#I don’t think it’s connected enough to even be called a stream of consciousness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkykeiji · 4 years ago

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break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

✰ ✰ ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

✰ ✰ ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

✰ ✰ ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

✰ ✰ ✰

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

✰ ✰ ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.

#zenin naoya x reader #zenin naoya smut #jjk smut #zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #tw:incest #tw death #tw toxic relationship #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY #whew okay

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ketamineharry · 4 years ago

Text

I Love Me - Harry Lewis

Requested - Yes ~ can I request an ethan/Harry one where the reader is curvy (bigger boobs/bum/hips etc) compared to Talia + Freya and the other girlfriends and they are on holiday with everyone and the reader feels a bit insecure and scared of what everyone will think when they look at photos, have photo shoots and insta comments, love you and your writing!! 🤍

Trigger Warnings: Body image issues, self-confidence issues

Authors Note: This was originally requested as a holiday, but I changed it slightly as my most recent imagine was a holiday themed one. I hope you don’t mind!

As you entered the restaurant, an uneasy feeling took over you. Usually, being seen out in public with your friends, and your boyfriend Harry wouldn’t phase you — but over lockdown, you had put on a few pounds. Expressing your emotions in a healthy way, had never been your forte so when the lockdown restrictions hit, instead of going to the local pub to drink your sorrows away, with a group of friends you had turned to eating. Comfort eating had become the norm whenever you felt sad, lonely, happy, or to put it more accurately whenever you felt anything.

While you had been piling on the pounds, Talia and Freya, had been keeping to a strict fitness regime. So naturally, they looked incredible. While you just felt deflated. To make matters worse, this was a Sidemen dinner, meaning that not only were there going to be pictures, but eyes were going to be firmly on your table.

Instinctively, as you walked you grabbed for Harry’s hand. Thankfully, he was slightly in front of you, so you could hide yourself behind his broad frame. As soon as your fingers entwined, you found a sense of serenity; despite how short lived that may have been.

As the others crowded around the table, trying to figure out seating arrangements, you focussed your energy in trying to remain calm. All you wanted was to have a seat on the outskirts, so that you wouldn’t have to participate in the group Instagram photos. The self-loathing from the way you looked in this moment was enough to fuel your insecurities for a good few months, you certainly didn’t need the constant reminder on Instagram too.

Luckily, you managed to secure the seat you wanted. Josh, being the father of the group dictated where everyone else was going to sit. Usually, there was a rule of thumb that you sat in couples; but you had ended up sitting in between JJ and Freya. Harry was on the opposite side of the table, his phone in one hand, completely engrossed in an app, knowing him it was most likely Twitter. However, in this seating arrangement you felt sick. Your one lifeline, although not ridiculously far from you, had been cut off. You were going to have to brave this one out.

The waiter approached the table and introduced themselves. He had a cheery disposition until they made eye contact with you, their fake customer service smile fading as he served you his best judgemental glare. It lasted a split second, but you knew what it meant. The feeling of being out of your depth was confirmed in that look, it wasn’t just you that felt it, it was felt by those looking in on this dynamic of people. Why would they want to associate themselves with you?

“And for the lady?” He asked, glancing over at you again. His demeanour changed once more. You remained silent for a moment, mulling over whether to ask for what you actually wanted or order something that you didn’t want to avoid more disapproving glares.

“May I suggest the chicken caesar salad.” He adds, knocking you out of your stream of consciousness.

“That would be lovely thank you.” You respond. The last thing that you wanted was to cause a scene. In fact, the thing you wanted most was to be ignored, unseen. It was blatantly obvious what everyone was thinking, where their stares ended up… all on you.

The plates of food started to arrive, being placed before everyone. You looked around, envious. Their food all looked insanely good, Talia had mac and cheese while Freya had a vegetarian lasagne. To say that you were covetous, as you chowed down on some lettuce, was an understatement. Just some flavour would have been nice.

The same waiter came back to see if anyone wanted any desserts, Harry ordered a chocolate cake with some whipped cream and Freya ordered a cheesecake, Ethan wanted a coffee, the others weren’t really bothered though. What was made apparent, was that you weren’t even asked by the waiter.

Freya turned to you, a sympathetic look on her face. “Are you ok?” She asked, as she placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” You mumbled unconvincingly, certain that Freya could pick up on how you were feeling. She had been sitting next to you the entire time after all.

“Let’s go to the ladies yeah? I’ll just text Josh to let him know what’s going on.” She said, as she retrieved her phone from her bag. She quickly sent the text before she grabbed your hand and directed you to the bathroom.

Freya held the door open for you, as you both walked inside, she went over to the sinks and climbed up on top of them. Crossing her arms. Inspecting you slightly.

“So, spill… what’s wrong with ya?” She questioned, with a small reassuring smile.

You took a deep breath in and out, as you tried to steady yourself. As much as you loved Freya, talking about your feelings to anyone was a challenge that you faced daily. It was hard enough being open with Harry about your feelings, and he was the person that you trusted most. Never mind one of your closest friends.

“I hate the way I look.” You confessed, as you subconsciously started to tug at the dress you were wearing. It all of a sudden felt too tight, too claustrophobic, as if the material had shrunk from the time it took you to walk from your table into the bathroom.

“You and Talia, you are both gorgeous and slim. I’m not that way at all. You can wear whatever you want and look good. If I so much as looked at a belly top, people would be disgusted.”

Freya remained silent, letting you ramble on about how much you hated your body and what you looked like. How out of place you felt and what you wish you could change about yourself. When you were finally finished, she jumped down off of the counter and engulfed you in a hug.

“Don’t you ever, ever feel like you aren’t good enough. You are the funniest person I have ever met. You make me belly laugh every single day. You spread so much positivity, and you make sure that everyone around you feels loved. I am slim, but do you know what… I’d kill for a rack like yours.” She whispered, as she comforted you.

“As for that asshole waiter who has been making you feel like shit all night, don’t think that no-one else has noticed it, because they have. They’re all too polite to embarrass him in public, but trust me, he’ll get his comeuppance. Now, wipe those tears and let’s go show him what a fucking bad ass bitch you are.” She laughed, as she grabbed your hand once again, as she led you back out to the table.

The bill was laid out on the table, the seven cards were placed on top of it as you rejoined the group.

“Here she is.” Harry beamed, as he reached out for you. You went and gave him a hug, before taking your seat again.

As the waiter collected the bill, Harry called him over. “I’d like to give you a cash tip, can you follow me outside so I can draw the cash out?” He asked. The waiter nodded, a gleam in his eye. Harry gave you a gesture, letting you know to follow him.

Once you were outside, how cold it was finally hit you. It made you recoil into yourself.

“Yeah, the tip I wanted to give you was to never, and I mean never try to ridicule my girlfriend about anything.” Harry said, swiftly connecting his right fist to the waiters cheek.

“Run.” He shouted, as he grabbed your hand, your feet pounding on the floor until you reached the car. You were both panting, leaning on each other for support.

“You do know you’re still a ten out of ten to me. No matter what.” Harry smiled, as he placed a kiss to the top of your head. “Now let’s go and get a McDonalds, because I know you’re still hungry and it’s your favourite.”

#harry lewis #sidemen #w2s #sidemen x reader #harry lewis x reader #harry lewis imagine #w2s imagine #w2s x reader #wroetoshaw #sidemen imagine

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omgsomeonesomewhereonearth · 4 years ago

Text

I'll Write This Scene a Thousand Times - Ch1

AO3 Link || Next Chapter

Ship: Moceit (Janus/Patton)

Warnings: Alcohol, Implied sex, one-night stand, rumours and scandal, swearing, I would recommend a 16+ readership, but since this isn't actually explicit I guess use your discretion?

Summary: For all accounts and purposes, Patton Hart should have been able to make it through his twenties in the music industry without coming face to face with a scandal. The perfect package of talented and adorable, with family connections to boot, all he'd had to do was keep out of trouble, and he was good at that.

He hadn't counted on running into Janus Lyre. The beautiful, frustrating, devil-may-care actor evidently has some sort of effect on Patton, driving him to make the sort of mistake that never would have crossed his mind previously. Now, with their faces plastered across the internet and fledgling careers on the line, the two of them need to keep the lie of their fleeting relationship sustained.

‘The sweetheart and the snake’ - has Janus Lyre found a new ‘Hart’ to break?

Less than an hour after being photographed at the premiere for his own movie, the young star was seen at a swanky downtown nightclub - guess that’s one flick we won’t be catching!

But, dear readers, that’s not the most interesting part. With Lyre’s turbulent record over his few years of fame, one might say playing hooky is just a minor infraction for the beloved bad boy, but the same can’t be said for the cutie hanging off his arms in those photos! Some of you might have already recognised those cute brown curls and sunshine grin, and as hard as it may be to believe that is indeed Patton Hart.

The youngest son of now retired singer Ophelia Hart has made quite a name for himself recently, with his sugary sweet lyrics and impossibly innocent persona - impossibly being the operative word. Is the golden boy finally rebelling? Or had there always been a darker side to Hart, hidden behind the saccharine pastel branding?

---

Logan Wright: Just saw the news. Need to talk immediately. Send me your location, I can arrange for you to be picked up safely.

Logan Wright: Patton please pick up my calls

Logan Wright: I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how urgent this is??

---

Patton groaned around the headache coursing through his skull as he paced the wooden floors of the darkened bedroom, willing the phone in his hand to be still long enough for him to figure out what to do.

This had to be a bad dream.

Patton Hart was not the kind of guy to wake up in another man’s bed with a bad hangover, barely any memories of the previous night, a hundred missed calls from his manager, and compromising pictures of himself spread all over the internet.

Maybe if he just crossed his fingers real hard and opened up twitter again, it would all just be gone and he would wake up in his own home, sans migraine, and everything would be just fine.

Nope. Patton’s own besotted face was the very first thing that greeted him as he opened the app, gazing up at Janus Lyre of all people. He felt like he was looking at a stranger as he flicked through the images despite his own surmounting dread. He watched this weirdly confident version of himself, practically draping himself over a man he barely knew, grinning as Janus leaned in to whisper in his ear, kissing him in the street outside the nightclub, his own unfamiliar hands running through long dark locks, wandering down to lithe waist and hips, pulling their bodies even closer.

Patton felt sick. He had to call Logan, he knew that. Logan knew how to fix things, he would handle this.

Then again, Patton had never given him something like this to fix before.

The tweets underneath the photos ranged between a variety of reactions, from confused, to shocked, to disgusted to “always knew Patton Hart had a dirty side”, to “Can’t wait to see how long Janus keeps this one around.”

To be perfectly honest, all of them made the sea of dread and nausea in Patton’s gut rise and lurch.

“This is so bad,” he muttered to the figure that had just appeared in the doorway, glass of water in hand.

“Oh is it? Is it really? Oh, thank you so much for telling me, I would definitely have forgotten just how ‘bad’ this was if you weren't here to remind me.”

Janus Lyre was infuriatingly cool, in a way that no one really had a right to be in the mornings - let alone on this morning. Somehow, even in sweatpants, with his tousled hair tied back in a low ponytail, he managed to make Patton feel awkwardly underdressed for having put his own clothes back on. His smudged eyeliner, a relic of the night, only added to the effect of his condescending eyeroll.

Regardless, Patton was grateful to accept the water, and the aspirin that was dropped into his palm with it. At least he was a gracious host, all things considered.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, sipping slowly as he picked at a rip in his rumpled jeans. He could feel the weight of Janus’ eyes on him, but he didn’t want to look up. It felt like he’d be doing something wrong, shameful even, to be looking at the other man right now, despite all that had already transpired between them.

He didn’t know Janus, not really, but he had known of him. At least, he’d known he was bad news. He was an incredible actor, from what Patton had heard, and had managed to flourish in the past couple of years despite his young age and apparent lack of industry connections.

…Unfortunately, his incredible acting wasn’t all that he was known for. Janus’ name frequently popped up with regards to his sardonic responses to the press, disregard for convention, insulting important names in the industry, and generally being considered trouble.

Patton had often wondered how the man hadn’t been blacklisted yet. He never thought he’d end up tangled up with him in any way, much less this literally.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re getting how serious this is,” he protested, “I - I just don’t understand how - there are pictures, Janus, everywhere, I have so many calls-”

Janus looked almost amused, as he leaned casually against the curtained windows, quirking an eyebrow at Patton.

“Oh dear, not pictures !” he mocked, “I take it this is your first time getting caught ‘ in flagrante’?”

“Wha- yes, of course!” Patton flushed.

“Well, don’t worry then, the first time is always the hardest,” Janus responded lightly, seeming as though he was getting quite bored with the conversation, and by extension, with Patton.

“I don’t exactly intend there to be a second time, just so you know,” Patton snapped,” I didn’t even intend for there to be a first time, quite frankly-”

Janus did look amused at this, grinning smugly as he replied, “Oh, is that right? You and I appear to remember last night very differently.”

“I’d really rather not talk about last night, thanks.”

“I’d happily talk about anything else. You are the one that keeps bringing it up,” Janus shrugged, before turning on his heel to face the window, tugging the curtain open by the corner, just enough to invite in a thin stream of light.

Patton might struggle with nuance sometimes, but even he understood that - Janus had got the last word in, and now he was done talking.

He huffed in annoyance, but it didn’t stop his traitorous eyes from following the graceful movement, tracing the dark lines of the tattoo that marked Janus’ light brown skin, a massive serpent that coiled and looped all over one side of his slender frame, seeming almost to writhe, hypnotically, with the slightest movement.

Patton tore his eyes away quickly, tugging self consciously at his own sweater sleeves. The cool water had helped slightly, but he could feel the dread settling in his stomach again. He didn’t belong in this situation, having wild midnight trysts with ridiculously pretty men, and whatever confidence the alcohol had apparently given him last night had evaporated, leaving him utterly unprepared for light, flirtatious morning-after banter.

“Um, well,” he cleared his throat and stood up, “I should probably go now, and call my manager to fix all this. Thank you for, er - the water, and last night, I guess, and I wish you all the best, of course.”

Janus didn’t even turn around to respond, “Oh, and I don’t suppose you’ll need transportation arranged?”

“No thank you, I can find my way-”

“And give the press an opportunity to catch you leaving the den of the snake? In the same clothes you entered in, no less?”

“I-”

Luckily, Patton didn’t have to come up with a clever response, because Logan - his dear, wonderful, manager Logan - decided to call him at that very moment.

“...I have to take this.” he muttered triumphantly, turning around to lift the phone to his ear, “Hi, Logan, I am so, so, sorry - I meant to call you, I just-”

“No time,” Logan’s phone voice was as always, clipped and professional, and he got straight to the point, “I need to see you. Immediately. There is much to discuss. I trust you’ve had enough foresight to remain at Lyre’s residence and not step outside?”

“I - I’m still here, yep.” Patton blushed.

“Good. I’m sending a car, don’t leave the building until it arrives. And bring Lyre with you, please.”

“You want to meet Janus?”

“The subject I need to discuss with you also concerns him, so yes.”

“Oh- um, okay, I’ll bring him. Um, do you need an address?”

“No need, I have it.”

“Already? How?”

“That is my job, Patton.”

“Right, right, fair enough. Okay, I’ll see you.”

---

Patton had a flashback to middle school - the one time he was sent to see the principal for bad behaviour - as he knocked nervously on the door to Logan’s office.

“Come in.”

He heard a scoff from behind him as he took a deep breath, preparing to open the door - it had been a struggle to get Janus to come along.

Just as he’d expected - and feared - Logan was wearing his “I am a professional and thus I am not going to get upset” face. What he hadn’t expected, was that this look didn’t seem directed at him.

Leaning back in the chair next to Logan’s, high heeled boots on the desk, was a man that Patton had never seen before - and between the half-black, half-silver mullet, curled moustache, and bright green glitter, he was pretty sure he’d remember if he had.

His eyes skipped over Patton entirely before settling on Janus and lighting up.

“J-Anus!” he cackled, “Thanks for not picking up any of my calls from last night, asshole!”

“Remus, good to see you,” Janus sighed, “Looks like your mummy called my mummy,” he whispered loudly to Patton.

To Remus, he said, “I do apologise, Remus, I turned my phone off because I was busy not watching the movie I was in. I’m sure you understand.”

“Ahem,” Logan interrupted, “Mr Lyre, thank you for coming in, Patton, this is Remus Rey, Mr Lyre's manager. Please take a seat, Remus and I have much to discuss with you.”

Patton waved politely at Remus, who winked back.

“Well first things first, I’d like to say congratulations to you both-”

“Remus.”

“-But that was nasty fucking trick you pulled there, Jay! You promised me you’d stop disappearing from important events! You know how much work I have to do to clear that shit up?”

Janus shrugged like a petulant teenager. “Got bored.”

“I really am sorry for putting this on you, Logan.” Patton could see Logan’s knuckles tightening, a familiar tenseness in his jaw, that telegraphed that he was Not Having a Good Time.

“That’s - not to worry, Patton,” a twitch had started to develop in his right eye, “technically speaking, this is - my job.”

“And he’s pretty damn good at it if he’s managed to keep you out of trouble this long eh, Patty?” Remus cracked in, “I mean, for what it’s worth, I always knew there was more to you, but the two of you really had the rest of those idiots fooled, huh?”

“Um…”

“ Anyways,” Logan interrupted through gritted teeth, “Whilst the two of you were missing in action, so to speak…”

Patton sunk a little deeper in his seat. He wasn’t looking at him, but he was pretty sure he could feel Janus roll his eyes from beside him.

“...Remus and I had a chance to sit down and decide how to deal with this in a way that will benefit both parties.”

“ Oh, how fascinating, do tell .”

Logan, apparently much better equipped at dealing with smart-ass comments than Patton, ignored Janus entirely.

“Now, the two of you may have your reservations, but I request that you please hear us out before rejecting the matter entirely.”

“Of Course we’ll hear you out!”

“ ...Yes, because that request didn’t raise any suspicions at all.”

“Remus and I think the best way to spin this current...situation to our advantage, would be with a relationship contract.”

There was a silence in the room for a minute as the full meaning of Logan’s words settled in. Well, a silence accompanied by Remus tapping out a rhythm on the edge of Logan’s desk with his - admittedly fabulous - acrylic nails. After what felt like a full minute he grinned at them.

“Pretty good, huh? It was my idea.”

”Yes, well, I cannot exactly deny that Remus was the one to suggest that,” Logan grumbled, “However, I do support it entirely, and am happy to proceed with your consent.”

“You want us to...date?”

“They want us to pretend to date,” Janus interjected, “A few staged photos, attend events on my arm, everyone thinks this was a sweet little lover’s outing and not a drunken fling.”

“See, I told you mine was smart!” Remus grinned proudly at Logan.

“...Indeed,” Logan nodded at Janus, “I understand you might have your compunctions, but this is the best way for us to spin this into something... close to brand-appropriate, for Patton. And as for you, Mr Lyre-”

“We’re hoping we can make it look like you’re finally setting down, starting to behave yourself, or some horseshit like that,” Remus cut in, “I gotta keep you booked somehow, Jan-Jan.”

Another long silence filled the room - and even Remus stayed quiet for this one. Patton stared at his lap. He didn’t exactly feel great about this sort of thing, but Logan had said it was the only way. And heck, this sort of stuff happened all the time in this line of work, he knew that. Right?

Janus spoke up first.

“How long would this contract be, exactly?”

“We were thinking one year,” came Logan’s reply.

A whole year?

"I assume there are rules?"

"Behave as though you're in a relationship, perform for the camera when necessary, and if you intend to have outside relations, do try to keep them private - or better yet, don't."

“...I’m amenable,” Janus said finally.

And then, Patton could feel three sets of eyes on him, waiting for a response. Logan, calm and expectant, as ever hiding his impatience behind professionalism. Remus, toothy-grinned, leaning forward as if he was watching a sports match.

And Janus. For the first time with sober eyes, Patton levelled his own gaze with Janus’. His face was as inscrutable as ever, but Patton could feel the unspoken challenge behind his mismatched eyes. Asking him whether Patton Hart could handle something like this. Or worse, outright stating that he couldn’t.

…Or maybe Janus wasn’t thinking any of that and it was just Patton’s own loopy consciousness egging him on. Either way, the words slipped out of his mouth before he even thought them.

“I’ll do it.”

#moceit #patton sanders #janus sanders #ts janus #ts patton #sanders sides #ts sides #sanders sides fanfiction #celebrity au #fake dating #remus sanders #logan sanders #my writing

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feitan-apologist · 4 years ago

Text

Feitan x Reader (Not SFW)

Content Warnings: 18+ only, Noncon (dead dove do not eat), kidnapping+imprisonment, whipping, orgasm control, forced orgasm, verbal degradation

AFAB reader

Synopsis: reader is a beginner nen user and has been investigating the phantom troupe. instead of killing them, our smol sadist decides kidnapping them to play with might be more fun :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment you regain consciousness, you know something is wrong.

Your awareness comes back slowly, dragging itself up out of a murky haze, and with it discomfort. The first stirring of alarm comes when you try to move your arms. Still shrouded in fog, you strain for a few futile seconds before realizing that your arms are tied behind your back, you think with rope, and you can’t move them at all. The stiffness in your shoulders tells you that you’ve been positioned like this for a while.

Instinctively, you call forth your En, wanting to know where you are and what - or who - is around you. But when you reach for the power that’s simmered under your skin for the past year, always ready, always accessible, something just… doesn’t connect. You still have a life force, obviously, but it feels blocked off somehow, like it’s just beyond your reach, fingertips brushing it but unable to grasp ahold.

The twinge of alarm in your chest has ballooned into panic, and you start to sweat, heart hammering against the inside of your chest. From the feel of it, your ankles are tied to the legs of a narrow table that you’re currently bent over, holding your legs spread open; in addition to your arms bound behind you by an intricate braid of rope that secures you from shoulder to wrist, you can feel something fitted snugly around your neck. As you open your eyes, seeing nothing but a blank, dark wall in front of you, your attempt to lift your head is stopped with a jolt as the short chain attaching your collar to the table snaps taut. And most insidiously, the chilled air brushing against your skin tells you that you’re completely naked.

As your brain processes all this new information, a single coherent thought pops into your head - oh, fuck.

“You’re awake.”

The quiet voice behind you makes you freeze. You stop breathing, every muscle tense, as the voice’s owner slowly steps into your field of vision, and when you see who it is, you could swear your heart stops beating.

“Feitan.” Your strangled whisper, barely audible even to you, prompts the corner of his mouth to rise imperceptibly. The Phantom Troupe’s torturer stands relaxed before you, shirtless, pale chest shining in the dim light. His face is impassive; he seems completely emotionless as he stares down at you, bound and growing increasingly panicked before him.

“You can’t use your Nen,” he says in that soft, unsettling voice of his. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. But there’s no point in trying. You can’t escape.”

“W-Why am I here?” you choke out, every muscle in your body still rigid. You can’t stand to meet his gaze; instead, your eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking.

“You were getting a little too nosy for our liking. I was just going to kill you, but when we were going through your computer, we saw some… interesting things in your search history. I was so surprised, a bland little thing like you… I decided it would be a shame to kill you without playing with you first.”

You recoil in disgust at his choice of words. What the fuck?? What is he talking about? Your mind scrambles for a response, but he continues before you can get a word in.

“I can tell you’re afraid.” He removes a hand from his pocket and cups your chin, tilting your head as far as the collar and chain will allow and forcing you to lock eyes with him. He smiles, and your blood runs cold. The look in his eyes is unmistakably that of a predator sizing up its prey. “That’s good. You should be.”

With that word, he releases you, striding back around the table where you can’t see him. You strain your head, trying to track his movements, but the collar gives you a very limited range of vision. “Wait!” you cry, “what are you - please, what do you want? I’ll - I’ll give you what you want, just please let me go.” Your voice comes out terribly weak-sounding, and you inwardly scream, pulling against your restraints with a renewed vigor, desperately trying to conjure forth the Nen that continues to elude your grasp. He snickers, the sound coming from a good distance away, so you jump in shock when his hand caresses your ass a moment later, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shrink from his touch, shrink from the thought of what your revealing position, bent over like this, implies. No… he wouldn’t… he can’t…

“I already have what I want. I’ve caught you, and now I get to have my fun with you.” There’s no mistaking the glee in his voice, filling you with dread, your mind whirring ever faster toward the inescapable truth of the situation. His hand slips away from your ass, and you hear a faint rustling - he’s holding something, but you don’t know what. The seconds tick past, no indication of movement from behind you, and you find yourself holding your breath in anticipation. Your heartbeat thuds against the table, against the inside of your chest, the utter silence threatening to drown you, the blood roaring in your ears, what is he going to do to me, oh god oh god oh god-

Your thoughts are cut off as the whip cracks across your ass, hard, and you scream - honestly at first merely from the shock of the impact and the loud noise, adrenaline numbing your senses. But a moment later the pain registers in your brain, a line of white-hot fire running across your backside, and your throat tightens, breathing growing fast and shallow. “Feitan, please-”

“Oh, that hurts, does it? I thought you were tougher than that.”

The whip slashes you again, lower this time, leaving another line of heat in its wake. “Stop!” you cry, desperately fighting back the tears forming in your eyes. He laughs wordlessly, letting a long, silent second stretch out before slashing you again, then again, each crack of the whip punctuated by your cries. You strain your head, trying to see where he is so you can anticipate when the next hit will come, but he’s out of your field of vision - the only thing you can see is the blank wall in front of you. He’s varying the amount of time between whips on purpose, you realize, sometimes landing three or four in agonizingly quick succession, sometimes letting long seconds stretch between each one. The anticipation has you shivering, squirming in your tight constraints, not knowing when the next lick of pain will cut into your flesh. He’s trying to get inside your head, amplify your fear and helplessness, make you weak.

And fuck, it’s working. You’ve taken worse than this in training, far worse, and he’s right, you are tougher than this. A whipping should not be enough to have you undone, tears now streaming down your cheeks, body flinching as the blows land across your exposed ass and thighs. Except… training had also never left you with this terrible tension between your legs. The criss-crossing web of angry red marks Feitan’s whip had created were practically glowing with heat, and while the stinging, burning sensation was undoubtedly painful, with the anticipation and the fear and your adrenaline-addled brain… it also felt a whole lot like pleasure.

As the whip landed again, the cry you let out was unmistakably close to a moan. You could hear the delight in Feitan’s voice as he stepped closer, running a hand across the angry flesh of your backside, his cool fingers tracing the lines he’d made. “Like I said, I was surprised at the things you watched to get off. We share many of the same tastes, you know. But between the two of us, we both know which one is the little masochist.” At the word masochist, his hand dips between your legs and strokes the wetness that’s gathered there. You gasp as his fingers find your clit, swirling over it in a motion that draws a moan equal parts shame and desire from your lips. “What a fucking slut you are,” he murmurs, “getting wet from me whipping you. You’re pathetic.” You cry out as he slides two fingers into you, curling them against just the right spot.

“Don’t,” you whimper, “please.”

“Oh, you don’t think this feels good?” Feitan asks. “Fine. Maybe you’ll prefer this.” His fingers slip out of you and you can hear him rummaging with something underneath the table. Realization dawns on you as a telltale buzzing starts up, a moment before he presses the vibrator against your clit. You moan, back arching involuntarily as you press down onto the wand, shame flooding through you a moment later at how good it feels.

“No, stop, don’t… don’t make me-”

“Oh, I’m not making you do anything,” Feitan says, securing the vibrator in place and sliding his fingers back into you. He leans over you, drawing his fingers in and out in a slow, consistent rhythm. “It’s not my fault you’re a little painslut that gets off from me hurting you.” He lowers his head to your bare shoulder, and as you feel his cool breath on your hot skin, you wonder if he is bizarrely going to kiss you. When his mouth meets your flesh, however, it’s his teeth that sink in, eliciting a new, different sort of pain. You can’t help but moan as he harshly works his mouth on you, sucking and biting your skin in a way you know is going to leave a bruise. You writhe, trying to get away from the sensations of pain, of pleasure, the two almost indistinguishable now, overwhelming you. You realize with horror that you’re already well on your way to orgasm - usually it takes you longer than this, but fuck, you can’t help it, you can’t stop the bombardment of stimuli hitting your body, his fingers working expertly inside of you, the burning marks covering your backside, the vibrator inescapably pressed against your clit.

“Please stop,” you beg, humiliated, desperate, you can’t come from what this monster is doing to you. Being degraded like this is bad enough, but you can’t give him the satisfaction of enjoying it.

“Getting close, are we?” Feitan leans further over you, whispering his next words directly into your ear. “Don’t you dare come without my permission. Understand?” When you don’t respond immediately, he grabs a fistful of your hair with his free hand and pulls, hard. You yelp, and quickly stutter your assent, yes, you understand. “Good.” He lets go of your hair, releasing the tension on your scalp, but in the next moment his mouth is on the side of your neck, working his teeth into the soft flesh above the collar. You jerk away but are stopped short by the chain, and he digs his teeth in so hard you’re afraid he’s going to draw blood.

It’s jarring having him so close, so intimate. The faint scent of his hair, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the wet heat of his mouth - it’s a disgusting parody of the intimacy shared by actual lovers. You close your eyes, squeezing out the tears still freely flowing, and try desperately to dissociate. You don’t want to be here, trapped in your aching body; you will your mind to go anywhere else, to drift off in some fantasy that will let you escape the horror of what this man is doing to you. But you can’t. If it were purely pain you had to endure, you’d be able to do it, you were sure, but you’d never had to contend with someone using your own body against you like this.

The seconds tick past as you writhe and moan and shake beneath him, gritting your teeth, breath coming in short gasps, and then - you can’t do it. Your resolve breaks, you can’t do it, you can’t hold back any longer, you feel like you’re going to explode, and you let the pleasure come freely, gasping as you reach the edge. Remembering his threat, you ask through clenched teeth, “Can I come?” Feitan leans back, huffing out a breath, and you can feel the self-satisfied smirk on his face. He’s won.

You don’t understand when the stimulation suddenly disappears, his fingers slipping out of you and the vibrator pulling away. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately seeking the pleasure that was there a moment before, the orgasm still so close. A sound of utter betrayal escapes your lips as you realize what he’s done.

“What? Weren’t you asking me to stop just a few minutes ago? I thought this is what you wanted.” The glee in his voice is unmistakable, and in that moment, you hate him with every cell in your body.

“You fucking basta-Aagghh!” your words are cut off as the whip slashes across your ass again, catching you completely off guard. You sob in anger and pain as he whips you hard, five times in immediate succession. The brief break your tender flesh had been granted only heightens the pain as five fresh marks join the lattice of swollen lines covering your ass and thighs. “Fuck!” you scream, fresh tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Feitan says derisively. In the next instant, he’s pressing the vibrator against your clit again, laughing at the way your body immediately reacts, arching into the stimulation. You can’t fight the whimpers escaping your mouth, every muscle in your body tense and shaking as the orgasm previously denied to you builds back to a crescendo.

“Please can I come?” you cry, and the fact that you already know the answer doesn’t ease the agony as Feitan pulls the vibrator away, leaving you teetering on the edge but unable to push yourself over. You sob as he whips you again, no longer making even the barest effort to hide your pain and frustration. You realize distantly that you’re breathing too fast, too shallow, and your head is spinning; it’s a good thing you’re laid out on this table, because there’s no way you could remain standing right now.

Done with the whip for the moment, Feitan leans over you, sliding two fingers deep into your cunt and rubbing your clit with the other hand. “Do you know how absolutely dripping wet you are right now?” he murmurs. “It’s pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” you reply through gritted teeth, but then he curls his fingers in just the right way, and- “Aaahhh, pleeeease may I come?”

“No,” he replies, voice full of malicious glee, pulling away, and you brace yourself for the whip you know is coming. You’re caught completely off guard, then, when he presses the vibrator against your clit just moments later, and you’re immediately pushed back to the edge.

“OhhhhfuckcanIcome?” you gasp, and when he pulls the vibrator away, the noise you make is one of absolute despair. You’re exhausted from the pain, from the stress, from the edging; you’re dimly aware of how not in control you are, mind clouded over with fear and desperation and the overwhelming desire - no, need to come, you’ve never been this desperate in your life, and while you hate the man standing behind you with your whole being, you’re also utterly dependent on him for the release your body is begging for. “Feitan,” you whimper, “please, I’m begging you, please, stop, I need to…”

“Oh, you need to, do you?” He runs his hand over your ass, fingers grazing over the lines he’s left, dipping lower to teasingly trace over your cunt before returning to their original path. “You’ll just die if I don’t let you come, will you? Is that how this works?” He laughs at your quiet stream of pleases, muttered almost unintelligibly as you shake and cry before him.

His hand disappears, and suddenly he’s in front of you again, crouched down so that your eyes are level with his. His fingers curl into your hair and yank, forcing your eyes open, and you stare at him through a haze of tears. “You want to come? Earn it. And don’t even think about biting me - you won’t live long to regret it.” He stands, hands fumbling with the front of his pants, and you understand as he frees his cock and shoves it against your lips. You hesitate, recoiling at the thought, but as he grabs your hair again and pulls hard, you open your mouth for him.

Feitan doesn’t hesitate to shove his cock down your throat, making you gag and struggle to turn your head away, fighting his grip. He holds himself there for a long moment, then pulls out long enough for you to gasp for air before shoving himself in again. You struggle to control your tongue and lips as he fucks your mouth in earnest, staying just shy of the point that will make you gag but setting a rapid pace that almost immediately has you struggling to take in enough air. You’re torn between a desire to make this as unpleasant as you can for him and just wanting it to be over as quick as possible. Not that you have much control over that anyways - both of his hands are tangled in your hair now, controlling the speed and angle of his thrusts, and you can’t so much as turn your head away.

“Look at me,” he growls. You strain to meet his gaze at this awkward angle, and a jolt runs through you as you lock eyes. His face is twisted into what could only be described as a manic euphoria - eyes wide, pupils dilated, a slight sheen of sweat coating his temple, and a smile of pure, sadistic delight on his face. It’s the expression of someone unhinged from reality - and who’s loving every moment of what they’re doing.

Feitan pulls out of your mouth suddenly, leaving a strand of saliva hanging from your lips to the head of his cock. He surprises you as he releases his grip on your hair and lowers a hand to caress your cheek; the gesture is soft, completely incongruous with the rest of his actions. “You look perfect like this, you know,” he says quietly. You stare back at him in shock, at a loss for words. What is that expression in his eyes? If the thought didn’t strike you as absolutely absurd, you’d call it affectionate.

You don’t have time to say anything, though, as he strides around the table again and positions himself behind you. You let out a choked cry as you feel something hard press up against your opening, and within the next moment he’s pushed inside you. The “No” dies on your lips as he slides in deep, stretching you out, hitting every nerve inside you, and your back arches against your will. You don’t want it to feel good, you don’t want this at all, but the fresh tears that slide down your cheeks as he begins fucking you aren’t ones of pain. Your body screams in pleasure every time he slams into you, rough and fast, his hands gripping your whip-damaged hips, and you’re reminded just how close you were to coming before. The slight gasps coming from behind you tell you that Feitan is getting there as well, and you fleetingly rejoice at the thought that this will be over soon.

The sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches down to rub your clit would have made you ashamed, before. Now, the only thought in your head is of release. You’re at the edge again immediately as his fingers practically attack your clit, rubbing too hard, too fast, it’s almost painful, and you don’t even attempt to ask before letting the orgasm bloom inside you. In that moment, everything falls away. Your entire awareness is focused on the pulsing heat between your legs and his cock still pounding into you, your pussy clenching around every thrust as you come harder than you ever have in your life. You don’t know if you scream or sob or stay silent. You aren’t aware of anything besides how unimaginably, exquisitely perfect you feel.

It’s bliss.

You barely notice as Feitan comes inside of you, pushing in as deep as he physically can before eventually pulling out, leaving you limp on the table. You don’t know how long you lay there, eyes shut, mind drifting in and out of awareness as he does god knows what in the room behind you. You like it this way. It’s so much easier not to think.

When he eventually walks around into your field of vision, he’s fully clothed, face covered by a bandana, his earlier expression now replaced with the usual impassivity. He crouches so his face is at eye level with yours and gazes coolly at you. “You disobeyed me.”

“I - what?” you mumble, raising your head.

“You came without asking permission,” Feitan says calmly, drawing a knife from his pocket. You stiffen, eyes wide as he raises the blade and delicately traces your jaw with it, keeping the pressure light enough to not break the skin. “I told you you’d regret it if you disobeyed me. And you did it anyways. You’re even more of a masochist than I thought.”

“No - I - that’s not-”

“Shut up.” The blade is at your lips now, tracing the outline of your Cupid’s bow. “I made a good choice when I brought you here. You’re going to be a very entertaining little pet. Now-” he stands abruptly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ll punish you then.”

You twist your head around as you try to follow his departure from your field of vision, a sense of relief filling you at the thought of even a temporary reprieve. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says from behind you. You jerk as he clicks the vibrator to life and presses it against your overly sensitive clit, trying to angle your hips away. He only pushes it harder up against you and secures it in place against the table with what sounds like a metal clamp. “Maybe this will make you more obedient.” You squirm, arching your back and wriggling your hips to try to escape the stimulation, but it’s no use - the vibrator is pressed up snugly against you, and it won’t budge. Your stomach drops as you realize how he’s going to leave you.

“Wait!” you cry, mind racing for something to say to make him change his mind.

Your answer is the slam of the door behind him as Feitan walks out.

#feitan portor #hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh imagines #feitan x reader #reader insert #hunter x hunter imagines #feitan imagines #yandere #yandere hxh #my writing #pls be nice this is the first fanfic i've ever written #😅

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inb4belphienaps · 4 years ago

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warnings: angst (i think?), mention of blood, introspection strikes again word count: 1264 A/N: with peace and love, this is written from lucifer’s perspective <3

When you sigh, I feel the ghost of your breath against my lips.

When you stop and reach upwards towards the sky in an attempt to stretch your stiff back, I feel the weight of the world rise and fall from your shoulders.

When you whisper to yourself in the quiet of the night and watch the darkness shift like the tide, I feel your hand in mine.

With the oath I took, you and I became connected. In that one instance, there was no longer a “you” or a “me”. There was only us.

There was only and is only the bond that we share, this immovable thread, never to be severed even by our own design. Though we may each have the power to do so, I have no intentions of cutting it.

I just hope to be able to say the same about you…

Longing. Yearning. Aching. Knowing. But do you know?

Do you know how quickly you infatuated me? How readily my affections grew to such proportions that seemed impossible? How easily the desire to have you look at only me spread throughout my entire being? Like wildfire, like an untamable spark, it had engulfed me before I could even recall what used to lie there in my chest, what had occupied that empty space before you.

Struck so suddenly I withdrew into myself. I watched you through walls that could neither contain your presence nor discourage mine. I heard you read to yourself, brows furrowed as shadows danced along your silhouette, and I would close my eyes so as to remember your voice. Your voice that can do so much with but an utter of my name. One look. One word. That’s all I need.

And yet, I am selfish. Incapable of letting you be.

My expression sours and the formication of anger does nothing to dampen my hunger. This craving for you is new. But it is also irony. In the past (though some still practice this custom), humans were used as sustenance to demons. Sacrificed and hunted down for sport for generations. Why then do I covet you instead?

What are you to me?

This question bounces around in my head. Sometimes with a speed that I cannot fathom. Other times, it lingers, almost hovering in the air, drifting along on the stream of consciousness I call my thoughts. In the silence of my mind and in the desolate hallways of this flesh, I picture you as clear as day.

How can you know, I ask myself. How can you possibly know?

Those human hands, soft to the touch yet strong enough to mend the broken. Those livid lips, full of emotion and yet unreadable on occasions wherein I wish I could understand. Those eager eyes, like glass, reflective and transparent but glazed over when met with disfavors.

Those eyes that seek me out draw me near. Wordlessly, I walk forward. Two steps become three, then four and suddenly I come face-to-face with your visage, and yet still, the urge to close the gap between us grows ever stronger. I’m not sure what this means exactly. I have a hunch.

The Ancient Greeks had the right idea.

…I think.

You know how it goes, don’t you?

A single body with four arms and legs. A single head with two faces. Complete and whole and happy in their absoluteness. It’s obvious, isn’t it? That the Gods were jealous. The supposed “fear” for the humans’ lack of devotion is but an excuse.

Wrathful and spiteful Gods – what a familiarly arduous concept.

No power, as well-intentioned as they may begin, can resist the sins of temptation. And I’m sure you’re aware by now that temptation can come in many forms. Even you, you who appears to have no weaknesses, aren’t immune to its effects.

With this at least I know that I may have some influence over you. That as indirect as this said influence may be, I am still the one behind it.

So why does this notion do little to dispel the loneliness?

Why does the brief moment of satisfaction fall away to give leverage to something deeper? Something more profound than whatever lies beneath the term “loneliness”? It does not describe the extent to which such melancholy resides. It does not describe the misery that threatens to plague me when you are not by my side. It does not pacify the fear, or the regret, or the ever-looming presence of whatever confusion brews inside.

Why did I dismiss you so early on in our acquaintance?

Because I have lived through the pain of love (regarding humans in particular). The way it ravages the soul and bears its destruction with no care for the consequences such violence reaps.

I have witnessed the anguish, the way it consumes one’s mind and leads them astray. I have seen to what extent this manner of delirium, like the seed of a forgotten weed, can flourish when left alone and unplucked. I carry this knowledge within me, and I recognize its devastation.

And I am torn.

For I have also seen the opposite. The other side, the one veiled in devotion. In such pure and unadulterated tenderness that has, I’ll admit, affected me. Even after the fall, I could not shake it. I cannot deny the existence of love in humans. How they can be infused with passion, and how that passion can snuff out any evil that may cause them doubt.

As enticing as temptation can be to humans, they are just as strong to push back against it. To resist and to surpass the limits that have been used to contain them. I see that in you.

In how you act in front of my brothers. But most importantly, in how you act in front of me. Do I amuse you? Do you think me off-putting? Is it not different now? Between us…

Why won’t you give yourself to me?

Why won’t you let me in?

How can I take back what I may have done that unknowingly tainted your view of me? How can I tint your gaze with desire like my own? How can I decorate my words with the fondness that I hide so that I may appear as unstirred as you?

So many questions that I hold close to my chest, like roses in the breast-pocket of my vest. They are left unanswered and better thought of as unmentioned in your absence. Their thorns, however, tear through the fabric and prick my skin, drawing beads of blood.

This bond, it grows. Yet I fear that it is one-sided. That if I were to draw a scale, it would undoubtedly tip and crumble at my feet. Hesitation makes a mockery of me, my love. May I call you as such?

Do I dare to reveal my intentions so blatantly?

My love…my dearest…it grows. It blooms. It flowers and it’s beautiful. Would you allow me to imagine it? Us. Not just the idea of us. I want to imagine the reality of us. As tangible and as visible as both the warmth and the flush on my cheeks when I think of you.

I want to hold your hand in mine and feel you squeeze my fingers. I want to kiss your lips and drink your affections. I want…

…I want you to tell me that you love me. That I am not alone in my realizations. That you’re as helpless as me to succumb to them.

That for me, you will not resist the temptation of love.

#i know i bully him but really it's so that i don't let on how much i like him #there is only (1) lovesick fool in this house #and this is he #obey me writing #obey me angst #obey me lucifer #obey me! lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer x gn reader #my writing 🐇

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marscia · 3 years ago

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first of november

Where I live it’s almost always summer. Heat prevails at any time of the year even through the rainy seasons. But nowadays it is getting a little hotter than usual and I often find myself standing in front of the living room fan. I do own a tiny one though, like a personal fan, which I keep with me in my room at all times and it is currently whirring quietly beside me at my desk; the soft humming ironically marring into my brain at almost four in the morning. At this point it’s safe to say that sleep was absent tonight. I don’t know if it will ever come in the next hour or so. I would like a visit, but its arrival is uncertain, like always.

It is dark outside and soon there will be sunlight. I listened to Hilary Hahn this afternoon as I read a few pages of Proust’s Swann’s Way. It is a delight to read and I feel rather nosy inquiring into the narrator’s stream of consciousness, that which consists of a prose too personal to follow through but one which you’d very much like to partake in anyway. But take note of this, Proust writes: “Perhaps the immobility of the things around us is imposed on them by our certainty that they are themselves and not anything else, by the immobility of our mind confronting them.” This allowed my mind to venture once again in an attempt to further understand the short passage mentioned. How much of our understanding of the physical world transcends to the metaphysical one? One wherein material memory is induced and the mobility of things is connected to the way our minds work and perceive these things? Of course, this is all metaphorical. But one could not help but think deeply about it.

I enjoy the way Proust toys with the idea of memory and materiality, of time intertwined; and then ultimately ties all of these elements together in a meditative and thoughtful prose. Indeed it is meditative—as I read on I imagine myself being carried by waves. His prose glides very easily into the reader’s mind although one has to pay close attention to the rapid shifting of the narrator’s thoughts. It is a lovely reading experience and I would like to take my time with the novel. It might be too early to say this, but: Proust is one of the loveliest companions I’ve ever encountered in literature.

All in all, it had been a restful weekend. In addition to reading, I was able to get enough sleep earlier this morning as well as in the afternoon. Naps are important I must say, though you may consider me overdramatic to construct my sentence like that. Still, now I understand why they call it “power naps”. I was able to complete all my deadlines this weekend last Saturday so time allowed for a truly lovely Sunday. We will also be having the following week off uni, that puts me in such a good mood just thinking about it.

Well, perhaps now I must try to get some sleep. Morning should arrive in a bit.

#diary #personal #currently reading #proust #swann’s way

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lemontwst · 4 years ago

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— anonymous asked: Can we get uhhhh male mc topping azul, with a side of breeding kink and extra slutty azul? I just want that octo man begging for nut. Thank you in advance uwu

content warning: m!reader | mpreg, heat cycle, (light) degradation, mentions of voyeurism, azul being a needy bitch.

It's funny how some people are so disgustingly stubborn, clinging to their past with bleeding fingers even as the iron grows hotter and hotter under their touch and the chasm stretches deeper under their dangling feet.

Funny how, even as his heat renders him a mindless wreck, panting and shaking with anticipation as you finger his asshole, the only thing Azul can think of is that he won the game.

"Ah….(y/n)......" he quietly calls out to you, clinging to the edges of the table with nervous hands as he feels your long fingers slide in and out.

“That’s enough, I’m ready...” Azul spreads his ass for you in an uncharacteristic display of impatience. Fuck, he just wants you inside him already. He’s waited so long and fought so hard to be the one you fucked through this heat cycle—not Floyd, not Jade, but him, that having his prize so close and yet so far is driving him to the brink of insanity.

You give his ass a little pinch and he squeals, embarrassment flashing scarlet across his cheeks. He has some nerve giving you orders when he’s the one laying on a table in the middle of his prized bar with his ass spread and his dick leaking.

He was so impatient he didn’t even let you take him to the bedroom.

“Don’t come crying to me if this hurts, little idiot.” You stare at his cute little hole with mild disinterest on your face. It is stretched, and wet with his saliva, but it doesn’t look like it’s good enough, and you don’t really care about hearing an endless string of whines and complaints once Azul’s crazed brain comes off of whatever high his heat has sent it into and he realizes his ass hurts.

“I won’t, I promise, just—please…!” Azul is on the verge of tears, frustration almost taking his breath away as he struggles to keep himself from drooling like bitch in heat while you slowly take that cock he reveres like it’s a saintly relic out of your pants. You can be so cruel sometimes. So completely heartless in front of his desperate pleas and so enchantingly mean...

“Well…” you’re suddenly hovering over him, your hands on either side of his face and Azul stops breathing entirely.

“...since you asked so nicely.”

…

It’s too much. Your handsome smirk and that velvet-like voice, your eyes that burn with nothing but malice and a lust for destroying everything in your path... Azul is so in love, and he knows Jade and Floyd are too, which makes the way your cock teases his entrance that much more satisfying.

And then you push inside with a single thrust and the pain that suddenly tears him apart is so mind-numbing Azul almost cums on the spot, eyes squeezing shut as he wraps his arms around your neck and locks his ankles behind you, pulling you closer to him until he can feel your strong heartbeat on his.

There’s something to be sad about the way you go slowly at first, like maybe you’re not all bad. Maybe you care about your lover’s well being, and maybe you want to ease him into a sweet, romantic rhythm fit for the kind of sex you’re having, the kind that leads to children being conceived.

But Azul knows better.

He can feel it in the way your hips slooowly pull back until you’re almost out of him, and the way your dick scrapes against his prostate when you slide back inside just as slowly. It’s agonizing. He’s in heat and you’re torturing him, planning to drag this out for as long as you can if it means getting Azul more addicted to you than he already is.

Fuck, he’s in love.

“Ah... please…" he places needy kisses on your ear, cheek and jaw, his slender legs pulling you closer to him but it's still not close enough—he doesn't have enough limbs to hug you properly so he greedily tries to keep you in place while he savors the hardness of your cock, "Harder-- do me harder (y/n), please…"

You chuckle against his pulse point and Azul gasps loudly, frantically arching his body into yours, "Really, Azul? Even when I'm giving you my children?"

Shame pools in his stomach and it's delicious. Not like when he was bullied—no, this is something stronger, more vicious and intimate and it makes Azul blush all over with need.

"I'm—ah! So—sorry I'm a…" he pulls away, shaking so bad he has trouble moving, and looks into your eyes, glasses crooked and eyes blown with lust, "I'm a...useless octopus—slut!" His tongue lolls out when your hips snap back into his hard, his eyes dart to your lips and you know he wants you to kiss him so fucking badly, "I'm your—empty-headed—octopus bitch! Please hurt me more, master! Fuck me harder—please!"

... He's gotten so good at saying it just like you taught him. To think he was so shy at first! With how desperately his dick is throbbing and leaking at his own dirty talk you'd think Azul was born to say stupid, perverted shit like this.

His good behavior is aptly rewarded when you grab his arms hard enough to bruise and slam him down against the table, your thrusts picking up a ruthless rhythm that leaves Azul delirious.

He's a drooling, whimpering mess under you. The mixture of pain and pleasure shatters his consciousness into millions of pieces. It's not seeing stars, it's more. It's feeling everything at once at maximum sensitivity—your powerful, commanding scent, your sweat that drips on him and makes him want to lick it off like a pig, your hard cock that throbs with every heartbeat, lodged so deep in his ass he can feel it hit that special place that needs to be fertilized over and over again...

He's being bred like he was meant to. And it's you. You, you... you you youyouyouyou—

Azul cums with a high pitched whine that echoes across the lounge, loud enough to be heard from outside the room. His body stiffens and arches into you, elated at being pinned down in such a submissive position. His cum splatters against your abdomen and his, the action completely useless to his mother-like biology. His body is not made to give eggs, not even this inferior human shell he carries around.

It's meant to take them.

Azul slumps down, completely boneless. His eyes dazedly find the ceiling as he enjoys the feeling of coming down his high while still being fucked like a whore.

Tiny, delighted moans leave him as you continue to rail him, his tongue sweeps his lower lip as if he's tasting you in his mouth and he does his best to respond to your movements even though he's so utterly exhausted.

"Aah...it's.....coming…..." his eyes go down to where you two are connected and he sighs dreamily, "Shoot it all—inside me… ple—ahn! …..please make me your wife! I'll give you...ah….the best children…way better than Jade or...Floyd's…." He smiles a lewd smile, hearts in his eyes as his body jolts and recoils from the force your thrusts.

It's coming... it's coming….comingcomingcomingcoming—

Azul throws his head back and goes cross-eyed when you finally explode inside him, filling his tight passage to the brim with hot semen. His hole clenches around you instinctively and his entire body shakes with a dry orgasm as the foreign sensation of being impregnated pushes him over the edge again.

Finally...finally—

Azul chokes back a sob, feeling like he just touched the gates of heaven after a grueling climb up purgatory. Tears stream down his face as he shakily touches your forearms, hoping to be blessed with one of your hugs.

And he is blessed today—or maybe a part of you just took pity on him—when you roll your eyes and envelope him in your arms, laying on top of him in that way that makes Azul's submissive body tingle with delight and his legs spread to accommodate you.

...

“... I don’t think...once is enough…” his hug is borderline demanding as he keeps you inside him, making sure not to spill a single drop of your precious genetic material. “We have to...make sure…” he chuckles, the sound airy with exhaustion even as he tries to convince you to fuck him again.

“What if Floyd and Jade walk in?” You smirk against his neck, knowing exactly what he’s going to say next.

“Then let them watch. I won’t let anyone interrupt us.”

... He sounds so pompous and so incredibly possessive you can’t help but laugh.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #citrus #scenario #m!reader #hmmMMMM guess who's home babies!!!!#/smooches the blog/ i missed this silly place so much

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years ago

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OH MY GOD YOU HAVE TO CONTINUE THE DROWNED SERIES, IT'S SO DAMN GOOD

Thank you for the ask, it makes me excited to see that people are still interested.

Drowning Part 10

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate @sunflower1000

This one is kind of short, and probably makes no sense, but it starts to explain the story line a bit more and what my goal is with Supervillain (and perhaps the reason I am not having him rescued... yet 👀). Anyway, not edited.

Ask games for this series are here and here.

Masterlist

Warnings: referring to person as "it", altered state of reality, dehumanization, muzzled, talk of surgery, weaponizing a human, fear

"Okay thank you for your cooperation," the director said as he stopped the recording. He looked up, smiled, and began to pack away his things- an array of various instruments to enable both Villain and Hero's voices to be clearly heard all the way at the Hero Facility.

"Yeah well, I expect my pay within the next two days," Villain crossed his arms and swung his leg over top of the other one.

"That may not be-"

"Director. I am doing this for you guys. I have my record cleared, Hero in my custody, and a billionaire. I don't need to this for you guys."

"But you are in love with the cash," Hero chimed in, rolling her forestry green eyes. Not with attitude or snarky annoyance, but out of pure loathing.

Villain shot her a glare the second she closed her mouth and stood up, pacing. "I want my pay, fifty-thousand for a mere conversation isn't something you come by everyday," he said, rubbing his hands through his blonde mane.

"Yes but-"

"The only reason it was fifty-thousand," Hero interrupted the director. "Is because you pushed it that far." She didn't exactly understand her exasperation. After all, she agreed to do this with him- not that she had a choice. She was, in fact, thankful for him for breaking her out of the facility, even to the point of restoring friendship.

"Well they consented..." Villain's voice trailed off as he stopped his aimless walking. He sneered, a mischievous look dawning on his face. "I could, just for the record, break Supervillain out of his cell easily. Actually, I bet a novice could."

The director stiffened, fingers tapping the screen on his phone, prepare to call the authorities. Hero smiled slightly. After her aided escape, the heroes didn't bother to recapture her or Villain. And it was all because her rescuer threatened the Hero Facility if they tried to reclaim her. It was like he controlled the heroes- and maybe in a way, he did.

"Okay you will get the money! Write him a check or cash him over some. I don't care, just give it to him."

Villain snickered at the director's desperation and fear.

Hero watched as a young girl scribbled a check and handed it to Villain. Then, after than transaction, the whole team wrapped up and left without another word.

"Hmm," Villain said, eyeing the check he possessed.

"What do you want for dinner?" Hero asked, repeating the lines her current maid position required of her- not that she had to, Villain was not strict enough to enforce rules, but cleaning and cooking seemed to put his explosiveness at ease.

"Nothing. I have a date."

A date?!

"You have a girlfriend?" Hero chuckled. "Who is the unlucky damsel?"

"That's besides the point, but she is quite pretty."

"How long have you been dating?"

"This is our third date within the course of two months."

Two months... that was duration of time since she and Supervillain were kidnapped.

"Not that consistent then," Hero commented instead of voicing her curiosity.

"She works as a nurse, so she is quite busy," Villain replied, folding the check and placing it in his jean's pockets.

"I see," Hero replied. "Where is your date? Please tell me you are not taking her to McDonald's."

"That coffee date in the park sounded great," Villain replied. "Then I was thinking Taco Bell."

"No, no, no!" Hero scolded, pushing herself to her feet. "You are not taking this poor girl on a date to a fast food restaurant. You are a billionaire, Villain. Take her to one of those places where they serve an ounce of food for thirty dollars and spoil her."

Villain blushed, pulling at his fingers nervously. "You know a couple months ago I thought I would be taking you on a date."

"Me too," Hero sighed, placing her hands on her hips.

"I guess life took a turn, didn't it?"

"Yes," Hero replied, extending her arms and wrapping Villain in an embrace. Before she let go, she whispered:

"Torture was in that turn to, wasn't it?"

Villain's muscles tensed, he coughed and pulled away. "See you tonight," he said and ran up the stairs to go get changed.

《~~》

All at once, a piece of light, a string of consciousness sprouted through the dark unconsciousness of the patient's mind. It swirled, bombarding lidded eyes with intolerable brightness. They strained, trying to shut, but it was as if the motor lost control- or gained control, depending on which side of the metaphor you are one.

Then the light formed into various shapes, some holding objects of humanoid form whereas others were cubical, rectangular and circular- making the world around the patient pixelated and blurry. Colors rounded to the basis of their hue- cyan swirling into blue, pale yellow whisking itself into an off-white- until the world was a pallette of bland coloring.

The noise, lolling in a sense, but also increasingly obnoxious. Beeps and rings, rumbles and grumbles, but all the vowels and consonants equaled a series of off-tune words, some faded, others marked with clarity.

Not safe, were the only cognitive thoughts. Not safe not safe not safe. He tried to thrash, anything to get away from the looming danger, though his protruding limbs were too weak, will devoid of any resolve.

More sounds rumbled and purred around him as equally slow restraints grappled at his arms and legs- or were they fast paced? The man didn't know. The perception between reality and unreality was dim, as was his ability to process sleed and direction. Heck, he didn't even know his own name, just the anticipated danger.

He coughed, or tried to, some form of blockade in his mouth inhibited any sound, cough or otherwise, to escape. Tears pricked at his eyes, later streaming down his cheeks- he wanted to go home. Home to that dank apartment that couldn't seem to leave his very intellect. He wanted home, needed home...

The shapes around him once again began to evaporate, but this time instead of mixing into like shades and tones of color, they all shifted to one mass of brown-colored mud before it all vanished into blackness again.

《~~》

"Vitals?"

The doctor's voice ran throughout the room as nurses scrambled to check Supervillain over. The room soon sung with a chorus of "Good".

"Then everyone is dismissed other than Doctor and Medic," a new voice, equally as authoritive yet significantly much more of a feminine type.

All the nurses practically galloped out of the room as a hoard, not daring to look at the woman who just stepped in.

"Leader," the doctor greeted the woman. "What brings you here?"

"I've come to look at the project. I heard it just underwent surgery?" The lady spoke, walking up to the bed where the unconscious patient rested.

"Yes, knee replacement surgery," the doctor replied, joining Leader by the bed. Medic appeared across from them, tenderly rubbing her fingers over the supervillain's hand.

"Fifteen hours on the table," Leader continued to speak, observing Supervillain with contempt in her gaze. "Why?"

"We had to replace the entire knee cap with a newly engineered material made from cells of donors and a type of substance formed from titanium to enhance strength and durability. Then we had to connect the nerves and ligaments to the knee so he can control it like normal."

"Also known as a high-tech prosthetic? Why, may I ask, did my project have to get one?"

"Broken knee..."

"Shattered, Doctor," gray eyes darted around to meet the doctor's humble brown ones. "Not broken, but completely shattered. It needs to be fully operational by the end of the month."

"Ma'am, the recovery is going to be rough-" the doctor tried to protest.

"We have serums for that," Leader groaned, throwing her head into the air.

"It is not safe to drug him with much. His cells and blood need to adapt."

"I don't care. I put a lot of time and effort and money into this project. The enemy is going to launch an attack soon, our spies have gathered enough data to anticipate it by the end of the month. You have been soft Doctor, in his training."

"It's been working," the doctor reasoned.

"It's submission, not training. Ever hear of conditioning?"

"I have done some research into it and I believe that we need to take a more-"

"Yes you are right," Leader smiled. "I don't want a bodyguard. I want a weapon with one, single purpose. Eliminate Hero."

"I don't get that," Medic spoke up, her voice soft, yet filled with courage. "Why get rid of Hero when she is not the enemy?"

Leader chuckled, eyes thinkling. "What an ignorant little girl, so cute though. Did you do your make-up today? Hmm." The baby talk rapidly switched to a more serious tone, "She is a threat, even bigger than this newfound enemy. The moment she joins sides, which we know she will, the odds will be... let's say any attempt to stop them will be suicide."

"We contained her once before..."

"She will be mad, you'll see," Leader acquired a distant look in her dreary gray eyes. "Start weaponizing it. Immediately."

《~~》

Run.

Duck.

Jump.

"I love you."

"Love you more."

Punch.

Supervillain was panting for breath by the time he collapsed on the ground, exhausted to the highest extent. Sweat beaded around his hairline- recently trimmed in a convenient, yet flashy style, with a lightning bolt shaved into the side.

"I love you."

"Love you more."

Supervillain groaned, rubbing shaking hands over his face. Turn it off turn it off turn if off...

Everyday started with a morning workout in the gym. The gym had a track running around the whole thing with obstacles for him to duck under and jump over. The center only had a punching bag and a benchpress, but equally sweaty and daunting.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker rang, signaling that Supervillain could leave.

Once, of course, training was done.

Workouts weren't training, they were extra credit designed to get him further, to get him a higher GPA.

The doctor entered the room, so Supervillain stood up- respect, expected and therefore delivered.

"How many laps?"

"Twenty-five, sir."

The doctor took note of that on his clipboard, frowning before asking his speed.

"5 miles per hour, sir."

This time, the doctor smiled. "Good," he praised, then looked at the benchpress.

"Three hundred pounds," the doctor tapped the dumbbell with his pen, still grinning widely. "Nice work, but yesterday you did three-fiftey."

Supervillain whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. He failed he failed he failed he failed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, proceeding to walk towards the nearby intern to receive the needed correction.

The intern raised her hands, holding a contraption of metal and leather, and slipped it into Supervillain's mouth. He whimpered upon feeling the cold metal slid onto his tongue. A leather strap held it in place, tightly buckled in the back of his head. From that extended more leather that went over his nose. A chain was linked through the nasal strap, more cold metal on warm skin.

Abruptly, he was pulled forward. The metal pinched that nerve- the one that always ached from the commonly given treatment.

The intern pulled him into yet another white room.

Yet this one contained the most dreaded torture implement.

#supervillain whumpee #heros and villains #writing #surgery #drugged whumpee #drugged villain #captivity whump

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writingwife-83 · 3 years ago

Note

#35, Reylo

35. "Whoa. Easy, easy. I've got you."

Ok so this idea hit me hard and fast (and then @thisisartbylexie also got excited and that hyped me up even more lol) so I went a bit beyond the bounds of drabble and into a more legit one shot hehe. Hope you enjoy this anon! 🥰

I’ve Got You

Rey pulled on the reins, pleading, yelling for the horse to slow and relax, but to no avail. Poor Deo, he tended to be far too skittish, and she should have known not to ride him by the stream where she’d seen snakes more than once.

Rey let out a little yelp as Deo leapt over a log, barely clearing it. She was far enough out on the property that if she was thrown or if Deo lost his footing she couldn’t be certain anyone would hear her cries for help or be able to find her. At least, not for quite some time.

Suddenly, something sped by her and she wasn’t fully aware of what it was until Deo came to a halt, rearing up and neighing as she continued to try and calm him. It wasn’t until she felt someone else taking hold of the reins that she realized what was happening.

“Whoa! Easy, easy. I’ve got you.”

Rey stared down, agape, processing the fact that it was Ben Solo who had apparently come to her aid.

Of course it was him, she thought with a groan.

“Get down,” he said, offering his free hand.

Rey huffed at that command. “I’m sure Deo will be fine now.”

“He’s obviously not,” Ben countered, still holding the reins along with her as Deo attempted to rear out of the grasp, proving his point. “He needs to calm down before you keep riding, unless you’re hoping to get thrown.”

Ben offered his hand again, and Rey attempted to bypass it completely and hop down on her own. But her attempt was poorly executed and thanks to her haste and already wobbly legs, the move propelled her directly into Ben’s chest.

His free arm wrapped instantly around her, holding her steady before assisting in lowering her feet to the ground. Rey was more than a little flustered, and no doubt red in the face by the time she shoved herself away from him, smoothing down her skirts and tucking some of the many unruly tendrils of hair behind her ears.

“This really isn’t necessary!” she called after him as he tied Deo to a nearby tree and then did the same for his own horse.

Ben laughed dryly, shaking his head as he walked back over to her. “‘Thank you, Ben. I appreciate your help.’ I think those are the words you're actually searching for.”

Rey rolled her eyes. “I don’t need your kind of help.”

He frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everything comes at a price!” Rey bit back. “Just like with my grandfather! Always scheming and selfish. You don’t help people because you care, you help people who can give you something! It’s no wonder you’ve become his precious apprentice.”

He’d been living on the estate for nearly a year, and she’d done her best to have as little dealing with him as she could. It seemed to Rey that he’d latched onto her grandfather like a leech, the older man all too pleased to have a young and eager man to train in the business. Grandfather Palpatine had been disappointed in having only a granddaughter to carry on the name, disappointed she wasn’t meek and obedient and willing to marry the first rich man who looked her way, and disappointed that she cared nothing for the family name and money.

Ben stared at her for a moment, statuesque aside from the slightest twitch of his lips before finally replying. His words were quiet and calm. “You don’t know me.”

“I know everything I need to know about you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against a tree. “Do you?”

“I know you want my grandfather’s money and his business,” she stated bitterly, picking little bits of dirt from her blouse which had flown up as Deo charged through the mud. “You want all that power.”

He barely looked up, a single laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, is that what I want?”

“It is!” Rey was swept up in the adrenaline of her wild ride and the fact that he’d shown up at the same moment. She’d needed to get all this off her chest for a while and this was an easy way to let it happen. “And you’re willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want. You’re not exactly a man who’s burdened with scruples. You’ll no doubt win Grandfather’s admiration and do his bidding until he finally decides to put you in the will. And if all that doesn’t work, you’d surely even be willing to stoop so low as to-“

Rey stopped mid thought as she suddenly found herself face to face with words that she’d never even been consciously aware of and didn’t want to speak aloud. And that wasn’t all she was also suddenly face to face with.

Ben had quickly closed the distance between them and was staring her down, his stance almost challenging. She wasn’t afraid though, and she met his burning gaze without faltering.

“What? What would I stoop to?” he pushed, his voice low like distant thunder. “Say it.”

Rey swallowed thickly, squaring her shoulders and refusing to back down. “You would force your way into this family one way or another,” she replied coolly, opting for diplomatic wording.

When Ben lifted his hand she jumped ever so slightly, making him pause, and for a split second she thought she saw genuine hurt in his eyes. His hand moved more slowly then, and then she felt his fingers touch some of the badly rumpled hair at the side of her head. With a quirk of his brow, he finally produced a little twig, holding it up for her to see before tossing it aside.

“I don’t force my way into anything,” he said firmly. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you? Because like I said before, you don’t know me. And you certainly don’t know what I want.”

Rey nearly swayed on her feet as Ben turned and walked away from her, as if they’d been physically connected for those brief moments, and the separation that followed had upset her very balance.

She watched him walk over to Deo, the wind admittedly out of her sails and feeling lost for words. She reluctantly noted the way Deo accepted Ben’s touch with absolute calm, despite his usual skittish nature. His large but gentle hands smoothed down the horse’s face and neck, speaking soft words that Rey couldn’t quite make out.

“I can ride back with you.”

It was more a statement than an offer, and Rey was sure that if it had come only minutes earlier she’d have thrown it back in his face along with a string of angry words. But she couldn’t find it in herself to do that now.

“You don’t have to do that,” she instead replied quietly as he untied Deo, holding him steady as she approached and prepared to mount.

“I know,” Ben replied, but mounted his own horse once she was settled, nudging him over to walk with Deo. “I’m still riding back to the stables with you.”

Rey said nothing, no fight left in her as both their horses set off slowly. They both stayed silent all the way back, forcing Rey to do nothing but replay every strange and confusing moment of this encounter.

As they eventually neared the stables, Rey found that a million new and unanswered questions were now darting around in her brain, and she couldn’t quite let them rest.

“What do you want?” she blurted out, making him tug back on the reins to stop next to her. “You said I don’t know what you want. So what is it really? What do you want?”

Ben stared back at her for a moment, as if contemplating his answer, before he simply said, “Change.”

The little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as if she could feel all the weight of meaning behind that one word. As if she could foresee the hazy shape of the way it could turn her entire world upside down.

“At least,” he added. “That’s part of what I want.”

“And…what else?” Rey questioned softly, her throat feeling parched.

She thought she saw the slightest tug at the corner of his lips, but then he pressed them together, as if they needed steadying before parting again to answer.

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

And with those cryptic words, Ben continued the rest of the short distance to the stables, leaving Rey once again dumbfounded and also wondering if he was right. Perhaps she didn’t really know Ben Solo.

Far more surprising was the realization that for the first time…she wanted to.

#reylo #dialogue prompts #Edwardian AU #horsebackriding #the ust is strong with these two #there’s is a whole world here that I can totally see #including Ben in a white shirt and suspenders lol #sorry if this is a little long for a post #also kinda too short for a read more

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artxyra · 4 years ago

Text

Her Little Robins

Note: So This was supposed to be a longer (damn near 8000 words) one-shot, but after much thought, I decided to break up the mini-stories that I had placed at the end and decided to upload them separately.

There is one person that Damian would even dare look up to and he hasn’t seen her since before his mother brought him overseas to his father. She was the closest thing he had gotten to a mother figure despite being the opposite. Within the League of Assassins, she was on par with his own mother, but she was just as untouchable. She barely had any free time, between taking on League missions and living her life in the outside world. No one knows how she even became involved with the League but there was one thing he knew for sure. It wasn’t long after his conception.

For the past year, he has been under the care of his father, the very person he doesn’t belong to. Even after a year, his father still doesn’t understand him. He shows his love differently. He doesn’t belong in this broken household. Damian wasn’t sure how he even managed with all the fighting. Though there is one thing he would never admit—is that he cares. Caring was one of many hidden traits he had picked up from her.

His father doesn’t know how to care for him, but at least he tries to. Which is more than he can say about his mother. She never cared, in fact, the only time she cared was placing him into her arms. The fresh smell of apple blossoms always calming him down. That scent was more home than anything he has ever been to.

The last time he saw her—was the first time he had ever cried. Her arms wrapped tightly around him as she tells him her goodbyes. Making promises that he knows would never be kept. She was leaving to save both of them—to save him. Damian could never admit it to himself, but the night she left was the night his grandfather had declared that Damian was of age to determine his loyalty. A trial that would surely end in his or her death.

He hated going to sleep that night. The cold welcoming his return. There was no apple blossom scent laying beside him. No hand caressing his hair as he fell asleep. No French lullaby that was specifically made for him being sung. Just the harsh winds.

“Be brave my petit oiseau. Luck will always guide you in your journey.” She whispers to him every night as he loses consciousness. Those words would forever stick with him. Just like his father’s statement “Justice not vengeance” would. Though he would prefer the one from her over any others.

It’s been three years since then.

Today he wasn’t sure what to do, the anniversary of her disappearance was approaching, and his father’s family still didn’t understand why he is crankier—or what they would say brattier—during this time. He just wants to be alone.

“My, my, petit oiseau, someone sure missed moi.” It was the way she always greeted him when he was little, and they were alone. Damian’s little legs would wrap around her own as she bends down to scoop him into her arms. When he was younger, he felt freer being around her. Her laughter was contagious. She would extend her pointer finger against his nose and giggles before blowing raspberries into his cheek which then caused him to laugh.

Instinctively, Damian curls into himself. He misses those feelings. Feelings that he’ll never get from his family at this rate.

So deep in his memories, Damian doesn’t remember entering the library, picking up a book, and finding comfort in the couch. He looks at the book that was opened in front of him. It was written in French. He has been in this room plenty of times and has skimmed every book at least once, so why does this book seem like a distance memory? The title was so familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Behind him, he hears a gasp, “Little D, do you have any idea what that is?” Great, it was Grayson, the fourth person he didn’t want to see this evening.

“A book.” The youngest Wayne deadpans placing the book down on the couch and getting up to take his leave.

Before he could walk out of the door, he heard Grayson shout something, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to listen.

As he walks back to his room, that French book stayed on his mind. The cover’s art style was unique, and it reminded him of her. She would draw him small artwork pieces and sometimes let him join her in the process, in fact, he still has the majority of the drawings that she and he made locked in a box underneath his bed. Then there was the book’s dedication page: “À tous mes petits oiseaux qui ont besoin de chance dans leurs moments les plus sombres.” That he could easily translate to: “To all my little birds who need luck in their darkest moments.” He needs to know more. Maybe that book holds the missing piece in finding her? He wants her back in his life, now more than ever.

However, that doesn’t explain how his father owns such a book. Let alone the reaction he had gotten out of Grayson just by holding the book.

~*~

“Hold on, you’re telling me that the demon reincarnated found Pixie’s book?” He heard Todd asks when he was on his way to the library. It was clear that Grayson had grabbed the book once he had left and gathered the rest of his non-blood-related siblings.

“Yes, that is exactly what I’m telling you. When I had entered the room to tell him that we are expecting a guest soon—which I couldn’t—he appeared to be in deep thought staring at the book. Like that isn’t usual at all.” Grayson explains and out of everything his older brother said, the word guest caught his attention. It was rare when his father invited people to the manor that has nothing to do with charity, galas, or potential business agreements. A guest usually signifies a Justice League member or a new sibling (something that he knows doesn’t need to happen).

“Isn’t this usually the time when the demon gets all moody?” When did Drake even pay attention to him? Of course, he is always moody, and he has good reasons for that.

“You actually pay attention to the little shit, Replacement? This is laughable, you’re usually the last one to notice anything.” Todd laughs to which Damian had the itching need to grab his katana and slice Jason in half. Though he had to agree, it was laughable as it was Drake who noticed it despite being in a coffee-induced haze for most of the time.

“Yeah, yeah,” Drake then pauses, probably to take a sip of coffee that will forever be in his hands. “That doesn’t explain how he would find Bean’s book interesting. Only those of us that have met her would find that book interesting as it’s—”

“We know!” Together Grayson and Todd scream.

“Look guys we can either keep hovering over the fact that Damian found her book or let it play out and see where it goes, just like Bruce and Alfred did for us.” Drake sounded tired which wasn’t usual but more tired than normal at this time of day.

“As much as I hate it, I agree with Replacement for this,” Todd responds without a doubt looking at Grayson when he said it.

Damian could hear Grayson sigh of defeat. The room goes silent just enough for Damian to make his presence known.

“What’s so important about the book?” He asks stepping across the threshold and eyeing the book that is in Grayson’s hand.

At once his brothers try to answer but one look at Damian’s face; they knew they could lie themselves out of it. So, they opted for the oldest to speak.

“Look, Little D, this book means a lot to the family. The fact that you picked up just gave an insight into something we didn’t think you would have.” Grayson starts to which Damian tsks and looks away. He hated having this much attention on him, and the short explanation still didn’t answer his question.

“Then what makes this book so important to the family, that I had no idea of its existence until today?” Damian growls through his teeth. His brothers only look between one another which only made Damian even more agitated. “You know what, never mind.”

“Damian—” Dick is cut off by the door slamming in his face. He could only sigh in defeat as the figure of his younger brother disappears.

“So, what now?” Tim asks before taking another sip of his coffee. It was clear that his older brothers don’t know what to do.

Jason decides that now is the best time to take the book from Dick and throws himself onto the couch. He begins to read the book as if it was his only source of peace.

~*~

For Jason, the book was the only close connection he had to her. She was the mother he always dreamed of, and he hated it when she would leave for long periods of time. He hated not taking her offer to live with her. Months before his death, she had asked him to live with her, be the caretaker of her apartment back in France, but he had declined. Being Robin was all he ever wanted, and she knew that, but he also knows that something spooked her. She never did ask that again after the first time, and it kind of saddens Jason a bit.

The night before his death, she had called him asking for him to stay safe. To not get cocky about anything while being away. Stay in contact with Bruce, in fact, she specifically told him not to leave Bruce’s side. He should have listened to her warnings that night. Just maybe he wouldn’t have died by the hands of the Joker.

When he was revived with the Lazarus Pit, one of the first things he acknowledged was the words “Qu'est-ce qui vous est arrivé mon petit Jaybird?” What happened to him? He didn’t know what was happening. He was feeling so many negative emotions at once that he couldn’t differentiate anything. The last thing he remembered from that encounter was a pair of lips pressing against his forehead. The next thing he knew, he was lost somewhere he didn’t know but he somehow knew he had to find himself.

When he came back to Gotham under the impression that Bruce and everyone around him needed to go, it wasn’t Bruce that stopped him. No, it was her. She appeared between them with tears streaming down from her mask. He couldn’t harm her, not after everything she had done for him. It felt so wrong to have his fingers itching to pull the trigger, but he couldn’t let it go. Bruce needed to pay for giving up on, for replacing him.

They didn’t even exchange words, her tears were enough. She walked over to him, taking the gun away from him and gently placing it on the ground. He felt so alone as she pulled him into her arms whispering the French lullaby, she sang to him when he was down.

Jason doesn’t remember what happened next after that, but what he does know was that he had woken up in the manor and Bruce and sitting in an armchair beside his bed. They didn’t speak to one another—why it was because they didn’t know what to start with. Hellos? No, they already knew each other. I’m sorry? Not even an option, they’re too stubborn to admit anything. It was just a moment of silence. Not for the dead but for all the pain that they were enduring.

As he read the familiar words, Jason wonders how his life would have been having she not been a part of his life. She always knew what to say and when to say it. Never judging them for wanting to be heroes vigilantes. She was the glue that kept this family together aside from Alfred, and they all miss her.

“Hey Jaybird,” Of course it was Dick who had to return and ruin the moment.

“What do you want? Can’t you see that I’m reading?” Jason doesn’t take his eyes away from the book, it’s not like he could have anyway. Her words always had a way of entrapping the reader until the very end.

“Bruce wants everyone in the living room.” Dick answers pointing to the open door that was close just minutes ago. Jason huffs and places the book back on the shelf.

“Alright, let see what B has in store for us.” Jason walks past Dick and into the halls. Dick just stares back at the location Jason had placed the book. He was tempted to go grab it, but he knows, keeping Bruce waiting sounds like a bad idea especially since he asked for the family.

~*~

In the living room, Damian sat moodily in the armchair. Arms folded and all. He would look up to glare at his family members still thinking that they were all beneath him in taking the Wayne name.

“So, tell us, Bruce, what is the real reason you have us all gather here?” Jason observed the way the room was structured. Alfred was standing next to Bruce like usual while everyone else just sits and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“It has come to my attention that Damian found M’s book.” Bruce turns to his youngest, who was clearly lost in thought. Something he never thought would happen to Damian. Then again this isn’t the first time it has happened. “Damian, have you ever meet a person under the name of Marin Etta? Marin? Mari?” With each name, Damian shakes his head.

For Damian, the names were foreign. She was always Tatie to him as she never really spoke of her real name. It was mention once, but it has been so long that he had forgotten. In fact, tatie was the first word she taught him in French before moving onto the basics.

“No father,” Damian denies and leans back into his seat. Bruce sighs.

“Little D, you must have met her.” Dick states pointing fingers.

“Before this becomes a brawl, I would like to announce that she’ll be sending gifts to the manor,” Alfred states causing the boys, aside from Damian, eyes to bug out. Tim had to rub his eyes to make sure that he was awake.

~*~

For Tim, she was more than someone he looks up to. She was a person that he could rely on and rant to. When he first arrived at the manor, yes, he was excited, but at the same time frightened beyond disbelief. She picked up on this and offer to take him to her favorite little coffee shop. To this day, Tim swears she owns the little cozy coffee shop that they always go to when they needed a break. Those visits were always just the two of them and no one else.

Tim remembers when he took up the Robin mantle, she was furious at Bruce and even yelled at him for bringing into the battle when he was just a child. He is sure that when the Joker first captured him it was her that found him and took out the Joker, not Bruce. The only proof that he had from that encounter was Bruce looking like he was chewed out by his mother once he had recovered.

She was more than just a team member—she was family. The person that introduced him to the secret of making the right coffee. Something that everyone around him would look down upon. To Tim, coffee was more than his life source; it was a reminder of everything she ever did for him. It was one of the few connections he had to her and he doesn’t want to lose that.

So just being told that she is sending them gifts was such a surprise. She never just sends random gifts; her gifts were always well thought out. Planned for the person receiving the item. Tim had once received a coffee recipe book, something that he vows never to use unless she is with him. He couldn’t risk is family taking away another source of coffee for him.

Sure, they could go visit her whenever, but she never sticks around in one place. Tim remembers the time he tried to track her down and he came up with dead ends after dead ends. Not even Bruce could find her and he’s the world’s greatest detective.

~*~

“When do they arrive?” Dick had practically shouted earning Tim’s attention, something that is usually locked on coffee and or paperwork.

Alfred raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. Tim knows the family butler already knows the answer. It most likely that the gifts had already arrived, and he just wants to see them suffer over it.

“Master Damian please come with me.” Alfred requested to which everyone eyes the youngest Wayne. Damian was unsure what Pennyworth wanted with him and the fact that it was him and not his father, he was feeling anxious.

“Of course,” Damian answers getting out of his seat.

Dick watches the baby bird walk away from the family. He wasn’t sure what to expect from this encounter. Alfred rarely asks for them individually. Though he was heavily thinking about the presents his big sister figure may have brought him.

“Don’t even think about it, Dick.” Bruce grunts seeing the devious look in his oldest eyes. Dick blanches and turns around; he had some searching hacking to do. Knowing that Alfred would have hidden the items somewhere within the manor, he knew just where to start his journey. Years of being a part of the Wayne household has its perks, especially being trained by her to find all the hidden spots.

She was only a couple of years older than him. It never made sense to call her his aunt when they were so close in age. She was also the first person that Dick confided in after his parents’ deaths. She was with Bruce when he went that show, and she was first to comfort him even before the cops could take his statement. To traumatize by what he just saw, he didn’t comprehend the lullaby she was singing in French to soothe him.

Dick would never forget how she took it a part of herself to make sure that the manor felt like a home. Bruce was gone every night tracking down Zucco. She made sure he didn’t feel alone, uncared for. If it wasn’t for her, Dick doesn’t know what would have happened to him.

“Les étoiles sont brillantes ce soir, Dickie.” The stars are bright tonight, she had once said to him the night he was thinking about running away. He had everything packed and all he needed to do was open that window and jump out. Her voice caught him by surprise, so much that he had almost forgotten what he wanted to do.

In the end, he cried his heart out to her and she let him do it. He doesn’t remember what happened next, but the next day Bruce actually showed up for breakfast and sat down with them. It wasn’t long after that that he would become Robin.

~*~

Damian didn’t know why Alfred was leading him outside the manor. It’s not like he had forgotten to take care of Alfred the cat and Titus. Alfred stops short of the gazebo that is rarely in use unless someone plans on making a romantic dinner date of some kind. Damian was about to ask Alfred why they are here when a familiar feminine voice speaks. This voice was etched into his brain and before he knew it his arms were wrapped around a person’s torso.

“My, my, petit oiseau, someone sure missed moi.” He didn’t want to look up, too afraid for this to be a dream. Damian didn’t care if his cheeks were becoming wet, he just wanted to hold her tight. Never letting go. “Petit oiseau, oh how you have grown.” She speaks again, her hands caressing his hair to which he doesn’t complain.

“Tatie, tu me manques tellement.” Damian cries out hiding his face into her shirt. Moments later, he looks up to be greeted by the bluebell eyes that he loved so much. He never realized how much her eye color reminds him so much of Bruce’s. Though her eye color holds so much love and emotions, more than what he can say for Bruce’s.

“Petit oiseau, I am here now. How are you? Have you been treating your father well? Oh, Dami, I knew I should have taken you with me.” She says as she walks them over to the bench and sits down. She could see that Alfred was standing off to the side smiling at the duo.

Alfred then mouths, “I’ll leave you two be” to her, to which she nods and turns her attention back to Damian.

~*~

Returning the manor, Alfred was greeted by an excited Dick and Jason. He knew what they wanted; they wanted the gifts, but the gift is currently outside hugging her surrogate son.

“Master Richard and Master Jason, is there something you need?” He asks with an eyebrow raised. Alfred was known for a lot of things—he is required too in order to keep the manor afloat.

“Hey, Alfred, where is Little D, and how soon we will be receiving those gifts?” Dick asks as he and Jason share a forced smile. Alfred wasn’t buying it.

“Moments after the young master is done receiving his own.” With that, Alfred walks off with a smirk plastered on his lips.

All the Wayne men in the room look at one another.

“Hold on, did he just say that the Demon Spawn, is receiving his gift right now…what the flying fuck did he get?” Jason screams out and he would have stalk after Alfred if it wasn’t for Bruce’s glare practically telling his son not to do it, so instead, Jason huffs.

“It can’t be anything good if it’s for the demon,” Tim states finally coming alive from his coffee-induce haze. The teen was unsure of what was happening, but he knows it was a tense situation.

“We’ll wait for Damian to come to us.” Bruce says, “If the gift is dangerous, we’ll take matters into our own hands.” That was enough to prevent his sons from going after their younger brother.

~*~

Damian was having the time of his life being close to his tatie. He spoke to her with so much enthusiasm about his pets, mentioning his dreams in opening up an animal shelter, all the pranks he did on his brothers. Damian even showed her pictures of Titus and Alfred the cat was which is something he rarely does; heck, he doesn’t really show pictures of his animals to Jon, his best friend.

“That is wonderful, Damian.” She spoke with such a light laugh.

“Hold on, Tatie, how did you know that I was here?” Realization finally settles as Damian wraps his head around the fact that she knew where he was. They haven’t seen each other in three years and surely, she didn’t find his mother and demanded answers.

She sighs and allows Damian to sit up from his resting position. “Damian, I knew you were Bruce’s child since before you were born. There is a reason why I love that you call me Tatie because I am your aunt. Bruce is my older brother. My real name is Marin Etta Wayne, but most people call me Marinette.” She explains staring into his forest green eyes. Tears swell in her eyes almost like she was afraid to tell him everything.

Damian didn’t know how to react. Happy? Furious? Confused? He was so conflicted that he was rendered speechless. This person has been in his life since birth, has done more for him than his own parents, was actually his biological aunt.

Instead of reacting out of anger, he wraps his arms around her and mumbles a series of thank you in various languages. Her explanation solidifies the fact that she’ll never leave him.

“Je t'aime, mon petit oiseau.” She whispers to him.

They stay in silence until Alfred makes himself known with a loud cough. Damian had fallen asleep in her arms to which she was happily content with holding him. She looks up and gestures for Alfred to come closer.

“It seems that the young master enjoyed his gift,” Alfred states looking at the sleeping eleven-year-old. Marinette moves to scoop Damian into her arms. He was a lot heavier than when he was six. After getting into a comfortable position, she turns to Alfred.

“Has Brucie done this for him, before?” She asks as they begin to walk back to the manor.

“On occasion, usually when he is late coming in as Robin. Though it is nice to have you around again, Marin Etta, your presence always begin joy to the family.” Alfred answers, “Are you staying for the night?”

“Not tonight, Alfie. I’m sure the boys will go crazy over Damian’s gift until they see what it actually is. I’ll give them a shock tomorrow and stay for the rest of the week. Vic is helping Helena with some things, so I got time to spare for once.” She replies explaining her reasoning.

Alfred simply raises an eyebrow, he knows she’s withholding information from him, but he also knows that she will do anything to keep her problems under wraps. That’s the reason why she never told Bruce she was Ladybug until after the defeat of Hawkmoth and the creation of her vigilante persona, Kismet.

“In that case, I’ll take the young master and put him to bed. I will see you in the morning.” Marinette hands him Damian who didn’t want to leave her. He managed to tighten his grip around her despite never once waking up. Only after did she whisper promises of seeing him the next day did he release his hold on her and latch onto Alfred.

When Alfred walked inside with the sleeping Damian, he was bombarded by those he considers grandchildren. Jason was beyond in disbelief to see a koala version of the demon that usually glares at them. Tim thought he was hallucinating to the point where he pours the remains of his coffee out the window and walked away sluggishly. Dick was cooing and taking pictures, more than likely saving them for blackmail material. Bruce was wondering what put his youngest to sleep before even going on patrol. He knows that Alfred knows but getting information out of the butler is an impossible task.

“I guess Robin will not be joining us tonight?”

“That is correct, sir. The young master had tired himself out with his gift today. Shall I put him to bed or would like to do that honor?” Alfred answers readjusting the pre-teen in his arms. Bruce nods and takes Damian away from Alfred. It was moments like these that he misses. When his sister was younger, he would hold her and just holding her made him feel complete. Holding Damian was similar in feeling considering his height and weight.

~*~

Dick, Jason, and Tim were jealous of Damian. He had received his gift the day before and here they were sitting at the dining room table waiting for Alfred to show up. Damian had this smug look on his face the second his brothers bombarded him with questions regarding his present. He doesn’t give any indication that it was a person but an animal. That got his brothers to leave him alone for a moment.

Bruce had been the last person to enter the room. He was working on Wayne Enterprise paperwork that should have been completed earlier but wasn’t. Alfred walks in with a tray of food. As he set the plates down, they immediately took notice of an extra plate. Before either of them could question the butler, they heard someone say, “Bonjour mes amours!”

Before anyone could react, Damian runs out of his chair and into her arms. He wraps his arms around her and glares at his family members, daring them to come at her.

“My, my, petit oiseau, someone sure missed moi.” She chuckles returning the hug to the younger male. Damian doesn’t say anything, he just stays in her arms.

While the family stares in shock of seeing Damian showing emotions, it was also the shock at the arrival of the one person that hoped to show up soon.

“Mari!” A series of excited shouts echo through the room. Jason was the next person out of his seat and trying to push Damian away for space. Damian fought back, nearly biting Jason’s hand just so he could stay in his tatie’s arms. Jason glares his younger brother.

“Oh c’mon, there’s enough of me to go around.” She chuckles sending Jason a sheepish smile, “Dami, can you let go so that I could hug Jay-Jay and the others?” She looks down at the young boy, only to feel that his grip had tightened around her. She knows that he would not let go. “Dami, I promise to make you some of my infamous shortbread cookies.” At that request, Damian reluctantly lessens his grip.

“You imbeciles only have one minute with her,” Damian growls turning to his family acknowledging the fact that they also know his tatie. “59, 58, 57…” He starts to count down.

The older Wayne children knew he was serious, and they immediately jump to hug Marinette. Dick was smothering her having taken onto wrapping himself around her torso. She manages to stay afloat by resting Jason and Tim who were side hugging her. It surprised her that it wasn’t Jason who had the running start but wasn’t shock that it was Dick instead.

“10, 9, 8…” They all heard Damian continue. The moment the young Wayne managed to get to zero, he let out a battle cry and begins pushing his brothers out of his way. Damian latches himself onto her and glares at anyone that came within a certain radius of her.

“How the hell does the demon know Pixie, when he literally had no clue who she was yesterday,” Jason shouts as the excitement of seeing Marinette dies down among everyone.

Marinette chuckles and scoops Damian into her arms. If it was anyone else, Damian would have squirmed, complained, and demanded to be let down, but this is his tatie and he has little care for what his brothers think of him right at this moment.

“That’s because all Dami has ever known me to be was Tatie.” She explains as Damian grumbles into her neck.

“Wha!” The boys yell stimulatingly to which Marinette looks everywhere but at her nephews.

“How about this, let's finish eating the wonderful breakfast Alfred made first, then I will explain it all afterward.” She suggests walking over to the table as everyone behind her follows. They know to not disagree with her. She has just as much power as Alfred and could most likely get away with murder.

While they ate breakfast, there was growing tension. Everyone, aside from Alfred, Marinette, and Damian, wanted answers. Bruce watches his sister eat her portion of breakfast; he knows something was going on. Then he saw how quickly his youngest reacted to her like there was some form of bond that they share that he didn’t with his own son. Bruce isn’t that dense; he knows that without her his life would be filled with so much darkness and pain. She made everything tolerable, kept the family together even in their darkest of days.

When breakfast ended, they all gather in the living room. Titus trotted over to his owner and lay beside him.

“So, who’s first?” She asks as she pets Titus’s head as he was close to her and he let her.

“Back to my question before, how the hell do you know the demon?” Jason practically shouts pulling his ear.

“I’ve practically known about since his birth. Actually… even before he was even born. I knew Talia was up to something when she was constantly trying to get into Bruce’s good graces. As we all know, my ability to sense something is wrong is almost never incorrect. So, I followed her to the League of Assassin under a new identity. I was about to leave, but then she announces that she was carrying the league’s heir. I knew the child was going to Bruce’s.” She turns to Damian with a sad smile on her face. To this day, she hated the way Damian came into this world, but she would never give him up for anything.

“You side missions?” Bruce wonders aloud.

“Yes, when I wasn’t with the miraculous court or with the JL, I was with Damian watching after him. I became his caretaker when Talia took it upon herself to be his mentor rather than a mother. Did you know I was the first person to hold him? He had such a small tuft of hair.” Damian blanches when she started to gush about his childhood. He likes to keep that under wraps, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Are you back for real…now?” It was Tim that has asked that.

“Oh, my petit oiseau de café, I’m here to stay. I can’t have you running Gotham without me.” Marinette answers with a wink, but she can tell by the looks of deadpan facials from the males she knew that they didn’t buy it. “I’m staying until the court needs me. That and I’m sure Kismet can bring a little luck to this city of darkness.”

“With that answer…welcome home, Sunshine!” Dick screams with excitement before flinging himself to his sister figure. Marinette catches the taller bird and laughs. However, the embrace didn’t last long as Damian pushes Dick off of her and takes over the filled space.

“Oi, she’s mine, you dolts, get your own.” Damian hiss at his brother who looked beyond offensive.

“Oh, hold on!” They all shouted, “We knew her first, you little demon.” This quickly became a tug-of-war for Marinette, who looks sheepishly between the boys, but she couldn’t help but laugh.

The second, Marinette was able to slip away from his nephews, she made her way over to Bruce. They didn’t say anything, though Bruce did hold his arms out waiting that that hug that they always do. Their embrace was not a short one.

“I miss you, Bruce.” She mumbles into his shirt.

“I miss you too, M.” Bruce pauses placing a kiss onto her forehead. “So, tell me about what happened in Brazil?” Marinette’s eyes widen at that request. She knew she had to come up with something fast, but she also knows that her big brother wouldn’t let that go. Brazil was an authorized JL mission that she joined Question and Huntress on, that didn’t end well per se.

“Oh, look the boys are about to break something.” She squeals turning their attention to the four brothers still wrestling on the floor. Sure enough, a loud crash is heard.

Bruce groans and wanted to yell at his sons for being too rough, but this was a typical morning. The boys would rough house at least three times a day before they all separated. Then again, it really depends on whether Jason and Dick decide to stay at the manor for long periods of time.

“Boys!” Marinette shrieks getting their attention to which they had the audacity to pretend that nothing had happened. They don’t want to play that game with her. There is a reason why she rules the manors better than Bruce.

“Yes, Tatie,” Damian speaks up first resisting the urge to run over to her and hug her in an attempt to make his brothers jealous. Who was he kidding, he would totally do that anyway just for the hell of it.

His brothers glance at him; however, it was clear that Jason was glaring more so than anything.

“What?” Damian shrugs, “She clearly wanted our attention, isn’t that right, tatie?”

Marinette sends Damian a smile that the family knows all too well, that smile was not her usual friendly ones, it was sinister. “Oh, petit oiseau, you have no idea. Now, it still early in the morning, and I don’t want to spend my first day with the family babysitting you four, or do I need to call the girls have girls’ day with them instead?”

The looming threat of having the girls spend time with Marinette instead of them was enough for everyone to nod in agreeance.

“Now who wants to be the first to read my newest family book?” Bruce silently raises his hand which she sees out of the corner of her eye. Digging into her purse she pulls out a new book with an enchanting cover with the title written in French. She then hands it to Bruce despite the cries of protest from her nephews.

“I saw his hand first, actually I saw Alfred’s first, but he already read it. Didn’t you, Alfie?”

“Of course, I did, Miss Marin Etta, it was another novel that will go into the family history.” He smiles at her, to which Marinette sends him a blushful smile.

“Thank you, Alfie. Now, who’s up for a family drawing session?” This time the boys gather around her. Damian hisses at his brothers daring them to come any closer as practical koala himself into Marinette’s arms. Jason stares at the little traitor, planning his downfall.

“I should have introduced Damian to her when he first arrived. That would have saved us so many headaches.” Bruce groans happily acknowledging the sudden change in his youngest at the sight of his sister.

“That would correct, sir. Shall I prepare you some tea and scones while you read Marin Etta’s book?”

“Yes, thank you, Alfred.” Bruce pauses for a moment to open the book, he is immediately greeted with the dedication page, a smile appears on his face, “Actually Alfred, how about you go spend time with M and the boys after you’re done.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I know you miss her just as much as the rest of us.”

Bruce turns his attention back to the dedication pages that read, “Une famille qui se bat ensemble reste ensemble même quand tout semble perdu.” A family that fights together stays together even when everything seems lost.

Tag List: *View my Tagging System guidelines for how to to be properly tagged or removed.

#maribat #sibling brucinette #auntinette #ml x dc #mlb x dc #ml crossover #dc crossover #this started because I wanted yearning batbros and clingy damian #I regret nothing

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