#He'd probably be quite manipulative about it too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 9 months ago

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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.

This is, and always has been, about yearning.

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either.

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.

The rest, though? Spare parts.

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.

It's why he isn't married.

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.

But the real reason is because he knows better.

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you?

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.

He let it. Encouraged it.

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you?

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.

The little seed that started germinating blooms.

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”

You smell it, and shiver.

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.

And so, of course he does.

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him.

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.

Seven pills in a row.

He files it away, lost in thought.

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.

That, too, he files away.

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.

That's all for him.

(Nasty old bastard.)

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.

And that simply won't do.

So, he plots. Plans.

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.”

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“Could stop taking it.”

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang.

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.

He decides on a different route to the same end.

Damnation at your own hand.

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.

The push-pull of this little game stretches on.

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.

John notes it down. Tucks it away.

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”

It's a tease. A test.

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.

This will be your cacoëthes.

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb.

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.

He can't wait to ruin it.

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.

He tastes salt and sin on your skin.

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.

Like this, though—you melt.

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does.

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?

He just needs to wait things out.

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.

His bones ache for it.

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet.

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him.

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.

—a pregnancy test.

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.

A pregnancy test.

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?”

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”

Lucky him, indeed.

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?

Oh, fuck—

You better not be.

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.

This is happening, then.

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place.

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.

Until it becomes too much.

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.”

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill.

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

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koipaper · 8 months ago

Text

YANDERE ABBIE CONCEPT (OLD)

Pairings: Yandere! Abbie x Beloved (Yours/Your/Yourself)

Fandom: Fundamental Paper Education

Trigger warnings: Yandere behavior, Paranoia, Overthinking, Obsessive behavior, Worshipping, an OOC headcanon near the end, Manipulation, Guilt tripping, Probably OOC in general hhghd.

A/N: Despite being alive for only a few seconds, Abbie has become one of my favorite characters from Fundamental Paper Education.

‣ Stated in the introduction, Abbie is shown to be timid and the least intelligent in the class, as well as easily frightened in the animation as well. Him being a yandere is rather tame then most others.

‣ You're a student that had enrolled not long before Claire shows up, you never really noticed Abbie until you were paired with him for a partner project. Abbie was stressed and paranoid, what if he annoyed you with always asking for help? What if you just let him fail his part and he dies just like the other students here?? Oh gosh, he was terrified.

‣ The project was a take at home project, so you both agreed to exchange numbers and meet up at your house to get it done in time. Abbie arrived not a minute late, hands shaking like a leaf from his overthinking on the way there. You both greeted each other and sat down on the pillows you set up above the carpet so you both don't get sore. Abble couldn't stop worrying though. Almost everyone who has tried to help him has given up and left, what if your no different? However, to his surprise, you were very patient with him and even offered to work on the things he didn't understand.

‣ The rest of the night was fun, you both got to know each other a bit and you managed to finish the project within two hours. Abbie had told you that he wasn't smartest in the class, how usually his friend Engal would attempt to aid him but would fail because he was just too dumb to understand. So, you decided to help Abbie pass all of his assignments by doing it for him to save him from trouble. You already had his number, so you could just send him the answers before anything major like a test so he could write it down and pass. ‣ He agreed, and from then on, you both became best buddies! If only you knew that your little act of kindness caused an obsession to brew from the young man... ‣ How I write Abbie, his yandere traits would be Obsessive, Pathetic, Worshipping, Harmless, Dependent, Anxious, Clingy, and Tame. ‣ He sees you as a angel that was sent by heaven to aid him during his time at this wretched school, there was no denying it. He often praises you for how smart you are, as well as how kind and patient you are with him. He wants it all to himself... No one but him should be gazed apon with those loving eyes but him. You don't want him to feel like your abandoning him do you? ‣ Seen in official art, he was holding what seemed to be a love letter while Lana was pulling on his cheek teasingly. So maybe he writes love letters that he might one day send to his beloved to confess. These letters are his way to vent his feelings about you, since he gets too anxious to ever give them to you. ‣ SPEAKING OF ANXIOUS, I feel like Abbie would be in a constant state of paranoia that eventually you'll get fed up of helping him with his work. He'll die without your help! You don't want him falling to the hands of Miss Circle, do you?! Don't leave him, please! ‣ Abbie is quite obsessive when it comes to his crush on his beloved, he fantasizes about you, being in your arms, being able to kiss you, calling you his, he cannot wait! However, this is why he writes in a diary to prevent him from confessing too early. He'd die if you found out about his crush on you. ‣ Lana is no help either. If anything she more or so encourages Abbies crush on you (of course, she hasn't seen what lies beneath his lovey-dovey rambles about you, so she assumes that her best friend is just experiencing a normal crush.) If you ever come to her about Abbies strange behavior, She would shrug it off, saying that maybe he's just trying to show how appreciative he is that you stuck around. ‣ A bit OOC here (or just a personal headcanon of mine), Abbie's rather touchstarved, so affection by you feels like a high to him. Just a simple hug? He melts into your embrace. A small peck on the cheek? He's turning into putty as we speak. Holding his hand in the halls so you can get through a tough crowd? His face is flushing at the feeling. Even if the gesture is small, it fuels his obsession like wood to a fire place. He takes whatever he can get although, so there's that... ‣ Although, secrets can't stay secrets forever. You were invited to Abbies house to do another project just like when you first met. And you got curious and began snooping around his room when he went to get a drink for the both of you. Inside a drawer, you find a book labeled "DIARY: PLEASE KEEP OUT". You thought that maybe a itty bitty peak wouldn't hurt anybody, so you decided to read. ‣ Inside the first few pages were filled with words beyond words about you, mostly his thoughts about you. It was cute at first... until it started getting creepy.. The pages would be just word after word about how much he fantasized about you, how he felt every time he felt you were getting tired of him, and how he couldn't live long without you in his life before Miss Circle or any other of the teachers would kill him. He needed you, he wanted you, he would do anything just for you to be his. ‣ Before you could even react, a hand slammed the book shut causing you to yelp in surprise. Abbie stood before you, water in one hand and the diary in the other. His face was hard to read.

‣ His eyes were shaped like pinpricks, and tears were formed in his eyes, on the brink of spilling if you even dared to run. (His face is a ref to this.)

‣ "You didn't... You didn't see much, did you..?" He asked, his voice cracking and ready to break. Surly you didn't see much right?

‣ He hopes you didn't.

‣ He prays you didn't

‣ After all, he doesn't want to lose the only one who was patient enough to stick by him and his lack of intelligence. He NEEDS you to stay.

‣ He'll die without you, remember?

#yandere #yandere blog #fundamental paper education #fpe #abbie x reader #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere x reader #fundamental paper education x reader #yandere fundamental paper education

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mypoisonedvine · 1 year ago

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now here’s a thought: jonathan crane being seduced by one of his patients

I WAS SERIOUSLY THINKING ABOUT THIS LIKE A JOKER/HARLEY QUINN MOMENT!! aaaand that's how it turned into basically a whole ass oneshot, oops

hook, line, and sinker - 1.6k words

warnings: manipulation, sexual themes/groping (18+ only please), fluff but with a dark-ish twist

"Sometimes I think you're the only one who understands me," you admitted shyly, biting your lip and looking down at the tile floor beneath you.

He leaned in a little closer, resting his arms on the table between you. "You know," he replied, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it though not quite a whisper yet, "sometimes I feel the same way."

You smiled as you looked up at him again, finding a new brightness in his eyes. "Really?" you beamed.

"Yeah," he agreed, laughing, "I really enjoy our little talks. I mean, sometimes I can't believe I'm getting paid to see you."

Giggling a little, you remembered the first time he let his guard down with you, just a bit; for weeks he'd easily dodged any personal questions, clearly knowing it was a slippery slope to countertransference and an inappropriate relationship. Unfortunately for him and everyone who had insisted that Arkham was the only facility you'd never be able to escape from, you knew from the beginning that you could use him.

You could smell it on him: that deep, overwhelming loneliness. You were far too familiar with it yourself to miss it in someone else. Sure, he kept it hidden under layer after layer of intelligence, professionalism, faked normalcy-- but it was there, and it was calling out for someone else to truly see him. You saw him from the second he walked in that armored door, back when they still kept you in the jacket; now, months later, you'd convinced him you weren't a threat and that he was the one in control of these sessions.

The other facilities, with their inspiration murals and their bean bag chairs, they were a breeze to break out of. You knew that Arkham Supermax was going to be an entirely new challenge, but you'd been preparing since the beginning. Each week with Dr. Crane, you got him to be a little naughtier for you-- first it was as simple as convincing him to let your sessions go long, leaving everyone else waiting as you poured your soul out for an extra half hour. Convincing him that you needed him, that only he could help you. Then it was the praise-- you're changing my life, I've had so many shrinks and you're the first that really listened, you're so incredible-- all that shit he'd probably been craving since his daddy didn't hug him enough or something.

Once you'd given him some compliments, he returned one to you: you made up some sob story about your low self-esteem just to get him to admit that you were attractive, and you took the compliment with a coy little thank you, Dr. Crane... that's high praise coming from you.

Then it was contraband, just little stuff. He snagged you an extra serving of dessert on your birthday; he brought you a copy of your favorite book, as a reward for increasingly good behavior. Sometimes you thought about just asking him straight-up for a metal file or few paperclips, but that would be risky-- you could throw away all your work if you jumped the gun too soon.

Then there was the journal... you knew, no matter how much he swore he wouldn't, that he was going to read that fucking journal. You couldn't be sure if that was always the plan, or if it was just a temptation he would eventually surrender to, but you wrote all these fucked up little fantasies in that journal and imagined how he'd have to loosen his tie when he read them.

Back in January: Dr. Crane keeps asking about my nightmares, I couldn't possibly admit that I've started having sexual dreams about him...

And then there was the entry from March: I didn't mean to upset him yesterday but he snapped at me when I was talking about my anger-- he said I wasn't taking accountability-- and when he got stern with me I felt myself getting wet, is that bad?

And the best one yet, just a few days ago: Dear diary, I swore I wouldn't tell anyone what he told me, so I won't even tell you-- but I'll just say that when Jonathan showed me his mask, I fell totally in love with him. People are always hiding who they really are, but he knows me, and now I know him, too. I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. I know we're meant for each other.

Your heart was racing as you realized it might all pay off tonight. Listening to his rambling rants about fear and society and humanity, journaling about your 'crush' like a schoolgirl, making doe-eyes at him during sessions-- it was all about to happen, you had him in your pocket.

"Sometimes, I..." he began again, looking down at your hands shackled to the table, "I think about seeing you more. When I'm not even here, I mean..."

You pretended to be surprised by that. "Really? I mean... do you think about just talking to me, or...?"

He smiled a little, his face turning a bit pinker. "Do you think about us doing more than just talking?" he turned the question on you instead.

"Doctor, I--"

"Jonathan."

You had to fight off a smirk; you reached forward across the table, jingling the chains that held you down, but they were just long enough to reach to his hands. You gently brushed your fingers over his, hearing him sigh as he opened his hand for you to place your hand in. You ran your middle finger delicately in a line along his palm, and he shuddered a bit. Hook, line, and sinker. "Jonathan," you started again in a low purr, "I think about so much more than talking."

"Do you ever think about... about if we could be together...?" he pressed, closing his grip to hold your hand. After this long of a seduction, you couldn't deny that touching him in such an innocuous way was getting you a little hot. Just because you were manipulating him didn't mean you were completely faking an attraction, he was sexy-- and gullible. You liked that in a man.

Trying to look conflicted, you glanced away. "I try not to imagine that," you explained, "it's... it's not possible, with me in here. I'm fine with this, if this is all I can get-- seeing you three times a week for our sessions, telling you things I never thought I'd tell anyone. I can be okay with that. Just knowing you feel even a fraction of what I do is like-- it's like-- I don't even know how to describe it. It's amazing."

Leaning in even more, he reached up and held your face-- tenderly, reverently-- and you shut your eyes as you leaned into his touch. "I wish I was as unselfish as you," he replied, "but I need more-- I need to really be with you."

You brought your hand up to hold his, jerking the chain a bit. "I need-- I need you, too," you mumbled. "Please, Jonathan," you begged in a whisper as you opened your eyes to meet his wanting gaze, "I wanna be yours."

He sat up and leaned over the table in a split second, kissing you hard; you had to tilt your head back to accommodate the height difference as you were still sitting, and it made it even easier for him to hold your head like they used to in those old Hollywood movies-- the ones they showed here on Thursday nights, but you weren't allowed to go because you 'didn't integrate well with the general population' or whatever.

As he kissed you, hungry but relatively reserved, it was you that took it further: carefully running your tongue over his lips, opening your mouth for him to claim, having to hold back a grin when he moaned softly against you. "Touch me," you begged him in a rare moment of reprieve from the kiss, "please-- I've wanted you to for so long--"

He groaned a little as his hand slid down to your chest, opening one button of your uniform jumpsuit; he kissed your neck as he dipped his hand inside, groping your chest underneath the fabric. Your hips naturally rocked forward in the metal chair, your deprived body desperate to be filled after almost a year of forced celibacy in this prison. "Fuck," he mumbled against your skin, tweaking a nipple between his fingers, "you know we can't-- not here--"

"I know," you purred, only barely able to reach his shoulder with your hands chained-- otherwise you'd be running your fingers through his hair, holding on to his neck, pulling him closer. "But I need you-- I don't think I've ever needed anything this much..."

He shook his head; "Me either," he admitted.

"I need to feel you inside me."

He growled, grip tightening on your breast, and you smiled proudly. "I can't just leave you here," he realized, like it was his idea. "We need to be together-- outside of this place."

"I'll go anywhere with you," you promised him.

Pulling back and looking into your eyes, he brought both his hands to your face, brushing your hair aside quickly. "If I do this for you... you have to promise me. You have to be mine."

"Can you really do that?" you wondered. "Get me out?"

"I'll find a way," he assured, "I'll do anything."

You smiled up at his determined expression, flashing your best big-wet-needy eyes at him. "Jonathan," you cooed, "I'm already yours."

#jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #jonathan crane smut #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader

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lookingformoondrop · 9 months ago

Note

Hi!! I love your writing and hope you’re doing great. May I request a break up scenario with yandere!Andrew?

Yandere!Andrew Graves x Reader

TW: Dark material, mentions of a unalived person, manipulation, andrew calls reader a dumb bunny, very toxic relationship, Andrew drags reader around by the hair (weeee), captivity/kidnapping if you squint? Angst, very very depressing, it's been a while, so this is probably OOC ;-;

♡ Notes: GUESS WHOSE BACK! yes, I admit I was gone for quite a while, but with the progress reports of chapter 3 coming around, I figure now is my time to rise again. After I wrote all of this, I realized I might have made this a little too dark... My next work will likely be a fluff. Sorry Anon! Thank you so much for supporting, and I hope I can continue writing pieces for y'all~ ♡

Tik

Tok

Tik

Tok

Tik

Tok

The clock on your wall ticked closer to 7 o'clock. Every sound in the room was silenced by the deafening sound of it.

At the time, buying that clock seemed like a cute idea.

It was an old thing, two big clocks held together with beautiful dark wood. And a small circle shaped glass built underneath the two clocks meant for displaying a picture.

It was placed on your fireplace mantel, accompanied by other little trinkets.

You tried not to look at the mantel or the pictures that displayed happy memories, instead opting to glare at the hands ticking closer to your doom.

You didn't deserve to glance at these memories with what you were determined to do.

The room around was in shambles. Blankets and pillows were thrown around, cups and plates stuck to the tables around the couch after hours of neglect, and every picture frame in reach with the smiling face of Andrew Graves was put down.

At any moment, Andrew was going to come through that door and open his arms for you.

You bit your lip, already cringing at the bloody spots forming. You had to leave. There was no other choice.

After what you've seen, there's no possible way you could keep hugging and kissing him...

When you first moved in with Andrew, you found yourself to be the happiest ever.

Every day, you'd roll over to face an already awake and smiling Andy, who would kiss your nose and promise you coffee.

Every evening, you'd have a delicious dinner prepared by Andrew, who would make the atmosphere romantic with candles and rose petals, all leading to a delightful night of fornication...

Yes, at times, there were small cracks in the fantasy you two had made.

You still had to go to work, and you still had projects and deadlines that needed to be met. Not only this, but you still had co-workers you needed to work with.

You had made peace with this and was more than happy to fulfill your office work, but Andrew was not.

Now that you thought about it, many times a day, he would demand for your attention. He would go as far as calling your office and asking to see you. Lunch breaks would extend to lunch hours, and your sick and vacation days were used up in a matter of weeks (back to back).

And then you get home... if you had spent a work day completely ignoring Andrew, going as far as muting him, there'd be no telling what he'd do.

It began with silence, then one word answers, but if you even started getting angry at him for his horrible communication skills, he'd finally lash out.

" Just help me understand. Do you hate me? You're ignoring me all the time so that I can run back to you and beg you to pay attention to me. Why do you even stay with me, then? "

At first, you thought maybe he was just stressed out.

You had such a beautiful relationship, and Andrew was never big on talking about stupid things.

These things could all be avoided if you communicated with him more. If you were just healthy, then nothing would be toxic. You were the shitty one in this relationship, not him.

When you took the blame for all those things, his anger disappeared.

So your life would become peaceful again.

You never considered Andrew to be possessive. He was... overprotective. That's all. He was caring for you. It's not his fault that you're so sensitive,

And now you were giving all that up, and for what? Because every now and then he'll complain about the people in your life?...

because once he'll complain about them, they disappear from your life?

...because you found one of those people in the basement freezer?

The same freezer he made you promise to never go into?

Your eyes blink up at the ceiling, the tears that were dancing on your water line finally spilling over the edge.

Suddenly, the sound of the door cracking open made you quickly wipe at your tears.

"Bunny? I'm here, where are you?" Andrew called out from the hallway.

"...In here, Andrew." You answered, holding your hands in your lap.

"Andrew? What happened to Andy? What, did I do something wrong?" Andrew walked in, having already ditched his shoes and coat.

"Y/N? Hey... What's wrong?" Andrew power walked to you, avoiding the many pillows scattered across the floor.

He leaned down in front of your knees, grabbing your hands.

You gulped, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Andrew, we need to talk about something."

"Yeah...?"

"You... you have to promise not to get mad at me."

Andrew's face darkened, "...sure."

You bit your lip and finally looked up.

But Andrew was no longer looking at you, instead staring at all the picture frames that faced the ground.

You breathed in once. You had put this off for as long as possible.

"Andrew, i didn't call anyone yet, but you need to let me leave. I dont- no- I can't stay here anymore and I -"

"No."

You sputtered but couldn't get a good look at Andrew's expression as he stood up.

"You always get me worried over nothing," Andrew scratched the back of his neck, absently playing with his sweater tag.

You stood up,

"Andrew, this is important! I- I don't feel safe anymore, I don't feel safe with you! You've been keeping so much from me -"

Andrew scoffed at you, cutting your words short.

"You're acting wacky. Are you sure you didn't take anything before I came home?" Andrew finally looked at you with cautious eyes, "Look, Y/N, you're probably tired and need a break from your phone. Give it to me, and I can put this whole thing behind us."

Andrew lent his hand out, half expecting your hand and your phone.

But you shook your head.

"I know, Andrew. I know what you did."

Andrew raised a brow, "What I did...?" His hand was still outstretched.

"Last night I wanted to surprise you with some chicken soup, but I couldn't find the meat in our freezer, so... I went downstairs to the basement instead - "

Your eyes glanced at the clock again, it's happy picture becoming distorted the more you spoke outloud,

Andrew's eyes widened, and his hand dropped, "Y/N, you promised me you wouldn't go down there."

Your breathing became shaky, and your hand grabbed at the hem of your shirt,

"Andrew, you told me that all you had down there was some hunting meat. Y- You lied, not only lied, but you... You fucking killed someone! Oh god, Andrew, why did I find my boss and his DETACHED head in our basement freezer?!"

Andrew avoided your eyes, instead opting to run a hand down his face, sighing deeply into his palm.

When he didn't defend himself, your thoughts ran wilder, and the anger that you had locked away began bubbling to the surface.

This went far beyond control and possessiveness, Andrew murdered someone. Your Andrew, the same man you slept next to for years, murdered someone.

"How many years did I spend with a goddamn murderer? I had thought that- that maybe it was this crazy elaborate plot twist, that maybe you had a good reason to keep A PERSON in a freezer, but maybe I was living with a killer who I should have left a long time ago!-"

"Enough."

You had barely any time to process what he said before he grabbed your hair and began dragging you to the bedroom.

You tried twisting from his grip, dry sobs racking your body.

"Andrew, please stop! I'm - ow!- I'm sorry!"

"No, you're not. Everything I ever did was to protect you. Clearly, you've been thinking about this for awhile."

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, "and to think, I would've let you run around a little longer in the big world."

You continued sobbing, trying to grab at his hand. "Andrew, please!"

His hand pushed the door open, but right as he was about to enter, he stopped.

"Bunny", he crotched down to your level, his hand still grabbing your scalp, "do you love me?"

Your body shook involuntarily, your crying turning to hard hiccups. In your mind, all you wanted was to escape. To leave, to be embraced by someone who could protect you from this.

"P- Please Andrew, " you tried shaking your head despite the pressure, "s- stop, you're h-urting me."

Your chest heaved, your heart beating painfully against your chest.

Time moved slowly as Andrew searched your face, but slowly all the light he had in his eyes faded, and was replaced by a darkness that chilled your body.

"You didn't say yes." He clicked his tongue, "but that's okay, its only a matter of time."

Suddenly, he stood up and turned. Dragging you through the living room again, walking towards the basement door.

You screamed as you recognized the direction he was heading. You hit his hand, beating the grip he had on you.

Your eyes were wide and wild, trying to find some sort of escape, and your eyes landed on the clock.

Although you could no longer see the photo, you remembered the day Andrew brought it to you. He has promised to never leave you, and you promised to never leave him.

He asked you if you would love him if he was a monster.

You said, no.

All this time, you thought that Andrew would let you go. You would tell him you knew, he would turn himself in, and he'd let you go. Making all these years a bad nightmare. But the truth was, Andrew had long since known you would've found the body. The thought had crossed his mind, and he planned for the outcome even if he hoped youd be smart enough to never come to that.

When Andrew opened the basement door, he crotched down again and let go of your hair, instead moving you to his arms and holding you.

"Hey, I love you. You know that, right? I will never hurt you. Dont worry, you're going to be staying with me for a long time."

Andrew kissed your forehead, and began heading down the stairs.

Your eyes watched the door and the light that came from it as Andrew lead you further down the stairs.

Further away from the light, further away from freedom.

You cried into Andrew's shoulder, who patted your hair, until you could no longer see the light.

"You're never leaving me, my dumb little bunny."

Thank you for the ask! <3

#the coffin of andy and leyley #x reader #andrew graves #andy graves #y/n #andrew graves x reader #andy graves x reader #yandere andrew graves #yandere andrew graves x reader #angst #yandere #toxic relationship #manipulation #tw death #tw yandere #was supposed to be fluff #possesive love #possession #sorry this took so long

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chaeyoei · 3 months ago

Note

OH GOD!! I have an idea. (If you can) I wonder if the reader suffered from sexual abuse in his childhood (and you knows how a person suffers psychologically) so Blade and Aventurine tries to be kind to the reader.

I'll make this gender neutral since you're using 'his'. And feel free to point out the wrong things since I'm not educated on this matter. Thanks to this lovely person @yverre for helping me make this.

Sensitive content below.

Blade

Context: Reader knows Blade and the events transpired while he was away. The perpetrator is Reader's college friend/roommate.

• As silent as he is, he's very observant of a person's mannerisms. You practically avoid people, isolate yourself and become a shut in.

• He took it into consideration wondering what the was cause of this. It's unlikely of you to have a gloomy and anxious look on your face. He'd notice the small flinch and how you kept him at an arm's distance. Like all your trust in him just vanished.

• He'll keep an eye on you to see where your anxiety heightens. And he'd soon find the perpetrator but first, he needed you to explain the situation and confirm it before taking action.

• But gaining your trust seemed so.. hard. You didn't even respond to his attempts at conversation and mostly you rarely came out of your rabbit hole.

• Little by little, he started to linger around you. Making small attempts to get you to talk more which included taking you out for air, starting trivial conversations and so on. His efforts would bear fruit.

He was getting dressed when there was a knock on his door.

He opened the door to be greeted by you. "Ready to go?" You asked with a small smile, your grip tight on your bag handle.

• You were opening up little by little and he persisted in gaining your full trust and soon you told him about it.

"...I know it's not the right timing. But.. would you listen to me?" You asked trying to gauge the broody man's reaction.

"I'm all ears." He nodded.

"You know my college friend who's my roommate? Well he..." You paused. This was so sensitive to you. You fiddled with your clothes, trying to explain it properly. It was so hard.

_______

"And that took place.." You let out a shaky exhale, feeling something heavy had lifted off of your chest. "I'm still blame myself for not standing up."

"It's alright, it never was your fault." He was stuck with his words. He was not at all good at comforting.

• He might not be the ideal person for comfort but he was there to listen through your talk and help you get used to physical contact.

• He chose to ask if you were comfortable with him holding hands or basic physical contact at first. Consent comes first

"Do you think that would suit Sliver Wolf?" You gawked at the brooch that was incarved with the Minecraft logo.

"Knowing her, it probably will." He shared his opinion. His hand laced with yours, his thumb gliding over your wrist ensuring there was no intent of harm in his touch.

• As long as you're comfortable, he's happy.

Aventurine

Context: The perpetrator is Reader's partner.

• Aventurine had worked on a few mission with you. You were quite the sunshine. So he was caught in malestorm of thoughts when he saw the bright you look so dimmed.

• He had just arrived from Penacony. And both of you were placed together to complete a business transaction.

• As a slave and victim of abuse, he can easily catch the signs of it as well. Avoiding people, isolation, anxiety, distrust. He knew it all too well. But who could be the perpetrator?

• He used his manipulative tatics and some asking around to get clues and boy did he strike gold when he overhead two of the staff talking about you breaking your relationship with your partner.

• He connected the pieces rather quickly and he knew what he had to do.

• As a person, who's suffered sexual abuse to some context and abuse, he knows what to do and what to not.

• He took a slow process which included hanging around to chat with you occasionally, learn about your likings and taking you out to your favourite places in the name of 'missions'.

• Slowly but surely, you were opening up to him.

• And you later told him about it.

"Umm.." You paused not knowing where to finish. "..I still blame myself for not standing up."

"Don't blame yourself, Dove. It's not your fault. What's more is that you should be proud that you fought bravely and got the bastard where they belong."

• And his efforts were rewarded.

"Senior manager." You called out to him.

"You can call me Aventurine y'know?" He gaveout a smile.

"Um.. Aventurine. I brought this for you." You handed him a intricate gem case. "I know it's nowhere near to your luxuries but I still needed to give you something for helping me overcome this."

• He was more than jolly to keep his gemstone in a safe, portable yet beautiful gem case.

#hsr x reader #hsr x you #blade x reader #aventurine x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr aventurine #hsr blade

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anobsessedwriter · 3 months ago

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𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝑪𝒚𝒄𝒍𝒆ִֶָ࣪☾.

Rafe Cameron × reader (ANGST)

Warning: toxic relationships, manipulation, gaslight, just rafe being toxic.

๋࣭ ⭑✮˙⭑

˖⋆࿐໋

Rafe Cameron had a way of drawing people in with his magnetic charm and effortless charisma, not to mention his good looks. When you first met him at a summer party, the way he smiled and looked at you, made you feel like the most special person in the room. you were easily captivated by his charm.

In the early stages of your relationship, Rafe was the perfect boyfriend. He showered you with affection and gifts, constantly surprising you with dinners and weekend getaways. “You deserve the world,” he’d say, making you feel over the moon, These moments created a deep bond between the both of you, but they were also a smokescreen for the darker aspects of his personality.

As their relationship progressed, the cracks began to show. Rafe’s controlling tendencies started subtly. When you went out with friends, Rafe would text you frequently, questioning where you were and who you were with. “I just want to know you’re safe,” , "Can't you see that i'm worried",his frequent messages felt suffocating, as you couldn't enjoy a moment without him making you feel guilty for leaving him alone so you'd quickly return.

whenever you decide to attend a party with your friends, Rafe’s demeanor would immediately shift from affectionate to cold as soon as you mention your plans to him. he'd always say “Again with the parties?” or “I thought we had plans tonight.”, "they're more important than your own boyfriend?" you always try to explain that you need a bit of space, but Rafe’s disapproval was palpable. you were left with feeling guilty and ashamed for wanting to enjoy a night out.

During the next few months together, Rafe’s outbursts became more frequent and intense. He would criticize your appearance, and say things like “ why are you trying too hard” or "isnt that way too revealing?",One afternoon, as you were getting ready for a casual lunch date, Rafe snidely remarked, “Are you really going out in that? looking like a damn hooker.” The comment left you feeling self-conscious and hurt, despite your attempts to brush it off.

he'd constantly accuse you of cheating, whenever you don't text him instantly, when you don't pick up immediately or when you come home a bit late, he'd yell and break things, making you cry and flinch then he'd try to comfort you saying he's sorry and he just love you.

Rafe’s manipulation was psychological as much as emotional. When you tried to discuss your feelings, he would deflect or twist the conversation. “You’re too sensitive,” he’d say when you expressed how you felt by his actions and words. “I’m just being honest. If you can’t handle the truth, maybe this isn’t going to work.” you felt like you were walking on eggshells, afraid to express your emotions in for of making him upset or starting another argument.

The relationship became more toxic as Rafe started to slowly isolate you from your friends and family. Whenever you spent time with them, Rafe would accuse you of neglecting him. “You’re always with them,” “Don’t you care about us anymore?” The guilt he built in you led you to eventually distance yourself from those you loved, making you more reliant and dependent on Rafe.

you still remember the time when your friend kiara noticed the change in you, you never were this distant or this quite. When She talked to you about it,Rafe blew up with anger. “She’s just trying to control you,” “She is probably jealous of us, i dont want you talking to her okay?”, you just couldn't say no or disagree with him.

Rafe’s apologies were frequent trying to manipulate you into forgiving him, he would show up at your apartment with flowers and a box of your favourite chocolates. “I’m sorry for what happened,” ,“I love you more than anything. I’ll change, I promise.”

and if that doesn't work? he'll switch it up on you balming you for it all, "it's all your fault", "maybe this wouldn't happen if you just listened to me", you would forgive him, hoping that these sweet and caring gestures were a sign of change.

Despite these moments of sweetness, the cycle of toxicity continued. On one occasion, you discovered that Rafe had been secretly reading your messages, When you confronted him, Rafe’s reaction was defensive. “I just wanted to check, whats wron with reading my girlfriend's messges” he said. “why are you upset? are you hiding something?.”

The last straw was when Rafe had taken you to a dinner with his family and friends where he criticized you in front of everyone When you tried to defend yourself, Rafe would get angry “You’re embarrassing me you know?" , “Why can’t you just behave".

That night, as you laid in bed, you realized that the person you once were had been overshadowed by Rafe’s demands and criticisms. The realization was painful, but it needed to be acknowledged. you knew you needed to leave for your own well-being.

you got up and started packing things to leave. Rafe’s pleas for you were too hard for you to ignore. “im just trying to protect you,” he said, “We can work this out. I promise, I love you.” and you couldn't say no to him,you couldn't just ignore him and leave you were too far in love.

would he really change....probably not but you still had hope.

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kiwicopia · 11 months ago

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🔪🔪🔪for aizen

🔞 MDNI | Aizen x GN!Reader (HCs) 🔞

TW: Yandere themes, stalking, manipulation, blackmail, blood & gore, reader put into a dangerous situation, possessiveness & jealousy, bodily harm, reader is referred as Darling.

This man is already terrifying without the added obsession, but with it? He's quite possibly one of THE most dangerous people out there now. Unless you can catch the red flags early on to do something about it, which would be futile anyway, you will never know this man's obsession with you until it's too late.

Everything he does is now centered around you and how he'll eventually get you to be his. All of his plans involving you are methodical, and he sticks to each and every little step without ever straying away from it.

It starts out with stalking, which he's incredibly good at doing. Whether or not you're able to sense him won't matter due to the fact that's he's a master at concealing his spiritual pressure. Doing so allows him to watch your every move so that he knows what you like and dislike, who you're close with, who/what you care about the most, etc. It's all a part of him knowing what he can use against you, if necessary.

His obsession with you brings forth immense amounts of jealousy with him. Gods forbid you spend your time with anyone, let alone any man that isn't him. He's not above killing anyone, as it's part of his plan to try and isolate you so that he can have you, and it doesn't hurt him at all when you're suddenly upset about the sudden disappearance/death of a friend or family member. He'd honestly get jealous over a pet as well, but he probably wouldn't kill it and would most likely threaten to so that you fall in line.

Aizen is definitely not above putting you into dangerous situations so that he can come to your rescue. He'll purposely send low-ranked arrancars to attack you, and he'll watch for a minute or two before he comes to your aid. He can't let his Darling get hurt, can he? At least not too badly, that is.

He understands your fear for him, but he honestly doesn't care. What he doesn't understand is the fact that you're ungrateful for his assistance. Should he have just let you meet your death at the hands of his arrancars? Absolutely not. It's not a part of his plan, and neither was the entire act of you struggling to come to terms that you belong to him now. Can't you see that?

No matter, he has a few tricks up his sleeves. He's quite the master of manipulation, so that's his main tactic to use on you, however, if that doesn't work, then he can always blackmail you. "Darling," he coos, "you wouldn't want to see me angry, would you? You wouldn't want to see everything and everyone you care for to just disappear, right?" He says it in a way that makes you wonder if he's joking or not, but considering everything he's already done, you know he's not messing around.

If all else fails, then he won't hesitate to harm you. Obviously, he won't hurt you too badly. He can't do that to his sweet Darling. Maybe just breaking a leg or both of them. You can't move around with broken legs, can you? Don't worry, he'll take care of you. He's all you need, anyway.

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phoward89 · 6 months ago

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Masterlist

WARNING ⚠️: Coryo is his own warning in and of himself. Delusional!Coryo, Soft!Dark!Coryo, Soft!Dom!Coryo, Reader has some survival instincts, Reader knows keeping Coryo happy keeps her alive and well, cussing, possession, obsession, slight manipulation, smut, fingering- f receiving, p in v, creampie, breeding kink, praise kink, marriage, Sejanus thinks both Coryo & Reader are Delulu

Chapter 6:

Private Snow and Private Plinth were on factory watch duty this afternoon. They're stuck on the loom floor of the Peacekeepers’ Uniform Factory, standing guard to make sure that none of the sweatshop workers takes an early break, skips off before the end of shift, or to prevent any ruckus from starting and spreading. They both hated factory watch duty, but right now Coriolanus loathed it because he was stuck overlooking that ratty whore who thought that she could just swoop on in, after abandoning you to die, and steal you away from him.

Ugh, Ashlie. How he hated her.

Stupid district whore.

And then Coriolanus couldn't help, but, to find it ironic that he only now got assigned watch duty in the uniform factory that you were once employed at (he takes care of you now so you're never working in this shithole again). That all the other times he was on watch duty with Sejanus they were always assigned to one of the fabric factories or fashion warehouses on the other side of the district.

Sejanus noticed how his best friend and brother in arms seemed to be extremely happy today. He's never seen the stoic blonde so overjoyed before; it was, quite frankly, concerning him.

But before Sejanus could ask why his best friend's in such a good mood, the platinum blonde turned to him with a smile so wide that it was a bit frightening. Coryo's voice, that was usually so elongated, seemed to be a light and airy baritone as he announced, “Sejanus, I need you to come home with me tomorrow night. Y/N and I’s getting married in the District 8 traditional style and need you to perform the ceremony.”

“What?” Sejanus blinked in disbelief. Did he just hear what he thought he heard? Just to clear the air, he asked, “You and Y/N’s having a handfasting tomorrow night and want me to conduct it?”

“Is a handfasting what the marriage ceremony’s called here in 8?” Coriolanus asked instead of saying yes or no.

Clearly, the platinum blonde peacekeeper doesn't have a firm grip on life in the districts despite shacking up with a district girl. Oh boy, Sejanus doesn't want to deal with this right now. And isn't Coryo supposed to be the level headed one between them?

Oh, yea…

That's right, when it comes to pretty district girls and love, all logic goes out the window where Coriolanus is concerned. He makes brash decisions and thinks with his wrong head.

The teddy bear of a man, cursed to wear peacekeeper denim fatigues for the next 2 decades, nodded. “Yes, Coryo. That's what it's called.”

“Then yes, we're having a handfasting tomorrow night after work; I’ll be bringing you home with me to make sure it's legal.”

“Um…” Sejanus bit the inside of his cheek, trying to think of the right thing to say to his friend about his upcoming wedding. Something he thinks Coriolanus is going into too quickly and blindly. “Coryo, brother, I know you love your girl, but don't you think that maybe this handfasting’s a bit rushed?”

Coryo narrowed his icy eyes at his comrade, making them look like hardened steel. “No, I don't see how it's rushed, Sej.” Was the tall blonde's sharp reply.

“It's just, I dunno, Coryo-” Sejanus sighed, shaking his head. “Just that you two haven't really been together that long.”

“We live together, Sejanus. We've been together long enough to make that commitment; to get married too.”

If Sejanus only knew that Coriolanus' remark of long enough really meant since your whipping, well, he'd be stroking out and probably trying to get his bestie some mental help.

“Privates in the Peacekeepers aren't allowed to marry until their 20 years are up.” Sejanus pointed out as a last ditch effort to get his best friend to rethink or even cancel his handfasting.

Sejanus thinks Coryo's moving too fast with you. He's just trying to look out for his friend. Having a girlfriend’s one thing, but a wife's different. Divorce is outlawed and banned in the country of Panem; Coryo and you will be stuck together forever. Sej just doesn't want his friend to have regrets later on about a hasty marriage.

“Good thing I’m not staying Private Snow for long then, isn't it?” Coriolanus asked rhetorically, only to follow it up with a confident, “After taking that Elite Officer's Exam I estimate that I'll be shipped out for training right after the New Year.”

“You can still bring her with you, Officers can have their girlfriends with them.”

How dare that district Plinth dog tell him not to marry you? Who the hell does he think he is, telling Coryo to just keep living with you as his girl. Coryo promised to take care of you, to get you out of the districts, and above all he swore to marry you.

Coriolanus knows that he's a slithering snake tongued liar to people, but not to you. Your relationship is built on honesty, an integrity that he shares with you and only you. So, when he promises you something it's with the intention of fulfilling it. And he's going to fulfill his oath to marry you, no matter if he has to hogtie Sejanus and drag him home to your apartment to do it.

“I'm bringing her with me as my wife, Sej. So just shut up and come perform my district 8 ceremony tomorrow night.”

“Too bad we're not in 2. All you'd have to do is just exchange gold coins.” The broad Bones, dark haired peacekeeper half-chuckled.

Looks like he's stuck performing his best friend's handfasting tomorrow whether he wants to or not.

“So, you'll do it? Marry us?” Coryo asked, looking hopeful as the sound of looms being operated loudly sounded out in the air.

Against Sejanus' better judgement, he gave his friend a tentative smile and said, “Yes, Coryo, I'll do it.”

It was the least Sejanus could do. After all, Coryo stood by him during the 10th Hunger Games when he was doing some radical things that could've gotten him- them- killed. Coryo didn't agree with everything that Sej did, but he still stood by his side. They're best friends, brothers, and it's time for Sejanus to return the favor. He'll stand by the platinum peacekeeper’s side, as a brother should, even if he doesn't agree with him.

The food’s on the stove, done and waiting for Coryo to come home. You know that he's at the market, buying you some blue material to make your wedding dress with, so you're not concerned that he's not home at his usual time. Between work and the market, you imagine that his day’s a bit busy.

And you can always reheat the food real quick if it's cold when he does get home. You don't mind. You're just happy to have enough food in the house to be able to cook meals. Real meals, not some slop from stale oats or something.

You're grateful for Coryo and how he takes care of you despite the fact that he's the reason you still have at least a couple more weeks to heal from your whipping. At least a good thing came out of that bad, scary experience. You met Coryo and he, for some reason beyond your comprehension, decided to undertake your caretaking. He decided to make you his girl.

And tomorrow night he'll make you his wife.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open followed by heavy bootsteps entering the one-room apartment. You turn your attention from the book you're reading and onto the tall blonde that just walked thru the door. You smile, seeing that he has a paper bag in his hand.

You get up to greet him by the door as he closes it. “So, you got the blue material.” You state, not ask, as you reach his side.

“Yea.” Coryo nodded, handing you over the paper bag. “I also got us a long, thick red ribbon for the handfasting.” He added in, taking off his coat and hanging it up. “Sejanus says that the ceremony's called a handfasting-” Your fiance began, taking off his boots, only for you to interrupt him with a one word question.

“Red?” You ask with a quirked brow.

“It's my favorite color.” Coryo explained before gesturing to the bag and urging, “Open it, baby, and see what I got you for your dress.”

The platinum blonde wore a proud smile on his face as you obliged him. First, you took the red ribbon out of the bag. It was blood red.

Oh boy…

Still clutching the ribbon, you took out a few yards of folded up material. It was simple and made out of cotton, but the shade was beautiful. It was cerulean and it matches Coryo's icy eyes perfectly. It was literally the same shade of blue as his eyes. The material enchanted you in a way.

“Do you like it?” Coryo asked, placing a hand on your shoulder and tilting his head slightly.

He prayed that you liked it. Coryo felt that the other blue fabrics in the cheap market stall he went to were either too dark or drap for you. He wanted his wife to have the best. To have a beautiful blue fabric for her dress.

You only get married once; he thinks you deserve the best despite the ceremony being district.

Nodding, you weakly smile, “It matches your eyes.”

“Yea?” He lightly chuckles. Honestly, he didn't even notice that the material’s the same blue as his eyes. But now he knows it is; he assumes you like it too.

“Yea.” You confirm with a nod. “Putting the material and ribbon back into the bag, you give him a hug. “Thank you, I love it.” You smile into his chest.

All Coryo can do is wrap an arm around you and caress your hair softly with his long fingers. “I have my parents' wedding rings in my bag, would you mind exchanging them before our hand binding?” He asked, hopeful that you'd say yes.

Lifting your head up, your eyes met his cerulean blue ones, as you told him, “I'd be honored to wear your mother's ring, Coryo, but you're not an officer yet; you're not allowed to wear a ring.”

“I'll wear it around my chain with my dog tags til I pass my exam.”

“Okay.”

Threading his fingers into your hair, he sadly smiles, “I have a few family photos in my bag too. Perhaps we can put them up?”

“Of course, Coryo.” You smile, assuring him that you're fine with him decorating your meager one-room apartment with his family photos.

In fact you're more than fine with it. Him wanting to display his pictures of loved ones makes him human. Not just a mindless, Capitol born and bred peacekeeper that you're stuck with, but an actual human capable of feelings.

Capable of love, despite his condescending attitude at times.

You worked all day Thursday sewing a simple dress. You weren't a professional seamstress by any means, but you've been living in 8 long enough to pick up a thing or two. You could sew good enough to get by. You could also make simple patterns for simple dresses.

The only thing that was a pain in the ass was the fact that you had to sew your dress by hand. Thank the gods that Coryo had bought you light blue thread to match the material for your dress because the only blue thread you had in your sewing kit was navy.

Also, you noticed that your red thread was almost out, that it was wrapped thinly around the bobbin. You have an idea as to why it's nearly gone. You think that Coryo used it to stitch up the deep lacerations on your back.

He did tell you last night that red's his favorite color.

You spent practically all day huddled over your kitchen table, sewing your cerulean dress by hand. Since it was winter the sleeves were long and your skirt was knee length. It was a simple design, but when the dress was done you felt proud of it. You just hope that Coryo likes it.

You had enough scrap material left over to make a hairbow with. You decided that you're going to pull your hair back with a big, blue bow for your wedding. Yes, it's just going to be a very simple District 8 handfasting and reception dinner, but you still want to look pretty.

It's only natural. Every girl wants to look pretty on their wedding day.

So, after finishing both your dress and hair bow, you cook up a couple of dishes and bake an apple pie for dessert. You finished cooking with just enough time to get dressed before the groom and the best man arrive home.

You're standing in front of the family photos that Coryo set up on the bedside table last night. You can't help, but to think that he was a cute little boy with his curls as you stare at the family picture of him, his mom, and his dad. Coryo looks just like his father, General Crassus Snow, except that his father's eyes seemed cold and stern while Coryo's eyes were more mischievous. Or at least they were in your option.

His mother, Demeter, was very pretty. In the photo of Demeter holding a baby Coryo in a rose garden, you could see that he had inherited her smile. It was the only thing he inherited from her, looks wise. And in the picture his mother was wearing the orange scarf that he had given you. The scarf that matches your sweater perfectly.

There was a picture of his Grandma’am sitting regally amongst some roses and a picture of a young blonde girl that you knew had to be his cousin, Tigris. She definitely had the prominent Snow noses, but a tender softhearted smile.

After seeing a picture of Tigris, you're shocked that she lied to Coryo about something so important. You also feel bad for Grandma'am, she seems like such a high class lady and to lose everything and end up in hospice due to not having the will to love's horrible.

And on the table, in front of all the small framed photographs, was the wedding rings that belonged to Coryo's parents. One band was a simple gold one while the other was gold with a radiant square cut diamond. The diamond wasn't too big, but it wasn't too small either. It was just right and gave off a timeless, classic style.

“Baby, we're home.” You hear Coryo call out mixed with the sound of the door opening.

Sejanus followed his best friend into the apartment, secretly dreading having to marry you and Coryo. But he couldn't help, but smile whenever his friend gasped up on seeing you in your simple blue wedding dress and matching hair bow. It was clear to him that Coryo was in love just by how his face lit up at the sight of you.

“Darling, you look so beautiful.” Your soon to be husband declared while joining you by the bedside table.

“Thank you, honey.” You responded, feeling elated that he likes your outfit.

“Honey?” He asked, a brow raised in amusement.

“It just slipped out.” You sheepishly replied.

“It's fine; I'll let it slide, Mrs. Snow.” Coryo told you, his voice a slight bit husky, as he strokes your cheek softly with his calloused thumb.

Clearing his throat, because the sexual tension was so thick it could be cut with a butter knife and was making him feel uncomfortable, Sejanus asked, “Um, Coryo, do you want to start the ceremony?”

“Yea, just stand over there and we'll join you.” The platinum peacekeeper told his comrade, pointing to the spot he wanted him in.

Sejanus just nodded and went to stand where Coriolanus wanted him to. Coryo grabbed the rings and the red ribbon off the bedside table before escorting you over to Sej, the makeshift officiant for the wedding.

“We're going to exchange rings, like in the Capitol, then you can bind our hands.” Coryo told his dark haired friend while handing him over the ribbon for the hand binding.

Of course, Coriolanus Snow had to implement some kind of Capitol tradition in a district ceremony. Sejanus wouldn't expect anything less from his friend.

“Okay.” Nodded the aspiring medic with a heart of gold. Hey, what else was he supposed to do? If Coryo wanted to exchange rings then so be it.

Coryo handed you over his father's ring, now his, and kept his mother's ring, now yours. He just smiled and held the ring to your fingertip, causing you to do the same. Silently, you both slide the rings on each other's fingers before holding hands.

“I'm from District 2 and was raised in the Capitol for the past decade, so I'm not too well versed in handfasting.” Sejanus tells you while starting to wrap the long red ribbon around you and Coryo's entwined hands.

Looking over at Sejanus, you tell him, “I'm originally from 12, so all I know about this ceremony is what I've heard.”

“They do a toasting where she's from, but we don't have a fireplace so we had to settle with the handfasting.” Coryo added in, shrugging at his friend.

“Ah.” Sejanus slowly nodded as alarm bells went off in his head. Of course you're from 12. It seems like Coryo has a type and it's basically pretty girl from District 12. Now, he can't help, but worry that his platinum blonde friend is going full steam ahead with you so quickly because of your district of origin.

“You can exchange your words now.” Sejanus prompts, knowing that words are said in a handfasting once the ribbon is wrapped around the clasped hands of the couple.

“You first, Y/N.” Coryo smiles, only to quickly add in, “Women always say their vows first in the Capitol.”

Sejanus wanted to cringe. Coriolanus just has to bring up Capitol wedding traditions, again. For marrying a district girl he's really trying to incorporate as many Capitol things as he can. Or at least Sejanus thinks so.

It bothered Sejanus more than it did you. Coryo talking about Capitol wedding traditions. You didn't mind, he was from there after all.

“Okay.” You nodded before smiling and telling your husband a quote from the tragic Pre-Panem love story he's been reading to you- Wuthering Heights.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

You're bound to him forever now, so you decided to tell him a book quote to express that.

Coryo’a grin spread wide across his face. He looked a bit manic, a result of your words. Oh, how hearing you say that your souls are the same just made his heart burst.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

You're his now and will be forever. You're not just his wife, but his most treasured possession now. Being your husband, knowing that you're at his complete mercy, makes him feel all powerful.

Sejanus can't help, but feel like you're as delusional as Coriolanus right now after hearing the Emily Bronte quote you recited. Oh, Sejanus has read the book it's from and he thinks there's nothing romantic about the main and tragic relationship. God, he hopes your relationship with Coryo isn’t marked by tragedy, obsession, and extreme codependency like the haunting relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff was.

Coryo’s icy blue eyes are looking into yours intensely as he recites the standard Capitol vows of, “I promise to love and support you, to take you under my protection; to provide for the children that I will gift upon you. I promise to love you; to spend the rest of my days with you.”

You couldn't help, but swoon at the Capitol vows. To you, they sound so romantic.

But to Sejanus they sound like honeyed words used to shackle couples that grow old together in either indifference or hate.

“Well, that's it then. Coryo, Y/N, you're now married.” Sejanus announced before quickly unwrapping the ribbon from your hands.

Once your hands are free, Coryo grabs your face gently in his large hands and presses a sweet kiss to your lips to seal the marriage bond, like they do in the Capitol.

It's official, you're Mr. And Mrs. Snow now.

After the ceremony, Sejanus ate dinner with you and your new husband. Coryo even arranged for Sejanus to take you Christmas shopping on Monday while he's occupied taking his Elite Officer's Examine, which he's positive that he'll pass. The conversation during dinner was nice. You like Sejanus and you're glad that Coryo has him as a friend. He's a nice guy, very down to earth and friendly.

After dinner, Sejanus said his goodbyes to you and Coryo and left. Traditionally, the folks of District 8 stay for hours after the handfasting ceremony, but you reckon that Sejanus left after the pie was served because he needed to head back to base. Unlike your husband, Private Plinth actually sleeps in his bunk at the barracks.

You had already put up the leftovers and you're washing the last dish whenever Coryo comes up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist. His nose nuzzles your neck and he presses a kiss on the sweet spot below your ear. “I’m ready to fuck you, Mrs. Snow; make you mine in every sense of the word.”

“How’re we supposed to do that, Coryo? My back needs at least a couple more weeks to fully heal.” You ask, placing the dish onto the drying rack with the others.

“Snow lands on top.” He smirks into your neck. Turning you around after you unplugged the drain, he told you, “You'll have to ride my cock til your back’s healed.”

*Oh.” You squeaked, eyes slightly wide.

“Don't be nervous, baby. I'll guide you thru it.”

“Okay.” You simply nod, since you didn't really know what else to do.

You know that you're going to have to fuck him. It's a given now that you're married. You're honestly surprised that he didn't make you ride his cock earlier, before you even got married.

“I can always take you behind, doggy style too.” Your platinum blonde husband remarked, causing you to just nod.

Yea, there was that too. But then he'd be staring at your back. Your stitched up, scarred up back, during the do.

Yea…

You're not sure how you feel about that.

Caressing your cheek in his large calloused hand, he lightly smiled. “But I think for the first few times it'd be nice to look at each other's faces. Yea?”

“Yea.” You softly agree.

He presses a kiss full of heated want on your lips only to pull away and take your hand. “Come on, let's go to bed.” Coryo tells you while leading you over to your bed.

To the point of no return.

Coriolanus stops you right in front of the bed, only to cup your cheeks in his hands and bend his head down to kiss you with every fiber of his being. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in closer while syncing your lips with his; kissing him back with as much vigor as he's shown you.

Kissing Coryo was an experience in and of itself. His kisses could be chaste and innocent, but then they could be fiery and passionate: full of need and hot blooded desire.

The kisses you're sharing right now are the latter. They're passionate and fiery, full of an unquenchable desire. Coryo's mouth literally slots over yours, noses bumping together, as his tongue slips into your mouth with such urgency. An urgency that can only be attributed to desire and need. To passion and lust.

You let out a moan at the feeling of his tongue exploring your mouth. Your own tongue finds its way into his mouth, exotically dancing with his. Coryo's fingers entangle in your hair while his other hand holds your jaw in a vice grip. Your hands are clutching at the back of his neck, trying to anchor yourself as you continue to kiss him passionately.

Coryo pulls away, leaving you both breathless and panting. He leans his forehead against yours, only to whisper, “Is this real, Mrs. Y/N Snow? The way you feel about me? It's real for me and I-I was just wondering if it's real for you too.”

The vulnerability in his cerulean blue eyes took you aback. You've never seen him like this before. You're so used to Coryo being condescending and cunning, sweet, but in a reserved way.

You've never seen him vulnerable before. And that sight makes you realize that there's more to your husband than what meets the eye. That deep down, he's just an orphan boy that wants to be loved. And you understand that wholeheartedly since you're an orphan girl that wants the same thing.

To be loved.

Unwinding a hand from his neck and softly stroking his cheek with it, you tell him, “It's real for me too, husband.” Giving him a small smile, you carry on with, “We’re all each other's got, Coryo. And I'm grateful for you.” You notice that your words are having a calming effect on him, which is good. “I wouldn't have married you if I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with you.” You assure him, bringing your other hand up to his cheek.

Honestly, you married him so that you'll have stability. So you'll be able to always have a roof over your head and food in your belly. Yes, you like him, but the marriage is so that you're not on your own struggling to get by.

Coryo's determined to take care of you; to make up for ratting you out and getting you whipped. He wants to get you out of 8; who are you to stop him?

You married him out of self preservation, but you honestly do like him. He's a very handsome man- unlike any you've ever met, and you enjoy his company. If he's delusional to think that you're in love then so be it. At least you'll be able to sleep in a warm bed with a full belly every night.

Your answer was exactly what Coriolanus needed to hear. His icy eyes light up and he kissed you once more with power and passion. A promise of things to come.

Coryo's sitting on the edge of the bed and you're straddling him. He's in nothing, but his white boxers, while you're naked. He's got a hand on your hip, balancing you, while the other's between your legs. Two of his fingers are shoved deep inside your cunt as he fucks you furiously with them. His thumb rubs quick, sloppy circles over your swollen clit, as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“You're close, baby. You're gonna cum soon.” He knowingly states, not asks, as he picks up his pace.

“Coryo…please…” You whine, feeling as if you're going to explode and see stars any minute by how hard, fast, and deep he's fingering you. Hell, you never knew that being fingered could feel like this. But yet again, his fingers are much longer than yours…

His fingers hit the spongy spot deep inside of you, over and over again, making your hips back against his as you chase your high.

“That's it, baby. That's it, ride my fingers. Good girl, just like that.” Coryo cooed praises into your ear as your head drops to his shoulder while you ride his fingers, chasing after your orgasm that you're oh so desperate to feel.

His hand on your hip helps guide you as you quickly roll your hips forward and back, riding his fingers, as little moans and mewls escape your lips. They're mostly muffled by his shoulder, since you're resting your head in it. But Coryo can still hear a few. The few noises you make that echo in the room mingle with the loud, lewd, wet squelching sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt.

Suddenly, your clawing at your husband's back and canting your hips quickly as your orgasm fastly approaches. “Coryo…I'm close.” You mutter out into his shoulder.

“Cum for me, Y/N. Be a good girl and cum right now, baby.” Coryo ordered, his voice hot and thick with lust, as he thumb pressed hard against your clit while he pounds your pussy relentlessly with his long fingers.

And you do. You cum hard around his fingers, moaning out his name like a prayer. Coryo helps guide your hips as you ride out your high on his fingers.

When your body goes slack, he pulls his hand out from between your legs. “Look, darling.” Coryo orders while spreading his fingers apart, causing your juices to create a web between them.

You feels your cheeks heat up as you look at your husband's hand, the one that had just been between your legs. You weren't aware that you let out that many juices when you came. Seeing them webbed and stringing against your husband's fingers…well…

And when your husband curled his fingers into a fist, so only his wet ones were standing upright, and smelled the two wet fingers- causing his eyes to flutter shut as he declared in a shaky exhale, “Your cunt smells so good, darling.”, You nearly died of arousal.

Oh boy, did that turn you for some ungodly reason.

And when he stuck his fingers in his mouth, sucking your juices clean off of them…oh yea…you felt yourself grow wetter. You felt your core ache for his cock.

Coryo pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a wet pop, only to help you off of him while saying, “I'm going to take off my boxers and lay down in the bed, okay?”

“Okay.” You simply nod, watching as your husband stands up and slides down his boxers.

You know he has a big cock by the large bulge that was in his boxers, but when you see his cock rise to full attention and slap up against his stomach, you can't help but to look at it in awe. It was long, at least 8 inches, and very girthy too. Damn, even his balls are big. Like everything on Coryo's big.

You guess what they say about y'all men with big hands, big feet, and big noses is true. Cause right now, you're looking at the living proof that the saying isn't a myth.

It's true. Very, very, true.

Tall men with big hands, feet, and noses are blessed with big cocks.

“Like what you see, Mrs. Snow?” Coryo asks with a cocky, lopsided grin as he closes the distance between you after kicking his boxers to the side once he stepped out of them.

“Yes, I suppose so, since it's the only cock I've ever seen.” You tell him, locking your eyes with his icy blue ones.

Taking your hand and bringing it to his cock, which has veins running along it with an angry red head that's leaking pearly drops of precum, he tells you, “You can touch me, you know.”

“Is there a certain way you like to be touched?” You wonder.

You don't know how experienced Coryo is and you really don't care. He's your husband now, so any and all experience he has is just going to make you feel good. But you lack experience. So, of course you want to know what your husband likes, it's only natural to ask.

The platinum blonde gives you a thin smile, one that's barely holding back how horny he is, and tells you, “Use your thumb to gather my precum and spread it around my cock before pumping it up and down. You can also swipe the slit on my head too.”

“Okay.” You nod before doing as you're told.

“There ya go, baby. That's it, you got it.” Coryo praised, lust blowing his pupils black, as he watched you slowly, but surely jack him off.

After a few minutes, Coriolanus’ breath began to hitch. He placed a hand on yours to stop you, all the while saying, “I think it's time I get in bed and you get on top of me.”

You just nod, watching as your husband fluffs the pillows and lays down comfortably on his back.

“Come here, baby.” He motioned with an outstretched hand.

You get into the bed and go over to him, straddling his hips. You're hovering over his hard cock, balancing yourself by resting your hands on Coryo's chest. One of his hands went to your hip while the other grabbed his cock, teasing you by rubbing his tip along your slit; bumping into your clit once or twice.

“You ready, darling?” Coryo asked, locking eyes with you.

“Yes.” You nod. After how good of a job he did warming you up, you'd be a fool not to be ready.

“Just sink down slowly; take your time til you bottom out.” He instructed, rubbing soothing and supportive circles in your hip bone.

Nodding, you listened to your husband and slowly sank down on his cock. You felt a burning sensation tearing you apart as his cockhead parted your petals and entered your virgin cunt. It wasn't painful per say, just uncomfortable. The burning sensation at the stretch his cock made to your tight walls had you biting your lip and letting out little whimpers.

“I know, baby. I know, it's a big stretch.” Coryo cooed, the corners of his mouth turned up. He took the hand that was on the base of his cock (feeling that you're doing a good enough job guiding yourself down on it that he doesn't need to hold it anymore) and cupped your cheek. “You're doing such a good job, baby.” Coryo softly ran the pad of his calloused thumb against the apple of your cheek. “Just a lil bit more and I'll be picking your cherry, my sweet girl.” Your husband assured you, his baritone honeyed and lustful.

You've heard that getting your cherry popped hurts like hell, or at least that's what the girls said at school. Hell, even your old friends Lil and Lucy Gray back on your old street in the Seam said it hurt like no other. So you're sure that it's going to be the worst pain in your life.

But your husband's assuring words, sweetly melodic but ardent, put you at ease. His simple action of soothingly stroking your cheekbone with his thumb eased your nerves; your fears as well. Who would've known that Coryo, a tall, imposing peacekeeper with a platinum buzz cut and mischievous baby blues could be so soft and gentle, so reassuring and understanding.

In that moment you, without a doubt, knew that you made the right choice in marrying Coryo. How many other young men would be patient enough with you to let you go at your own pace during your first time? Not many, or at least not the type of men that your old friends had would be patient.

You really hit the jackpot when you got with your peacekeeper. Yes, you know that the way ya'll got together wasn't ideal, but he's truly been nothing, but amazing since he brought you home badly whipped, bleeding profusely, and nearly unconscious with pain. Private Snow, soon to be Elite Officer Snow (if all goes according to plan and he passes his exams), might be a condescending asshole at times, but he's also a caring, loveable man at others. And right now he's a tenderhearted lover.

Your breath hitches as you feel Coriolanus' cockhead breach your barrier; breaking your hymen and taking your virginity. Your nails scratch at his chest and you bite your lip in reaction to the stinging sensation that you feel throbbing in your pussy.

“Are you alright, Y/N? Did I hurt you?” Your husband asks, looking up at you with genuine concern flashing in his icy eyes, as you bottom out on top of him.

“I'm not hurt, Coryo. It just stings a lil bit, that's all.” You honestly tell him, not wanting him to worry.

“You just just cockwarm me til you feel comfortable to move, okay?”

“Okay.” You nod, a tiny smile stretching your lips.

“Come ‘ere, baby.” Coryo instructs, sliding his hand down your cheek and down to your neck only to guide your face down towards his. As your lips ghosts over each other's, he commands in a husky tone, “Kiss me while you sit on my cock.”

And who are you to turn down your husband's request when his plush lips look oh so kissable. You quite enjoy kissing him. It's a sensation that you'll never grow tired of.

Your hands slide up Coryo's toned chest, only to hold onto his shoulders for leverage, as your lips meet his in a kiss. A kiss that quickly turned passionate and sloppy. Your tongues danced exotically as your body grew accustomed to his large cock stretching out your walls and filling you up all the way to your womb. A breathy moan fell from your lips as your kiss broke apart, so the two of you could catch some air.

Coryo's lips we're mere inches from yours as he asked, “Think you're ready to start moving, my darling rose?”

“Yea,” You nod, “I'm ready.”

“Remember how you rode my fingers? Just do that, alright?”

“Alright.” You parroted before slowly and experimentally rising and falling down onto your husband's cock; causing him to let out a low moan of approval.

It didn't take long for you to find a comfortable rhythm. And before long, you're riding your husband with the desperate need to cum, arms wrapped around his neck as he's sitting up, sucking on one of your nipples while squeezing and grabbing at your tits with the need of a hungry, starving madman.

“Fuck! Coryo…” You loudly moan as his teeth scrape again your pebbled nipple, sending pleasure shooting straight to your core, before he lifts his head and attaches his kiss bruised lips to your neglected nipple. As his lips start sucking your other nipples, his thumb soothingly rubs over the one that he just bit, making your cunt grow even wetter.

“Oh gods, Coryo, I'm so close again.” You choke out on a high pitched moan, feeling his cock dive deep inside of your cunt and kiss your cervix as you bounce down particularly fast on him.

Your husband lets your nipple fall from his mouth with a loud, wet pop and he stops feeling up your boobs. One of his hands grabs your ass while the other goes slightly behind him, resting on the bed to give him leverage, as he sits up a bit straighter. Bending his knees slightly so that his feet are flat on the bed, he orders you to, “Hold onto my neck and wrap your legs around my waist. I'm gonna finish us off.”

“Okay.” You smile before doing as your told.

Not a second later, Coryo's fingers are digging into your ass cheek while his hips are wildly bucking up; causing his cock to piston deep inside of you. So deep that you're seeing stars.

“Coryo…I think I'm gonna cum.” You tell him, lips hovering close to his, as you feel the knot in your lower belly about to come undone.

“I'm gonna cum right after ya, baby.” He groaned, snapping his hips even faster. “Fuck, I'm gonna fill you up with my seed; knock you up tonight, babygirl.” Coryo grunted thru clenched teeth as his cock pounded your tight pussy with wild abandon. "I swear, you're gonna look so beautiful all round with my child."

Were you ready to be a mom? Who knows, who cares. You'll deal with it when the time comes. All you know is that your husband's fucking you so good and you're about to cum on his gigantic cock any second now.

“Coryo…” You mewl while your cunt flutters around his cock. The dam of pleasure’s about to burst and all you can think about is how badly you want to kiss your husband.

So…

You unwrap one of your hands from around his neck and grab a hold of the chain around his neck. The one that his dog tags are one. The same dog tags that are bouncing back and forth between both of your chests. Using the chain, you pull him a few inches towards you until your lips meet his for a kiss. A kiss that's desperate. An open mouth kiss that's filthy and full of both tongue and spit swapping as you cum hard around his cock.

Coryo's icy eyes literally roll into the back of his head as he feels your tight cunt spasm around his cock and soak his cock and thigh as you cum. Fuck, you're a squirter and that turns him on. It turns him on so much that the next time he bucks up he's shooting his load of hot, thick ropes up cum deep up into your womb.

He continues to slowly rock his hips up and down to ride out your highs. Your lips are no longer engaged in a dirty open mouthed kiss. Instead, your foreheads are resting on each other as you just get lost gazing into each other's eyes- looking into the windows of each other's souls.

Souls that are truly so similar considering you both are orphans with a self preservation streak.

After a little while, he stops moving and lays flat down on his back. He adjusts your legs so that you can comfortably lay down on him. He even places the blanket on top of you two so that you'll be warm.

“Shouldn't I get off of you?” You ask, referring to his cock still being stuffed inside of your cunt.

“No.” Coryo shakes his head against his pillow. “Don’t worry about it, babe. My cock’ll slip out once it softens.” He assures you with a satisfied smirk while tucking a strand of sweaty hair behind your ear. “You were amazing, Mrs. Y/N Snow.”

“Thank you, Elite Officer Snow. I have an amazing husband for a teacher.” You playfully smile back, tracing patterns on his toned chest.

“Remind me to thank that amazing husband of yours for teaching you how to ride cock like a pro.” Coryo teasingly chuckled, earning him a playful smack in the arm from you.

Then, you decided to bring up a serious topic. One that was tied to some dirty talk your husband said while fucking.

Looking up at him with big, curious eyes, you seriously ask, “Coryo, do you really want kids?”

“Yes, Y/N, I really want to have kids with you.” Your husband answered, only to follow it up with a question of his own. “Don't you want them, my darling rose.”

“I never really thought about it, but one day I'd like to be a mom.”

“Babies come when they come, darling.” Your platinum peacekeeper tell you so casually that it's as.of he's telling you the weather forecast.

“I know.” You simply tell him. Then, worry crosses your features as you seriously ask, “Since they'd be born in the districts would they be eligible for the game's lottery?”

“No.” Coryo's quick to assure you with a shake of his head. His large hand comforts you by soothingly rubbing your arm up and down. “Officer’s children are born on a Capitol run base in the hospital and live on base or base approved housing. They're registered as Capitol citizens at birth; they're parents no matter their origin of birth are considered Capitol as well.”

You let out a loud, incredulous laugh, only to tell your husband, “So I fucking stood in line 7-fucking-years for the reaping when I didn't have to all because my brother refused to hand over my papers when it was time for game registration.”

“What?” Coryo asked, his voice full of confusion, as he stared at you slack jawed.

“Close your mouth, honey. You'll catch flies with it open like that.” You tease Coryo, snapping his jaw shit with your fingers. Knowing you have to tell him the truth, the very same truth you learned right after your brother died, you sighed and explained, “After my brother died we went thru everything in the house to see what we wanted to keep, sell, and give away. Hidden in the end table by his sitting chair was an old picture of my parents and my birth certificate.”

You had to pause to collect yourself. You never planned on revealing this, but it seems like gate has other plans. Coryo just looked at you with support flashing in his eyes while gently squeezing your hand. He wasn't dumb, he was putting the pieces together fairly quickly. But he wanted to hear you say what he's thinking, to make sure that it's right.

When you feel ready to continue, you tell your husband, “I discovered that I was born on PK Base D-12 to a Colonel Javanis Halvir and a Helenium Halvir.” Shaking your head, you bitterly spat out, “I even have a Capitol name too; it's actually a longer version of the name my brother grew up calling me.”

“So you're half Capitolite then or were both your parents-” Coryo began to ask only for you to abruptly cut him off with, “Half. My father was a Capitolite and my mother was from District 12; Rein was my half-brother from her first marriage, but my dad must've adopted him since he used the Halvir name.”

“Do you want me to write the Capitol about this? I know some people that could look into your family, see if perhaps you have an inheritance tied up in probate or any relatives still alive?”

“You don't have to do that, Coryo.” You softly decline. Honestly, you never considered finding your long lost family. Plus it's not like they were looking for you either.

But Coryo wanted to inquire about your family, that Halvirs. If they had money or if you had an inheritance then as your husband he's legally bound to be the recipient of it. And Lord knows how much Coriolanus Snow craves money, power, and glory. How he wants to get back to the Capitol, with you and any children you have in tow, to become the youngest president in Panem's history.

But he can't tell you that, now can he?

No…

So, instead he tells you, “Y/N, baby, you're my wife and I love you. Let me use my Capitol contacts to help you find your family.” Giving you a slight pout and a pair of big cerulean blue puppy dog eyes, he adds in the magic word of, “Please.”

How can you say no to that? You can't. So, you tell him okay.

Coriolanus is overjoyed, but he doesn't let it show. Instead his baritone is calm and collective as he tells you that it's time to go to sleep. As you yawn and settle down on his chest, visions of a newfound rich family or a large inheritance sum are dancing around in his head, much like sugarplums dance around in children's heads on Christmas Eve.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @harvey-malfoy @tian-monique @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

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yanderes-galore · 1 month ago

Note

Mind if I ask for a yandere romantic concept of Luffy from one piece, please??? He needs more love and I'm desperate XD 🦢

I am HOPING I did this man justice. Hope you enjoy it either way though.

Extra Concept About Rivals Here

Yandere! Monkey D. Luffy Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Stalking, Clingy behavior, Jealousy, Manipulation, Violence, Attempted murder, Blood, Delusional behavior, Dubious/Forced relationship

I feel Luffy struggles to entirely understand romantic love.

He cares for his crew and loves them like they're found family.

Yet with you, the feeling seems... stronger?

He doesn't entirely get it, Even when Sanji attempts to explain it.

Although, knowing the cook, he probably explained it like some romance tale.

Which just left Luffy a bit confused.

Let's discuss yandere type.

I can definitely say Luffy is a protective yandere.

He's caring and can read you well.

Naturally, like with most of his crew, Luffy would move heaven and Earth to protect you and see you smile.

He just enjoys seeing you smile.

I'm pretty sure he'd do anything to see you happy.

Luffy seems like a simple character.

He doesn't think things through, he's reckless, oblivious at times, carefree...

But he cares a lot about those he views as family.

Simple minded maybe, yet he's a loyal and compassionate leader.

Luffy's obsession would manifest in a simple way at first.

He doesn't think much of it.

He's excited to be around you, always wants to spend time with you, he's protective of you when you explore new islands...

He's oblivious and doesn't see anything wrong or special about this.

In fact, his crew may notice his behavior before him.

To anyone else, it looks like Luffy has a crush whenever he stares at you longingly.

He's usually always smiles and laughs, yet with you he seems extra excited.

Others may also notice Luffy being more... clingy.

He's extra affectionate with you.

There's many times Luffy will pull you into hugs and neglect his other crewmates.

It's like whenever you're around, he latches on to you.

He doesn't see anything different or wrong with it too.

Even with jealousy... He understands he gets upset when he sees others so close to you.

But he doesn't entirely understand why other than thinking you could be hurt?

Or maybe he knows he wants your attention, but isn't sure why.

He's quite the clueless and oblivious yandere at times.

He might have a better idea of it later after the timeskip.

But until then he just thinks you two are really close friends or something.

It's not like he's ever had a proper example, y'know?

He's seen flirting, kissing, attractive people...

Yet he just doesn't get it.

I feel this man is not only clueless when it comes to romantic feelings and dating... but also anything past that.

He just knows he likes being around you, he likes holding you, he likes it when you smile...

He hates sharing... He gets anxious when away from you... He feels he has to follow you around...

Recently he's been staring at your lips lately, which is a bit weird...

I feel someone would have to explain to him what he's feeling.

Hell, even if you were flirting with him or was just being affectionate, he's confused.

Although he often finds himself thinking back on it later.

Once it's explained to him, he has a better idea on what he's feeling...

Then his obsession goes into overdrive.

He's now curious on how to properly explore such feelings towards you.

He may even ask you about it.

He isn't sure what couples do, so maybe without your knowledge, he'd just treat you like you're already together.

As he's properly understanding his feelings, Luffy does not let you go.

He's clingy and craves attention from his obsession.

His hugs are suffocating due to his anatomy.

That and ever since he learned what his feelings could mean... He gets into fights with his crew and others more often.

It usually happens when you're talking to people and there's some playful language.

It might not even be flirting.

Only for Luffy to appear out of nowhere with a glare.

He becomes like an irritated guard dog at times.

I'm pretty sure Luffy would kill a man if left unsupervised.

He's easily jealous and also can easily be set off.

When it comes to protecting those he loves, Luffy would do anything.

He doesn't care much about blood on his hands.

What he cares about is you being safe.

Or to be more specific... safe, happy, and by his side.

As stated in a previous concept, you should probably start prying him off people when he's set off.

If you'd like them to live.

You'd have no idea about you two "dating", but Luffy's convinced dating is just what you two have been doing this whole time.

Although, you get hints when he asks about what partners and couples do.

When you answer, his response is simple and oddly innocent.

"Can we do that?"

Even if you try to let him off easy, he doesn't believe you.

He's admittedly a bit cute with how affectionate and clueless he is.

But he's just so dangerous.

You don't expect him to hurt you, yet those who aren't you are an entirely different story.

Luffy would never let you leave the crew.

Even when the timeskip happens, He will latch onto you.

He's pleading and refuses to let go.

Good luck prying a rubber man off you.

He's just going to coil tighter until you give up.

Luffy probably kidnaps but doesn't consider what he did to be that.

Manipulating you onto the boat with guilt trips and force isn't kidnapping in his eyes.

Again, he's oblivious and clueless.

Beating someone to a bloody pulp isn't attempted murder to him.

He's just protecting you and showing that you're partners!

Partners must be loyal to one another!

That's what he's heard, at least...

God FORBID another crew or island takes you as a hostage.

Luffy would demolish them to take you back.

He can have bloodlust when he's pushed.

Overall, I always saw Luffy as a rather clueless and oblivious yandere.

He's affectionate, clingy, some may call him cute and loyal...

Yet even when clueless half the time and not intentionally malicious or possessive, he is a dangerous man on the seas and land when it comes to you.

#yandere one piece #yandere one piece x reader #yandere monkey d luffy #yandere luffy

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earthry · 1 year ago

Note

Can i ask for papas who told reader to not get attached to them and had secret relationship, until they realised 'oh... I think i was wrong' ?(bonus point for them being jealous, because another sibling flirting with reader)

Thank you and sorry if i bother you🥺❤

Of course you can!! Thank you for the prompt it was so delicious aslkdf it kind of got away from me but hopefully this was what you were looking for 💕

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, manipulation (not from any papas), happy endings for all regardless

Primo

Primo is gentle about telling you not to get attached.

"Don't get too comfortable, little flower." "Remember my rosebud, this is temporary." "We are not exclusive, my morningstar."

He thinks he's doing a kindness by always reminding you that things between the two of you are casual, making sure you're aware that you are just one of many in his garden of plenty.

I think he’d be a little more aware of his growing feelings than any of his brothers, but still catches it too late. By the time he realizes he can’t bring himself to call things off or put some distance between the two of you.

He realized just how much he loves having you by his side. Not just as a lover, but as a companion and a friend. Someone to talk about plants and books to, someone who cares about him enough to swing by the garden often with a snack and water to hydrate when he’s been working under the sun for too long.

The first time you fall into bed together since his realization, he doesn’t remind you about the nature of your relationship, and you’re too nervous to ask until after. He’s cleaned up and slips under the covers with you before pulling you into his arms — he probably doesn’t do this too often because it feels vulnerable. You feel your heart pounding and timidly ask him what’s going on.

“I think I’ve made a grave mistake.” You stiffen and he soothes you, “Not you, never you, tesoro.”

He admits his feelings for you, and you get teary and blubber that you feel the same and he asks you for your forgiveness, taking your hand in his and pressing the softest, most gentle kiss to the back of it.

You two haven’t quite made it official yet, wanting to ease into things naturally— however when he sees a sibling-in-sin flirting with you boldly, he steps in with a growl, the most aggressive you’ve ever seen him before.

“Perhaps you weren’t aware, but here at the ministry, we keep filthy hands off what isn’t ours.” He has a possessive arm around your waist and leans into to brush his lips against your brow.

“I’m sorry I’m late, my petal.” His voice is so much softer when he addresses you, “Is this stronzo bothering you?”

The sibling-of-sin quickly stammers their apologies and scampers off, and before you can really even process what just happened, his lips are on yours. He kisses you hungrily, claiming you as his in the open courtyard where everyone can see.

When he eventually pulls back, your lips are red and swollen to his satisfaction and you give him a look to which he gives you another kiss but it's a much more tame peck this time. "Mi dispiace amore mio. I just couldn't help myself."

Secondo

Secondo was your first-- something you gave to him freely despite his clear warning before taking you to bed.

Still you had your sights set and the idea of taking your innocence was too delicious to Secondo to decline. You weren't the first one he'd corrupted, and you wouldn't be the last (as painful as it is to think about it, you're very keenly aware of this fact).

For your first time, he was the perfect lover, considerate and slow, coaxing you to open up for him in ways you never thought to give to another man. He takes you like you're lovers and it does nothing for the growing feelings you've been having for him as of late except now you know what it feels like to be wrapped up in his arms, now you know how it feels to have his lips on yours, how it feels to take him inside you, to feel so full of him that you see stars.

For him, you're just another conquest, another sibling-in-sin he's deflowered and another body to pull into bed on lonely nights. He usually doesn't think much of it. He has all his bases covered after all. He makes sure of it, reminding his partners that they are not the only ones, that they are here to have fun.

He may not party as much as he did in his youth, but when he did there would always be someone new on his arm and someone new he'd take to bed.

In a way he knows it's also to protect himself, he knows that most if not all of them are vying for Papa's attention, for Papa's favor. Not Secondo's.

He knows it's the Ministry's fault primarily, for twisting him into this shape, for building such a reputation in his image to where he is now. But despite the resentment he feels he can't help the desires that are conditioned into him for this lifestyle.

He doesn't let people in easily as a result, but with you it was almost inevitable.

You had been so shy when he had taken you that first time. Not that you weren't eager, but he was so used to other siblings being sly and seductive, wanting him to do the honors so they would have a story to give when all was over.

You however, were so anxious and timid as he laid you out onto the bed that he couldn't help but reassure you. At first he thought perhaps it was an act, but judging how tight you were wound up, he knew you had to be genuinely nervous. He was extra gentle with you, more than he had ever been with anyone before, and oh, the small smiles you gave in his direction when he comforted you were addicting.

He doesn't normally do repeats, doesn't like taking the same person to bed more than a handful of times but with you he just couldn't help himself.

There was something new to learn about you each time, and soon your relationship evolved to something more than just in the bedroom.

It started small; a book you quoted he recognizes that turns into an hour long conversation about the author's greatest and not so greatest works. Stopping by his office during the day to offer coffee or a short break to discuss literature.

He starts looking forwards to your visits, to those little moments before or after he's taken you to bed. But one thing he's always kept firm on is that you never stay the night.

It's his one rule he's maintained for years to keep feelings and sex separate and it's always worked. You don't particularly know about this rule of his however, so when you finally ask if you can stay the night with him, you feel like you've been brought back to earth with his rejection.

You only have yourself to blame really. He had always said from the very beginning not to get attached. It was your fault for thinking that after the two of you had gotten a little closer that maybe, just maybe things had changed. You were wrong.

Secondo feels terrible for telling you no, but he has his rules for a reason. However, that night as he lays in bed alone he can't help imagining what it would be like to hold you in his arms, to tuck you against his chest and feel your heartbeat firm against his.

Secondo is a smart man, and he knows when he's made a mistake. He resolves to make it up to you in the morning, to pull you aside and set things straight. It had taken time for him to realize how he felt for you but now that he does, he doesn't intent on letting you go.

Unfortunately for him, he can't seem to find you all day, and in the evening he asks around and manages to find some of your friends who tell him that you had not been feeling good.

He feels a pang of guilt for being so harsh with you last night, and asks where your room is.

When he finds you, you're being comforted by a sibling-in-sin. You've been crying on and off all day and right now you're in one of your low moods as the sibling holds you in their arms.

"You should forget about him, he doesn't deserve you." The sibling soothes, "He doesn't care about you like I do, I would treat you so well."

Yeah, Secondo does not like that one bit. First of all, the possessiveness he feels seeing you in someone else's arms, but also manipulation in the form of comfort to someone at their lowest is something he doesn't condone.

Things happen fast and suddenly you're in his arms pressed against his chest as he holds you bridal style. The sibling looks shocked and a little shameful when Secondo sneers at him. "Cazzo di merda, I don't think so. If I ever see you near them again, I will tear you to pieces from limb to limb." His mismatched eyes flash dangerously, and the sibling immediately books it.

He then looks down to you in his arms, his gaze softening as he takes in your red eyes and puffy cheeks. "Amore mio," he presses a kiss to your forehead. "We have much to talk about, including my apology for being so foolish last night."

He takes you to his room where sits against the headboard with you still tucked in his arms. He doesn't let go or put you down even once.

"Mi dispiace, tesoro. I should not have said no last night."

You are quiet for a long time, and he can't help the nervousness that begins to crawl under his skin. "Yeah, you were kind of an asshole." You finally say.

He can't help the chuckle that escapes but agrees with you. "Mm, si I was an asshole, wasn't I? Will you allow me to try making it up to you, amore mio? We can start over, do this right."

"Start... over?" You sound hesitant, unsure what he means until he kisses your temple again.

"Si, although start anew is probably a better term." He reaches to take your hand in his before pressing a kiss to the back. "I promise to treat you right this time, as a proper lover, a proper partner.”

Your cheeks tint pink at the gesture and you nod slowly before cautiously asking, “Okay but… will we be exclusive? Cause I don’t think I can if we aren’t. I can’t… I don’t want to be just another one of your playthings.”

“Tesoro, yes of course we’ll be exclusive. You are not just one of my playthings, you are so much more. You are my heart, and I need my heart to live, si?”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple and guides your hand over his heart, “Amo te e nessun altro.”

Terzo

I love Terzo to bits and this got a little angsty on his side. I hope I didn't make it too OOC but please enjoy!

With Terzo, it's not a surprise that he has no shortage of lovers. Especially favorites, he has many and amongst them is you. It was the first thing he told you before he bedded you for the first time: don't get attached. And honestly? You knew better.

Still didn't keep you from falling helplessly in love with him, though.

For Terzo, it was rare that anyone ever stayed the night; once they came for what they wanted, they would leave. When he was a younger man it was a devastating realization to make, that he would only ever be an object of seduction, only ever be a conquest and never a true lover. Now though, he's worked hard to build those walls around him, numb himself from the knowledge of knowing to never get attached.

"Do not get attached," was not for you, it was never for you-- you'll come to realize. It was for him. A reminder each time he brings another eager sibling-of-sin to bed, a caution each time a fan offered him 'a night he'll never forget'.

The first night you stay, Terzo writes off as a fluke. A blessing, but a fluke nonetheless. You had fully expected him to say no, to ask you to leave as always. Instead, he had looked a little caught off guard, an expression that rarely crossed his features. "Um... stay the night? Si, of course-- of course! Make yourself comfortable, caro, I'll be just a moment. I get towel to wipe us off, si?"

You don't really think much of it when he seems not to know how to lay next to you, unsure where to put his arms to sleep comfortably, and you quite blatantly ask him if he's done this before. Which he immediately lies and says yes, and then deflates when you don't look convinced and mumbles that no, not really. He hasn't done this before.

You're sad for him-- and you make it a mission to give him the best snuggle session of his life.

And honestly? Just one time and Terzo's completely hooked on you. He doesn't get his hopes up (he knows better than that now), but he does quietly tell you that he hopes that the two of you could maybe do this again sometime. You smile and nod, and ask him if he's free tonight and once more there's that surprised look.

It doesn't become a nightly thing, but it almost does. The first time you come to his room before bed, asking him if you could sleep with him that night, his eyes get large and wide. There was no sex that night, just him in your arms as you showed him what spooning was (he was the little spoon of course).

Months later he's hopeful but too anxious to ask you if the two of you were more than just friends with benefits. In the end, it takes jealousy for him to finally do what he's been wanting to do for a long time.

You're in the cafeteria talking with another sibling-of-sin that is obviously trying to chat you up; leaning in close, eyes flickering to your lips and down your body.

Terzo feels his body get hot, his jaw set straight and firm. He knows he's jealous, he can feel the white hot heat that runs through his veins as someone else tries to take what is his. He manages to stay calm enough not to storm over, talking himself down in his head when movement catches his eye.

The sibling flirting with you makes a comment, and points to a smudge of sauce on your cheek. You look confused and they say something, which you wipe your hand over your mouth, but not quite getting the sauce.

Terzo is moving before the sibling even finishes wiping your cheek with their thumb, his hand curling tight around the sibling's wrist and yanking them away from you.

"Keep your hands to yourself, si?" He snarls, "She's mine."

The cafeteria goes silent and the sibling apologizes very quickly, blabbering about how they didn't realize you were taken, by papa no less, and promising to never bother you again. They flee and stiffly Terzo tells all the onlookers to go back to their own business.

As conversation begins to pick up again and his rage boils down, he feels a flash of embarrassment and shame-- turning to you to apologize for so many different things.

Your lips are on him before he can even get words out, kissing him feverishly and without abandon. He whimpers a little, his hands flying up to hold your waist, gasping for air when you finally pull back.

"Mm, perhaps we should take this to the bedroom, si?" He's breathless, looking down at you and you grin, running your fingers against the soft fabric of his robe. You give him his answer to which he nods with hope in his eyes.

"Sounds like a plan-- but I don't share either, okay?"

Copia

Ah. Copia. My scrunkly little rat man. My little meow meow. My itty bitty blorbo.

You had gotten to know him before he was a cardinal. I'm a sucker for childhood friends to lovers for Copia specifically for some reason so here we are again.

If felt very much that it was the two of you against the world back then. Both of you young adults starting from the bottom trying to climb up to the top for at least some kind of recognition.

There are countless nights spent in his room, squeezed onto that tiny bed of his and lounging around, watching him play his video games. Sitting on the floor and fiddling with guitars and sheet music. Leaning against the door frame as he ran around trying to look for a pair of matching socks (that weren't one of the ridiculously patterned ones you gifted to him for Christmas each year) for a formal event.

Perhaps it was only natural for you two to fall into bed together, helping each other blow off steam. Copia had suggested it; albeit a little shyly and awkwardly. It could help relieve stress, besides it wasn't as if there was anyone at the abby that interested either of you anyways (though that was probably a sign).

And what were you to do? Say no to the man you loved?

So you two became friends with benefits; though the friend part always seemed to come first and foremost. You knew you were important to Copia and that was enough. At least at that time you had thought it would be enough.

When he became cardinal, the two of you got to spend less and less time together. He was often on errands or doing work for Sister Imperator. Still, you would occasionally slip into his room to curl around him for comfort and he would hold you close and murmur how he was happy to see you.

When he became papa, that's when things between the two of you started going downhill. You were proud and happy for him, but you hadn't expected him to change. They weren't huge changes; deep down you knew he would always be the same Copia you've known, but there were changes that you didn't know how to handle.

For Copia, it was the power rush. The idea that people were falling over themselves to sleep with him, to be with him. Though it had always been no strings attached, for the first time you were beginning to experience what it was like to not be the only one in his bed, in his life. For Papa, it was exciting, thrilling. For you, it was lonely, confusing, and heartbreaking.

At least it was a little easier to handle when he was on tour, when you didn't have to physically see him each and every day. But the way your timelines and dashboards would fill to the brim of updates, videos, clips and fans gushing about him and their latest ritual; some days you couldn't even bring yourself to pick up your phone. You didn't want to see footage of the most recent girl he cirice'd, you didn't want to hear the latest raunchy things he's flirted at the audience with.

The two of you still messaged occasionally; though it always felt surface level now. You messaged as often as you could but he rarely would hold any solid conversation. Perhaps he had felt you were too moody when it came to talking about his other flings, when it came to talking about the papa business. Regardless, he didn't reach out often anymore.

At some point, you decided it was perhaps time to move on and began looking into dating seriously. You hadn't really found anyone that interested you, anyone that didn't immediately make you think of how much you wished they were someone else (a certain rat loving dork).

Copia missed you. Every night of tour he would think of you. He would stare at his phone, stare at your messages and think and think and not know what to say. Things had become awkward and tense between the two of you since he became papa; and he knows its because of him. He just couldn't resist the taste of what it felt like being wanted for once (that's a lie and he knows it, he knows you have always wanted him). He was such an idiot, so full of himself, so high off of his newfound fame and achievements that he threw everything else out the door. That he might as well have thrown you out too. So. He had no idea what to say.

"I miss you?" "I wish you were here?" "I'm sorry I slept with other people, it felt like cheating on you even though I said no strings attached?" "I fucked a girl so hard last night she passed out but by satana I wished it was you?"

You were on another first dates of many first dates (that usually stayed first dates) when Copia and his ghouls returned shortly from the European tour. You had done your best to ignore the updates of when he would return; focusing on your date instead.

Just like the rest of the dates you went on, you weren't entirely that interested in this sibling-in-sin that had asked you out. The date wasn't going great in your opinion, but they apparently thought differently because as you were half heartedly trying to respond to some comment they made, they pulled you in for a kiss.

For a second, you didn't move out of shock and by the time your brain had caught up to what was happening, someone else was yanking the sibling off you, tossing them to the ground unceremoniously.

Copia looks furious. Despite being dressed in his casual sweats like he usually does on days off, he's intimidating with the low growl he throws in the direction of the sibling.

He takes a seat in the recently vacated spot next to you, leaning in to snake his arms around you, pulling you into his lap and against your chest.

"W-We're on a date, what the fuck?" The sibling has the balls to stand up to the papa, who gives him a cold glare.

"Chi se ne frega, not anymore you're not," His voice is rougher than you remember, and you shiver a little in his arms. He doesn't seem to take note, too preoccupied in staring down his competition. "Get lost."

You don't really hear what the sibling has to say in response, nor do you really pay attention to where they stomp off to. The only thing you're keenly aware of is the way your back is pressed flush against Copia's chest. You can feel not only your heart pounding, but his too. As soon as the sibling is out of sight, he relaxes against you, his arms loosening a little but still firm.

You're confused to say the least-- unsure what just happened, unsure why he's holding you like he never wants to let go. You feel him gently brush his lips against your temple before murmuring to you.

"Mi dispiace, amore mio. I was a fool, a complete coglione. Please forgive me."

Your heart flutters in your chest, hope unfurling its wings like a butterfly. "C-Copia."

"Amo te e solo te. Prometto." He turns you in his arms and you go willingly. He leans so that your foreheads touch, his eyes meeting yours.

"No one else?" You whisper. He nods a little, forgetting for a moment that your foreheads are connected, bumping into you a little and causing you to giggle. The sound of your joy seems to drain any tension left in him and he whispers back, breathlessly.

"No one else, tesoro. Just you."

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shall-we-die · 5 months ago

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{Outrage}

How and why would they get mad at you?

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↬[Fandom]•⊰ {Jujutsu Kaisen}࿐

↬[Warnings]•⊰ {Angst}࿐

☰[Main list]•⊰ ────┈┈{0064}┈─╮

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╰┈➤Likes/Reblogs are appreciated࿐

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↬|Itadori|

He’s very possessive (secretly), and he gets really jealous whenever his s/o is being approached by someone else. Especially a man - Itadori doesn’t take that too well. But he tries desperately to remain calm and keep himself from acting out of character. He just gives them the cold shoulder, which is pretty scary coming from someone who is always smiling. He’s a worry wart, and he tends to get really mad if his significant other puts themselves in danger or takes unnecessary risks.

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↬|Inumaki|

Toge is one who is quite difficult to get mad. He is a calm person. So the s/o would have to really say or do something bad to make him mad. When Toge gets mad, he'll probably just be silent and show a sullen face. I think he'd even start ignoring the s/o for awhile to make sure he wouldn't accidentally let out his CT and hurt them.

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↬|Megumi|

He would get mad at his s/o if they betrayed his trust, lied to him, or disrespected his beliefs or values. He would also get mad if they displayed behavior that he considered immature or irresponsible. Additionally, he may get mad if his s/o acted out of jealousy or possessiveness towards him. His patience is limited, but he would try to communicate his feelings through calm conversations rather than shouting or becoming aggressive.

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↬|Nanami|

Nanami is usually a calm person, but his anger could be triggered by his s/o being unreasonable, too loud, or constantly making noise. Nanami values his alone time, so if his s/o constantly disturbs his workflow, he might get irritated and scold them. He could get upset if his s/o consistently fails to follow through with their promises or commitments, especially if it affects his plans and schedule. Nanami also prioritizes honesty, so if his s/o constantly lies to him, he would get mad for disrespecting trust.

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↬|Sukuna|

He'd definitely get mad if his s/o tried to leave him. He's possessive to a terrifying degree, and will do anything to get her back. On the milder side, he'd get annoyed if they constantly interrupted him or tried to tell him what to do. If they don't act the way he wants them to, he'll get angry, as well. He wants them to act like a proper concubine and treat him like a god.

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↬|Geto|

Well, there are two scenarios for this: 1. If his s/o did something foolish and put themselves in danger, he would get mad, and he would probably start scolding them, but his scolding would be different. He would talk with a calm attitude and express his worry in a gentle manner. 2. If s/o made him jealous by spending too much time with someone. He would get mad and he may show a bit of his manipulative side.

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↬|Gojo|

Gojo Satoru typically doesn't get mad easily, but if his s/o did something careless or put themselves in unnecessary danger, he could get mad out of concern for their safety. He's fiercely protective of those he cares about and doesn't like seeing them hurt or in danger, especially if it could have been avoided. He may express his frustration through a firm scolding or lecture, but he would never intentionally hurt or belittle his partner in anger. Gojo values open communication and would work to resolve any disagreements through respectful dialogue.

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#𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎–[❣]#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader headcanons #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #nanami kento x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #yuji itadori x reader #inumaki toge x reader

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aris-ink · 1 year ago

Note

more ddlg jk please im so obsessed

ily <3

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: romance

warnings: manipulation, big corruption kink, dd/lg, hints of size and spit kink, lots of kissing, slight dub con, allusions to con noncon, intoxication, drugs (marijuanna), dirty talk, groping, bondage (ropes), praise, free use kink, loving humiliation (verbal), possessiveness, creampie, aftercare

Coming back from work, Jungkook found your sleepy form curled up on the bed, the nightlight setting a faint glow over the room. He crouched down on the floor and leaned in to kiss you, the affectionate greeting making your eyes flutter open. You tried to blink the drowsiness in them away, but it didn't seem to be quite working, and Jungkook felt his heart melt in his chest.

"Are you okay, princess?"

You breathed out slowly, your answer coming out mellow.

"I feel so weird, daddy."

He examined you with concern, the dull glaze of your eyes the first thing to catch his attention. Whatever he was about to say died in his throat, and he found himself stroking your cheek with his thumb. You looked so small like this; barely holding on to consciousness, gazing into his eyes with all the love and trust your precious heart had to offer. It stirred something in his soul, something primal and sinister, instantly triggering its protective instincts.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He coaxed gently, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. "Did you eat properly?"

"Dinner," you nodded, sighing, "and some snacks."

Your answer was just as expected, but the innocence of it further provoked that thing in the shadows of his mind, and a pierced eyebrow raised at you cluelessly.

"What snacks? We ran out last night, baby. I got you some on the way home today."

You frowned at that, confusion seeping into your expression.

"No, we... still had some left... they- they were in the shelf... in the kitchen."

"Oh baby..." Jungkook sighed then, and lowered his lips to your forehead. "There's a reason daddy keeps those hidden. You probably shouldn't have touched that."

For a split second, when your eyes raised to meet his, he thought you had realized what happened, what he did, and his heart reacted in tandem with his cock, jumping. But then your small hand moved to reach for him. You couldn't have been cuter if you tried. Even now, seeking his protection, whether it was the drugs muddling your brain; or just love.

Because hidden wasn't exactly the most accurate word here... not since a while, at least, but there was a sadistic need rising up in Jungkook to slip further into his role, murmur reassurances that would have made angels weep for you, had they ever existed and mourned for lost souls.

"It's okay. Just rest, baby... The feeling will pass soon. Just..." he brushed his nose against yours, "close your eyes and let go. Daddy will take care of you. Yeah?"

You followed his instructions flawlessly, letting your eyes fall shut, your body relaxing as he spoke. But your hand still squeezed at his bigger one, like you were nervous that he'd disappear. There didn't really seem to be many coherent thoughts left in that pretty, little head of yours. No wonder the weed hit you hard; it wasn't something you've tried before. You've always rejected any blunts Jungkook offered, trembling and stilling his hands when he whispered all the depraved things he knew would make your cunt leak as he touched you. Now, after the drug has entered your system - and in large amounts, too - you were left so... vulnerable, in every way. Helpless against the warmth flooding your senses, making your nerves tingle as Jungkook climbed on top of you. Helpless against him; his wicked hands soothing you, exploring your waist, their touch your only connection to your earthly existence in the warm, fuzzy haze pulling you under; stripping you off your inhibitions.

"Relax, sweetheart. Just like that."

There was a repressed desire lurking in the softness of his palms sneaking under your shirt. When his lips inched towards yours, something almost innocent laced the action; a soft peck, testing the waters. Too lightheaded to think straight, you let Jungkook do the thinking for you, because that was what daddy was there for, wasn't it? To catch you when you fall. To look after his little girl, kiss her and hold her. And he did just that, throbbing at the whine that slipped past your lips as soon as his touched your neck.

"Sensitive, angel?"

His hands explored your tummy, butterflies erupting while the rough pads of his fingers inched upwards. His voice was as soft as any devil's leading their prey astray, a seduction too great to resist with your guard lowered and brain muddled. Sweet, little thing, so putty in his hands; an adoring kiss warmed your cheek, followed by a sigh, a sound of feigned sympathy. Poor, little baby, so dazed under him; back arching softly when he began to rub your nipple, eliciting a gasp. Good thing daddy knew exactly what you needed. He was going to make it all better, he whispered. Daddy would never hurt you, he promised. And then he slid down your underwear.

He was sure that even with how high you were, his brain was running on the same kind of adrenaline, releasing endorphins, heart beating fast and blood rushing, his kisses sloppy and slow. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you, or rather, like he wanted to pour himself and his love into every nook and crevice of you, body and soul; a suspicion he made far too easy to confirm when he pulled away, dark gaze immediately drawn to the string of saliva connecting you for a second too long. It was enough for his thumb to reach upwards and rub the remains of the wetness into your bottom lip, hypnotized by how swollen and shiny it looked.

There was no other sound in the room besides the mingling of your labored breathing and the soft moans his touches encouraged, igniting a kind of fire within you that, had your mind and heart been sober, would have been considered humiliating. The willingness to be defiled, the trust that this was your caretaker just doing his job. And in a twisted way, he was. Fueling all the forbidden desires and needs you kept locked up, deemed too dark to ever leave the twilight zone of your soul. And once again, whose job was it if not Jungkook's to show his little one that not all dark things were frightful?

Floating, you briefly felt your arms being raised, cool air hitting your skin as he slipped your shirt off. The bed dipped then, and more kisses were lovingly left on your shoulders, the silky heat of his lips lazily trailing up to your neck. Time seemed to be passing by in a blur; you could feel Jungkook trapping your wrists above your head, slight shuffling coming from somewhere beside you.

Another kiss. More shuffling. You were disoriented up to the very moment you registered the fact that the noise stopped, and something was being wrapped around your hands.

No, not wrapped; tied. You whimpered, akin to a little fawn that realized it was ensnared.

Jungkook cooed at you, his lips brushing your collarbone, leaving your skin on fire.

"Such a good girl..."

He made his way down your stomach, presumably to continue to comfort you. Yet his deft fingers landed on your foot, the caress sending your heart jumping to your throat. Because even though it lasted only for a moment, you could hear more rustling, the final kiss landing on your ankle; right before the loving gesture was replaced with the lewd intentions he has had all along. His hands were gentle as they secured the knots, tying both of your ankles to the bed posts; leaving you spread open and defenseless, just the way he wanted.

Even without the restraints, even if your pussy wasn't dripping for him, it wasn't like you would have been able to fight back. Not after the edibles. And in the moment, not many things made sense besides the ache that built up inside you, the smell of Jungkook's skin, invading all your senses and making your thighs start to tremble. But one fact was pretty clear; you were nothing but a toy for him. He wasn't even bothered holding your legs open.

"All good?" He asked sweetly, his arms on either side of your head as he hovered above you again.

Your breath came out uneven, head spinning, but you nodded, lost in the darkness of his eyes staring into yours, giving into its entrancing depths, a bottomless pit that seemed to be asking: There, isn't this so much better? Doesn't it feel good to let daddy make the decisions for you? And he didn't need you to say a word, because your body provided all the answers, keening as you heard him undo his zipper. There was another layer of vulnerability attached to the fact that he was still fully dressed while your skin burned bare underneath him. Another layer of power Jungkook clearly relished in, if the way he twitched against you was anything to go by.

"You're so wet," it was a breathless statement, his eyes threatening to close when his heavy cock finally pressed in between your thighs. "So fucking wet."

Perhaps it was twisted, how lovingly he took advantage of you, degraded you, like you didn't quite belong to yourself; only to him. But your hole was clenching around nothing, trying to suck his cock right in any time he nudged the tip against it. And just like that, all the self control he had exercised so far was beginning to crumble. He could feel himself slipping, the words weighing on his tongue getting harder to hold back.

"So good for me... Just stay like this. Let daddy take care of you."

You moaned weakly, hips trying to seek more friction. Jungkook's cock twitched at that, spurting more precum in between the soft folds of your cunt. You were so divine. His little girl, his property, waiting to be used, craving it. And Jungkook could never deny you. This was all you've ever needed; to be stripped of your identity, no daunting responsibilities, no thoughts. All you had to do was lie there and take his cock like a good girl, your head fuzzy and cunt well fucked.

He rocked into you slowly, pushing an inch forward only to slide out again, the stretch combined with the pressure quickly making your stomach knot up. You didn't realize you were begging until you felt Jungkook's tongue over yours, his lips cutting off your soft whines.

"Fuck," he breathed out weakly, his hips arching into you off their own accord. "Doing so good for daddy." A kiss. "Gonna take care of you." A whisper. "Gonna give you all you need." A dip of his head, soft lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Little miss free use slut."

His tummy clenched at how sharply you inhaled, at the warm pulse beating around his cock as he sank deeper inside you. You were so tight, moaning into his ear, but too out of it to move, too out of it to do anything but feel the thrill of the pleasure he forced into your body. It was intoxicating, how perfect you were, all his to taint and love, his marks so deep no holy water could scrub them off your soul. He groaned, at this point running on pure instinct, fucking you harder as your cunt clenched around him, struggling to accommodate all of his girth and yet aching to be filled up with more. It was too much to handle; the combination of you, the rush of power, and the heavenly heat he was rutting into tipping him dangerously close to the edge.

"Yeah..." His voice came out as a needy, shaky whisper, an inked hand tightening around your breast. "Fuck." His forehead rested against yours, eyes hooded. "Feel good?"

A hiss escaped him when you clenched in response.

"Oh yeah? Little, slutty hole feels good?"

Jungkook's lips were on yours again before you could process it, muffling the loud moan you let out. You were already falling apart, and there were so many ways he wanted to ruin you and leave you shaking for more. All he could focus now on, though, was the vice grip of your wet, abused cunt, and the obscene sounds it made.

"Oh baby, you gonna come? Look what a pretty, little fucktoy I have here. Only good for one thing, hm?"

His hips stuttered at the shiver that ran through you. He gripped your jaw, the mattress protesting under the force of his thrusts. But the noise was nothing compared to the way you cried out for him, your walls spasming around his cock and drawing a loud, desperate moan out of his pretty mouth. Just like that, he followed you right over the edge, spilling his cum deep inside you, and shamelessly fucking it in even deeper. Eyes scrunched, he let his head rest in the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin.

"Ohh fuck-" His groan broke into a drawn out, raspy whimper. "Yeees."

He came so hard, white spots dancing behind his eyelids, unwilling to stop grinding until his knees felt weak. He tried to catch his breath, his head swimming. You were limp beneath him, your heart still pounding hard against his. Despite the dreamy exhaustion weighing down his bones, he lifted himself up to check up on you, press tender kisses into your lips.

"Are you okay, baby?"

A nod was all you could manage.

"Such a good girl. You did so well."

His fingers reached to work on untying the knots binding your wrists, his dick twitching at the sight of you before him. The spit still shining on your lips, the glow of your flushed skin, the cum dripping out of your sensitive hole. So blissed out, ruined and pretty. All his. But rather than acting on the shivers of arousal that still haven't died down, flowing through his body, Jungkook focused on sitting you up and getting you to the bathroom.

He sat you in a tub filled with warm water, then discarded his own clothes to join you. The snacks he bought you earlier were placed on a tray, within arm's reach. He held you against his chest, fed you a little. He knew you were tired; you needed rest, you needed time to sober up, because you couldn't keep your eyes opened nor move as he washed you.

He rested his wet cheek on the crown of your head, taking a moment to just feel you close, immerse himself in the warmth.

"Baby," he whispered, his arms tightening around your waist, though he wasn't sure if you were still conscious enough to hear or understand him. "What have you done to me? I love you so much all of my soul is gone."

Gone where? Lost in yours, perhaps, the only heaven that actually mattered.

A moment passed in silence, your breathing soft, until an almost incoherent whisper broke him out of his stupor.

"Love you too, daddy."

Jungkook glanced down at you, a fond smile lighting up his face. It was time to go to bed. Tomorrow, he was off work, and he couldn't wait to spend the day with you. Cooking, kissing, watching movies, then rolling a joint. He had a feeling you wouldn't resist this time; you tended to like the games Jungkook chose. He was good at it. He had to be; that was also a part of his job, wasn't it? Making sure playtime with daddy was fun.

And how could he ever do anything but his best for his little girl?

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#yandere bts #jungkook x reader #bts reactions #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts smut #bts x reader

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