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shomatoriashi · 4 months ago

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09/01/24; 04:40pm

{ 18+ headcanons / drabbles }

[ when they’re too busy with work, but you’re needy for them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

it was the middle of the night when you woke up with a start, eyes going blurry as you blindly reached out to the opposite side of the bed-

only to realize that the sheets were cold to touch.

your sleepiness dissolves in an instant, with a soft yawn coming from your parted lips as you carefully get out of bed. a shiver courses through you upon feeling the cold marble against your feet, but you ignore such icy sensations.

opening the door out of the master bedroom, you wrap your arms around your chest, trying to keep in as much warmth that you could manage while making your way towards sylus’s office. there was a bit of a drag in your steps, your slow movements serving as sole evidence of your exhaustion-

but you would not sleep without sylus by your side.

finally reaching his office, you give the rich, oak door a series of knock, alerting your lover of your presence before inviting yourself inside. yet the moment you saw sylus settled on the expensive leather couch, you could feel your mouth turn dry.

he was dressed in a suit colored in ebony and crimson, the colors matching his aesthetic as his rufescent eyes meet with your gaze. an achingly soft smile graces his features, and you felt a pang of heat running down your spine at the mere sight of him.

gripping at the sheer material of your nightgown, your breathing comes out in uneven breaths. your eyes darken, mirroring your desires for him before asking, “sylus, won’t you join me in bed? it’s getting late.”

sylus’s eyes flash, giving you a momentary glimpse of lust while letting out a string of curses. “sweetheart, as much as i’d like to join you and keep you warm while in bed, i can’t. i’ve got to get these orders ready for my client.”

you bite down on your bottom lip, already feeling the moisture collecting from between your legs. not daring to look away from him, you slowly lock the door to his office, earning a raised brow from the onychinus leader.

you remain silent, stepping out of your ruined panties as you allow the flimsy material to fall to the ground. hunger was seen in sylus’s gaze the moment you shed your body free of your nightgown, allowing it to flutter to the floor before sauntering towards your lover.

sylus wastes no time pulling you closer to him, allowing your soaked cunt to pulsate against his thighs as you gently rode him, allowing your sticky sweet arousal to coat his suit.

“thats it, babygirl. keep on riding me, just like that. let me work for a little while longer, then i’ll take care of you.”

your gasps end up filling at the room, with sylus steadily losing interest in cleaning the weapons the moment you began bouncing up and down his thigh. his eyes had long since lost its crimson shade, becoming so dilated and filled with desire for you that he could feel his sanity snap.

needless to say, when sylus tosses the gun back on the table before unbuckling his pants, freeing his erection as he harshly grips at your thighs before impaling your slick heat against his cock, you lost all of your senses. being so filled with him after riding his thighs created such a hedonistic friction that you quickly became addicted to, never once stopping as you rode him with a desperation.

meanwhile, as luke and kieran were ready to deliver the next round of weapons, they froze upon seeing the office door locked as sounds of your breathy moans and sylus’s grunts were heard coming from behind the door. both twins end up looking at each other, their flustered expression hidden beneath their masks as they slowly backed away from the door.

it was best not to disturb their boss and his queen while in the middle of their trysts, a lesson that they were all too familiar with.

it was early in the morning at akso hospital, and as the staff were prepared to switch out with their coworkers for the upcoming shift, they would remain blissfully unaware of how a certain cardiac surgeon was still tied up and locked in his office.

zayne tries to hide back his groans, having to force himself to bite down on his fist the moment you came into his office. he had simply been going over some patient profiles when you came into his office with an almost dazed expression on your face.

he was filled with concern for you, already taking off his glasses while shoving his patient files to the side. one moment, he was filled with guilt for neglecting you for a few days due to how he wasn’t coming home as much-

and the next, zayne found himself settling back against his chair, with you remaining hidden beneath his desk as his cock was in your mouth. he was already half-erect the moment you began kissing his inner thighs, so it came as no surprise when he became even harder when you unzipped his pants and freed his cock from the confines of his boxers.

“i’m not mad at you.” you continue speaking to him, already stroking his cock in a loving manner before licking away the beads of precum that leaked from his mushroom tip. “i know you’re working so hard to save so many lives, but i wish to spoil you, too.”

zayne’s eyes were screwed shut the moment you place your hot mouth against his cock, feeling your tongue tracing at his veins while letting out a gasp of your name. his large hands automatically go into your hair, gently moving your head back and forth over his cock.

you hummed in pleasure, feeling the familiar twitch within your mouth. you had every intention to take him in as far as you could, yet zayne doesn’t even give you a chance to taste his cum when he harshly pulls your mouth away from his cock.

with a strength you didn’t think zayne was even capable of, you feel your lover shove aside the items on his desk before placing you on it. not even looking down at you, he slides off your soaked panties before shoving it into the pockets of his pants. gripping at your thighs, he spreads your legs apart before sheathing himself inside of you in one swift thrust.

“i need to make up for lost time… for neglecting you…” with heavy pants of your name, zayne grips at your leg before tossing it over his shoulder, making your eyes roll to the back of your head the moment he reaches oh so deeper inside of you all while kissing at your ankles.

and when your moans were heard echoing across the department, no one dared to question it.

“you’re such a brat.”

xavier was heard hissing at you, trying to keep his voice even as he was on the phone with one of the higher ups at the hunters association. here he was, trying to gather information for his mission next week while you were trying to free his cock from the confines of his pants.

“i can’t help it. you’re telling me you’re going to be gone for two weeks, and you expect me to behave?” you scoff, finally shoving down his pants to reveal his half-hardened cock. a cheshire cat grin paints your pretty features as you made quick work of stroking him to full hardness.

xavier lets out a hiss of your name, but has to swallow his moans when a stern voice was heard coming from his phone. “xavier, are you ready to receive details for this mission?”

“yes sir…!” a low gasp escapes from xavier’s lips the moment you place your lips on his tip, giving it a light suck. it takes xavier a herculean effort not to moan into the phone, feeling your hands and hot mouth fully sending him into an almost painful erection.

he catches bits and pieces of information, but was solely focused on the way your mouth and tongue traces at every inch of his cock. his breathing becomes heavier, feeling his impending climax approaching when you suddenly removed your lips away from him. the young hunter was all too eager to shove your face back against his cock when you slowly began to undress in front of him-

and dammit to hell, you just had to wear that lacy set beneath your clothes!

your soft giggle echoes throughout the room, and as you straddle him, he saw the way you moved the material of your lace panties to the side, ready to mount yourself on his cock.

“you’ve got it sir, i’ll be there next week.” luckily, xavier had already ended the call the moment you sheath his cock inside of your wet pussy, the squelching sounds of you riding his cock echoing throughout the living room. with a growl of your name, xavier grabs a hold of your waist before proceeding to bounce you up and down his cock at an almost inhuman speed.

“is this what you want? for me to ruin you completely that you won’t be able to walk until i return?”

your mewls and eager nods were all that he needed to continue pounding mercilessly into you, eyes already going dilated as he had every intention of claiming you.

“i’m going to make sure that my cock is forever imprinted against your sweet little heat… so be prepared for it, little brat…” he finishes his statement with a particularly hard thrust, making you see stars as you had every intention to ride him for as long as you could manage.

rafayel had long forgotten about his commissioned painting the moment you began to eagerly bounce up and down his cock. the moment he felt your slickness wrapping so tightly around him was when he lost all train of thought.

you had come home from work late in the evening and wished to greet rafayel. however, when you saw the portrait he was working on, you began to feel envious of the gorgeous girl seen painted on the canvas. he tried to explain to you that a governor had commissioned him to paint a portrait of his daughter for her 23rd birthday, but you didn’t wish to hear it.

and now, he found that he could care less about finishing such a portrait with you bouncing up and down so eagerly against his cock. filled with his own desperation for you, rafayel tries to meet your downward thrusts with his own upward ones, panting as he begins to lose his breath.

being so captivated and drunk off of you, the young artist could feel a whimper being ripped from the confines of his throat when you began kissing him, swallowing his grunts and moans of your name. as you continued to bounce up and down his cock, he could feel the curve of your breasts and your hardened nipples against his own chest.

“am i prettier than her?” you ask in a breathless whisper, purposefully squeezing your cunt over his pulsating dick. it was no competition in rafayel’s eyes. “o-of course you are- fuck! you’re the prettiest girl in the entire universe. you’re my fucking princess.”

a pleased hum was heard coming from you when you lay back against his lap, moving your hips up and down his cock at this brand new angle that had the artist seeing stars. “f-fuck… princess… you’re squeezing me so tight! l-like you want to milk me dry.”

“hehe, that’s the plan…” feeling your legs and cunt tightening so sweetly around him makes rafayel gasp, stilling his hips before shooting ropes of his seed deep inside of you. with you remaining laid back, your back against his thighs, you allowed your release to wash over you, earning a grunt from rafayel.

as your honeyed arousal further wets his softening cock, your lover leans over to press a searing kiss against your lips all while returning your body closer to him. his tongue fights with yours for dominance, and he lets out a pleased hum the moment you yield for him.

when the need for air proved to be too much, rafayel was the first to pull away from you, giving you a gentle smile before asking, “did our copulation manage to ease you of your envy?”

you give him a thoughtful expression, placing your pointer finger against your lips before smirking at him. his eyes end up going wide when you began to bounce up and down his limp cock, stroking it back to full hardness with a determination seen deep within your eyes.

“not quite yet, rafe… i’m going to need this to go on the whole night to make me convinced that i am the only woman for you.”

and with one final groan of your name, rafayel knew better than to deny you of your needs.

end notes: i am still soooo thirsty for my lads men, so have this post 🫠

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

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starlessea · 5 days ago

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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]

Chapter 1: Tally

Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend

Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.

This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.

There’s no space left on the walls.

The thought sickens you; bile backs up into your throat before you swallow it down. There has to be something, somewhere—a small patch of unmarked paint for you to draw your next tally line. Desperately searching, your hands shake with realisation. There’s no more space on the walls. Nowhere left for you to mark the day.

How many had it been, again? Four-hundred—more?

You start counting the tallies in multiples of five, beginning with the wall nearest the door and working clockwise around your bedroom. It had been a supply cupboard initially, scarcely big enough for you to lie flat. Blankets were scrunched at your feet, the result of yet another restless night, and your few belongings sat tucked into built-in shelving. You had committed it all to memory—every inch, a map of your isolation.

Three-hundred-and-eighty-five… Three-hundred-and-ninety… Three-hundred-and-ninety-five—

A sound interrupts your counting.

There’s a thunk in the distance, barely there. You pause mid-breath. Soon enough, another follows. It’s a distant, hollow thud that sends ripples of panic through your body.

The response is immediate. The tremors start with your fingertips before spreading upwards. Every breath exacerbates them, and soon you find yourself violently shaking. Something is approaching. You know it before you hear the next noise, a clink some ways off that cuts through the stillness.

Instinct takes over. You’re on your feet before you can think it through. The hatchet under your pillow is cold, its handle familiar. It becomes an extension of your limbs as your fingers mold around it. Your voice, alarmed, races through your head:

How’d it get in—what entrance had you missed? How many? How many?

You find your footing. The supply door creaks as you toe it open; it needs greasing again. There’s a jerry can in the music room downstairs—you know—but you’d lacked the energy for the trip. The hunger pangs had been keeping you bedridden, and only when dark spots crept into your vision did you dare venture out.

Now you have no choice. Something’s coming, and you need to deal with it.

As you creep through the door, the smell of decay hits you. Gore and innards have seeped into the floorboards, your bare feet squelching atop the ichor. Before you, the corridor is lined with undead, their bodies shoved up against the walls to form a pathway through the middle.

At first, you’d made an effort to clean them away—burying and burning and scrubbing and praying. But as the days went on, they just kept piling up. There were only so many bodies one person could attend, and even that took its toll. Before you knew it, they were under your nails and in your hair, then sometimes your head.

It was pointless.

It didn’t matter if you locked them away in the auditorium; you were never truly rid of them. Eventually, you gave up altogether. They were just another fixture of your life. Another layer of filth that had come to define this world.

They’re watching you now. You feel them. Judging you, condemning you. Stop it, you think, fixing onto one—it’s face half-shredded, an eye hanging from the socket. Don’t look at me like that. But its gaze is unrelenting. You swallow hard, and continue past the corpse. He was a kind man, once. Back when he had been one.

Your hatchet is weighing you down. It’s far heavier than you remembered, and your body, more sluggish. Most of the food has perished by now—only a few cans left rolling about the cafeteria. You didn’t pick through them anymore. There were too many memories in there. Too many things left behind.

Malnourishment had taken its toll on you. Despite covering all the mirrors, you couldn’t avoid the contours of your hands, skin stretched taut over boney fingers, topped by brittle nails. In certain lights, you were not dissimilar to the undead—slowly wasting away.

“Man, this place is god-awful.”

You freeze. Voices slice through the cloying air.

“I’m telling you, something ain’t right here,” one says, close enough to spit. “Bunch’a dead walkers and you don’t stop to think, why? We got the meds, food’s nothing but dust, so what are we sticking around for?”

A second voice, lighter, and a bit strained rebuts, “I don’t remember making you in charge. Keep walking, and I’ll keep pretending like I didn’t see you stuff that bottle of pills down your pants.”

Pills? You blink, your mind struggling to piece the words together. There were pills in the sick-bay down the hall—yes. That was true. So these people… Were they real?

You deliberate for a moment. In your entire time here, you hadn’t seen another person since the outbreak. Not a real one at least—or living.

No, you decided. They were undead. They had to be.

The shuffling of footsteps grows louder. They’re close now. Too close. You’re shaking so viciously that your bones ache. It’s now or never. As the undead round the corner, you are decided.

You aim for the head when you swing.

Thwack.

The impact is solid—satisfying. But beneath the hatchet, the wall crumbles. There is no corpse, no contact with flesh. Before you, a man stares wide-eyed, his jacket crumpled in the fist of his companion, who had pulled him backwards in the nick of time.

Your breath catches in your throat as you ready yourself for another go.

They won’t fool you. There’s space in the auditorium—you’ll make space.

“Jesus Christ, put the axe down!” yells the man.

Each word is raw, grating on your ears. You don’t move; you can’t move.

“Bob, stop,” snaps the first man. His hands are up now, palms flat as though facing off with a wild animal. “Look, we’re not going to do anything,” he says, punctuating each word. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Beside him, the other one reaches for his gun. Your mind flashes—weapon. They want to hurt you. They’re going to kill you. Your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes of its own volition. You know fear; you’re looking at it in his eyes.

Was he… afraid of you?

“You’re alone, right?” he asks, unmoving. “We can take you back with us.”

No reply comes. Your head swims. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. But something in his tone—something warm and steady—pulls at you. You’re not sure why.

Something stirs inside of you. Back?

Despite your silence, your expression must have given you away. The man stands straighter, slowly letting his arms retract and settle in at his sides.

His eyes flicker to your hatchet before he clears his throat, “We have a community. It’s not much yet but we’re making it into a home,” he says, gesturing between himself and the cautious man. “Us and a few others.”

Your body is screaming from exertion at this point. The hatchet trembles in your hands, but you don’t lower it.

“Th—there—”

You pause; your voice isn’t coming out. It’s ragged and the stutter is a new development.

All this time… had you forgotten how it felt to speak?

You force a swallow and try again. “There are o—others?” you eventually manage.

The man with the frightened eyes doesn’t respond, but his companion—Bob, you recall—crosses his arms over his chest. “How long’s it been since you seen someone, huh?” he asks brusquely.

Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days.

You shake your head. The action seems to irritate him. He dares an approach, and like a trigger pulled, your trembles evolve into full-blown convulsing. Your heel slides back on a pool of blood, the shift in balance unsettling you.

“Hey, hey—” A voice breaks through, fixing your attention. “Look at me.”

The man whose name you do not know crouches just enough to toss his gun to the floor. The weapon lands with a dull splatter. Bob’s follows—much to his dismay.

The action does little to ease your concerns.

What if these men weren’t real?

Your mind has done this before—crafted strangers out of silence. It wouldn’t be the first time you mistook the undead for a familiar face. Worse thoughts suddenly cross you:

What if they are real? What did they want with you—what would they do to you?

Quick as a blink, you’re back on guard.

The weaponless man sighs. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through, or how you’ve managed to hide out here this long…” he says, pausing for a moment. “But you can’t stay. This place reeks of death.”

The word lingers in the air. He directs a grimace at the audience of blue-black corpses behind you.

“God, it smells so bad.”

Before you can reply, he's back looking at you—through you, almost—like he’s staring into the very foundation of your being.

“You don’t want to rot away here, do you?”

You stand frozen, unable to respond. Your throat tightens as you search for words, but none come.

Bob’s impatience cuts through the moment. “Glenn, let’s get out of here already. You can’t save ‘em all. This one’s bat-shit,”

The words don’t sting; they barely register. In this moment, your eyes are only trained on the man whose head you almost dislodged from his shoulders—Glenn.

He’s waiting. You can discern no pity in his face, no judgment. Just an offer.

You say nothing.

After a beat, Glenn gives you a small nod and concedes. Bob counters with a told-you-so sort of look before retrieving his pistol from the floor—wiping it over his jeans.

They prepare to leave.

“W—wait.”

It’s barely louder than a breath, but Glenn hears it. He stops, turning just enough to face you.

Your chest is heaving now, the anxiety, palpable. Every instinct screams at you to run, to hide, to stay locked in the little supply cupboard at the end of the hall.

“I’ll go,” you say instead.

Glenn doesn’t smile—there’s nothing triumphant about it—but his own fear seems to have left him. He keeps a good distance but beckons you with his hand; it’s clean.

“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

—

Bob is dry-heaving in the passenger seat.

The heat of the truck only amplified the stench of death clinging to you. They were right; it is awful. Back at the college, you did your best to bathe somewhat, with whatever water you could scavenge. But it was never enough. The foul miasmas had seeped into everything: your clothes, your skin, your sweat. It would take some time to air out.

Curling tighter to the door, you try to avoid Glenn’s strained expression in the rearview mirror.

“Told you it was bad,” he says. His tone is light, far too casual; it makes you want to sink into the seats. “Nothing a good shower won’t fix, though?”

You can’t bring yourself to nod. Perhaps you’d feel ashamed had it not been for the unadulterated panic ripping through you. Everything is too much: the thrum of the engine, the weight of the hatchet on your thigh, the sunlight—

How long had it been since you’d seen it? Four months?

That’s right. It had been four months since the generator had sputtered out, leaving you to exist in the dark for the remaining two-hundred-and-sixty-odd days. In truth, you’d grown used to it. Most windows you’d pasted with newspapers from the old art room, so even the sunniest days were reduced to a shadow. The open sky feels wrong to you now, like it’s exposing you to things you’d forgotten how to face.

You try not to blink. Each time the sun slices through the trees, it adds to the utter overstimulation. Your muscles are spasming, sapping the little energy you have left. The movement is making the smell worse. Glenn flicks the fans in a poor attempt to cycle the air, and almost immediately, you’re greeted by warm wafts of your own stench.

Bob sticks his head further out the window. You cough wetly—trying not to vomit.

“Deep breaths,” Glenn reminds. You catch his eyes flicking between you and the road. “We’re almost there.”

You don’t answer; you can’t.

“Though I am going to warn you about something,” he adds. Hesitation lines his voice, doing nothing for your nerves. “I don’t want you to freak out, but… our community is, uh, in a prison.”

A prison?

The word ricochets in your head.

Your jaw slackens as you process the words. Glenn hurriedly continues. “Hey, it’s okay,” he blurts, “We’re not gonna lock you up or anything.”

His reassurance does little to stem the panic.

“We’re locked up now anyway,” Bob mutters from the passenger side. “Stuck in this hotbox with a raging loon.”

Glenn smacks him. The truck veers as he forfeits the wheel, but he's quick to correct it. He finds your eyes in the mirror again. “I promise it’s safe. Safer than anywhere else we’ve found.”

You don’t believe him.

But before you can spiral any further, the truck slows, rolling to a stop in front of a chain-link fence. Beyond, a prison looms in the distance—a great hulking thing absent of any colour—and from it, a figure comes jogging to open the gates. You're here.

At the sight of another unfamiliar face, your doubts make themselves known.

Run. You have to get out. Run. Run. Run—

The door handle is in your hand before you realise it. The truck hasn’t fully stopped, but you shove it open anyway. The rush of motion tilts the vehicle, and Glenn curses as he hits the breaks.

The ground comes up fast. Your legs give out the moment they hit dirt. Above you, the sunlight is blinding. This time, you’re sure you’ll be sick.

“Whoa, hey, hold up!”

A woman’s voice brings you back. Before you can react, there’s a pressure under your arm—hands, firm but steady. You instinctively jerk away but you’re too weak to pull free.

“Don’t struggle. It’s okay,” she soothes. Trembling, you force yourself to look up.

Crouching before you is a woman with cropped hair, her features delicate yet hard. As her eyes sweep over your body, you catch a flicker of sadness in them.

“Goodness, you poor thing,” she murmurs. “Seems like Glenn’s brought home another stray.”

Her arm slips under yours again, and this time you let her help you up. There’s no fight left in you; it’s taking every morsel of strength to hug your hatchet to your chest. Each step is heavier than the last, but her encouragement—almost motherly—keeps you moving.

You try not to stare as she leads you toward the main building. People move around the yard. Real people. More than you’ve seen in months. Their voices blur together, too loud, too close, and you want nothing more than to shrink away from all of it.

As you make it inside, the air is cooler but no less stifling.

You're in a cell block. It's stark, structurally plain. Metal bars, concrete floors, and the faint scent of bleach that doesn’t quite mask something darker. In the center of the room is a makeshift cooking area, a hodgepodge of furniture surrounding a lunch table poached from the outer yard. A small group gathers there.

You do a quick count: Man. Man. Child. Woman. Baby—

Your brow furrows. Baby?

The woman cradling the infant has dark skin and neat locs, as opposed to the child, whose parents were probably another casualty of this world. She maintains her distance.

“Rick,” the woman at your side calls out, garnering the attention of everyone.

A man responds to the name. He cuts through the group with measured steps. His stature is lean, his features weathered. He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, boots, a tan button-down rolled to the elbows—but his stance, the set of his jaw, that air of gravitas… It all screams leader.

You plant yourself firm into the floor.

The man—Rick—scarcely spares you a glance. “Another one?” he asks Glenn from over your head. “Where d’you pick ‘em up this time?”

“Old community college,” Glenn answers.

Rick lets out a short, tired breath. “Okay,” he says, before directing his attention toward you. “Then answer me this: how many walkers—”

He stops mid-sentence. For the first time, he really sees you. His expression sours as he does a quick scan, taking in every detail from your bare feet to the stained-red hatchet embedded in your chest. You see his nose twitch as he inhales.

“Rick...” the short-haired woman interjects, placing a hand to his chest. “Not now,” she says firmly.

“Not now,” Rick echoes. The frown lines marring his brow soften slightly. “It’s okay,” he says instead. “You’re safe now.”

You blink once.

Safe? Why does everyone keep saying that—Like it’s some guarantee?

Something in his eyes tells you he doesn’t believe it either; like he’s said those words too many times before.

“It’s not much, but it’s a roof and four walls. It’s a place to raise our kids.” Rick nods his head at the child with his likeness, a brown-haired boy in a deputy hat, and then to the woman holding the baby. “We’ve got water here—food. Daryl’s a hunter, and a damn good one. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

You’re only half-listening. At the mention of another name, your eyes drift past Rick, settling on the figure at the edge of the group.

That’s the hunter—Daryl. You can tell by the crossbow slung across his back, and the dirt stains on his skin, far greater in number than the rest of them. His stance was casual but guarded, his sleeveless shirt exposing corded muscle. You catch his eyes, pinned under a mop of tawny fringe.

They’re the kind that don’t miss a thing.

You can tell he’s studying you just as closely as you’re studying him. There’s a tension in his posture, like a rubber band ready to snap at a moment’s notice. It unsettles you.

It frightens you.

“She should lie down,” Glenn says, breaking the silence, “Let Hershel take a look at her when he’s back.”

Rick nods. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady you as you sway on your feet.

“I can walk,” you mutter, words barely audible. “I can walk.”

No one listens.

There’s an exchange of glances between Rick and the short-haired woman. Then, with a gesture so slow it feels deliberate, she steps in close again, threading your arm through hers. Her grip is firm but unobtrusive; you feel yourself leaning into her without meaning.

Glenn attempts to relieve you of the hatchet, but you twist away, eyes flashing with warning. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay. You can keep it,” he placates.

The next thing you know, you’re being led into the prison’s interior. The cell they bring you to is small, the cot inside neatly made. But the room feels too open, too exposed. You hesitate at the doorway.

“This one’s yours,” Rick states simply. As he points, a keychain jingles at his belt.

You fixate on it. “The—The key?” you question.

Rick’s brow furrows. He hesitates, then thumbs through the chain until he finds the one he’s looking for—a long, slender thing with a dull shine.

“Here,” he says. “Take it if it makes you feel better.”

It does.

You don’t mean to snatch it from him, but the warmth of his hand is unexpected, and you find yourself clawing for the key. Tucking it into your palm, you slide the gate shut. It latches with a clink, and a shaky breath escapes you.

“Right, well...” Rick steps back, giving you space. “Get some rest. We’ll come check on you in a bit.”

He lingers for a moment longer, his hand hovering over the bars like he’s deliberating prodding an animal at the zoo. When you don’t respond, he straightens and beckons Glenn to follow him out. The kind woman gives you one last reassuring nod before retreating, her boots echoing down the corridor.

Alone again.

Despite your fatigue, you don’t move to the cot. It’s far too clean. Instead, you yank the sheets from it, piling them onto the floor in the furthest corner of the room. They bunch at your feet, turning the colour of rust as dried blood flakes from your skin. Quietly, you sink down into your new bed.

For once your mind is empty. Your eyes, unblinking, stare at the expanse of wall. It feels wrong in some way you can’t quite place. Instinctively, your fingers find the loose match in your pocket—the one you kept for emergencies. You strike it and watch the flame quiver for a brief moment before blowing it out.

With the blackened end, you draw a tally mark on the stone before you:

One.

There’s plenty of space on these walls.

A/N And that's chapter one! It's been years since I've written anything like this, but I have big things planned. My style has definitely changed (hopefully for the better) and this series will be heavier than my previous stuff... But that hopefully means better payoff. I'd love to hear your thoughts. In all honesty, I was a little nervous about sharing this. I don't know if anyone still reads my stories, or even cares, so some feedback would be appreciated :) See you in the next one x

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl dixon x oc #twd #twd fanfic #daryl x you #daryl dixon twd #daryl fanfic #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagine #fanfiction #norman reedus #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction

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thebibliosphere · 11 months ago

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Not to be an unbearable plot tease, but I'm editing/rewriting a chapter from Hunger Pangs book 2, and while I adore all of my characters equally, Vlad and Ursula getting to know each other properly might actually be some of my favorite moments.

His realization that he can pester Ursula to tell him more about random historical events as they actually happened, not how they are portrayed in history books, is so, so sweet. He's like an excited labrador who just found a dinosaur bone.

Ursula's very much not used to this kind of attention.

She's used to people only being interested in her power. And here's a werewolf who couldn't give less of a fuck about exploiting her magic for his own gain, and a vampire who wants to ask her what textile production was like circa the fall of the Ecrecian Empire.

#hunger pangs series #hunger pangs meta #I like that I can still make myself smile with this #it means I'm probably doing something right #Vlad is me in this instance #if you gave me access to a time machine #I'd make a complete nuisance of myself wanting to learn the answer to every random historical query that has ever crossed my mind

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occamstfs · 8 months ago

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Tenor Troubles

Masculinization spurred by a going from a Tenor to a Bass, bit of an odd one but hope you enjoy! -Occam

Max probably should have read his contract more closely. He knew that grad students across the board were getting shafted, but the agreement he has with the College of Fine Arts was some next level exploitation. He prided himself on his voice, being able to sing higher than even most of the Altos he has previously studied alongside. But his degree plan on the already signed contract suggests he is going to be enrolled as a Bass in the graduate program. Clearly there has been some misunderstanding that he’ll just need to work out with the department.

He knocks on the door of his advising professor and without waiting for a come in he bursts through the doors to see the man who is both his boss and professor staring at him less than pleased. Max’s face reddens in embarrassment and before he can even open his mouth to speak, Dr. Reyes addresses him.

“Maxwell is it. I trust you have a reason for barging into my office? I ask that you take more care towards decorum in the future.”

Max stumbles through an apology before getting to the matter at hand. “Y- yes of course I’m so sorry doctor it won't happen again, I swear.” He raises his eyes to his professor’s stern gaze, flinching back slightly as he goes on, “it’s just that, um, it looks like there was some kind of mix-up with my enrollment, I mean clearly you can tell I’m a Tenor right?” He raises his tone slightly and smiles awkwardly as he tries to make it clear to the man across from him that he certainly does not have the range.

Dr. Reyes rubs his beard, briefly covering his own mouth and wiping a smile from his face. “Well now Maxwell, there does seem to be a mismatch between your vocal training, and your preferred classes and yada yada,” waving his hands dismissively as Max’s face stains a deeper shade of scarlet by the second. Reyes goes on, “I'll see what I can do but all these changes take time If you must change your plan it’ll be at least a week. Until then if you could see to it that you fulfill the TA demands asked of you and attend your classes hm? You are under contract are you not?” The image of his signature at the bottom of contract feels burned into his retinas as he starts to reply, “well yes but-” An alarm goes off on the professor’s desk. “Very well Maxwell, if you would excuse me.”

Dr. Reyes makes his way to the next class smiling as he too thinks of the fine print of Maxwell's contract. ‘The student will become what the program asks of him.’ What a dunce one must be to sign that without an inquiry. Giving one last glance behind him to see the small student shaking with rage at the series of events, veins appearing to bulge out of his neck as he thinks about chasing after his professor, almost taking a step before grasping at his head. Max doubles over and grunts, after a painful second he rises once more and sees his advising professor enter a classroom. He exhales through his nose and walks to the concert hall with the undergraduate Bass students, the course he is, both legally and otherwise, compelled to assist with.

The Next Week

Max is inches away from just dropping out. He was well-prepared to be constantly stressed from grad school but the wrench of working with students who don’t respect him and professors that are expecting him to sing alongside the rest of these professional bassists, it’s impossible! Dr. Reyes must be doing some sick joke on him, there is no reason it should be so difficult to fix this! He shouldn’t be graded for the university’s mistake. Beyond the looming threat of flunking these courses for his inaptitude he is also constantly hungry. His stomach rumbles and sends pangs through his body as he sits through each course on vocal instruction. He succumbs to stress-eating assuming one plate must fall and it may as well be his waistline.

Every time he indulges in his hunger he finds weight almost immediately piles on. Alongside his meticulously honed falsetto he has always enjoyed just how tight and small he kept his twinkish figure, though this begins to slip as he finds himself straining his tight pants and his stomach showing through his button ups.

The final issue lies precisely in his private vocal practice, in lieu of the training his program should guarantee. As he goes about practicing the arias and vocalizations that he typically uses as warmups he finds himself struggling to hit the highest notes. He works his way through them slowly and slips up, finding his range is peaking out much lower than it ever should. He grimaces and refuses to deign and see if his range has increased in the other direction. He goes note by note, taking his time to feel the stress and vibrations of his vocal chords. Reaching the pinnacle of the piece he strains to hit the high note and his voice promptly cracks. He feels a tear. He coughs and gasps for air concerned that he has truly injured himself.

When no blood or further pain reveals itself Max finally clears his throat and drinks a glass of water. He tests his voice, “Uhhhh-” forcing his hand over his mouth before even getting a full syllable out. Eyes watering as he hears his voice is unmistakably deeper than it was not a minute ago. This spurs him to action as he storms to the college and bangs on the door of Dr. Reyes.

For his part Reyes is sitting at the desk finishing an email and grinning as he hears the banging grow only more fervent at his door. He finishes his email almost laughing at how effective he is at controlling the man at the door. Knock as he may he could not storm in if he wanted to, as he must desperately. Closing his laptop and reaching to grab a tea bag from within his desk he calls to allow Max entry, “Do come in Maxwell.”

Stomping into the room, unaccustomed to the new weight he carries, which Dr. Reyes is all too pleased to notice. He takes a deep breath as he prepares to shout at the professor, his chest growing as his already prodigious lungs expand. Before finishing though Reyes raises a finger and strikes him passive and mute. “Now Max, why don’t you have a seat.” He clenches his hands with a furor and sits, stewing in his mind while also rapt with attention. “How have you been liking your classes?” Max continues to sit silently watching as the prepare a pot of tea, beginning to forget his ire as he looks on in confusion at the man. Reyes turns once more and rolls his eyes, “Well go on.”

Shaking out of it Max finally starts clearing his throat a few times hoping the voice he has worked so hard to protect and train will return “I, ugh- Sorry it’s ugh!” Dr. Reyes leans against his desk and steeps the tea bag, eyebrows raised with a thin smile on his face. Failing to speak as he so wishes the rage returns to Max and he shouts out, “It’s my fucking voice! I came here to learn and all these classes are just a waste of my fucking time!”

Reyes pours the tea into a large mug and sets it in front of his student, “Now now, if you were having voice problems why didn’t you just say so Max. I am a professional after all! Have some of this and I’m sure it will set you right as rain.” The professor watches as Max grasps the mug and stares into it. He remembers that Reyes was already preparing it when he came in. But it’s not as if his advisor would do something truly untoward right? Sensing the hesitation Dr. Reyes’ eyes darken and he commands, “I did say to drink it did I not.”

Max quickly raises the glass and sips. His eyes remain dark and he continues, “what seems to be the problem with your voice young Maxwell?” Taking a break from drinking he starts to explain all of his troubles to the man who should be looking out for him. Gesturing to his clearly larger body, Reyes notices beyond the weight gain that the sitting man is adjusting himself as his pants begin to grow even tighter, his ankles growing exposed as if his legs were lengthening.

He continues to stumble onward with his recollection, forgetting what exactly bothered him enough to storm in. Reyes half-listens and takes care to refill the tea cup as needed, taking in the physical changes to the man rambling and wondering just how far they will be able to go. Eventually Reyes speaks up, “you were having trouble with your voice, yes Maxwell?”

Max’s eyes glimmer with recognition and he almost jumps with a start, “Yes! That was it I couldn’t sing the part I auditioned with in Nessun Dorma and I was-” His professor interrupts as he takes a big swing at Max’s psyche, “Is that so? What were you doing singing that Maxwell, that’s for tenors.” As if a grenade went off in his mind Max struggles to reconcile and remember what his problem was, did he not audition as a Tenor? But he couldn’t sing high to save his life right? Or no.

Reyes watches as Max’s brow grows sweaty in his inner struggle. He physically raises the cup to Max’s mouth helping him finish the entire pot of tea. Confident that the man before him is far enough gone to only latch on his words, Reyes offers him a bone, “which side of your range are you struggling with boy.” Feeling emasculated by the professor infantilizing him he feels an urge to test his lower range. Reyes sees the resolve in Max’s eyes and challenges him, “Go on, sing your lowest note, now.” Max takes a deep breath and produces a sonorous note sustaining it far better than he would have ever expected himself to.

Reyes smiles and shoots to plant another seed, “Well now Maxwell, I’m not quite sure what the problem is then. Your range seems to be what any trained Baritone’s should be.” The word Baritone echoes through Max’s head as he once more grows paralyzed in his own mind. He ekes out a “B- Baritone?” his voice cracking even deeper as he freezes. Reyes watches as his eyebrows knit together in confusion, they seem to grow thicker as they near each other.

Vocal range and masculinity don’t inherently match one-to-one but the professor is more than happy to allow it, staring as the weight from Max’s stomach begins to slightly redistribute itself, it slides up his chest, straining the buttons near his collar. Reyes shifts to look at Max’s face, eyes lingering on the Adam's apple making itself unmissable on his neck. He sees peach fuzz growing on Max’s upper lip and sideburns. Thoroughly pleased with the acceleration he has achieved today an alarm once more goes off on his phone and he readies to send his protege off.

“Maxwell dear, I thank you for your patience. Of course I know that you’d prefer to be with the other Baritone student’s though I am sure you are learning valuable information working outside your comfort zone hm? I’m sure we’ll have this snafu fixed by next week.” Max just stares in a stupor as he stares at his professor, the empty mug of tea still in his hand before he sets it down to scratch at his tighter shirt. Dr. Reyes offers him a kerchief to wipe the drool from his mouth as he leads him out of his office, “Why don’t you try your warm ups, I’m sure they’ll set you right as rain.”

Just as he did last time he takes one last look at his growing student as he begins to wander down the hall, his pants swiftly turning from slacks to tight capris. He hears the echo of the man humming to himself as he walks down the hallway to his own office hours. He’ll need to be ready for whatever his Bass performance students need right? Can’t have them out showing him even if he’s still working outside his comfort zone. Just one more week of this and he’ll get to show off to the Baritones, once more with his choral cohort.

The Next Week

Dr. Reyes stays abreast of how his star pupil is doing this week. He visits during private lessons and checks into lectures on music theory and rehearsals. He hears the man force his voice to be stronger. After any challenge he hears the man force himself to be louder. When struggling with curriculum, surely impeded by the doctor’s manipulation, he clutches at his head as his body surges larger, tightening clothes that were already sizes too large when he started his education here.

He sees Max looking at his reflection in the mirror of a practice room. He checks his beard from every angle, tilting his head up to see his large Adam's apple and smirks watching it vibrate as he hums. He unbuttons yet another button of his shirt, allowing an even greater view of his pecs as thick chest hair spills outward. Reyes hears his voice power through the soundproofed room as he approaches. He has clearly decided to leave Baritone behind without any prodding as he endeavors to show off his talents despite ostensibly singing to himself.

Dr. Reyes knocks on the door of the practice room and like an eager dog Max falls over himself to answer it. He now stands taller than his professor whose head now lies directly at the hairy pecs spilling from his opened shirt. Max’s eyes glimmer as he looks down to the smug face of the professor. He quickly sits down to lower himself below the doctor and eagerly awaits whatever is soon to spill from Reyes’ mouth.

“I must say Maxwell, you have truly outdone yourself. Truly you hold one of the most powerful Bass voices I have heard in my time.” Max sits quietly, his heart racing with excitement from such kind words. He struggles to stay silent, lest he speak out of turn, though he cannot hide the rumble in his chest as his deep breaths accelerate. The doctor struggles to keep it together as he sees a pulse in the unmistakable, currently growing, bulge in Max’s pants. He briefly wonders if he’s gone too far, before looking back to the man’s face, seeing his eyes still staring directly into him waiting.

Perhaps he can go farther. “Is it not a shame though, my dear Max, that you’re not a true Basso Profundo?” There is a loud tear in the room as Max’s body surges larger. He shoots up inches more in height revealing a hairy stomach and pubes that already spill beyond the bounds of his pants. Reyes hears a catch in his student’s breath and watches as his Adam's apple bulge even further from his throat. His cock bursts the zipper of his pants and Max moans loud and deep enough for the professor to feel it in his chest. Reyes can’t take his eyes from the hair covering his chest grows even darker, curling as each strand grows thicker.

Before losing control of himself and his desires Dr. Reyes forces one last statement through Max’s mind, “You know the department has always wanted a basso profundo coach. How would you feel about being an assistant professor, Max?” In response Max can only sit in awe as a look of what can only be described as pleasure stains his face, mouth lolling open as his eyes grow crossed. His hands clench the sides of his chair as he struggles to not lose control over himself and the professor. Thinking of staining the practice room only makes it more difficult to keep it together.

Reyes feels a hunger within himself as he stares down at the massive man seconds away from cumming all over himself. In time he too will only know Max as the powerful man he is now. At this juncture however the doctor sneaks out of the practice room and heads to return to his office to prepare for office hours, what kind of a professor would he be if he wasn’t there for his pupils after all.

Walking down the hallway he hears the man in the practice room lose control, his voice echoing down the hall before hearing him run out and to the nearest bathroom. He prioritizes increasing the soundproofing of the practice rooms before turning to see the new Assistant Professor sprint down the hallway towards the nearest restroom. Struggling to move swiftly or quietly in his far-too-strained clothing. Reyes returns to the desk and smiles once more to himself as he thinks of a future for himself, his program, and his new star Basso Profundo, before hearing yet another knock at the door.

“Do come in.”

#male tf #masculinization #mental change #muscle tf #hair growth #male transformation

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after-witch · 1 month ago

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You Never Come Back, Not All the Way [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: You Never Come Back, Not All the Way [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: You haven't thrown up in months, but all you want to do is eat. Part of the It's My Party series.

Word count: 2500ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, graphic eating disorder behavior including internal thoughts & actions

Outside, the world is moving and shaking, or so you hear. Villain attacks, media censorship, frightened people that don’t want to stay out late at night.

All of this is told to you by Tomura, who murmurs these things at an almost lullaby pace at night. Like it should lull you to sleep to know that he is (or he thinks he is) closer to his goal than ever before.

Inside, none of that matters. Attacks, heroes, villains, none of it makes a dent. All you can think about--all you know for certain in this capsule of a room you’re kept in is--

You want food.

No, not just food. You want something rich and hearty. Something you can dip into chili or stew, something that will pair well with watching a cooking challenge show or a scene from a restaurant in a movie.

Bread would be nice. Nice bread would be even nicer.

Not stale sandwich bread found in dumpsters or last-chance cheap brand pre-sliced white bread that was priced down to practically nothing (and it was stolen before it made its way to your plate, anyway).

But real bread, the kind you buy in loaves, the kind you can rip into hunks before spreading rich butter on it. The kind you stick on top of a bowl of stew so that it gets soft and the butter melts into the bread a little bit.

The kind you dip into a stew, sopping up all the delicious rich beef and hearty vegetables before taking a big, chewy bite.

Oh, fuck. Just one loaf of that kind of bread, please.

It would be bliss.

If you asked, Tomura might try to get it for you. “Try” being the key word. You’d probably get a dented can of beef stew and one of those pre-sliced loaves of “French bread” that was always too soft and tasteless to really be satisfying.

That’s what your life is, at the moment. Always having to settle for not-quite-the-same; settle for things that aren’t what you wanted but you’ll take them because it’s as close as you’ll get.

It’s not fair. None of it is.

For another more pertinent example, you would also really love to throw up right now.

Yes, yes, you’re supposed to be recovering. You’re not supposed to want to do that anymore. Tomura sits on you and distracts you and tells you that he likes you, so you don’t need to worry about things like weight. (He doesn’t get, no matter how much you try to tell him, that it’s not about how you look. Not really. It’s about what’s inside, literally, and you want to rip it all out.)

You think it’s the hunger that makes you want to throw up. Ironically enough. You’re not starving, exactly, but Tomura doesn’t exactly have an abundance of food. It’s not just you that needs to get fed, but the rest of the “League,” too.

So those little hunger pangs that used to make you crow when you achieved them on purpose are now, instead, frustrating you. Making you sad. Making you feel weak.

Making you want to eat.

Right now--

You’d love to stuff your face with as much food as possible (the thought of ordering multiple pizzas comes to mind, or making a vat of something rich, spaghetti or a stew, and devouring it one night) and puke it out into the toilet.

You’d love to feel the rush of adrenaline when you’re mid-session, the lightness that comes from emptying the contents of your stomach and watching it flush away. That feeling of power (however fake, and you know it’s so fucking fake, you’re not in control and never have been) that flushes your chest while vomit swirls down the toilet.

But you can’t, for various reasons.

One, the toilet here is very unreliable. It clogs sometimes with just a little pee and paper, never mind what it might do with thick clumps of carb-heavy vomit. You’ve had to convince Tomura regarding the concept of a “courtesy flush,” something you never want to relive again on pain of death.

Two, you don’t have enough food to actually binge and purge. There’s no abundance of food like there used to be, before he kidnapped you. So the act would just leave you empty, empty, empty--with nothing to fill it with later. Whether you keep it down the second time or not.

You just have to settle for not-quite-the-same. Which, at the moment, means chewing a muffin topped with possibly just-about-to-turn butter as slowly as possible. Savoring it. Imagining that you’re back home and you have an entire tray to eat.

In reality, you have just three, and they’re supposed to last you all day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Combined with pre-cooked egg cups that taste smelly when you microwave them, and a few scattered bags of chips. But chips and eggs aren’t great for this not-quite-the-same activity. The texture isn’t the same… chips get stuck in your teeth, and there’s nothing satisfying about chewing an egg.

So a muffin it is.

You chew slowly, licking at your teeth with every bite so that the muffin doesn’t stick as much to your molars. The slowness, the solitude, gives you too much time to think.

How long has it been since you threw up, anyway? Tomura (a small part of your brain says: you’re calling him Tomura? This nasty villain who has kidnapped you and wants to destroy life as you know it--you’re calling him Tomura?!”) went from positioning himself in front of the bathroom door to laying on you to keeping a watchful eye whenever you eat a decent meal.

But even his watchful eye had more or less vanished, since you’ve been eating and… doing nothing after.

And now, he trusts you to be alone. Even with food. Even with meals. Like he doesn’t even consider the idea that you’ll do it, because you haven’t, and you haven’t really wanted to, not in the same way, not-quite-and-all-that.

He trusts that you’re getting better. And some part of you is, but not in a way that leaves you feeling good. It’s a way that leaves you feeling--what? Pathetic? Like you’ve lost? Like you gave away something about yourself that made you better (it didn’t--it doesn’t) and now you’re just some good little moron who eats and keeps it inside.

And it makes you feel empty. Not in the way you like.

You just feel so hollow, whether he’s here, whether he’s not. Whether he watches you after you eat or doesn’t bother to look or leaves you alone, trusting that you’ll be fine.

You’re alone right now, in fact, aren’t you? Until late tonight, if he comes back when he says he will.

The thought hits you too hard, and your hand pauses, half-eaten muffin trembling in mid-air.

He’s not here. He won’t be back for a long time. You could eat this muffin. You could wash it down with sink water, then eat the rest of the muffins, and all of the microwave egg meals, and every bag of half-eaten chips in this messy room, and then lean over the toilet and--

Before you know it, the heavy temptation has you sitting in front of the toilet, knees pressed hard against the tile. The half-eaten muffin is still in your hand, and you hold it up, tasting the clumpy crumbles stuck to the bottom of your front teeth.

The familiar scent of the bathroom, the feel of the hard tile pressing against your knees, almost makes puke come up on instinct.

But, fuck, it’s been so long since you did it. You’ve been so good.

What if…

What if you just don’t puke? That would be okay. It would be safer. You wouldn’t get dizzy, and he wouldn’t be able to smell the vomit, there’d be no chance he’ll find the splashback under the rim and get pissed off afterwards.

Because you’d just be chewing and spitting it out, right? No biggie.

So--you chew. Chew and chew until the crumbs are all wet and stuck together. Then you lean forward, open your mouth, and push it out with your tongue; the clumpy mess slides into the toilet with a splash.

It’s a comforting, familiar feeling. The scent of toilet water, your knees pressed against the floor, the splash of technically undigested food hitting the water.

You take another bite. And do it again. And again.

You don’t even hear the door to his room unlocking--the thunk of the lock covered, perhaps, by the splash of another lump into the toilet. You don’t hear him call your name. You don’t hear him walk, slow then faster, to the bathroom--

You don’t see his expression when he first stands in the doorway, seeing you kneeling before the toilet, mostly-gone muffin in hand, small mounds of food resting in the toilet bowl.

You only see his expression once he’s got four fingers wrapped around your upper arm--his pinky flies out at the last moment--and he yanks you up so hard you drop the muffin to the ground. He doesn’t waste time tugging you out of the bathroom, your socked feet slipping on the floor, and he doesn’t let go until he’s got you flung onto the mattress.

There are a few moments where the world feels topsy turvy, all buzzing and strange, before Tomura begins to pick at his neck and spits out the words, tinged with months of worn-out patience--

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It makes your guts feel weak; it drains every ounce of high you got from spitting down to your toes, where it fizzles to nothing. Really, truly--

You wish he would have just slapped you, instead.

Tears sting your eyes and you sit up straighter on the mattress, pretending something like dignity.

“What’s wrong with you?” His eyes widen and his fingers still at your tone. Not angry, like he might have expected. But worse than that: low and guttural and hurt. “You kidnapped me! You don’t let me--you don’t let me do what I want, I can’t talk to anyone, I can’t even…” And the words go unsaid. You can’t even puke up your own damn food.

Whatever words might have come next are lost when you simply begin to cry. Low, stupid, whimpering cries, the kind that choke up anything else you’d like to say. A nasty, ugly cry that you know makes you look awful.

And just like that, his own attitude clicks and shifts, and he’s kneeling on the mattress at your side. Rough knuckles rub against your tears and he mumbles apologies that all blur into one big “Hey-shit-I’m-sorry-I-was-too-rough-you’re-okay-fuck-hey-calm-down.”

It’s not until he pulls you close to his chest, forcing your cheek against it, that you can begin to calm down. It’s a ritual. Something done before, earlier on in your kidnapping. Not for a while, not until now, when all your awful thoughts come rushing back like a wave on an abandoned beach.

“I don’t want anyone to hurt you,” he says, quietly, when you’ve stopped crying enough to let him be heard. “If you’re here, no one can hurt you. So that’s why…” He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t need to; he’s told you all this before.

If he hadn’t caught you throwing up, maybe he wouldn’t have kidnapped you at all. Or maybe he would have but a month down the line, or two months, a year. You could’ve enjoyed freedom just a bit longer.

Doesn’t matter, because he did catch you, and you are kidnapped, and you’re here now, on his mattress, getting comfort from his touch and words.

Sniffles are childish as hell, you think, even as you sniffle and rub your nose.

“I didn’t throw up,” you mumble. Against you, he stills. You move your head back to look up at him and he looks at you like he’s about to say “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Before you can actually say it, you lick some food from the back of your teeth and move back a little more, intent on the truth.

“I was just chewing it. And spitting it out.” Somehow you keep eye contact with him--maybe because it feels right to explain it. To try to make him understand that it’s not like you were throwing up. He should be happy, even, that you were doing something like this instead. “It’s not a big deal,” you throw out, almost lightly, a half-laugh catching the edge of the last word.

Tomura looks at you like it is, in fact, a big deal.

Which means you won’t be able to do it and I mean, fuck, you didn’t really think he’d be okay with it--you’re not that stupid. Not that naive. Just desperate, you think. Desperate for something to make you feel better when your mood takes this inevitable turn down food-control-food-control-food-control road.

All of it makes you want to cry again. It makes those stupid tears come back to the corners of your eyes, making your eyes feel all bulging and warm. It makes your mouth quiver, as you begin your pathetic complaint.

“It’s not fair. I can’t do anything--I should be able to do this.” You gesture towards the bathroom, towards the mess you’ve left in there. Towards your chewed-up food in the toilet bowl. “I can’t live where I want or eat what I want or go to a movie or talk to my friends or--or--” There is an endless list of things you can no longer do, but Tomura doesn’t let you list them. Instead he gets off the bed.

It makes you stop crying, at least. If only out of surprise.

“That’s enough,” is what he says, voice strained, tired. The edge of patience is a thin one, apparently. You watch from the mattress as he walks into the bathroom; hear the toilet flushing, the sink running.

He comes back into the bedroom with a damp towel. There’s no gentleness as he, without an ounce of warning, straddles you against the mattress and wipes up your mouth.

“Tomu--” you begin, spluttering between wipes. “What--I don’t--you can’t--”

But he ignores you until your face is cleaned, until it feels refreshed if not scrubbed a bit raw. He drops the wash cloth on the floor--you cringe, thinking about how you’ll have to pick it up later--and keeps you pinned against the bed.

His hair falls towards you, framing his face, ghosting against your scrubbed skin. He’s tired. You’re tired. It shows in the way he speaks now, in the way you give in without another struggle.

“You gonna do it again?”

You bite your cheek, tasting a bit of leftover muffin glob, and shake your head.

“What game do you want to play?”

You blink at Tomura and don’t have an actual answer. He doesn’t usually let you pick the games. Especially when it’s a two-player game, and he’s usually picking the ones that make him look the best. Or so you assume; he’d denied it, when you felt lighthearted enough to make the jab once before.

“Why?” He frowns, and you press. “I mean. You usually pick.”

He shrugs. “Just decided you can pick it tonight. Tomorrow, too. If you want.”

Oh. It all slides together, like a children’s puzzle.

You don’t have a lot of choices in your life, anymore. You don’t pick where you live or who touches you or who you talk to or what you can eat. But tonight--tonight you get to pick what game you’ll spend the next few hours playing, before you tell Tomura it’s late and you want to go to bed.

Your choice. For a few hours.

He’s throwing you a lifeline, or he imagines he is.

It’s not much.

But you have to take it for what it’s worth--which is, in the grand scheme of your little world, is a lot.

#yandere shigaraki #yandere tomura shigaraki #yandere bnha #tw eating disorder #afterwitch writes #yandere #read the notes on this 'un

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wadwitchesonly · 15 days ago

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Lady Riya hummed thoughtfully. “Well, if it keeps up, I highly recommend the infirmary down by the square. They might be able to help.” “Oh yes, what a wonderful idea.” Mrs. Collins brightened. “The Viscount has done wonderful work there. Hardly anyone dies anymore.” “A ringing endorsement to be sure, Mrs. Collins.”

True Love Bites by Joy Demorra

#we all need a Mrs. Collins as our wingman #true love bites #hunger pangs series #joy demorra

0 notes

spatialwave · 8 months ago

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“𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮’𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭”

pairing: the ghoul x fem!reader word count: 1.8k words summary: you’re not sure how, but you, a vault dweller, managed to sneak your way into the ghoul’s heart. warnings: implied sa notes: just a little/poorly paced ficlet LOL, testing the waters of writing for cooper. kind of fluffy, the start of maybe a little ficlet series?? also taking request for ghoulcy or ghoul x readers! 🖤

-> next part!

being a so-called ‘vaultie’ had put you in quite the predicament while on your journey through the wastelands. unbeknownst to you, a bounty had been placed on your delicate head — a large bag of caps that would be sure to provide a ghoul with adequate supplies to keep from going feral.

you, on the other hand, were severely unprepared for what the surface would bring. several nights alone, your supplies depleting. hell, you hadn’t even known that bounties were a thing, or that you’d be needing to purchase your next meal with a handful of bottle caps.

if it weren’t for cooper finding you, you’d likely have died out in the wastes with the radiation eating you away until you were nothing but a pile of bones. still, you weren’t fond of the treatment he’d greeted you with.

when you first saw the shadowy figure, your naivety had you hopeful. you stepped closer and even spoke a soft, “hello?” before a lasso had been thrown in your direction and wrapping snug around your neck.

“were’t you taught that you shouldn’t trust strangers in the dark?” the voice of a southern man spoke, thick like syrup. sounding like the man in the movies you had watched with your dad back in the vault.

knowing what you did now, you wished that you hadn’t put so much trust in him, though, you had no idea a ghoul would be making himself known.

the first day was brutal, being dragged along like a dog with blisters forming on your feet and your lips cracking and bleeding from dehydration. you had tried to plead your case to him, explaining how you needed to find your father, but he hadn’t shown an ounce of remorse.

by the fourth day? well, for your own sake you wouldn’t say it aloud, but you were near certain that you had grown on the ghoul. he removed the rope that left reddened marks on your skin and even gave you the chance to clean yourself up in a bucket of rain water. even gave some jerky he’d dried out from some critters he killed—allowing you to indulge in food without resorting to cannibalism like he had.

you didn’t want to push your luck with him, but you wondered why he’d grown soft on you.

the man was far from soft or vulnerable, unafraid to push you around or tighten the rope when you spoke out of turn. so, when you had a moment of reprieve after cleaning yourself up, your hair damp and clinging to the side of your face, you forced yourself to ask the question on your mind.

“why’d you remove the rope?” you asked, sitting around a fire on the third night—having never felt safer than with him. your knees were pressed to your chest and you fought away the hunger pangs as your eyes drifted to the ghoul sitting propped against a tree, eyes unseen under his hat.

you were greeted with the sound of a soft grunt as he shifted in his spot, and you could tell that he was thinking of an answer. something he could say that wouldn’t translate to ‘i’m growing tired of treating you like a piece of meat’.

“i don’t needa’ reason,” the ghoul muttered, lifting a hand up to his hat and adjusting it so it covered more of his face, “but that pricey bounty on that pretty head of yours is higher if i make sure you’re alive and well. not my preference, but can’t argue with money.”

the compliment struck a chord in you, one that rose colour to your cheeks and had you turning your head away to look at the small fire. pursing your lips, you weren’t satisfied with the answer.

“i could run away, though. without the rope around my neck,” you piped up, brows furrowing.

a heavy and loud sigh came from the hole in cooper’s face, your eyes lifting to him as you watched him a lift a hand. that hand pushed back the hat on his head so those piercing eyes could meet with your own doe-eyed stare. a smirk grew on his lips and you felt your stomach twist nervously.

“how far do you think you’d get if you tried to run, vaultie?” the ghoul questioned you with that sickening look on his face, “the bounty prefers you alive, but don’t think i won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head if you try to stir up some trouble for me.”

when day seven had rolled around, you found yourself in a predicament that only confused the everlasting fuck out of you. cooper had finally brought you to the man who had some caps for your head—a man who you didn’t even know, but claimed to know your father.

your heart shattered when you were thrown into a cage, bruises already forming on your skin when you had made contact with the shoddy brick wall. eyes fixated on the ghoul who was busy shoving caps into his pockets and taking precious vials from the box that had been offered to him.

what a fool you were to think that the ghoul would change his mind, that maybe he’d have an ounce of empathy in his irradiated body. you were no more valuable than what kept him alive… you couldn’t blame him for that.

“well, well,” the man spoke, his body covered in dirt and grime, teeth so decayed you could smell his breath even as he stood over you after entering the makeshift cell, “don’t try squirm on me now, we’re going to get ya’ all tied up… then i’ll have some fun with you.”

your lips quaked in fear, the first time you truly felt fear in days. cooper, the ghoul, had become your safety net and yet he tossed you away like you were nothing. into the hands of a pig, no less.

“don’t touch me,” you yelled at him, hearing the sounds of footsteps retreating.

you were alone.

“quit making a fuss,” the man spit at you, “the quieter you are, the less this will hurt.”

the sound of a distant gunshot had caused the man to pull away from you, and for you to perk up in your position on the ground. you hadn’t realized your entire body was shaking and you assumed the worst—someone was about to come in here and kill you.

why the hell did you ever think coming to the surface was a good idea?

you quickly sink back against the wall as you hear commotion, men yelling and more gunshots. it was a shootout.

“what the fuck is going on?” the man in front of you yelled, but no one answered. he spun on his feet and bent down in front of you, a heavy hand grabbing tight at your wrist, “get up, we’re leaving.”

“wha—“

you words were cut off when footsteps entered the room once more, the man quickly standing and dropping you back to the floor hastily where the back of your head smacked hard against the brick wall and left your vision hazy.

“you stupid ghoul,” the man roared and you felt your chest flutter, even as another gun shot rang through your ears and blood splatted across your face, a gurgling sound filling your ears.

through your blurred vision, you looked up just as the grotesque man collapsed in front of you, blood spilling out of the wound in his neck as he twitched until the blood loss killed him.

“cooper?” your voice croaked, the name slipping from your tongue easily. a name you’d wriggled out from him just a couple days prior.

a figure knelt in front of you, you immediately recognized those eyes even as your vision had grown spotty. you parted your lips to say more, but nothing came out.

“stay with me,” his southern drawl comforted you as you felt your mind edging the line of unconsciousness, the pain in the back of your head feeling cold now, “vaultie—“

the crackling of a fire was all you heard when your eyes fluttered open, red and orange filling your pupils as the smell of smoke filled your lungs. there was something underneath your body, leathery fabric… and something brushing through your hair.

smacking your lips together, you tried to sit up but failed immediately when you realized your body wasn’t ready for moving yet.

“slow down, cowgirl,” a voice spoke, “we’re in no rush.”

that’s when you realize that there were fingers in your hair. cooper’s fingers. why was he soothing you? when did you get here?

“you left me,” your voice was weak, still hardly able to keep your eyes open, but you figured a stimpack was the reason you hadn’t felt anymore pain from the back of your head. your first concussion.

“almost did,” he said, a heavy sigh coming from him, but nothing else to explain his actions.

tilting your head back just enough, you were able to spot cooper sitting next to you, legs outstretched in front of him and head tilted back against the wall he leaned up against. he’d found an old building to set up the night in, all of the windows shattered and broken, so the smoke from the small fire had a place to escape.

“but you came back,” you murmured, rolling slowly until you were on your back and cooper had to retract his hand from your hair, arms instead settling over his chest, “i thought you hated me.”

a snort, which you could only assume was his form of laughter, came from the ghoul. a smirk playing along his lips as you watched him from your position on the floor, his leather jacket keeping you from laying on the layer of dust that accumulated in the building.

“if i hated you, darling, you would’ve been gone the moment i laid eyes on you,” cooper answered honestly. you finally got that vulnerability you asked for.

your lips twitched, hiding back a smile as you adjusted yourself more comfortably on his coat that he so lovingly rested you on. as you laid there in silence, allowing your eyes to fall shut once more, you couldn’t help but wonder where you’d be in the coming weeks.

now that cooper had delivered his bounty, you wondered what could be next on his plate of adventure. you hoped that you’d be able to convince him to help find your father, but that was a conversation you’d wait for in the morning.

for now, you were content with the feeling of gentle comfort as his hand returned to your hair, calloused, weathered fingers pulling through the strands as you lulled back to sleep—knowing that you’d somehow found your way in the ghoul’s heart.

#fallout tv #ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout prime #fallout fic #wordsbyspatial

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vagabond-umlaut · 6 months ago

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for love is flesh, it is a flower flooded with blood

you're ravishing while gojo is ravenous— rabidly so.

gojo x fem!reader; everyone is 18+ here; somewhat one-sided enemies to lovers; the summary explains more than any no. of tags can ever; tw: cannibalistic tendencies & blood & violence [nothing of the like happens tho!!]; tw: mentions of throwing up and being sick; SATORU IS PINING HERE, AND IT AIN'T A PRETTY SIGHT TO GAZE ON; he seriously needs to go to therapy; unestablished relationship; there's fluff too, dw; 2.5k wc

belongs to the series 'fictitious force' but can be read as a stand-alone if you wanna

fic title from 'poem of the end' by marina tsvetaeva // header from pinterest // divider by @/adornedwithlight // jjk isn't mine

gojo wants to eat you whole.

too ridiculous, even for him— is it not?

maybe... maybe not... the man does not know. he decidedly does not care— not when you're there beside him. seeming this delectable. an alluring treat for his palate— he's surer of this than of the ridges in his palms.

you stir in your sleep.

something gnaws at his heart. shifts in the hollow of his stomach.

strengthening when your features relax. worsening when your mouth twitches, its shape pleased. settling down when your mien flattens in its wonted neutrality.

gojo bites back a groan. only to sigh noisily when you shuffle closer.

years ago, were anyone to tell him that one day he would be seconds away from dying from pangs of an indescribable hunger— agonising, antagonising— for someone catnapping in the seat next to his. in an overcrowded train, sickeningly so, at 10 on a monday morning—

he would have punched the informer. perhaps sent them into a coma if the day wasn't treating him very well... but then again.

you're not just someone, are you?

a bite of candy: so crunchy. refreshing. sweet. when his brain is a bit too tired. a bit too sluggish. a bite of mango: its addicting sweetness dancing on his taste buds. trickling down the corner of his lips. more than welcome after a year of wait. a sip of hot chocolate: the warmth of the drink, homely and sweet. lulling him into a dreamless sleep as he nestles in his childhood blanket. a sip of water: supposed to taste bland, but tastes so sweet. sweeter than nectar, after training—

it's confusing, even for gojo.

but the man believes you'll taste akin a mix of all these he has listed—

he stops. and wonders. will this hunger of his be satiated if he steals away only a small taste of yours? it won't be anything much!! maybe not even a taste, now that he thinks about it... just a touch.

yeah.

yeah, yeah, yeah. it'll be one and only one touch. and nothing more—

can he reach out and caress your cheek once?

he can... obviously, he can. there is nothing he, the strongest, cannot! but... what if his need manifests claws.

what if his need tears at the delicate skin. gouges the soft flesh there — deriving an animalistic, depraved pleasure from the rivers of blood which would be flowing—

no sooner does the image flutter into gojo's mind, than he screws his eyes shut and resolutely burns it. brain already whirring with the next possible course of action. something better. something cleaner—

can he intertwine his fingers with you then?

they look so small. they look so pretty. just so perfect. as if they have always been meant to slip into the gaps between his fingers. erasing the emptiness from there. and from within the fissures formed in his self, for once and for all time— ah.

but what if he squeezes your hand too hard.

what if he bruises you and breaks your bones, in his attempts to allay his craving for you. to mitigate his madness for you. the violet colour blooming on your unblemished skin. the following crack! and crunch! of your frail bones beneath his unyielding grasp. beneath the teeth of his hunger—

no, no, never, never, never!

a wave of something bitter, something bilious rolls through the man.

he draws in a deep breath— and pauses.

gojo can't touch you without hurting you, but he definitely can lean in a little closer... and get a whiff of your perfume, right?

not anything much, it'll be nothing at all. and it isn't like, the moment he tilts himself towards you, he's going to grow fangs— fangs, all too ready to sink into the column of your neck. thirsty for the feel of your blood. the tiny beads of it on his tongue, sweet. yes, addictively so— and maybe, since he's already there... he can leave a loving sign from his side on your skin. dark red. enticing, but defintely not as much as the taste of you. certain to linger in his mouth. persist in his thoughts— conscious and everything not. even after it's been eons—

the train lurches to a sudden stop.

and with it, does gojo's vivid daydream as well— but he doesn't care.

not when the resulting clamour in the compartment has awoken you. not when your face is gaining a shade of upset. pretty cute, he thinks. but the man also believes such a sight isn't meant for these unworthy souls in this place, so...

how bad then, is it not? that he can do nothing about it. he can't blind these people. nor can he ask you to not make such a face. you simply won't take kindly to either of those—

thus leaving him helplessly watching. shamelessly staring.

the way your eyebrows scrunch closer. lips dip into a small pout, then break apart in a yawn. finally followed by your eyes blinking open. too bleary for such a bright morning, but to gojo, they appear to outshine the sun itself.

it takes you a beat to find your bearings. he waits patiently, keen eyes watching your every movement. every minuscule expression. another yawn spills past your lips, noisier than the previous. making the man's cheeks twinge from the growing stretch of his grin. ribs ache from his swelling heart.

you take another moment to focus your foggy mind on him. frowning as you do. gaze flitting from him to your loud fellow passengers, then back to him.

your frown worsens. gathers a pinch of concern.

"is... everything okay, senpai? you don't look too alright out there."

he doesn't!?!?

no. of-fucking-course, no.

he's the strongest sorcerer in the world, yes. there's no doubt about it— but even he is a little too weak to not grow weary when fighting his irrepressible urges to gorge himself on you...

realising he has been silent for a tad too long, gojo struggles to drag back his fading grin. before deciding to just let go of it. dropping his mouth into the most pitiful shape he can, he grumbles. sounding so aggrieved and in such a terrible pain.

"you seeing this compartment, darling? it's so cramped, so noisy, so very under-ventilated— it's making me wanna puke, babyyy!"

features crumpling up— he chooses not to probe why— you exhale a rather heavy sigh. and retort, "i never asked you to accompany me to work, senpai. you were the one who insisted. who invited himself— 's not my problem if you bite off more than you c— wait a second," you cut yourself off abruptly, eyes becoming rounder and tone turning an awful lot panicked, "you aren't really feeling nauseous, are you? i have few candies and a packet of crackers— you wanna munch on those??— or wait a sec, you can drink some water from my bottle— or... wait. i'll just get up and tell these people to move away. you need some air to breathe freely—"

"will you let me eat you?"

lights flickering, the train shudders into a sudden start.

but gojo's heart stumbles into a stop. when he realises he has spoken something he must have never let see the light of day. something the man must have never let reach you— you might always be wearing an awful tough exterior, but you're rather sensitive beneath it... innocent and sweet, the lamb to his wolf.

the man probably shouldn't, yeah. yet he allows his insides to twist in glee at the face you make— bathed in warm hues as you gape at him.

those brilliant eyes, wide and unblinking. lips parted, not-too-slightly. the rest of your body, so perturbed not one whole minute back, but a little too still now in that uncomfortable seat— gojo wants to... but he decides not to jerk you away from a state as this. it isn't everyday you let him drink the sight of you in a state as this.

it takes you much longer than he expected you to borrow to recover. thirteen seconds versus your usual three.

the train picks up speed in the backdrop.

your face slips behind its mask of placidity. but the concern wrinkling your forehead and furrowing your brows is clear as day for him to see. loud as bells for him to hear when you speak, tone quiet and adorably soft.

"i think you need some rest, senpai. we'll get down at the next station and i'll call ijichi-san to pick you up then drop you home, okay?— i will also ask ieiri-san to check you once— think you've caught some virus, or maybe it's just fatigue. that's why you're looking and feeling so sick— definitely why you're asking me such a question."

gojo doesn't need any foresight to know he will regret his next course of action. very much, if not more than that ask which slipped past the cracks in his defenses— but now? in this specific instant? he reckons he'll regret even more if he doesn't do what he wants to do.

what that hunger within him wants him to do— fuelled by your worry for him. care for him. disbelief for him. the impending doom wherein you'll leave him behind, leave him suffering—

a voice floats through the air, announcing the train to be approaching the next station.

slipping the bag onto your shoulder, you move to stand up. a precious urgency highlighting your actions as you do— only for him to encircle your wrist in his fingers. yanking you back into the seat, before you've even left it entirely. a noise akin a gasp, a stifled gasp, spills past your lips. pinching him, helped by the startled look offered alongside. gojo wills himself to ignore the pain, however.

every sense zeroing in on you. only you. as he tugs you even closer to himself. and murmurs, words uttered, slowly and carefully. meant for you and him only, and not for anyone else outside this bubble he has been building around you both.

"but what if i say you are why i'm so ill, and eating you is the only way i can get cured— will you let me eat you then, darling?"

"i..." you start. but then stop. you look a little breathless, gojo thinks. a little too weak perhaps. your placid mask, a little too close to cracking open, falling to the floor in pieces...

the signs are all gone albeit, before the man can etch any of them to his brain. before he can even know if he was just seeing things.

"senpai," you reply evenly, calmly, "we are deboarding the train at the next station for sure. i'll book a cab there and personally drop you off at the school, yeah? ieiri-san needs to—"

gojo whispers your name.

its syllables, too piercing. too pleading. too foreign on a tongue which has only ever called you by terms of endearment. utterly uncaring for how much you complain. uncaring for the rumors, you've always said his antics will give rise to, when there's actually no fire to give birth to the smoke.

hah, if you only saw the fire melting him from within.

he makes a move to call you by your name yet again. but you cut him off before he can. the pieces of your mask crumble into dust, turning into nothing before he can even register what is happening.

your lower lip trembles. just once. barely noticeably so. "you're crazy. stupidly, unbelievably, insanely crazy— you need to get help, senpai."

you're insulting him. lowkey, highkey, it doesn't matter. nothing does, except the fact you're insulting him.

he doesn't even think before he decides it too doesn't matter.

tightening his grasp on your wrist, he leans towards you. shaping his lips in a grin. maybe a bit too predatory, but eh. if you have read him well enough to suggest needing help, he trusts you to know the kind of reaction he will return.

grin wavering for a beat, when your blood gives a frantic push against his thumb pressing onto your artery, he retorts, "what if i say i'm in no need of any help? what if u say i need you— just you— will you permit me then, huh?"

you probably won't, few voices in his head state. studying the utterly stricken look you're offering him in answer. the man doesn't hesitate to choke them into an eternal silence.

you ask, "will i be okay if i say 'no', senpai?"

"i'm hurt you think you won't be," gojo snaps back with a frown. soft but biting, a pretty intentional action of his. you wince a little. words not even taking one whole second to from before bubbling out.

"okay, yeah— 'm sorry. i know you'll never force me— i'm really sorry," you repeat, features more distressed than he would ever like them to be— he lets his frown smoothen out.

face lightening, he notes your shoulders slump a little— before seeing the way your eyebrows huddle together. he acutely registers you shift closer to him. voice ringing in his ears when you state rather than ask, "but you won't be okay if i say 'no', will you?"

"no," the word escapes him, as quiet as a breath the moment the last syllable leaves you—

sucking in a staggering breath, he shakes his head. and repeats, "no. i won't be. i really need you to live at this point, baby. i know you will be thinking how i'm love-bombing you right now, but trust me— i cannot survive without you. i need—"

"— me. yeah, i get it," you interrupt him. as rudely as always, but gojo doesn't find himself offended. too lost in the breathless chuckles tied into your tone. you lean back away from him, an amused glint in your eyes, in your tenor as you hum, "i don't know if this was you flattering me enough to make me cave into your demands... but it's okay. yeah. fine— i'll let you eat me. devour me. or whatever poetic shit you're on about— just don't forget to slice my carotids before you do that, yes?— don't really wanna go through the pain or the mess of being eaten while alive, you see."

[agreeing to be eaten by him is not the same as agreeing to date him.

gojo knows this. tough to believe, but he does. he really, really does—

but who the hell cares.

definitely not him, as he scribbles both of your initials on his mission reports later in the day. a big plus sign linking the two pairs of letters, an even bigger heart encompassing them—

pen stilling over the paper, gojo pauses. and grins.

sure. agreeing to be eaten by him is not the same as agreeing to date him— the former's far more intimate. entails much firmer trust, much greater love—

after marriage, will he take your surname, or will you take his?]

hope this was an enjoyable read! pls don't plagiarise, translate or repost this ❤️❤️

masterlist

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #kit posts 📝

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disabled-dragoon · 1 year ago

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The Disability Library

I love books, I love literature, and I love this blog, but it's only been recently that I've really been given the option to explore disabled literature, and I hate that. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be able to read about characters like me, and now as an adult, all I want is to be able to read a book that takes us seriously.

And so, friends, Romans, countrymen, I present, a special disability and chronic illness booklist, compiled by myself and through the contributions of wonderful members from this site!

As always, if there are any at all that you want me to add, please just say. I'm always looking for more!

Edit 20/10/2023: You can now suggest books using the google form at the bottom!

Updated: 31/08/2023

Articles and Chapters

The Drifting Language of Architectural Accessibility in Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris, Essaka Joshua, 2012

Early Modern Literature and Disability Studies, Allison P. Hobgood, David Houston Wood, 2017

How Do You Develop Whole Object Relations as an Adult?, Elinor Greenburg, 2019

Making Do with What You Don't Have: Disabled Black Motherhood in Octavia E. Butler's Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents, Anna Hinton, 2018

Necropolitics, Achille Mbeme, 2003 OR Necropolitics, Achille Mbeme, 2019

Wasted Lives: Modernity and Its Outcasts, Zygmunt Bauman, 2004

Witchcraft and deformity in early modern English Literature, Scott Eaton, 2020

Books

Fiction:

Misc:

10 Things I Can See From Here, Carrie Mac

A-F:

A Curse So Dark and Lonely, (Series), Brigid Kemmerer

Akata Witch, (Series), Nnedi Okorafor

A Mango-Shaped Space, Wendy Mass

Ancillary Justice, (Series), Ann Leckie

An Unkindness of Ghosts, Rivers Solomon

An Unseen Attraction, (Series), K. J. Charles

A Shot in the Dark, Victoria Lee

A Snicker of Magic, Natalie Lloyd

A Song of Ice and Fire, (series), George R. R. Martin

A Spindle Splintered, (Series), Alix E. Harrow

A Time to Dance, Padma Venkatraman

Bath Haus, P. J. Vernon

Beasts of Prey, (Series), Ayana Gray

The Bedlam Stacks, (Series), Natasha Pulley

Black Bird, Blue Road, Sofiya Pasternack

Black Sun, (Series), Rebecca Roanhorse

Blood Price, (Series), Tanya Huff

Borderline, (Series), Mishell Baker

Breath, Donna Jo Napoli

The Broken Kingdoms, (Series), N.K. Jemisin

Brute, Kim Fielding

Cafe con Lychee, Emery Lee

Carry the Ocean, (Series), Heidi Cullinan

Challenger Deep, Neal Shusterman

Cinder, (Series), Marissa Meyer

Clean, Amy Reed

Connection Error, (Series), Annabeth Albert

Cosima Unfortunate Steals A Star, Laura Noakes

Crazy, Benjamin Lebert

Crooked Kingdom, (Series), Leigh Bardugo

Daniel Cabot Puts Down Roots, (Series), Cat Sebastian

Daniel, Deconstructed, James Ramos

Dead in the Garden, (Series), Dahlia Donovan

Dear Fang, With Love, Rufi Thorpe

Deathless Divide, (Series), Justina Ireland

The Degenerates, J. Albert Mann

The Doctor's Discretion, E.E. Ottoman

Earth Girl, (Series), Janet Edwards

Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead, Emily R. Austin

The Extraordinaries, (Series), T. J. Klune

The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict, (Series), Trenton Lee Stewart

Fight + Flight, Jules Machias

The Final Girl Support Group, Grady Hendrix

Finding My Voice, (Series), Aoife Dooley

The First Thing About You, Chaz Hayden

Follow My Leader, James B. Garfield

Forever Is Now, Mariama J. Lockington

Fortune Favours the Dead, (Series), Stephen Spotswood

Fresh, Margot Wood

H-0:

Harmony, London Price

Harrow the Ninth, (series), Tamsyn Muir

Hench, (Series), Natalia Zina Walschots

Highly Illogical Behaviour, John Corey Whaley

Honey Girl, Morgan Rogers

How to Become a Planet, Nicole Melleby

How to Bite Your Neighbor and Win a Wager, (Series), D. N. Bryn

How to Sell Your Blood & Fall in Love, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites, Joy Demorra

I Am Not Alone, Francisco X. Stork

The Immeasurable Depth of You, Maria Ingrande Mora

In the Ring, Sierra Isley

Into The Drowning Deep, (Series), Mira Grant

Iron Widow, (Series), Xiran Jay Zhao

Izzy at the End of the World, K. A. Reynolds

Jodie's Journey, Colin Thiele

Just by Looking at Him, Ryan O'Connell

Kissing Doorknobs, Terry Spencer Hesser

Lakelore, Anna-Marie McLemore

Learning Curves, (Series), Ceillie Simkiss

Let's Call It a Doomsday, Katie Henry

The Library of the Dead, (Series), TL Huchu

The Lion Hunter, (Series), Elizabeth Wein

Lirael, (Series), Garth Nix

Long Macchiatos and Monsters, Alison Evans

Love from A to Z, (Series), S.K. Ali

Lycanthropy and Other Chronic Illnesses, Kristen O'Neal

Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro

The Never Tilting World, (Series), Rin Chupeco

The No-Girlfriend Rule, Christen Randall

Nona the Ninth, (series), Tamsyn Muir

Noor, Nnedi Okorafor

Odder Still, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Once Stolen, (Series), D. N. Bryn

One For All, Lillie Lainoff

On the Edge of Gone, Corinne Duyvis

Origami Striptease, Peggy Munson

Our Bloody Pearl, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Out of My Mind, Sharon M. Draper

P-T:

Parable of the Sower, (Series), Octavia E. Butler

Parable of the Talents, (Series), Octavia E. Butler

Percy Jackson & the Olympians, (series), Rick Riordan

Pomegranate, Helen Elaine Lee

The Prey of Gods, Nicky Drayden

The Pursuit Of..., (Series), Courtney Milan

The Queen's Thief, (Series), Megan Whalen Turner

The Quiet and the Loud, Helena Fox

The Raging Quiet, Sheryl Jordan

The Reanimator's Heart, (Series), Kara Jorgensen

The Remaking of Corbin Wale, Joan Parrish

Roll with It, (Series), Jamie Sumner

Russian Doll, (Series), Cristelle Comby

The Second Mango, (Series), Shira Glassman

Scar of the Bamboo Leaf, Sieni A.M

Shaman, (Series), Noah Gordon

Sick Kids in Love, Hannah Moskowitz

The Silent Boy, Lois Lowry

Six of Crows, (Series) Leigh Bardugo

Sizzle Reel, Carlyn Greenwald

The Spare Man, Mary Robinette Kowal

The Stagsblood Prince, (Series), Gideon E. Wood

Stake Sauce, Arc 1: The Secret Ingredient is Love. No, Really, (Series), RoAnna Sylver

Stars in Your Eyes, Kacen Callender [Expected release: Oct 2023]

The Storm Runner, (Series), J. C. Cervantes

Stronger Still, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Sweetblood, Pete Hautman

Tarnished Are the Stars, Rosiee Thor

The Theft of Sunlight, (Series), Intisar Khanani

Throwaway Girls, Andrea Contos

Top Ten, Katie Cotugno

Torch, Lyn Miller-Lachmann

Treasure, Rebekah Weatherspoon

Turtles All the Way Down, John Green

U-Z:

Unlicensed Delivery, Will Soulsby-McCreath Expected release October 2023

Verona Comics, Jennifer Dugan

Vorkosigan Saga, (Series), Lois McMaster Bujold

We Are the Ants, (Series), Shaun David Hutchinson

The Weight of Our Sky, Hanna Alkaf

Whip, Stir and Serve, Caitlyn Frost and Henry Drake

The Whispering Dark, Kelly Andrew

Wicked Sweet, Chelsea M. Cameron

Wonder, (Series), R. J. Palacio

Wrong to Need You, (Series), Alisha Rai

Ziggy, Stardust and Me, James Brandon

Graphic Novels:

A Quick & Easy Guide to Sex & Disability, (Non-Fiction), A. Andrews

Constellations, Kate Glasheen

Dancing After TEN: a graphic memoir, (memoir) (Non-Fiction), Vivian Chong, Georgia Webber

Everything Is an Emergency: An OCD Story in Words Pictures, (memoir) (Non-Fiction), Jason Adam Katzenstein

Frankie's World: A Graphic Novel, (Series), Aoife Dooley

The Golden Hour, Niki Smith

Nimona, N. D. Stevenson

The Third Person, (memoir) (Non-Fiction), Emma Grove

Magazines and Anthologies:

Artificial Divide, (Anthology), Robert Kingett, Randy Lacey

Beneath Ceaseless Skies #175: Grandmother-nai-Leylit's Cloth of Winds, (Article), R. B. Lemburg

Defying Doomsday, (Anthology), edited by Tsana Dolichva and Holly Kench

Josee, the Tiger and the Fish, (short story) (anthology), Seiko Tanabe

Nothing Without Us, edited by Cait Gordon and Talia C. Johnson

Nothing Without Us Too, edited by Cait Gordon and Talia C. Johnson

Unbroken: 13 Stories Starring Disabled Teens, (Anthology), edited by Marieke Nijkamp

Uncanny #24: Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction, (Anthology), edited by: Elsa Sjunneson-Henry, Dominik Parisien et al.

Uncanny #30: Disabled People Destroy Fantasy, (Anthology), edited by: Nicolette Barischoff, Lisa M. Bradley, Katharine Duckett

We Shall Be Monsters, edited by Derek Newman-Stille

Manga:

Perfect World, (Series), Rie Aruga

The Sky is Blue with a Single Cloud, (Short Stories), Kuniko Tsurita

Non-Fiction:

Academic Ableism: Disability and Higher Education, Jay Timothy Dolmage

A Disability History of the United States, Kim E, Nielsen

The Architecture of Disability: Buildings, Cities, and Landscapes beyond Access, David Gissen

Being Seen: One Deafblind Woman's Fight to End Ableism, Elsa Sjunneson

Black Disability Politics, Sami Schalk

Borderline, Narcissistic, and Schizoid Adaptations: The Pursuit of Love, Admiration, and Safety, Dr. Elinor Greenburg

Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure, Eli Clare

The Cambridge Companion to Literature and Disability, Barker, Clare and Stuart Murray, editors.

The Capacity Contract: Intellectual Disability and the Question of Citizenship, Stacy Clifford Simplican

Capitalism and Disability, Martha Russel

Care work: Dreaming Disability Justice, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Catatonia, Shutdown and Breakdown in Autism: A Psycho-Ecological Approach, Dr Amitta Shah

The Collected Schizophrenias: Essays, Esme Weijun Wang

Crip Kinship, Shayda Kafai

Crip Up the Kitchen: Tools, Tips and Recipes for the Disabled Cook, Jules Sherred

Culture – Theory – Disability: Encounters between Disability Studies and Cultural Studies, Anne Waldschmidt, Hanjo Berressem, Moritz Ingwersen

Decarcerating Disability: Deinstitutionalization and Prison Abolition, Liat Ben-Moshe

Demystifying Disability: What to Know, What to Say, and How to Be an Ally, Emily Ladau

Dirty River: A Queer Femme of Color Dreaming Her Way Home, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Disability Pride: Dispatches from a Post-ADA World, Ben Mattlin

Disability Visibility: First-Person Stories From the Twenty-First Century, Alice Wong

Disfigured: On Fairy Tales, Disability and Making Space, Amanda Leduc

Every Cripple a Superhero, Christoph Keller

Exile and Pride: Disability, Queerness and Liberation, Eli Clare

Feminist Queer Crip, Alison Kafer

The Future Is Disabled: Prophecies, Love Notes, and Mourning Songs, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Growing Up Disabled in Australia, Carly Findlay

It's Just Nerves: Notes on a Disability, Kelly Davio

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot

Language Deprivation & Deaf Mental Health, Neil S. Glickman, Wyatte C. Hall

The Minority Body: A Theory of Disability, Elizabeth Barnes

My Body and Other Crumbling Empires: Lessons for Healing in a World That Is Sick, Lyndsey Medford

No Right to Be Idle: The Invention of Disability, 1840s-1930s, Sarah F. Rose

Nothing About Us Without Us: Disability Oppression and Empowerment, James I. Charlton

The Pedagogy of Pathologization Dis/abled Girls of Color in the School-prison Nexus, Subini Ancy Annamma

Physical Disability in British Romantic Literature, Essaka Joshua

QDA: A Queer Disability Anthology, Raymond Luczak, Editor.

The Right to Maim: Debility, Capacity, Disability, Jasbir K. Puar

Sitting Pretty, (memoir), Rebecca Taussig

Sounds Like Home: Growing Up Black & Deaf in the South, Mary Herring Wright

Surviving and Thriving with an Invisible Chronic Illness: How to Stay Sane and Live One Step Ahead of Your Symptoms, Ilana Jacqueline

The Things We Don't Say: An Anthology of Chronic Illness Truths, Julie Morgenlender

Uncanny Bodies: Superhero Comics and Disability, Scott T. Smith, José Alaniz

Uncomfortable Labels: My Life as a Gay Autistic Trans Woman, (memoir), Laura Kate Dale

Unmasking Autism, Devon Price

The War on Disabled People: Capitalism, Welfare and the Making of a Human Catastrophe, Ellen Clifford

We've Got This: Essays by Disabled Parents, Eliza Hull

Year of the Tiger: An Activist's Life, (memoir) (essays) Alice Wong

Picture Books:

A Day With No Words, Tiffany Hammond, Kate Cosgrove-

A Friend for Henry, Jenn Bailey, Mika Song

Ali and the Sea Stars, Ali Stroker, Gillian Reid

All Are Welcome, Alexandra Penfold, Suzanne Kaufman

All the Way to the Top, Annette Bay Pimentel, Jennifer Keelan-Chaffins, Nabi Ali

Can Bears Ski?, Raymond Antrobus, Polly Dunbar

Different -- A Great Thing to Be!, Heather Alvis, Sarah Mensinga

Everyone Belongs, Heather Alvis, Sarah Mensinga

I Talk Like a River, Jordan Scott, Sydney Smith

Jubilee: The First Therapy Horse and an Olympic Dream, K. T. Johnson, Anabella Ortiz

Just Ask!, Sonia Sotomayor, Rafael López

Kami and the Yaks, Andrea Stenn Stryer, Bert Dodson

My Three Best Friends and Me, Zulay, Cari Best, Vanessa Brantley-Newton

Rescue & Jessica: A Life-Changing Friendship, Jessica Kensky, Patrick Downes, Scott Magoon

Sam's Super Seats, Keah Brown, Sharee Miller

Small Knight and the Anxiety Monster, Manka Kasha

We Move Together, Kelly Fritsch, Anne McGuire, Eduardo Trejos

We're Different, We're the Same, and We're All Wonderful!, Bobbi Jane Kates, Joe Mathieu

What Happened to You?, James Catchpole, Karen George

The World Needs More Purple People, Kristen Bell, Benjamin Hart, Daniel Wiseman

You Are Enough: A Book About Inclusion, Margaret O'Hair, Sofia Sanchez, Sofia Cardoso

You Are Loved: A Book About Families, Margaret O'Hair, Sofia Sanchez, Sofia Cardoso

The You Kind of Kind, Nina West, Hayden Evans

Zoom!, Robert Munsch, Michael Martchenko

Plays:

Peeling, Kate O'Reilly

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With an extra special thank you to @parafoxicalk @craftybookworms @lunod @galaxyaroace @shub-s @trans-axolotl @suspicious-whumping-egg @ya-world-challenge @fictionalgirlsworld @rubyjewelqueen @some-weird-queer-writer @jacensolodjo @cherry-sys @dralthon @thebibliosphere @brynwrites @aj-grimoire @shade-and-sun @ceanothusspinosus @edhelwen1 @waltzofthewifi @spiderleggedhorse @sleepneverheardofher @highladyluck @oftheides @thecouragetobekind @nopoodles @lupadracolis @elusivemellifluence @creativiteaa @moonflowero1 @the-bi-library @chronically-chaotic-cryptid for your absolutely fantastic contributions!

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