, humiliated even though it’s normal. Your skin prickles with a chill, and it’s made even worse when you see the fiery glint in his eyes—the perceptive sort of glaze that overtakes his pupils when he’s observing you. His eyes crawl down your figure, stopping at the stain sullying your satin nightgown.

“Ah, you’ve leaked.”

“Obviously,” you snap. “I did this yesterday, too. When are you going to get me pads? Or tampons? I’ll even take a towel at this point or toilet paper. Anything is better than this.”

Rollo shakes his head. “You’re perfectly fine as you are.”

“Free bleeding like this is filthy and unsanitary.”

“So I’ll simply clean you.”

You drag your hand down your face and groan. “Rollo, please. It hurts, and it’s wet and uncomfortable.”

“You’ve illustrated these points more than clearly.”

“So then… Then do something about it!”

He narrows his eyes at you, silently taking issue with your demand, before he hums his consideration. His face settles into something neutral while he removes his hat and shoes, dutifully setting them in their respective places.

Rollo surprises you when he climbs onto the bed, kneeling over you with the tiniest trace of a smile.

“Spread your legs. I’ll have a look.”

Fresh horror blooms on your already distraught countenance. You bickered with him over this yesterday when he’d brought a wet rag to your inner thigh, seething at you to stay still while he wiped you down. You’d wrestled with him for ownership of the rag, insisting in panicked huffs that you could do it yourself. Your slap had rung out in the silence, rendering Rollo stiff with stormy emotions. He’d relinquished the rag, scoffing at you for being ungrateful and resolving to scribble in his diary for the rest of the day—a prisoner to his own silent treatment.

Now, as his cold fingertips creep up your legs, you feel less hungry and more sick.

Weakly, you shake your head at him, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I… I can do it myself…”

“With what? The nightgown you’ve already dirtied?” He tilts his head at you and smiles an odd smile. You can’t place it, whether it’s smug or sweet, but it soon becomes the former when he throws your words right back at you: “That’s filthy and unsanitary.”

“You don’t have anything either,” you retort, only to grimace once more.

Rollo exhales through his nose, amusement flashing in his dreary eyes. “Because I’m not going to clean you. Not yet.”

Ice crystalizes within your veins, and the tension in your legs slackens enough for him to pull them apart. “What?”

His hands stray dangerously close. You stiffen, nerves tangling with panic. “There are ways to alleviate menstrual cramps. You should be aware of them, so I see no need to go into detail.”

“I know, yes, but—” You swallow thickly and push his reaching fingers away before they can curl around the hem of your nightgown. “Rollo, please don’t…”

“You’ll feel better,” he assures you matter-of-factly, whispering the words like that will change anything. “This is better than medicine and safer than magic.”

You shift beneath him, unsettled. “A… A hot compress will do. Y-You’ll get yourself dirty. Also! A-Also… If we don’t wash the sheets soon, it’ll stain.”

“Let it. It will serve as a reminder to both of us. A reminder that, though you may ruin these sheets with all manner of bodily fluids, they will still remain pure.” He lifts your nightgown, leaning close to your ear while palming at your stomach. You angle yourself away from him, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s because you’re perfect and clean, untainted by magic, that you are able to exist here. I envy you…”

His bare hand is cold against your warm belly and it travels lower, his fingers hooking around the waistband of your panties. You stifle a whine, tears welling up behind your eyelids.

“Rollo…”

“Even your voice…” He inhales deeply, high off the scent of you—metallic and pungent, a natural musk more enticing than any flowery perfume. “Everything about you is so clean, even the very blood that pools between your legs… Just a moment in your embrace is enough to wash away the layers of filth that accumulate on my person. Perhaps you might even manage to scrub beneath my skin, wash out every ounce of magic that rests within… Would that I could, I’d break myself into pieces so that you may reassemble me—build a better me. A me without magic. If only…”

His other hand slithers into yours, squeezing tight. You’re arrested by the strain in his tone when he speaks next, so full of yearning and desperation. Covetous. Shameless.

“If only.”

“R-Rollo, please stop…”

“Yes… Yes, of course,” he babbles, nodding to himself. “I’ve likened you to a concept—to purity alone—but you are more than that. The embodiment of it… An angel. Otherworldly, immune to the poisonous effects of magic… Yes, that is what you are. An angel bereft of flaws.”

He fishes his celestial-patterned handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to your lips next. Your eyes snap open to find him now much closer than before, and you have but a moment to brace yourself before he leans in. The kiss is indirect, the both of you separated by the cloth, but the intention is there. It sticks to you even after he’s lowered the handkerchief. You are too pure and he is too filthy, which is why your lips must never touch.

Contradictory because he’s kissed you before.

Rollo drags your blood-soaked panties down to your knees. You shudder like a frail leaf caught in autumn’s harsh breeze.

“I’ve saved you—freed you!—from those…those villains. So you must allow me to indulge.” He shakes his head, his licentious, lustful stare smoldering to such a scorching degree it brands impure, unhealthy love upon your bare flesh. “I will indulge because I have been nothing but agreeable. This—” his fingers brush your slick folds, testing the waters— “is a wonder no magic could ever hope to reproduce. This is just you. Perfect, pretty, pure you…”

Experimentally, his digits dip shallowly inside. You flinch and inhale a sharp, frantic breath, your stomach somersaulting and knotting itself all at once. Complicated feelings stir within you as you writhe under his invasive touch. Your effort to escape is halfhearted; it’s too painful to move, so instead you attempt to clamp your legs shut. He tuts at you and slips his hand out from your hold to pet along your thigh.

“There goes a certain tale,” Rollo says, breathless as he continues his patient exploration. His eyes rove over your pussy like he intends to imprint it in his memory, and he doesn’t shy away from the crimson rivulet that runs down his palm when he sinks his fingers in further. You grit your teeth, melting against the pillows like an angel stamped in snow, and your free hand strangles a fistful of sheets. “In which a pair lived together in paradise, but it was temptation that ultimately led to their downfall. It is a doomed narrative.”

You’re breathing heavily now, your eyes flicking from the ceiling to the many plants that surround you on all sides, each one in full bloom. It feels as if you’re on a bed-turned-boat in a sea of greenery.

A sea of divine fertility.

With a skillful curl the two fingers delve deeper, pressing up against your gummy walls. Against your better judgment, you whine, loud and bawdy. His touch soothes, but then it stings. It makes you want to peel yourself open and step out of your skin so that you may subject it to a vigorous washing. It makes you despise the scent of flowers. It makes you fear the sound of the bell as it tolls unfailingly every single day. It makes you wish you’d never opened your mouth to respond to his words all those weeks ago.

Tears slip from your lash line. “Stop… Please stop…”

“Perhaps this is that same story made modern. Perhaps you were sculpted specially for me and I for you.” A third finger joins the other two working you open. Paper-pale skin is coated in brilliant vermillion, the very color of ardent desire. “Perhaps we are destined to fall together, born anew in someplace purer…”

The slow, steady drag of his fingers is more tempting than the ripe redness between your thighs, and you force yourself to gaze sidelong at the soup sitting abandoned on his desk. He plucks at each of your tangled, dewy strings, unraveling them with graceful strokes, and you’re pulled along on the blissfully uncomfortable current, treading between someplace grounded in reality and fantasy.

From above, at the bird’s eye view, you have become a garden for Rollo’s twisted whimsy.

You return to yourself when he eases his fingers out, stalling for a silent beat, before he thrusts them back in in one fluid motion. It punches the air from your lungs, has you throwing your head back with a weepy howl. He watches this with fierce scrutiny, curious at a clinical level.

“You’re beautiful,” he admits, spreading his fingers inside you. “My world. My panacea. My angel.”

“No… No, no.” You sob, your chest heaving with every wail. You can smell yourself on the air, the sharp scents of iron and sweat. Your pussy weeps blood, devastated at the hands of a monster, and yet it can’t stop affixing itself to him. A mold meant to suit his design. “Please… Please take it out.”

A shadow of contemplation passes over Rollo’s flushed countenance and then he’s reaching over to dry your tears, dabbing at your face with his handkerchief. “You’re okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore, right?”

You shake your head in protest rather than respond, chewing your bottom lip to shreds. A feeble whine slips through and you arch into him when his thumb presses down into your clit and prods at your hood. It happens all too fast. You tighten and loosen all at once, your mouth dropping open and eyes rolling back. The sheets are soaked through and properly soiled now, but that fact doesn’t lessen the seismic ecstasy that drapes itself over you like a veil. Your vision whites out and you fall, fall, fall through the waning vestiges.

Your heart drops into your stomach at the realization.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“You’ve done well.” He slides his fingers out, and the gooey squelching wrings a shudder from you. This time he grants you one of his rare smiles—the authentic, sincere kind—while he presses the pads of his fingers to his upturned lips, dyeing himself in your essence. You blink through encroaching tears, an ocean that obscures your vision and fuzzies his figure.

His fingers dig into the plush pudge of your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles along your adductors. You open yourself again, involuntarily blossoming in this garden of iniquity.

“Good,” he praises again, whisper-soft. “You’re only permitted to be this way with me. Anyone else would simply tarnish your sweetness. They’d take advantage of your ability to cleanse even the foulest of filth. But I…”

Rollo, still clothed and now libidinous in his impatience, fumbles to pull himself free. His throbbing erection presses against your stomach, the final piece to force this puzzle to completion.

“I will always lay myself at your altar.”

You beg him not to, but every objection goes unheard. His hips connect with yours; he’s holding back, if only just barely, pressing onwards slowly, his breath coming in huffs and grunts. To savor it. To know the feeling firsthand and engrave it into his very being, from his fingers to his toes. To immerse himself in the red rain of a shackled angel.

To color a picturesque paradise in cardinal sin.

Just beyond the windows of Eden, swathed in midnight luminescence, a glorious city set aflame burns bright, overtaken by fiery flowers.

[emeryhall]

Thank you @run-for-chamo-miles for the tag!

In 2024, I posted 9 fics totaling 339,207 words, which is fucking batshit even if some of those words were written in 2023. My most popular fic in terms of kudos is arsonist Baz and firefighter Simon 🔥. But in terms of bookmarks, it's Blood Sugar Sex Moony (wolfstar), which includes my favorite bookmark ever ⬇️

Fics listed below the cut, plus a heartfelt PSA ❤️

January

Blood Sugar Sex Moony (wolfstar, E, 63.6K)

A vengeance-fueled, Buffy-inspired, 90s high school AU with a 17-person body count, featuring amazing art by @spikesteaseasalt.

A Little Bit Deadly (snowbaz, E, 48.9K)

New York City firefighter Simon Snow mistakenly downloads Grindr instead of Tinder and falls for British arsonist Baz Pitch. Featuring DEREK JETER and the most heart-warming art by @letraspal.

March

The Tale of a Magic-Sucking Hoover and a Rat-Drinking Monster (snowbaz, E, 38.7K)

Ghost mums, sentient buildings, and sex toys. Oh my!

June

Only Creatures (snowbaz, E, 88K)

Sad poet Baz Pitch and dragon camboy Simon Snow. Featuring Baz's beard, the hybrid-creatures camming site, OnlyCreatures, and a cameo by Taylor Swift, as well as absolutely gorgeous art by @artsyunderstudy.

October

Sidney Snow Grimm-Pitch (snowbaz, M, 43.7K)

My delightful collaboration with @artsyunderstudy, and a gift for @cutestkilla whose fic What's Left inspired this getting together later in life mpreg. Yes, mpreg.

whatever beats beneath (firstprince, E, 5.1K)

My foray into the RWRB fandom, when I thought I was writing an omarashi fic for a Kinktober prompt, but instead wrote an exploration of grief.

November

Pink Salt (Saltburn, E, 23.1K)

Sometimes the greatest love story is between an undead baker and the man who didn't realize he was a necromancer when he fucked his grave.

Bound Together in Five Dimensions (snowbaz, E, WIP, 4.7K and growing)

My CORB collab with @stardustasincocaine! I won't say anymore because we're posting the next chapter very, very soon 🩷

December

Out of the Game (firstprince, E, WIP, 23.9K and growing)

Another RWRB, this time scratching my itch to write in the detective/spy thriller genre. In the spirit of the Will Darling Adventures, and featuring truly inspired literary works by Henry, and an Alex who is perhaps not to be trusted. But then again, maybe Henry needs a little chaos in his life.

And finally, a PSA, written as much as a reminder to myself, as to anyone else who feels like their writing doesn't quite fit anywhere:

When I posted my first fanfic (wolfstar), no one read me. We’re talking like four kudos in a fandom where fics go viral. And at some point I thought, maybe I should attempt to write things that people actually want to read? 

I love writing deeply romantic stories, but I love stories like True Romance or The Shape of Water. Two people who are perfect for each other, but one is mute and the other is a fish god from Brazil. One stabs Tony Soprano in the foot with a corkscrew and the other communicates with an hallucination of Elvis. 

Finally, I found the Carry On fandom who enthusiastically embraced my Baz who excelled "at both deep-throating cock and scorching motherfuckers like a vengeance demon in floral Tom Ford." And then finally, finally, almost a year after it posted, people in the wolfstar fandom started reading Blood Sugar Sex Moony. Now, almost every day, I get kudos and (sometimes delightfully unhinged) comments on my wolfstar too. 

I don’t imagine I’ll ever be really, really popular, but I’ve found a group of readers — or they’ve found me — who appreciate the way my brain works, and little old high school me, who always believed that the best love stories are the strangest ones, knows that they are not alone. 

So my PSA to everyone out there who feels like Nora Ephron trapped in David Lynch trapped in Wes Craven — or whatever your unmarketable combo may be — keep on doing you. One day you will find your people 🩷

Also, thank you to everyone who read, kudos-ed, and commented on my fics, and a special shout out to all of the wonderful friends I've made in the Carry On fandom. Y'all have brightened my 2024.

And now, tags!

@bookish-bogwitch @monbons @roomwithanopenfire @fiend-for-culture @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

@thewholelemon @mooncello @iamamythologicalcreature @rimeswithpurple @orange-peony

@messofthejess @alexalexinii @best--dress @ileadacharmedlife @ic3que3n

@hushed-chorus @rbkzz @noblecorgi @facewithoutheart @larkral

@euripidestrousers @r33sespieces @artsyunderstudy @cutestkilla @letraspal

Plus anyone who wants to play. (I imagine this can be done for art too. Or dolls!)

[fossilknits]

YESSS IT WORKED

Beads

cross stitch progress!

just finished the last of the pink! all that's left now is the center of the flower, and the leaves and stem! 🌸

i'm gonna be trying something new and interesting in this next bit... i hope it works because i'm very excited to show it off

[georgiapeach30513]

With Your Touch, Part 4

Summary: Lloyd is losing all his control

Pairings: Lloyd Hansen X Reader

Rating: mature

Warnings:  explicit language, sexual content, voyeurism, female masturbation, daddy kink, Lloyd Hansen...18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4.5K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Watching.

Looking away, only to watch some more.

He couldn’t get out of his head. No, he couldn’t get specifically you and your siren fucking ways of out of his head. This isn’t even perverted, it’s downright creepy, and he still can’t look away from your sleeping body. You are a restless sleeper. But the plus side is in the couple of weeks that you have been here Lyla seemed content.

Before he felt the constant need to just watch his daughter sleep, and not on the monitor, but in her room. But now she wakes up twice a night, and rarely wakes up crying. Except in this moment he is watching you like he did his daughter. Temptress. And yet, you did nothing. Just sleep, and you still weave your alluring web around his entire thoughts.

He has been the idiot that just couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop staring, or even offering his services to you. And he would. He would make sure you slept soundly. It’s what you needed. You need to be fucked so hard that you don’t have a thought in your brain. No wonder you stayed in your pretty little head because you had a fucking moron for a boyfriend. Lloyd is sure that encounter has had you questioning everything he said, and who the fuck cared?

What Lloyd really wanted to do when he came home was squeeze The Verb’s head until his pea brain exploded. And no, he did not get turned on by the fact that you most likely had daddy issues. But you did. And you are an obedient one. You responded well with his requests.

Barely knew Lloyd and you followed his requests each time, and without hesitation. The need to praise you and tell you what a good girl you are bubbled up in his throat, and he knew it would have been a step too far. But you craved attention and adoration. Not in a bratty way, no. You behaved so well, and wanted recognition for that, and you deserved it.

But Lloyd is getting too close. Too far away still. God, he just wants to run his nose up your graceful neck as he inhales your sweet scent. What the fuck kind of perfume did you even wear? Slightly sweet, but more of a soft floral that is the most intoxicating thing he has ever smelled. Well…until the smallest bit of your slippery arousal wound up on his hand.

What a gift from whatever higher power there might be. But what a tragic moment that he walked away too quickly. He was afraid if you wiggled around too much after that spanking you would have felt the steel rod that had tented his pants. Walking to the bathroom was a difficult task. All he wanted to do was bend you over the couch while he stabbed into you.

Who is he becoming? A man that couldn’t control his urges, that’s who. The moment he got out of your eyesight he sucked every bit of your honey off his fingers. His eyes rolled into the back of his head at the delectable taste of you. And he had to waddle into the bathroom so he could take a shower, and fuck his fist. His fist that could never compare to the luscious tight heat between your legs.

The way he angrily jerked himself off with his head under the shower, grunting without a care in the world. He hoped you heard how frustrated he was. Hope you could hear he was a fucking fool for your body. And oddly enough, you. He had never been in such a close proximity to a woman without fucking her.

He pumped himself so hard it made him feel lightheaded, or maybe it was the thought of you being filled and completely stretched out with him. Your brows arched, while you whine at how much he fills you. Back arched, and body recoiling with every hard thrust into you. Begging for him to go harder, and he spanks you hard to appease your greedy cunt. That little yelp that releases from your throat has him barreling into you.

Mewls of pleasure building, and he just goes harder. You will love when he punishes you through pleasure alone. Crying and begging for more and more, and he’ll give you every bit of it. Every ounce of his fierce movements until you are nothing but a compliant sweet girl, and he’ll make sure to hold you, and lavish you with all the attention you deserve.

“Fuck,” he grunts out. Rolling his eyes to see the mess he made. Just thinking of you is driving him insane. He doesn’t think there has been a night since you’ve got here that he’s had to fuck his own hand. It was cruel when he knew just how wet your sloppy cunt gets.

Not wanting to miss too much of you sleeping, he reaches for a tissue to rid himself of his cum that should have been for you. Painted on your perfect tits, leaking out of your mouth, or the best, dripping out of that pretty pussy.

And then a glorious sight. You moan in your sleep, rolling over onto your back, and you pick up your phone. Placing it back down on your nightstand with a bit too much force before you lift out of the bed. Your arms cross over your chest as you rub over them nice and slow. “Ugh, why do I keep…” your words trail off and become thoughts, and it infuriates him.

“Keep what? What do you keep doing?” He whispers out into the night. Smiling when he sees you bite your lip before throwing your shirt off. “Now this I like,” he settles back into his bed, holding the phone, and he enjoys the moments of you playing with your tits. “I wouldn’t do it that way,” he adds.

He would start slow with soft kisses around your skin, just to watch your peaks get harder. Pebbling with his touch before giving each a quick nibble. Sinking his mouth over the hardened bud, and kitten licking it. Watching you get all heated and squirmy. Taking you to the edge slowly.

Lloyd is long past trying to hold it together when he is in his room. He is a deviant man, and you are a fuckable woman, and you are in his damn house. He is free to do whatever the fuck he wants. He is garbage and despicable, and Roman knew that when he sent you to Lloyd. So he was going to enjoy, “Holy shit.”

Lloyd’s eyes want to bug out of his head as you pull open a drawer, and pull out a pretty little toy. He wouldn’t dig through your drawers, but he needs to know if you have more than a silly little fucking, “Is that a damn penguin?”

He wants to laugh at the shape of your toy. You probably had more cutesy little play things in there. This is the best entertainment he has ever seen. You use your fingers to stimulate one nipple while the penguin’s mouth is on the other. Arching your back, and whimpering as your peaks stiffen. You are the epitome of perfection.

Heavy breathing as your chest heaves and you dip that silly penguin lower. Thank fuck you pull the blanket down, and he sees your pretty pussy spread all out, and he knows when he sees it close up it’ll still be a work of art. To just be face to face with your velvety petals makes him start to feel aroused again. Your eyes flutter closed as the toy attaches to your swollen clit, “Lloyd…”

“That’s my girl,” he croons. He knew it. He knew when you happened to look back up at him while he was spanking your ass that you felt it. He could tell in the way your pussy was throbbing on his leg. You want him to fuck you as much as he wants to. Nobody would have gotten that wet if they didn’t. You had practically dripped your juices on his leg. And that pout mixed how fucking dilated your pretty eyes were. Shamelessly he knew you wanted, and needed more than a spanking.

It’s a shame the first time he hears you mutter his name is because you’re playing with yourself, and he’s watching you like the fucking creep he is. Keeping the toy on your center your eyes open, and you give a frown, “Chase.”

“Not that fuckhead. Go back to my name. Please, sweet girl,” you look confused as you keep repeating that dumb name. You move that toy around your clit, one he assumes creates the feeling of sucking, but he can do better. Confliction is written all over your face.

“No, no, princess, you need to finish. You’ll make me want to go in there and bury my face in your cunt. Finish the job. Quit saying his name,” he’s ready to get on his knees and beg like a little pushover. He needs to see you come, preferably with —

“Lloyd,” your voice is a little questioning, but you start to relax again. Your body is rolling and moving. Creating the flow of having sex. Your tits are swaying up and down, and he needs to touch you. Needs to feel your soft skin under his calloused hands as he fucks you into oblivion. You are always in your head because of the fucking men in your life.

“Yeah. Right there, right there,” you whine, and his cock twitches. Why is your voice like a drug to his nether regions? Whining for his cock will get you everything, and it’ll get him fucking into your body harder.

“You’re a fun little one, aren’t ya?” He’s never seen something so beautiful in his life. The sounds coming off your lips is like a choir of angels, and he was the dark lord that just wants to see you fall into his depths of depravity. “Oh fuck,” if he was a more desperate man, he’d have his cock out while he fucked you at the same pace, but he’s trying to hold onto some dignity. There isn’t much left.

“Lloyd.”

“Yeah,” he moans right along with you. You are so pretty as you start to sail up into the heavens.

“Lloyd!”

“Go harder, princess.”

“Oh, fuck, daddy!” His eyes go wide, and he sits up in the bed, staring at your body as it gets right to the edge. “Daddy.”

“Fucking, minx,” Lloyd throws his legs over the bed, and tiptoes down the hall. He needs to hear this in person. Speaking to you through his mind because he didn’t want to be caught. There is nothing he wants more than to hear you come with his name or daddy on your lips.

“Daddy, fuck me harder,” didn’t have daddy issues. You are swimming in daddy issues. He could take care of you. He would give you all the attention that your father never did, and he’d rub it in Roman’s face. Let him know that you were now his good girl. And you did everything he asked. Even taking his cock just like the perfect whore you are.

“I won’t misbehave again,” such a lie, you would, and he would be there to punish you. You love it. You got just as much out of Lloyd spanking you as he did. He saw your messy little hole. Too bad they need to be filled. What a waste to not have you coming over his cock.

“There. Right there. Oh my god! Yes, yeah, I’m coming. Lloyd! Ahh!” If whispered screams were a thing, you were doing them. You sucked at it because it wasn’t really whispering. And he wants to praise you for being such a vocal girl. Wants to tell you how proud he is that you let him know when you are coming. Wants to wrap you in his arms as you fall asleep.

“Fuck,” you draw out as you lay in the bed panting. You’d never came so hard in your life. And you didn’t even use multiple forms of stimulation. “I’m fucked. I want to fuck my boss.”

And he wants to fuck you. If only you realized how much. If you knew, would it make a difference? Would he be doing you a disservice because he pulls you from an abusive relationship and into his life. A man that had too many enemies and the baggage of a little girl. One he was entirely responsible for.

As much as Lloyd wants to give into every one of his sick fantasies, he wants you to be okay. You to choose where you wanted to go in life. But you to admit you search for the comfort from dickheads. A pattern your fucking father started and he knows The Verb isn’t the first I believe you’ve been with. Call it a lucky guess.

But he could punish you in the way you desired. Because fucked up childhoods can mold your adult kinks. It was just way for you to work through the neglect. And if he had to guess each of your boyfriends just kept getting worse. You needed an asshole to take your father’s place. If it's an asshole you wanted, Lloyd could be your asshole.

You prance by Lloyd as he holds onto Lyla. Giving her a bright smile before you walk into the kitchen, and his daughter giggles, turning her head to follow your movements, “Holy,” Lyla looks back at her father, and he changes his word, “Sugar. What am I going to do with your Dolly?”

The way your skirt flows against your soft skin, and accentuates your curves gives him the need to bite his fist. Seeing you like this is making it impossible for him to not think of pulling you onto his lap, and spanking you for making him feel this uncontrollable. Punishing you before he fucks you so hard you quit trying to tempt him. And then he realizes that the way you look is his problem and not yours. But fuck if he didn’t want to destroy you.

“Lloyd?” Every time you say his name now he hears the desperate pleas of needing release from last night. It’s not going to be easy for him to control himself, but thankfully he has a baby girl that’s blowing bubbles at you to distract him. “Lloyd, I’d like to request an outing.”

“That is very formal,” it was a good thing, he supposes. Fuck, you looked good enough to eat. Let him plant his face right at your split while he sucks the life out of you one orgasm at a time.

“Yeah, well,” you swish your weight from foot to foot. Your thighs rub together, and he hopes that you’re just as sexually frustrated as him. Hoping that you were having filthy thoughts of him railing into you like he was. Hopes that you’re being tortured just the same as him. And you didn’t even know he pretended his fist was your pussy multiple times a day. “I’d like to take her to a museum.”

“Which one?” He asks with a smirk. Yeah, he’s making you uncomfortable as your arms try to figure out if they want to hang or cover your chest. Keep covering your chest. He likes the way your tits look.

“I don’t know.”

“No.”

“But Lloyd? Lyla Bee would love it.”

“Which one?” You stand there shell shocked, not really knowing. You were going to do some research during her morning nap. You seriously didn’t think this through, and you run through the options of nearby museums. “I have a better idea for you?”

“Oh yeah?” My god, your smile lights up a room. He’s already figured out how to make you respond positively. You just need a bit of coaxing. Skipping over to the seat beside him puts you way too close to him for whatever transpired last night, and he gawks at you. Unable to focus on anything but you making your own body rock in the bed instead of his thrusts.

You didn’t even pay him any mind. Instead you lean over to smile at Lyla whose slobber starts dripping out of her mouth as she smiles back. “What do you think daddy has planned for us?” He seriously wonders if you knew. If you had any clue what you were doing. “So what are you thinking?”

“This,” he slides over a pamphlet towards you, and you don’t even open it. Just look at the cover, and the way your face goes through so many motions in such a short amount of time is fascinating. “Is something wrong?”

“It says mommy and me.”

“It should honestly say nanny and me. Most of those people there are not the babies’ moms anyways. I signed you and Lyla up. You can take her every Tuesday and Thursday at one. Just in time for her to have been up from nap, and ready to go. It’s within walking distance, so you can take her pram. See, I’ve thought of everything.”

He had thought of everything. And while you are excited about getting out, and showing off what a cute baby you had, well he had, and you were nannying. But there’s something bothering you. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. I’ll take her.”

“No, we don’t do that here. You are bothered or worried about something, so what is it?” You shake your head no because you know you’re being silly, but the more you think about it, it doesn’t feel silly. “Dolly, it would be best for you if you told me what’s bothering me.”

“Are you going to spank me again?” He smirks, and you quickly turn your face the other way. That movement was too quick, and you didn’t think you would get caught. Embarrassment is palpable. It almost feels elementary when a crush catches you watching them.

“Is that what you would like?” Your mouth falls open, and you stare at him. Cemented to the ground because he is absurd. “Please, close your mouth, or I can find something to put in it.”

As fast as you close your mouth, Lloyd has already cursed himself ten times. He didn’t have to make a comment like that, but it’s out there now, and he hates the questions he sees running through your mind. It’s like a projector of your thoughts is coursing through his own, but he can’t take it back.

“I apologize for the incident last night.”

“You spanked my bare ass. My — pussy was right there.”

“Oh, I was very much aware, princess. I could feel it throbbing on my leg, and felt the drip of your slick on my pants. Judging by your body’s reaction you really liked it, so please don’t play your games with me,” he needs to get laid. Maybe thinking about anyone but the way you would look on your knees as he paints your lips with his precum would help. “I said I apologize. And I was trying to save you from your embarrassment.”

“It was humiliating!”

“And that adds to it. I mean what I say, and I say what I mean. You were out of your bedroom with no panties on. But we’re getting off track. Is this a ploy to avoid my question of what it is that’s bothering you or do you want to have a conversation of how we can make the spankings a normal occasion?” Lyla blabbers between the two of you. Carrying on an adult conversation and thankfully she didn’t understand any of it. “So what do you want to do? I am here to listen, what is bothering you?”

You can’t say that Lloyd hasn’t been listening to you. In fact he paid more attention to you than most people in your life. “It’s silly.”

“I’m sure it’s not if you’re avoiding it so bad.”

“I’m not her mom, and — I was raised by someone else, too, and I’m a basket case,” sweet girl. You and Lyla are similar enough, but very different in ways.

“Can I be honest?” He couldn’t entirely be honest with you. What was he supposed to say, ‘I rubbed one out while I listened to you say my name as you came so hard. Would you like a dick to come on?’

You nod your head, willing this conversation over, and this morning. “Lyla doesn’t have a mother. Her rights will be terminated as soon as possible. You had a mother, you had a nanny. Lyla has you, and she has me. I suppose it’s easier sometimes to raise a child than to just take care of one. And I am entrusting you to raise her. I won’t have women or men in and out of her life, she needs stability, and there’s very few things I can keep stable. But who I have taking care of and raising her is one of them, and for better or worse, I chose you.”

The conflict on your face tells him he said something wrong, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Just how much did your family damage your ability to judge a good thing? You seem scared of a commitment, and yet want it. “Dolly, I know things have been a bit tense, right?”

“Yeah,” you giggle. Your glassy eyes glance at him, and you see right through him. Staring into his soul. You want him to show you the way. Guide you. And he will do that, with pleasure. He’ll make sure no one takes advantage of you or hurts you again. Not even him.

“I want this to work,” sure, choose his words carefully. Maybe it could mean more than just you being the au pair. It could mean something more. Words can be tricky. He loves when his words can have two meanings, and it leaves you wondering exactly which way he means. Both. He wants you to be the au pair to Dolly, and to him — he’s almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.

“We need an open dialogue. Do you think you’re feeling this way because you see already what a child that you didn’t birth is meaning to you, and…”

“My own blood didn’t love me the way that I love her,” loving a child is easy and simple. Developing that utmost devotion to a child and knowing you would take your last breath if it meant saving them. That is how Lyla made you feel. You wanted to protect her from the people of this world and love her in ways that nobody loved you.

The baby had more than enough, but what all children want is love. Things get old, they break, the batteries go bad, they get lost. But love is something you can feel forever. You see it, you know it, and it encompasses every part of you. Things you grow tired of. You were a thing to them, your parents. Growing tired of you on a regular basis. Bringing you out to play dress up with when they needed to look good.

A pretty and obedient little doll. Lloyd didn’t realize just how fitting Dolly was, because that’s exactly how your parents made you feel.

“I um — mmm, I’m not your — father, but I promise I won’t ignore you. It’s,” fuck he didn’t know what to say. He just wants you to hold his daughter who was giggling and jabbering away, thinking she is part of the conversation, while he holds you. You need to be held. You didn’t get held enough, and it’s showing. But this is a situation he doesn’t want to make uncomfortable and push in a possible sexual innuendo.

This moment is too tender for Lloyd’s typical self. He needs to go into ‘Daddy’ mode, and protect you. Comfort you, something the men in your life have failed to do. But the way he wants to be that source of escape for you hurts him.

“I want things to be good here. And…things are getting harder for me,” fuck he didn’t mean to say that.

“Harder?” Thank the fuck you didn’t feel his actual hard on. “Like at work?”

“Yes, exactly. Harder at work.”

“What’s going on at work?”

“I don’t talk about work. It’s just getting hard. If I become scarce, I don’t mean it,” that’s what your father used to say. Work is such a likely excuse. “I keep things from you to protect you,” and because you probably would think he was a fucking weirdo for having his head pressed against your door last night listening to you release whimpering his name.

“I have a short temper,” this is sounding like a grocery list of his own issues. “And I have a…”

“Tendency to be possessive,” you could say that. That makes it sound easy. He was a spoiled brat. His parents gave him everything he wanted. Made him dress up to parties where everyone catered to his every whim. Everything was always Lloyd Hansen’s. A terror.

“What gave you that impression?”

“The way you are with ‘The Verb’. I’m allowed to date, you know?”

“Yep, and you still choose assholes,” your major flaw was choosing the wrong assholes. He was the right asshole because he would know when to cut it off. He didn’t want to be an asshole to hurt you, lowering your self esteem so he can control you. No, his type of assholery was you are his. And his to take care of.

“Are you suggesting you would be any better?” You’re playing his game. He sees that small lift of your lip. He didn’t say anything about himself. Just that one ingrown toenail that you called a boyfriend. “Hmm?” brat. He would be perfect for you.

“I never mentioned myself.”

“So just spanking me is enough?” Bitch. You really were trying to twist his words to get answers. He likes you even more. “That was a threat you gave me the first night. Awfully forward for a new employee.”

“You do have a perfect ass with no panties on, it’s what you deserve,” he gives you a wink, grinning himself. “I think it’s time that you and miss Lyla get some tummy time. I’ll see you this evening. I’m having food delivered. All you have to do is set the table, Dolly. Have a good day my darling,” he totally means the baby, but he looks at you quickly. Giving Lyla a big kiss before handing her over to you. You stare right back at Lyla. He hopes your panties are already soaked, seeing how his cock was half mast itself. You are trouble.

A woman that could keep up with Lloyd is terrifying. But he loves a challenge. If only he didn’t have to tell his dick to stay limp and quit getting excited. His arm is tired. And you would feel better than his hand ever could.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @pono-pura-vida @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @pandaxnienke @theinheriteddutchess @rainydayandmondays @buckybarnesisdaddy @patzammit @xoxo-ls @rebeccapineapple @slutforchrisjamalevans @marvel-wifey-86 @jesevans @ughdontbeboring @infantasywonderland @vampy-doll @i-like-to-read-13 @missacidburn928 @charmed-asylum @superflannel @hisredheadedgoddess28 @lostinspace33 @abbyyourlocalmilf @saranghaey @rogersbarber