#My little wolf in lambs clothing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 1 year

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could you do a drabble on bratty sub!jonathan crane? literally on my knees begging you to!!

ALL YOURS ───

jonathan crane ✧

ೃ⁀➷ “…I wanted it to leave a mark: that’s how I knew I loved you. Because I wanted to be burned, stamped…” — ’Marathon’, Louise Glück.

pairing. sub!jonathan crane x reader

summary. jonathan’s been a brat all night. looks like you’ve got some taming to do…

warnings. swearing, p in v, unprotected sex, sextoys/use of dildo (m), oral sex (m), edgeplay, blindfold kink, brat-taming, degradation/insults, SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 3.3k

a/n. anon this idea is genius i love it!!! also this was js supposed to be a blurb & now it’s got 3.3k words😭i apologize LMAO

Entering your shared condo, you pushed Jonathan down to his knees, smack-dab on the wood in the middle of your living room. “What the fuck was that?” you questioned, yanking him by his silk tie to look up at you.

“What was what?” he retorted, pretending to be clueless despite the impish grin that snuck its way onto his plush lips.

You slapped him, lacy black gloves scratching at his thin skin. “I’ve had enough of your bratty fucking behaviour tonight.”

“Then do something about it,” he challenged, piercing his baby blues into you through batted, thick lashes.

“Oh,” you hummed, roughly undoing the silk tie from his neck, tugging his thin glasses off and wrapping the fabric around his eyeline, “I have every intention of doing so.”

Just an hour ago, you and Jonathan had been attending a GothamU charity gala. It was a nice night— save for the fact he spent all of it pushing your buttons, speaking over you, and brushing off your existence to the guests there. “My date?” he’d purr to them, “she’s just my teaching assistant.”

You’d send him your tell-tale warning glares, and he’d stare blankly back at you, respond in his pettiest tone, and continue reducing you to his measly teaching assistant — which, publicly, was who you were to him, but behind closed doors, it was him, pleading on his knees to touch you, to at least catch a whiff of your addicting scent. The man would probably thank-you if you stepped on him and you adored every bit of it.

He was acting out. Some sort of naughty pseudo-revenge on you, making you seem so much smaller than everyone else; making people think he was the big bad wolf and you were his little lamb.

Boy, would they be utterly fucking wrong.

You pulled Jonathan up by the lapel, then shirked numerous clothing articles from his three-piece suit, leaving him in his dress pants. You did the same — not that he could tell — peeling off your lacy gala gloves and throwing them onto your wood credenza, sliding your panties off and decorating your couch with them carelessly. When your hands brushed past the fabric of his crotch, you heard his breath hitch, unable to tell what you were going to do to him with the makeshift blindfold on.

Honestly, with the attitude he had that night? You intended to torture him ‘till there were heavy tears streaming down his face, the only words on his tongue being ones begging for release.

You sunk to your knees, unzipping his thin pants and licking a stripe up his cock — still within his boxers, of course. You heard Jonathan choke, and, looking up at him, you could see him clench his jaw, lips bitten, hands trembling.

But, y’know, the torture bit and all that. So you pressed your wet mouth to his clothed cock, hot tongue dragging across his length; everywhere he needed it most, but with him still shuddering pitifully beneath his boxers. The contact felt good, fuck, your tongue always made him feel good, but he needed more.

You heard Jonathan moan; a whiny, drawn out barely-intelligible plea, because your mouth had soaked the fabric, making it stick to his needy cock. “Fuck, please,” he pleaded, hands fumbling around your shoulders before finding the crown of your head. You wrapped your mouth along his clothed erection, humming in delight at his begging, until: “just fucking suck me off already, please.”

Your mouth stopped their ministrations at once, and all that was left was your hot breath on his twitching dick. “Come again?” you drawled, affronted beyond belief at his audacity.

Jonathan didn’t respond; he knew he’d taken it too far. You got back up, and squeezed his face with your hand. “I didn’t think so,” you growled at him. “Speak like that again and so help me god, I will fuck you ‘till you’re so dumb you’ll be thrown into Arkham.”

He whimpered at the threat — how humiliating it would be to be trapped in the place he was chief of — while squirming under your touch; but you still felt his hard-on roar to life even needier than before, aching near your inner thigh.

“Fuckin’ brat,” you whispered, thumb brushing over his pink bottom lip. His mouth opened immediately, and your finger dipped onto his tongue, trailing deeper until he gagged.

You grinned at his appearance: long gone was the respectable, genius Dr. Crane- now, he was a flushed mess, lips parted as he panted hot, needy breaths, spit leaking down his chin onto his bare chest. Fuck, did he ever look good so undone for you.

Even his tie had slipped slightly off his eyes, and you could see him blink blearily, sweet lashes kissing his high cheekbones and leaving small, teary drops. You tugged the fabric back in place, then dipped your hand into his wet boxers, gripping his thick length tightly and pulling out.

“Why should I make you feel good? Why waste my effort, when you’ll just forget everything, like the stupid little whore you are, huh?”

He keened, holding back his hips from bucking into your hand. “I’m sorry,” he panted raggedly, disrespectful demeanor slipping away in favor of being your little pet, “I’m sorry for tonight—“

“It’s too late to say sorry.” you scolded darkly, other hand coming up to his hair to tug it back and reveal his sensitive adam’s apple. You licked at the spot, then traveled your tongue to just under his jaw, suckling at his pulse.

You drew out a pathetic squeak from him at the action, and you chuckled against his warm skin. “I’ll be good for you,” he promised quickly, “I - I’ll be good for the rest of my life. So… so please,”

“‘Please’ what?”

“Please use me,” he replied shamefully, tone warbling halfway at the vulgarity of the request.

You smirked, then began slowly pumping his long length. Your hand was so tight against him it was like a suction, and he let out several choked moans at the slow friction. Your other hand left his hair, making his head fall limply on his chest, and you fondled his balls, teasing him at first with mere grazes of your fingertips on the flesh, before squeezing them roughly.

“You gonna come?” you asked in a hum when his knees started buckling. “You gonna come just like that, just with my hand?”

“Yes, m’gonna come - gonna come,” he groaned, bucking quickly into your hand as you stroked him faster.

“So pathetic,” you sneered suddenly, dropping his needy cock and watching it bounce on his thigh before springing up against his abdomen again, “didn’t ask for permission. Looks like you’re forgetting your fucking manners.”

At your harsh words and denial of release, Jonathan’s bottom lip trembled, small sniffling sounds coming from him, and you rolled your eyes— the needy bastard was fucking crying.

“M’sorry,” he cried out weakly, “‘m’sorry… just felt so good…”

You watched his tears drip from under the tie down his neck, his shoulders shaking, and you sighed, sinking down to your knees. He was crying, because he fucking knew what it did to you; that his helpless whines made all the right pulses pang in both your chest and your core; that you would give in.

So, you took him in your mouth, hand stroking the bottom of his shaft while your tongue teased and touched the rest; sticky mouth wrapped moistly around him. Unbeknownst to Jonathan, however, is that while you adored his cries, the desire to have him begging was stronger. Thus, your tongue was barely doing anything, just tentatively licking him, too short for him to lose himself, too fast for him not to get overstimulated.

You felt him try to thrust into your mouth, but your free hand gripped his bare thigh tightly. “Don’t move a muscle,” you grunted, and continued by angrily smacking the back of his thigh with your open palm.

Jonathan whimpered helplessly, planting himself firmly in place. With that, you’d set the stage: you left his cock for a moment, quickly sauntering to your bedroom, and pulling something out from a velvet drawstring pouch you kept in your nightstand…

You heard Jonathan cry out for you, devastated like he thought you were gonna leave him teased and needy like this all night — which, you couldn’t blame him, because you had done that before — but no, you weren’t, because you wanted to ruin Jonathan tonight; put him back in his place; remind him who exactly fucking owns him.

When you returned to the living room, he was still standing in the exact same place, but his hands were gripping his thighs with deadly strength, more lustful tears streaming down his face.

“So obedient for me,” you murmured in amusement, getting back on your knees and slipping his weeping cock into your mouth. He gasped, pathetic delight filling his groans at your reappearance as you suckled softly on him.

Jonathan was halfway through a “thank you” before you brought your thick dildo to the seam of his ass. The sudden touch made him flinch, hips bucking up and shoving his cock harshly into your throat.

You choked momentarily, and he panicked: “Oh god, m’sorry, m’so sorry,” he sobbed, mind going fuzzy and blank with your skillful tongue pleasuring him, the tip of your dildo teasing his back entrance.

You laughed around his length, not saying anything and merely sucking him off faster, now pressing the wet dildo tip into his puckered hole. The thought of it entering him made your cunt pulse — you’d turned it on back in the bedroom, intent on getting it wet with your spit so you didn’t torture Jonathan too much, but instead couldn’t resist filling yourself. You’d bounced on the fat thing for a few moments, till it was completely soaked in your wetness, your back arching, cunt itching for release.

Jonathan cried out from the sharp stretch in his hole, and you soothed him with a low hush, slowing your onslaught of pleasure on his cock so he could breathe. Once you heard a strained moan leave his lips, one that was much more desperate, much more raspy, you continued in sucking him off, wedging the rest of the dildo’s length into his tight hole.

“If you come before I let you,” you warned when you felt Jonathan’s thighs clench, his breath catching in his throat and his moans going pitchy, “I won’t fuck you for a month.”

“A month?!” Jonathan questioned with a yelp, which dissolved into a moan when his hole clenched around the dildo’s silicone. “Fuck, hnngh, please, I can’t -- I needa come, but… a month?”

“A month. So be a good little whore, and don’t let go ‘till I tell you to.”

Jonathan whined, but his signs of release faded away, and you rubbed his hip approvingly. You pulled away for a final time, and dragged him by the arm to your couch.

He almost tripped, legs trembling at the pleasure the dildo was sending up his body as it filled him, and it got worse from there: you slipped off his blindfold, and pushed him to sit on the cushy furniture. The dildo pushed that much deeper into his hole, brushing against his prostate and making him choke, before you climbed onto his lap and lined up his leaking head to your entrance.

Jonathan couldn’t help the amalgamation of an overstimulated cry and loud moan that tore out of him: how could he, with the dildo’s fat cockhead flush against his prostate, your plush folds teasing his thoroughly-edged cock, and the withstanding rule not to come.

You gazed softly into his watery blue eyes, which were red-rimmed and lined with pitiful tears. They were silently begging you to let him release, every fiber of his being wanting nothing more but to feel that familiar current run through him at last.

His cheeks were flushed pink, lips bitten between the teeth; expression utterly wrecked, utterly desperate, utterly yours. He knew, just as well as you did, how much he fucking belonged to you: he would let you put a goddamn leash and collar around his neck if you just asked.

Then, you pushed yourself up by the knees and hovered over his cock. You watched his face the whole time you sank down: his face screwed together when his tip peeked into your hole, his eyes rolled to the back of his skull when your took him halfway, his mouth opened and his spit-slicked tongue hung out of it when you bottomed out.

“You’re so - tight,” he observed gingerly with a whimper. His gaze was glassy, heated mewls leaving his lips; the only thing on Jonathan’s mind was pleasure, every coherent or intelligent thought leaving him in favor of the primal need to orgasm.

You bit down your moan, your hands resting on both of Jonathan’s bare shoulders, kneading them softly. “Tight for you, baby. All tight for your good fucking cock.” you cursed huskily, and you felt Jonathan’s cock swell at your praise.

His hands snaked up to your waist, hesitantly holding you, but when you didn’t protest nor scold him and instead lifted yourself up again to bounce down on his erect cock, Jonathan touched you feverishly, like he would never get enough of your skin on his.

“Can - can I…” Jonathan started quietly, getting cut off by his own effeminate whine when you grinded down on him. “Can I -- ah -- touch your tits? Please?”

You smiled, finally content with his politeness (as well as the sweet sounds of his moans), “Go ahead, baby. Play with m’fucking tits.”

Jonathan smiled too, but it was so fucking happy he looked pathetic, eyes dilated like a kid on christmas just because you conceded one of his requests. His hands pulled your dress off your head, and you shuddered in the cold - as well as how easy it was for your legs to widen with the fabric gone, your body splitting on instinct to greedily pull in more of his length.

He then groped your perky chest, tweaking your nipples every so often, practically salivating over the fat flesh of your breasts. He was so encapsulated with touching every inch of you that constant groans were leaving your mouth, sliding his cock in and out of your leaking hole faster.

“So soft,” he groaned, amazement dripping off his every word. “Feels s’good, so sweet.”

“Yeah,” you panted, rolling your hips into his own and making his back arch, “you love m’tits so much, huh?”

“Love you,” he whimpered, obviously too fucked out to comprehend the connotations of his words, but you couldn’t resist pressing an adoring kiss to his lips anyways.

Then you could clearly feel the pleasure in your insides building now, like rope twisting around your lower body, especially with the way Jonathan’s curved cock deliciously rubbed the entrance of your cervix with each bob.

Then, you pried one of Jonathan’s needy hands away from your tender breasts, making him whine momentarily before he saw where you were leading his long fingers: right to your puffy clit.

“Touch me, my sweet pet, and I’ll make you come.” You promised, pressing him roughly against you.

Jonathan nodded eagerly, and his skillful fingers began artfully playing with your clit, pinching the flesh lightly and furiously rubbing your wetness over the button. Your sounds of pleasure were affecting him, too: you felt his cock throb when his fingers touched you just right and made a breathless mewl leave you. You pressed your forehead against Jonathan’s own, reveling in how focused he was on making you feel good, and you let go.

Your orgasm flowed over you, making your body twitch and jerk into Jonathan’s relentless touch, the pleasure taking you over completely and making you scream his name. “Oh, fuck, Jon, so good, good boy, you’re my good fucking boy…”

“M’all yours,” he agreed, obviously getting extremely close to the edge as your throbbing cunt clenched around his length. “Yours.”

You breathed haggardly as your high slipped away, your eyes blinking slowly and watching Jonathan helplessly try to get himself off without overstimulating and upsetting you. He wasn’t made to take control, you knew that, and his clueless, pitfiful attempts to do so while still trying to keep your favor made you frown, and slide up off him.

“Lay face down, knees tucked in, baby,” you grunted through a wince, his too-thick cockhead reminding you of the stinging stretch that had long faded away and been replaced with pleasure.

Jonathan didn’t waste a second obeying your commands, his weeping cock resting on his inner thigh. Your fingers brushed past the base of the dildo still within him, its long length disappearing into his puffy, bloated hole, making him buck forward on his knees.

“Can you come on this fake cock, pet? You’re a good little slut, aren’t you?” Your said from above him, hand splaying on his left ass cheek and slightly tugging at the flesh to see how full he really was. Spoiler alert: you couldn’t take that whole length in your cunt, much less your tight ass.

“I’ll come if you tell me to,” Jonathan mewled back, wriggling his ass flirtatiously beneath your hands in some desperate attempt to get you to fuck him and make him release at last.

You got down on your knees, eyeline direct to his hole, and you snickered mockingly at his eagerness. After pressing a harsh bite on his ass and branding him as yours, you began to fuck him with the fake cock, thrusting it’s length in and out of his ever-tightening asshole and spitting on it to moisten his walls.

Jonatgan let out several quavering moans, feeling every inch of the dildo within him because of the position, and he drooled a handful of spit onto the couch at the pure pleasure being inflicted on him. It was slightly embarrassing to come because of this silicone object rather than your soaking wet cunt, but as you pounded the dildo into his hole and made it roughly kiss his prostate, Jonathan decided he didn’t care.

“Come for me,” you demanded gruffly, plowing the dildo in and out of Jonathan’s aching ass, “come undone, baby, all for me.”

At your words, Jonathan -- having been thoroughly tamed at this point -- came, spurting his rich seed onto the couch and his chest, a few drops making their way to his face. He felt you continue to press the length of the dildo in his hole as he rode out his high, and it made for the sickest, bordering-on-painful stimulation.

It still felt heavenly, though: being allowed to come was the highest privilege for him, because it meant you thought he was worthy. Also, because it satisfied the aching monster within him, the one that wanted so desperately to be roughly fucked and toyed with.

At last, you slid the dildo out of his hole, admiring how stretched out and wide it made him, before getting up from your place on the floor and sliding onto the couch. You helped Jonathan sit upright and lay his back on the cushy object, your warm hand clasping his cheek gently.

“All obedient for me now, are you?” you whispered lowly, tickling the bottom of his chin to meet your gaze.

Jonathan licked his plump lips, “You own me… mistress.” The title sounded right at home on his lips— on both your lips, and you smirked.

“I like the sound of that,” you purred, a renewed vigor entering your body. Your arms clasped around Jonathan’s bicep, and you pulled him forward while laying down, making him press his tired weight on top of you. “M’gonna use you however I fuckin’ want,” you said in his flushed ear, before lifting your legs up to wrap around your waist.

His eyes widened, “What are you—“

“Shh,” you cut him off softly, hand coming down to squeeze one of his balls tightly, “just listen to Mistress. This night’s far from over, pet.”

Jonathan groaned, eyes squeezIng shut and feeling his cock spring up once more. Fuck, he thought, and damn this horny cock of his; damn your insatiable appetite; damn how fucking good it felt to be yours.

All yours.

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #burnyouwithacigarettelighter #cillian murphy smut #jonathan crane #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #sub!jonathan crane #sub!jonathan crane x reader

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yesimwriting · 3 months

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Please please please write for itwv. I would cry of happiness?

You seem like a lestat girl... But also a armand.

"You seem like a lestat girl... But also a armand." you clocked me and my love of toxic men omg

here's a lestat drabble just for u anon <3

Summary: Darkness encroaching on what's considered holy is one of the world's few consistencies. Or alternatively, Lestat enjoys your stolen moments more than he'd ever admit.

Warnings: my first time writing for a character so be nice bc that's always a little scary 😭, slight religious allusions/metaphors, no pronouns used but there are potential vague implications that the reader was socialized as a girl/woman

----

What's confined to the shadows holds little regard for the sacred. The absence of light leaves no space for the good, no sanctuary or safe place to keep darkness from swallowing the revered whole.

It's fitting, then, that Lestat cannot bring himself to let you go.

You shift, fingertips brushing against the inside of his wrist. There's a valiant effort on your end to keep the turn of your head subtle, but it's not enough to keep him from feeling the weight of your cautious stare.

He keeps his eyes on your ceiling. You're radiating a warmth he's not sure he'll ever grow accustomed to, the heat of you nowhere near as simple as blood and flesh alone. It's as if remnants of daylight cling to your skin, so alive and attached to you your touch should scald him.

"Did you miss me?" The question is a thing of greed rather than curiosity.

You're quiet for a moment, your mind warning you to not reveal too much. Your hand stalls against his forearm. "Of course I missed you."

Your thoughts focus on your own response. Wearing your heart on your sleeve is a facet of your being, a testament to your ever giving honesty. Regardless of vampiric gifts, your thoughts, your feelings are easy to notice, even when they're not simple.

Now, your head is latching onto a myriad of things. Ever the lamb blinded by the wolf's clothing, you were more than just happy when he appeared at your window, you were relieved. A part of you, however, was still worried in a way that came close to making you resentful. The contrasting feelings blend together now, enjoying his presence isn't enough to make you forget his absence. Humanity and its ability to turn an approximate two weeks of nothingness into something with meaning.

Lestat turns his arm over, his fingers finding yours. "You seem to have little interest in showing me."

An exaggerated sigh falls from your lips. You move further onto your side, attention now openly settling onto him. From you, divine prophecy takes the form of a barely there crease between your eyebrows and your lips pressing together to fight against a smile. There's a similar sort of revelation in the way you're looking at him now.

"That is not true." You're working at an irritation you don't feel in an attempt to mask your desire for this type of conflict. Your elbow presses into the mattress as you prop your head up. "The only thing I've done tonight is dote on you."

In your defense, you always give as much as you can. You're generous with your attention, listening to his every word as you hold onto him, gentle fingers attempting to work warmth into stone flesh. It's a companionship unlike anything else. What once was only a simple form of entertainment has morphed into a dichotomy that shouldn't exist. You ever the saint and him the night's creature tainting holy ground.

He drags his thumb against your knuckles. "Really? You're doting on me?" The corner of your mouth pulls itself upwards, the look bordering on a smile. "And if I were to tell you I want more. What then, ange?"

Your thoughts instruct you to hold his gaze as you squeeze his hand. "Then I think I'd have to warn you of the dangers of greed."

"I'm a selfish man." Lestat lifts your intertwined hands. You watch him curiously, blood dragging its way up your neck as he presses his lips to the back of your palm. "I don't need a warning."

You're so close now he can feel the flush of your skin. "You talk like it's too late for you."

The promise of eternity is enough to quell the effects of irony. It's human nature to cling to ideality, to believe that the world is something they can take at face value. Still, from you, the comment is enough to make him smile.

The comment is closer to a joke than a genuine analysis, but it's clear that you mean the sentiment. Your eyes are bright, forgiving in their kindness. Perhaps if you knew what he was, you'd no longer look at him like he's responsible for the stars hanging in the sky.

"Maybe it is."

Your expression briefly falters, but before any changes can take root, you're moving back. You remain on your side as you lie down, head resting against his side. "I doubt that."

He begins to trail his fingers against your shoulder. You'll fall asleep soon, and he'll leave the way he always does, shedding the only version of himself you'd ever welcome with open arms. "Of course you would."

"What?"

His palm settles against your back. "You're a good person, mon ange." The vagueness of the topic paired with the tinge of something harsh in his voice leaves your thoughts restless. Lestat should take care to not pull at threads, to not leave you with questions he cannot answer. "Almost irritatingly so."

You lift your head enough to rest your chin against his ribs. "Irritatingly so?" The words are repeated with an easiness that manages to surprise him, your easy mood returning. "You're impossible."

"And you missed me desperately."

You stare at him skeptically, eyebrows drawing together and head angling itself to one side. "I never said desperately."

He pulls your arm towards him, fingers digging into your hand with enough force to imply a warning. "Do not be mean."

"I'm not," you defend, tone conveying a honey sweet innocence that could convince anyone you're incapable of wrongdoing, "I'm only saying I never told you how much I missed you."

You don't realize your mistake until the sentence has already left you. Lestat grins. "And how much did you miss me?"

Ignoring the warmth making its way up your chest, you shake your head once before moving to lie on your back again. "Oh, infinitely so. I spent my evenings in utter agony.

The facetious response is not enough to distract from your thoughts. You missed him more than you'd ever be willing to admit. For now, he'll leave you your pride. After all, he'll have other nights to focus on drawing out our praises. "Fine, be sarcastic. We're all entitled to our secrets."

You extend an arm, moving to rest it against his side. He'll have to take extra care not to wake you when he eventually has to detangle your limbs from his. The thought of the inevitable digs at him in a way he can't make sense of. Beings of the shadows may constantly work at ebbing away light, but there's an inevitable end to all wear away. You were right to notice his greed.

"Yeah," you mumble, the syllable heavy with drowsiness. For a moment, you're so still and silent Lestat almost convinces himself you've fallen asleep. "Then what are yours?"

His hand smooths circles against your spine. "That I think about stealing you away."

Your mind seems to catch itself on his answer, thoughts dissecting his words with an awareness that defies the docility that takes over when you're half asleep. After a moment, you choose to see humor there, but that isn't enough for you to let it go. "Is it really stealing if I want to go?"

You don't know what you're asking for. You're from a world so separate from his own you cannot even fathom the true implication of your words. His lips part, but before he can respond your breathing evens and your mind empties, finally succumbing to sleep.

----

a/n i really liked writing this so if you have any itwv requests pls feel free to send them to me!! just specify the character and as a general note i usually assume fem!reader but i'm happy to write gn!reader if it's specified in the ask :))

#iwtv x reader #interview with the vampire x reader #lestat x reader #lestat de lioncourt x reader #x reader #ask

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apas-95 · 7 months

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There's such a thing as a wolf in sheep's clothing. I've seen one.

It was standing right by that tree on the sun-facing meadow, bathed in moonlight. The herd was asleep, with the mountainside just behind. That night, I hadn't been able to sleep, curled up beside my mother - it was my first winter.

The wolves had been howling all night, the locations of their packs and territory echoing across and over the valleys. A few restless sheep still ambled around, grazing halfheartedly. Rufus, the big, fluffy one with the splotchy-dark fur, was sat a short ways away from the rest of the herd, occasionally rising, yawning, and sauntering over to another location on the outskirts of the group.

Terrified, but not wanting to move or wake anybody, I kept my eyes locked on every movement, and my ears locked on every sound. When the moon had eventually risen to almost the very centre of the sky, the whole valley was illuminated in a mute monochrome, like a dream. Slowly, I had started to associate between the wolf-calls and Rufus's movements. When a particularly loud, particularly close howl would be heard, Rufus would get up and calmly trot over to lie between it and the herd. When I realised that, I started to relax, and let my eyes rest a little.

I think Rufus must have dozed off completely at some point, because I realised, with a start, that the howl I was hearing was far louder, and far closer, than any I'd heard before, and Rufus was sat on the complete other side of the herd.

This was my first time ever seeing a wolf. Two of them had crested the hill. They were... sharp. Their ears and faces poked out, like thistle-thorns. Rufus was a bit pointy, too, but in the same pleasing, round way as a scut tail, or a pair of horns. Still, it's what I saw Rufus do that scares me.

Rufus must have realised at the same time, because as soon as I had glanced over, Rufus was already a blur. I had never, and still haven't since, ever seen a sheep run that fast.

I expected Rufus to ram them, face them down, charge them back. Maybe I was a bit naïve. Still, even now I wouldn't have anticipated what happened. Rufus shifted her posture, spiking up on her long legs. Her face contorted, flaring her ears and sneering back her lips to reveal rows of long, sharp teeth. Even her matted-down fur shifted, now shooting up in fine hairs.

The wolves backed down, Rufus letting out a guttural, almost inaudibly-deep growl the whole time she slowly paced them away from us. The whole herd had been shocked awake at that point, and I squeezed up against my mother's flank, barely able to make out another lamb's bleating over my own pounding heartbeat. But none of them had seen what Rufus had done.

When she came back, the moon was almost behind the mountains. I could barely recognise her in the dark. My mother had nipped me by the back of the neck and dragged me to the centre of the herd, so there were other sheep between us, but... I slept uneasily. Still, I didn't wake for the rest of the night.

The next morning, after the shepherd took us out to graze, I paid close attention to Rufus. When she went over to the shepherd's tent, as she did whenever he whistled, I stared, and listened, straining a little to try to peer into the dark interior. I caught just a glimpse, just the barest glimpse, of the shepherd feeding her something.

And on the breeze, for just a moment, when the wind turned just so, I caught a scent. Meat. And then it was gone.

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overstuffd · 28 days

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So, feedee werewolf won, obviously, because you're all a bunch of bottoms (loving).

So here are some more thoughts.

When I find you in the woods you're cold, scared - and hungry.

I bring you back to my cottage, offer you some clothes to replace your soaked rags. They're a few sizes too big but you're grateful.

Slowly, you piece together last night. The transformation - the gorging yourself on chickens from the farmer a few miles over.

I smile and offer you a firm, gentle hand. Don't worry - I'm here to help. You're so relieved you don't notice how deep my nails dig into the flesh of your arm.

First, I want you comfortable. I draw you a warm bath to shake off the night before. The fire is crackling, and the incense I light leaves you feeling dozy and calm.

After your bath there are more soft, large clothes - you wonder who they are for - and a proper meal, you look like you need one, poor thing!

You don't realise how late it's gotten, but I've prepared a King's supper. A roast ham and a whole cold chicken, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, a huge tray of butter roasted potatoes, pumpkin and carrots, glazed in honey. There are soft fried eggs in a dish, and jars of cramy sauces and pickles. You set about making yourself a huge sandwhich, and you're almost done before you realise you didn't wait to be invited to eat.

You blush as you look up at at me, but I wave your concerns away. I set the table for you, enjoy it.

As you eat, I explain your condition, and the words are so distracting you barely notice how many brick sized sandwiches you're gulping down.

You're a werewolf, poor little lamb, I explain. The fellow with the dark eyes you let take you home from the bar a few weeks ago - those bite marks aren't the only thing he left with you.

Your curse is to transform every full moon into a creature controlled purely by desire and animal need - yourself in an unihinited, bestial form, with power to do as you will. I know, it must be scary sweet thing - here, try one of these custard buns.

The good news is, as you've probably guessed, I'm more than just familar with the arcane and supernatural. I'm quite a skilled practitioner of magics, and with your cooperation I can make the next full moon much less dangerous for everyone.

You're so grateful to hear - the memories of the night before that are flashning through your mind scare you, as much as they stir something else, deep at the root of your stomach.

I tell you to eat up and get some sleep, I'll begin your training - your instruction, that is - tomorrow.

You wake and breakfast is ready - cooked meats, more eggs and poetatoes, and pastries, fruit - you don't take it all in before you start eating, you're ravenous.

Your hair is longer, you notice as I idly play with it, and is spreading down you neck and across your shoulders. You shovel more eggs, another chocolate stuffed puff-pastry treat, not thinking it at all strange as I work out one of the stress knots in your shoulder.

After breakfast - the third plate of which you eat at my insistence - I start teaching you about herblore.

Your wolf form - I explain - is an extension of your self. Don't think of yourself and them as separate creatures, they are your needs and desires made flesh. The better state you are going into the full moon, the more docile your wolf form.

As I talk, you are distracted by my fingers rolling thumb-fat herbal cigarettes into tight cones. My voice watches ovr you as the repetitive movement makes you feel dozy.

Lavender, or course, and chamomile, for calm and stillness. Mallow root for dreaminess. Oatflower for - making you open to influence. My, postitive influence. Heather for appetite - you're going to need your strength. Mugwort to enhance sensation, to keep you in touch with your body. A few others from my garden - I'm passioante about creating potent cross strains.

I place one of the joints in your mouth and light the tip, flicking away the ash as your hungry mouth starts the cone before your conscious mind has time to realise what's happening. I pull the joint away and take a hit myself, you taking a moment to greedily gasp air, before I press my lips against yours and shotgun the herbal mixture directly into your neuro-cortex.

Your head swims, and your brain short circuits as I place a hand on your thigh. You stuggle to regain your composure, as a bell in the kitchen goes off.

Oh - lunch is ready!

As I sidle off to the kitchen, you realise how warm you feel between your thighs from the contact.

Lunch is a shepherds pie, and I make no move to serve a portion, just place the whole dish in front of you with a huge spoon breaking the crisp crust and fragrant steam spilling into the air.

You don't hesitate, you pick up the spoon and start digging in. The food smells delicious, and you're already ravenous despite the huge breakfast. You swallow mouthful after mouthful of rich, savoury food as I explain more to you, slowly and clearly like you've realise you need.

Fullness is important. I explain, gently. I'm across the table but my foot is playing with the inside fo your thigh. The hungrier you are, the more dangerous your wolf is. It's so important that you stay full. I'm going to do my best, okay, but you need to tell me as soon as there's any room in your belly, sweet thing.

You nod happily, barely looking up from you pie.

Good dog, I say, as I ruffle you hair.

Dinner comes, pinning you to you chair in the kitchen, and as you eat I explain how important it is that you indulge all your needs now, while you're still a soft, safe human.

You are barely listening, enjoying dragging more of the soft, fresh and heavily buttered bread through more of the delicious, spiced stew. It's one again full of my specially chosen herbs, but you don't need to know that. You've found yourself needing to know less and less all day.

You look a little pent up dear, I say, softly, walking round to your end of the table. No - you keep eating. I know just what to do.

I slide under the table and gently pull down the trousers I leant you. They're loose - for now - and come down easily so I can take you in mouth. I gently suck as you swallow more food.

I don't know if you realise how much you're moaning, but I suspect it has as much to do with the meal as it does with my fingers teasing your hole.

You finish your dinner before you finish in my mouth, already such a good pet. Tomorrow we'll have much more to do to make you safe, but for now I'll walk your heavy, drowsy form to the bed and rub your bloated belly till you sleep.

#y'all want a part two? ask me so very nicely and i'll oblige #feeder kink #weight gain kink #wg text #feedee encouragement #getting fatter #fat encouragement #fat admirer #getting bigger #stuffd posts #feeding kink #queer feedism #queer feedist #wg fiction #witch feeder #werewolf feedee #pup feedee

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bamboozledbird · 2 months

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IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // Chapter 1 (reader version)

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, Reader (You) Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. For years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because you feel like something halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter.

You can’t wash the smell of hospital out of clothes, not really. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is how long will they want to? Chapter Summary: After your annual interrogation with Sheriff Stilinski, you meet his son who turns out to be very handy with jumper cables and incoherent babbling.

A/N: Does this look familiar? It should lmao. I gave into the peer pressure. All the messages and requests were too powerful. Here is a reader version of my ofc season 1 fic. Obviously some things have been removed to get rid of specific names/descriptions, so you want to read the full thing you can read the og version and check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)! For the sake of not clogging tags, I'll probably just do my reader version on tumblr and the full oc lore version on ao3 from now on. xx

Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

Before your mother’s death, you would have picked fire. Every single time.

You never liked the cold; never really had to get used to it growing up in central California—but the crux of your argument, the twisted logic behind it all, was that most burn victims died from suffocation before they felt the flames. A small mercy, really, in the face of unspeakable tragedy.

In the end, however, statistics were just numbers, your mother didn't die from smoke inhalation, and there was no mercy in burying a parent before you were old enough to have children of your own. Nothing ever ended poetically off the page. Death was just death, and it was always ugly. Someone should really tell that to Robert Frost, you mused, biting at a raw hangnail.

The medical examiner said the actual cause of death was pulmonary edema; at least, that was his best guess based on the state of the body. He didn’t say that she felt everything, her skin peeling back into her flesh, her flesh liquefying into fuel, her joints flexing into contorted pleas until the fire incinerated her last nerve ending. He didn’t have to; you connected those dots all on your own. You’d been twelve at the time, not an imbecile.

“I’m sorry to drag you through this all again.”

You flitted your eyes away from the flickering lightbulb above Sheriff Stilinski’s head and met his gaze; it was nauseatingly sympathetic. Your responding shrug was a small, little thing—more like a twitch in practice, “Not your fault.”

Your yearly visits to Sheriff Stilinski’s office were solely your father’s doing, even if no one wanted to admit it to your face. Most mayors would use their political power to get their child out of a police station, not into it, but perhaps he stopped being your dad somewhere between the funeral and now.

“If you could start—”

“From the beginning,” you smoothed your thumb in small circles over the armrest of your chair, attentively tracing patterns into the polished wood, “I know.” This was, after all, the fourth anniversary of your first interrogation. You’d become somewhat of an expert at being a useless witness. You picked at your uneven cuticles before continuing, “Mom put me to bed around 10:00—which was kind of late for a school night, honestly, but she let me stay up to finish another chapter anyway.” The right corner of your mouth twitched for a brief moment, “Nancy Drew: Password to Larkspur Lane. I told her that forcing someone to go to sleep in the middle of a mystery was specifically forbidden in Geneva Protocol II.” Your mom had been far too indulgent of your lip on most occasions, but that night she didn’t smile at your snarky aside. She let you finish the chapter because she was too tired to argue; you could tell. At the time, you saw it as a victory. Now, it kept you up at night, the drooping lines of your mother’s mouth spilling over the pages of whatever book you were trying to read.

You bit down on your tongue when a stray splinter snagged against the soft pad of your thumb, “Dad was out of town, so it was just the two of us. Mom always put me to bed when Dad was gone; said it was the only way she could get to sleep. Had to make sure my window was locked.” You paused for a long moment: everything went dark after this. Your mother kissed the top of your head, murmured, ‘Love you,’ turned out the light, and then that was it. You woke up in the hospital, and your mom was dead.

A bead of sweat dripped onto your top lip. The air in the Beacon Hills police station was, without fail, sticky with heat and body odor—and it wasn’t just the oppressive Californian sun. Even in the winter, a person could choke on the stifling warmth. Idly, you wondered if it was a matter of interrogatory tactics or budgetary constraints.

“And then,” Sheriff Stilinski prompted gently, though you both knew how the story went from here. You had told it to him and a dozen other officials at least a hundred times in the last four years.

You bit down on your thumbnail and winced when your teeth snagged on the tender nail bed, “And then nothing. I opened my eyes, and a nurse said that you found me on the front lawn.”

“You don’t remember how you got outside?”

You shook your head, staring past the Sheriff's shoulder. Large pieces of dust floated through the air, highlighted by the slivers of light trickling through the blinds. Suddenly, you had a newfound appreciation for the lack of fans in the room.

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “You don’t remember saying it was an angel?”

Blinking slowly, you looked at the grim line of the Sheriff’s mouth and gripped your knees tightly, digging your fingers into fragile skin until your wrist cracked, “I should, right? I was twelve. I should remember something—that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what my dad thinks.” Your eyelids fluttered to a tight close, and your voice went so quiet you could barely be heard over the hum of the copier outside the door, “He thinks it was me. That’s why he makes you question me every year.” Copper flooded your mouth as the soft lining of your cheek split under the brunt of your teeth, “He thinks you’ll finally figure out how I did it.”

You were scared to open your eyes as the silence stretched between the two of you. You’d danced around the subject before, hinted and spun around the heart of it, but you’d never truly discussed how it looked from the outside. Sheriff Stilinski had been kind enough to give you a few different excuses over the years: trauma, head injury, oxygen deprivation, just plain ol’ grief—but whatever caused your temporary amnesia wasn’t so conveniently explained. In fact, currently, you had no explanation at all. When you finally peeked through your lashes, clumped together with frustrated tears, you couldn’t quite figure out what expression the Sheriff was making. He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned, “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“He does,” you cut him off. Your eyes went flinty, irises darkening to something far more ashen with the resolve of your anger. You never had any trouble reading your father’s face; the disgust was thinly-veiled between the flickers of fear.

Sheriff Stilinksi leaned forward so that you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They were kind—more tired than usual, but still kind. They always were. That was one thing you remembered from that day, waking up in the hospital to Sheriff Stilinski’s kind, watery blue eyes, just before the entire world fell apart. His voice was gentle, but firm, when he finally spoke, “I don’t.”

You nodded numbly and pulled at a fraying string on the hem of your denim skirt until the thread snapped.

“I mean it, kid. They couldn’t identify the source of the fire. They couldn’t even find an origin point; no twelve-year-old could pull that off.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Could anyone?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s brow furrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a crooked line, like he was chewing on his words and deciding if he should swallow them or spit them out. “I wish I had all the answers for you. I really do. Not knowing, it’s worse than any truth.”

You blinked up at him for a moment, once again taken aback by his raw sincerity, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to have the answers; he was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. There was one failure in his muggy office, and it wasn’t the Sheriff. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Not your fault.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the phone on his desk. “I have to take this, but if you remember something, or if you just need to talk—”

“My dad spends a small fortune on a psychiatrist and a behavioral therapist for that,” you stood up quickly, shouldering your bag. You forced the corners of your mouth into a small smile, tight at the edges like a sheet that had been stretched too thin, “But thank you. For everything.”

The Sheriff’s gaze darted to a framed photo on his desk. You had seen it before, on one of your many visits to his office. It was of a boy—his son, you assumed—he looked like he was around five or six at the time. He was grinning, wide enough to show off his missing incisors, and his fingers and wrist were stained cotton-candy blue from a melting popsicle. You must’ve been that happy once, right? In the beginning, everyone was unencumbered by the weight of imminent mortality. Maybe that’s what Sheriff Stilinski was thinking, too. He looked away from the photo and gave you a small smile, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You gave a half-hearted wave before wrapping your fingers around the strap of your backpack and walking to the parking lot.

Outside, the sky was grim, a mocking reflection of the dour expression on your face. The spite in your eyes hardened when big, fat raindrops splattered against the apples of your cheeks. For a moment, you just stood there, glaring at the rain and cursing the cosmos for their utterly unamusing sense of humor.

A jeep pulled into the parking lot, and the squealing engine startled you back into reality. The search for your car keys was, of course, a considerable endeavor. Nothing could be easy. Not here. Not today. Not ever, you thought. A bit melodramatic maybe, but the weather was certainly ripe for a bit of self-pity.

You stacked your textbooks and binders onto the hood of your sedan, haphazardly throwing your jacket on top of the pile to protect your painstakingly penned Kafka essay from the rain. By the time your fingertips brushed against the cool metal of your car keys, your hair was damp and curling at the ends.

The momentary relief was short-lived when you pressed the unlock button five times and the accompanying beep didn’t sound, not even once. For an absurdly long minute, all you could do was rest your forehead against the driver’s side window, breathing heavily until condensation gathered next to your mouth and the drizzle speckled dots onto the sleeves of your thin cotton shirt.

“If you’re trying to charge the battery through osmosis, it’d probably be more effective to smash your head against the hood.”

You jumped, and then flinched again when your keys clattered against the ground. You caught a glimpse of the phantom speaker in the side-view mirror; bizarrely, he looked just as surprised as you felt. You turned around, trepidatiously—objects may be closer than they appear n’all—and tried to swallow your rapidly rising heart.

“Sorry,” the boy pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down and had the decency to look contrite, “big mouth.” He rubbed a hand over his chapped lips. “It’s a real problem. It’s so big, actually, that my foot just slides right in there like…all the time,” he gestured animatedly with a flat hand, a quick sliding motion, like a fish through water.

You blinked at him, slowly, and bent down to reach for your keys, “Might wanna see someone about that. Sounds unsanitary.”

“Eh, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” he said, eyes widening into horrified round circles the second he stopped talking. A faint flush creeped up his neck to his ears, and your heart dropped back into your chest. Slashers and ax murderers didn’t blush. Probably. You hadn’t ever met one, but it seemed like sound logic.

“Choking hazard,” you hummed, leaning back against your car. Your fingers traced a small dent in the door, the cause long forgotten, “It’s definitely still a choking hazard.”

The boy grinned before fixing his expression into something on the cusp of severity, “I’m about 95.7% sure that anything bigger than a fist is completely mouth-safe.” He held up his fist and nodded sharply, “Make that 98.3% sure.”

“98.3?” your brow arched.

“Maybe even 98.9.”

The buzz of a lamp post hummed above your heads as you stared at each other with little smirks until the quiet made you sink your teeth into your bottom lip and big-mouth drum his fingers against his forearm.

“So,” his sneakers squeaked against the slick asphalt as he shifted his weight, “you need a jump?”

You pursed your lips and ran your eyes over the front of your car, “I might give osmosis another shot. 30 seconds is hardly a fair trial.”

“Of course,” he hummed, “you gotta be fair.”

“We are in front of a police station.”

“Well,” he scratched his cheek, “it’s not a courthouse.”

“Technicality.” You were slightly horrified when you finally noticed that you were smiling. The sensation felt like it had escaped straight out of the uncanny valley and latched onto your face like a parasite in need of a host. It only took two weeks for muscles to atrophy; years must have completely decimated the fibers in your cheeks. “I guess I could use a jump. If your offer was an offer and not a hypothetical.”

“Smart choice.” The boy rapped his knuckles against the hood of your car and said, “Steel’s probably pretty low on the permeability scale.”

“As opposed to a skull.”

He snorted and then nodded towards the large lump of books and papers covered by your freshly dampened jean jacket, “You should probably move your stuff. Y’know, ‘cause of the very un-permeable battery.”

“There’s that,” you sighed and started stuffing your things back into your backpack, shaking it violently until your notebook finally slid past your chemistry textbook, “and flunking English isn’t high on my list of things to do this weekend.”

His gaze flickered back and forth, rapidly cataloging every corner and crevice of your face. You tilted your head, brows pinched, and stared back at him with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. His eyes, you noticed, became a peculiar shade of brown in the yellow glow of the setting sun and the fluorescent light of the lamppost. More like honey, you realized, more like honey than irises. Something finally clicked behind them. "You,” he pointed aggressively, “you go to Beacon Hills.”

You pushed his finger away from your face with your own, “Safe bet, considering there’s exactly one option for the next 2,000 square miles.”

“You’re kind of a smartass, you know that,” he muttered. He struggled with the trunk of the jeep parked next to your car, cursing under his breath until he finally wrenched it open with an almost guttural grunt.

Your lips parted briefly, and then you grinned drolly. It was refreshing, not being treated like some fragile little creature who would buckle in the knees—or possibly set something on fire—at the slightest confrontation. “Kind of?”

“Total.” He nodded decisively before sticking his head and torso into the depths of his trunk. “Completely, entirely, and wholly a smartass.” There were various clanging sounds until he re-emerged with a pair of jumper cables, “Never noticed that in class. You don’t really…say anything.”

You bit back the snark poised on the tip of your tongue. When people looked at you, the only thing they saw was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. You were the daughter of the woman who burned to death on Cedar Street; your mom died, and you were there. It seemed like that was all you would ever be in Beacon Hills.

In the grand scheme of things, it was better to be no one.

High school had been your chance to slip into social obscurity—more kids, more drama, less discussion of homicide by arson—so you took it, wholeheartedly. You kept to the corners of classrooms, away from extracurriculars, and your mouth resolutely shut.

“I try to exclusively bring the smart and leave the ass at home,” you finally replied.

The boy’s eyes drifted downwards for a moment, and his voice did a funny, squeaky thing when he said, “I should give that a go sometime.”

“10/10 would recommend. No one bugs you—and teachers never throw erasers at your face.”

“So you do remember me,” he grinned a little and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before unlatching the jeep’s hood and propping it open.

Slanting your head, you watched his profile. There were moles scattered across his cheek and neck, and his angular jaw clenched as he struggled with the knotted cords in his willowy fingers. “Vaguely,” you said faintly. It was coming back to you in pieces. That was life after twelve for you: bits and pieces. Everything was made up of the disquieting moments when you surfaced from the haze and into the present. It should’ve felt like a lungful of air, but it didn’t. It always felt like choking.

He wiped his grease-smudged hand on his jeans and then extended it towards you, “Stiles.”

You took his hand, despite the strange formality, and shook it—mainly because of the black streaks staining his pants. “Y/N.”

His fingers twitched a few times when he connected the clamp to the coordinating battery terminal, and your eyes widened. You held your breath in your sternum until you registered that he hadn’t been electrocuted. He was just naturally tweaky, you concluded. It was either that, or he had jumped one-too-many engines in the last 24 hours…unless it was hidden option C, and he was actually tweaking. Unlikely, given he was on his way into a building teeming with cops, but far stranger things had happened in Beacon Hills.

You sighed a little as you listened to the rain patter against the asphalt and the roof of your car, rubbing your palms over your arms until the goosebumps prickling along your biceps receded into your skin. Stiles looked back at you again, and his mouth wormed its way into a little frown. His head disappeared into his trunk, and after a moment a lumpy maroon mass hurtled towards your face. You caught it before it could smack into your nose, and you clutched at the soft material until you realized that the projectile missile was actually just a sweatshirt.

Stiles was staring at you when you looked up from your hands. A small, unsure…something squirmed over his face, and you felt a little stupid, just standing there, hoodie limp in your arms. It happened a lot—more than it should after so many years. The invisible quicksand materialized in the strangest, most insignificant moments. You blinked, completely brainless, at simple questions, stared aimlessly into your closet until your second alarm startled you into snatching the first shirt you came across—clasped at a stranger’s hoodie until the rainwater pooled on your lashes dripped into your eyes.

Robotically, you thrust your arms through the sleeves and tugged it over your head, “Thanks.” The sweet scent of grass clung to the fabric, and there was something earthier underneath it, something like evergreen. You smiled slightly, combing your baby hairs behind your ears, “I guess I forgive you for attempting to blind me in the process.”

Stiles’s shoulders unwound as he scoffed, “That was an excellent throw. First-line material, honestly.”

You looked at him and tilted your head, eyebrows crawling towards your hairline, and Stiles sighed loudly, “Okay, so I’m not an ‘athlete’ or whatever—but I’m working on it. You’ll see—you’ll all see.”

You hummed softly, unconvinced but grateful enough to not comment further. Another bout of silence fell between you, but it wasn’t so restless this time—even after Stiles torpedoed his body through his passenger seat. He fought with his keys for a while until the correct one slid into the ignition.

The jeep’s engine hummed pleasantly in the background as you let out a soft sigh, dropping your head back against your car window. The rain had stopped somewhere between trying to unlock your car and now, but you couldn’t quite recall when. The chill wasn’t so bad, you realized, without your foul mood casting a shadow over your head.

Stiles landed back on his feet and leaned against the jeep. You could feel his gaze on you again. A tickling sensation trailed down your spine as you fiddled with your keychain. You took a step backwards and bit your bottom lip, “I should probably try start my car…y’know, before you throw something else at my face.’”

He nodded, taking a step towards his jeep, “Solid plan. A tire iron was next.”

You slid into your car and stared at the steering wheel, forgetting to laugh at his joke. You wrapped your fingers around 10 and 2 and silently called upon every deity you’d ever heard of to end your suffering. Stiles seemed nice enough, but you seriously doubted your smalltalk capabilities were up-to ‘ride home’ standards. Perhaps, you should revisit your resounding dedication to atheism, you thought, as the engine sputtered in protest a few times and then came back to life.

Stiles flashed two thumbs up through the window. The smile on his face was positively goofy, but his dismount from the jeep was somehow even goofier. He stumbled over his large feet a few times before regaining stability. You bit back a smile when he shot you another thumbs up, this time through the dash as he removed the jumper cables from your car’s battery.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans again; at this point, you were convinced that they were beyond saving, but Stiles didn’t seem concerned. He tapped against your window before stepping around the open door, “You should probably let it run for a while. Take the scenic route home; enjoy all the Beacon Hills hotspots open past 8:00 pm on a weeknight. I personally recommend the Rite Aid or Walmart.”

You snorted, “Maybe I’ll swing by the Preserve. I hear the woods are especially beautiful in the foreboding darkness.”

“Don’t.” Serious was an odd look on Stiles’s face. You decided that you much preferred the goofy grin. “Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. It’s officially cordoned off—totally locked down, quarantine-zone-central. Something about flesh-eating, parasitic plant life.”

“As completely real and unobtrusive as that sounds,” you drawled, “don’t worry about it. Literally every single person in town knows about the body they found in the woods.” It was bound to happen, small town and all—and ‘woman dies in deadly animal attack’ was the most interesting thing that had happened in Beacon Hills since the intersection got a Target two years ago. “I’ve seen every installment of Friday the 13th and The Blair Witch Project. If I’m going to be murdered, I refuse to also be humiliated by a cliché C.O.D.”

The manic expression on his face softened to a relieved smile and then again to a little smirk, “So what’s a certified fresh murder, then? Not that I doubt the depths of human depravity, but I think society killed off originality a few centuries ago.”

You thought back to a house fire with no origin, accelerant, or discernible cause. Apparently, not. “You know what they say,” you sighed, “life finds a way.”

Stiles tilted his head, “And death.”

“And death,” you agreed, staring at a small chip in your windshield. The cracks had just begun to spiderweb out from the pit.

Stiles looked like he wanted to say something, and he looked so much like the Sheriff with his face twisted around thoughtful contemplation that you couldn’t believe it had taken you this long to make the connection. The boy in the photo had grown up. How unfortunate for him. Stiles swallowed whatever it was that was lingering on his tongue and shut your door. He leaned his elbow against the window frame and cocked his hand in a stiff little wave, “Seeya at school. I’ll bring something fun for target practice—maybe grapes. You like grapes? Don’t answer that—I’ll surprise you.”

You put your car in drive once Stiles was safely a few feet from the wheels and gave him a dry smile, “The anticipation is killing me.”

What a scary place to be, you thought as you watched Stiles disappear in your rearview mirror. Anticipation. Hope. Life. You were chronically good at surviving; cockroached your way out of every horrible thing life squashed you with. Lately, all you could do was cling to your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin, until you were barely more than roadkill. A walking carcass was a far cry from living, but death would not stop for you, so you stopped looking for him. You kept treading water, took your pills, stopped existing—you were a lot like Schrödinger’s cat that way: too stubborn to live, too stubborn to die. You didn’t know what to do if someone unsealed the box and forced you to choose. That was the trouble with possibility; it required far too much uncertainty.

Your dad’s SUV was parked in the garage when you finally pulled into your circle driveway. It was a rare sight; your dead battery had disrupted your usual routine. You were supposed to be safely tucked away in your room after an early dinner—take-out usually, sometimes a quesadilla if you were feeling exceptionally inspired—by the time your dad got home from work. It was dysfunctional in every sense of the word, but it was the only way you could function in the same space.

He used to stare at you from the other end of the dinner table: not eating, not speaking. The only way you knew he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he moved dinner to his office. ‘Working dinner,’ he’d say in passing, ‘budgets are due.’ Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether. It was better that way, you thought. You loved each other better from afar, where the power of nostalgia could cloud all the present unpleasantries. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you now. You wondered, and you desperately didn’t want to find out.

You shouldered your backpack and made sure your car lights were off twice before quietly creeping into the mudroom. You could hear the buzz of the microwave as you toed off your sneakers and tried to discern the smell emanating from the kitchen. Something with garlic and tomato. Bona Vita, probably. Your dad loved their al pomodoro.

You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you skulked into the kitchen, shoulders hunched to your ears and grip tight around the strap of your backpack. Your dad’s back was to you; you could see the wrinkles in his collar from where he tugged at it when he was agitated. He stopped stirring his pasta once you reached the island.

“Did…” your dad trailed off for a moment, still facing the kitchen counter, “did everything go alright with the Sheriff?”

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see you, “I guess.”

“It’s just,” he rubbed at his jaw and looked down towards the oven, “it’s almost eight. I was wondering…worrying.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. You stared at the back of his head and sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. Look at me. Your brows pinched, and your back molars ground together. Look at me.

“I called him. Sheriff Stilinski. He said that you didn’t speak for long.”

“Didn’t have anything new to say,” you shoved your hands into hoodie pockets, realizing belatedly that you forgot to give Stiles his sweatshirt back. Another problem for another time.

“That’s not what I—” your dad grasped the lip of the counter and hung his head like it suddenly weighed too much for his spine, “I was wondering what happened to you.”

“Oh,” you shifted your weight onto your other foot, “dead battery. I think it was the door light.”

Your dad nodded a little, “Do you need someone to pick up your car?”

“Got a jump from a friend.” Not a friend, not really, but you supposed it was the closest you’d come to one in the last four years. That was just a little too sad to say out loud.

“Good.” He nodded again, “Good.”

You nodded because it seemed like the only thing to do and slipped towards the hallway. You’d taken no less than five steps out of the kitchen when your dad said, “You could call me. Next time, you could call me.”

Maybe. Maybe you could if he would look at you.

#stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski fanfiction #dylan o'brien imagine #stiles stilinski x you #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinski x reader

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7-ferrets-in-a-coat · 3 months

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Literal Wolf in Lamb's clothing AU :3c

Au in which a Wolf wears a sheep Fur (?) and everyone is way too blind to see thru the disguise but TOWW à la Miraculous style

HUGE SHOUT OUT TO @spilycoris LISTENIN TO ME RAMBLE ALL ABOUT THIS AND ALSO WITH THE SPEECH BUBBLES MY HANDWRITING IS SHITTTTT

Also little fella ref sheet :3

#cotl au #cult of the lamb fanart #cotl narinder #literal wolf in lamb's clothing Au

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yandere-writer-momo · 11 months

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FHJSHKSKKWK YAY KATSUMI ASKS!!!!!!

Mine is: How’d he be if Darling was a gold digger in a AU and just married him for his sweet cash he and his family probably make from the nation wide dojo?

He stupid till the very end? He that delulu we love him or what?

Even better if we 🤰so he gotta be forced to give us alimony and that sweet child support if we leave him for richer prospects!!!!!

I’ll give you one better. Gold digger reader who doesn’t realize what she’s gotten herself into until it’s too late! Kind of a little horror piece.

Yandere Baki Shorts: Barking Up The Wrong Tree

Yandere Katsumi Orochi x Afab reader

Katsumi would be delulu till the end. He’s smitten from the first day he met (your name) when she came to the dojo to learn karate. A pretty, foreign girl wanted to know karate? He’d be happy to teach her!

Katsumi hasn’t had much time to explore relationships since he was so busy with karate. (Your name) was the perfect opportunity and he was excited to get to know her. She was close in age and she was single too! Katsumi couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity!

Over time, the relationship develops with him. To him and all the other karatekas, (your name) is a precious lamb in need of protection. But in reality she is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She’s merely here to milk him of some of his money and then leave. She just didn’t think Katsumi would be so easy. Hell he was still a virgin.

(Your name) would pretend to be shy whenever Katsumi fixed her form. She would shyly glance away whenever his chest is revealed and she would act so innocent. Katsumi eats it up every. Single. Time. He can’t get enough.

So it’s no surprise when he asks her out on dates. He’s a the kind of guy who buys flowers and chocolates. The kind to hold doors open and pull out a chair out. He’s a total simp. The easiest target she has had so far.

(Your name) is so sweet to him and she didn’t mind that his palms were always sweaty. She would praise him and go to all his games. And he rewards her with so many gifts.

If Katsumi is busy, he will send her expensive gifts she had wanted or slightly mentioned. Sometimes he’d even give her cash. He had no idea he was nothing more than a sugar daddy to (your name). The two of them hadn’t even had sex and he’s already done so much for her… he was sweet.

But that’s when she noticed how unhinged he started to become. How his touches would linger and how he’d sneak a hand in her pocket if you walk too far away from him. How his lips would linger longer on the back of her hand far longer than comfortable. And how often his hands would I graze her stomach. Katsumi was starting to scare her.

And that’s when he began to talk about babies. How beautiful she’d look pregnant. Katsumi even shared baby names with her and talk about how he’d teach their child karate.

She had to leave. She had to leave right now. The money wasn’t worth it anymore if he was talking about having kids with her.

(Your name)’s hands desperately rummaged through her drawer. Her eyes wide and breathing uneven.

“Where is it?! Where is it?!” (Your name) cried to herself in her search for her passport..

She caught Katsumi tampering with her birth control and now she knew she needed to flee right now. He wanted a family and she was so irrationally afraid of child birth. She cut him off immediately and hasn’t answered his calls for two days now.

“(Your name)?” (Your name) froze when she heard her front door open and Katsumi’s voice. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be at the dojo. “(Your name)? Are you okay?”

(Your name) trembled, she felt like a cornered animal when Katsumi appeared in her doorway. The karateka gave her a big, goofy grin.

“Hey! I didn’t mean to scare you. You just haven’t answered my calls in two days so I was worried about you.” Katsumi frowned at her disheveled form. “Are you sick? You’re shaking!”

Katsumi closed the distance between them in a flash, his strong arms pulled her against his body. “Your face is so pale… do you have a cold? I can go get you some soup, baby.”

(Your name) shook her head no. The waterworks began to fall which only made Katsumi more concerned.

“Don’t cry! You don’t have to worry about me getting sick! I’m a tough guy!” Katsumi pressed his lips to the top of her head. “You’re so cute being all concerned about me… I love you!”

A loud sob escaped her lips which made Katsumi pulled her head into his chest. He shushed her and wiped her tears away with his thumbs, but it only made her cry even harder.

“There. There. Say. How about you stay at my place and I’ll take care of you?” Katsumi smiled warmly down at her. “It can be like a practice run for when we’re husband and wife! What do you say?”

“I-I want to go home-“ Katsumi scooped her up bridal style in his arms. His eyes filled with so much adoration, she thought she’d be consumed.

“Then let’s go home together.” Katsumi then began to ramble. “I’m looking into buying a bigger place. Just like the ones you said you liked when we went on that walk a month ago. One where we can start a family… oh! How many kids do you want? I’d love to have a big family but if you only want one or two, that’s perfect.”

(Your name) had barked up the wrong tree.

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bitten-apple · 4 months

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I want to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. be a good little lamb; know every prayer by heart; go to church every Sunday, where I read the Bible during mass. wear a rosary the color of pearls and teardrops around my neck. the cross of it snug against the warmth of my chest. I want to have the pastor place me as the golden standard for the rest of the congregation. making me lower my gaze in false modesty at his every praise. a difficult task to do. he's a stoic, hard man with a permanent furrow between his brows.

yet, this is the same pastor I'm making gasp and swear while I'm riding him. my rosary wrapped around his wrists so as not to let him fall into the temptation that are my thighs – which gently jiggle every time I go down on his lap. I can be merciful after all. even as my lips part and allow filth to fall from them. the tongue of the snake hidden behind deceivingly soft lips.

calling him a sinful man. a bad pastor taking advantage of his oh-so-poor little lamb.

"father, are you not a hypocrite?" I would say with a mocking pout on my lips, as faux tears brimmed in my eyes. even as I go down faster on his lap. watching as his eyes roll to the back of his head. the curve of his neck bared due to the top buttons of his cassock being open. allowing the white of his clerical shirt to highlight the hint of stubble there under the low light of the confessional booth.

#《 love a. 》#hierophilia #priest kink #corruption kink #religion kink #blasphemy kink #nsft #ns/fw #queer nsft

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astyrial · 1 year

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little lamb spencer reid x fem!reader (angst) synopsis: you are kidnapped by an unsub word count: 1.5k warnings: blood, kidnapping, torture, hurt/comfort masterlist | requests are open

a finger slowly and steadily hovers above your skin, running from your chin to your collarbone. your hair stands on edge as he looks down towards you. the man has a wicked smile on his face, his lips curl only a little as he sees the fear resting in your eyes.

"pretty little lamb, tricked so easily by a wolf in sheep's clothing. couldn't you, of all people, see that i very clearly brought you into my trap? shouldn't the fbi be the best of the best? and yet you follow like sheep," he brutally laughs, the thick mucus building up in his throat quickly regurgitating.

your eyes look up at the man, meeting his own. he has rich brown eyes, nearly black, as the light fades from them. "oh, but obviously i chose you for a reason, can't you see? i chose you because they'd do anything to keep you safe. that spencer kid, yeah, i'm sure he's loving this."

spencer... your lip quivers a little as you attempt to hold back any tears. your mind begins to race as to what he had said about the unsub. that he thrives on fear, he enjoys someone who fears him. that the man also has to have a military background, probably a father figure who served.

"you're a sick bastard," your jaw tightens in his direction, your lips no longer moving, your eyes attempting to hide the very real fear hidden within.

he laughs, raising his hand up to his forehead, "isn't that just great, you're trying to act like you're not scared? have i not put on enough theatrics for you people? not enough risk?"

just out of your line of sight, the man grabs something. it doesn't leave much room for imagination as it sticks into your upper arm, a knife. it's a few inches deep into the skin and yet he feels the need to push it in a little farther. like the man yearns for the feeling of ending someone's life, like he is draining their life force.

despite the strong will inside, an exasperated cry for help reverberates deep from your lungs. a laugh rings through your head, a rich and annoying laugh that imbeds itself. he pulls the knife out and watches as the blood seeps down your blouse. "are you finally getting it? that you can't hide your fear as well as you think you can."

"fuck off," you swallow whatever phlegm built up in your mouth, your eyes meeting his.

a little spit hits his cheek, his eyes wide in amusement. everything you do can't stop the vile things he is already planning out in his head. "really? stupid little lamb. none of your friends? coworkers? what do you consider them? because if it's anything closer than coworkers, i'm sure they'll be crying at your funeral."

no amount of training can prepare you for the expression on his face. no amount of an agent shouting at you that this moment is the moment that matters. no amount of textbooks that spencer sends to your office can prepare you for the feeling of a knife running along your thigh.

"you know how this goes, you've seen the tapes. how about you look up and give your last words. and makes sure they're nice, your boyfriend will be watching," he smiles, shrugging his shoulders as he adjusts a shoddy camera hooked up to a laptop.

of course you've thought of your last words, you're an fbi agent. you've been in comprising situations. however, you never thought it would realistically come. it never has and you thought retirement would've come quicker. "no," you shake your head, no long winded speech about justice, just no.

"no? what do you mean no? you really have nothing to say to me? your friends? family? don't you wanna say anything?" he yells, the knife falling with his hand until it grazes your knee, taking a piece of skin with it.

you double over in the chair, your arms restricting you from moving forward much. your teeth clench hard against your lips and cause a little blood to fall. the unsub looks to you, his knife bloodied and dangerous. without much foresight, he hits the backend of it against your nose.

with the same hand, he uses his knuckle to hit your eye and eyebrow. the knife slicing your forehead as he does so. "you're all so stubborn. you know that?" the unsub breaths heavily, parts of his face twitching as he glared at you. "maybe this'll be the tape, i don't need you give some sob story."

"yes you do," you cough up, ensuring that your word count stay small, "you need me to."

was goading the unsub your best choice? probably not. but from what you can remember is that this unsub is repetitive. he has traits similar to that of someone with obsessive compulsive disorder. he needs you to give a grand speech because that's what he's been taught.

"i do, little lamb? and how would you know, because some of your profiler friends know? they don't know me, but since you think they do, then tell me. how well do they know me?" he smiles, believing he had somehow tricked you into believing that this doesn't count.

but every long winded speech counts. he just can't recognize it. "you're right, they don't know you," your eyebrows lower, your forehead creasing as you wait and watch as the unsub sighs. his thumb running along the edge of the knife's handle.

he leans towards you, his eyes inches from yours, and truly it's the first time you've seen such lifeless eyes from a living person. the unsub takes the knife and plunges it into your stomach, your body lurching forwards at the impact. however, it doesn't do much but makes the wound feel even worse.

the knife twists a little as he continues to stare right at your eyes, waiting for something. but the only thing the two of you can hear is a loud crashing noise. the man quickly pulls the knife out, causing blood to quickly pour from the spot.

"fbi! raise your hands mr. sanchez and drop the knife!" derek's voice coats your mind and released a wave of serotonin. suddenly adrenaline is not the only thing keeping you running.

"i'm in here!" you attempt to scream, however, it mainly comes out as a croak. your voice scratchy and losing most of its shape and tone.

the one and only person you wanted to see the most runs through the doorway. his fbi vest covers a sweater vest, his hands raised with a finger wrapped around the trigger of a gun. spencer.. your face instantly falls, tears piling up by your eyes, "spence."

he lowers the gun, stuffing it into his holster as he runs over to you. spencer raises his hands up to your face, his fingers lingering by your eyes. his thumb runs along your cheeks as tears run down his own face. especially when he notices the blood covering your blouse and jeans.

"what happened? we have an ambulance here, an emt is making his way up as we speak. i should've been there with you, should've stopped him," spencer's eyes search the wounds on your body, making sure to unbound your hands.

you shake your head, your lip shaking as you can't find the words to answer his questions. a shiver runs along your arms, sending goosebumps down your body as spencer's hands press against your stomach. you wait for seconds, watching until the emt finally arrived.

"i'm jake, the emt. where have you been hurt?" he immediately opens his bag, his eyes looking between you and spencer.

spencer starts instructing him of the places he could find that seemed to have surpassed the skin. "thank you," you whisper to him as the emt patches up your stomach. the stitches running through your skin causes you hold onto spencer's hand, making sure to hold it tightly.

"you'll be okay, because i know you. you're strong, y/n. you survived this, that's what matters," spencer reaches his hands up to your cheeks again, smearing a little blood onto one of them. he stands up and kissing the top of your forehead. his lips are soft, yet slightly cracked from possible dehydration.

you look up at him, your head pounding from the loss of blood. and yet, the only thing you can think of is spencer. it's the best time to have your mind sidetracked, enamored with the love of your life instead of with the hasty stitches in your stomach.

"are you coming with to the hospital?" you question, your hand grabbing his, your eyes closing slowly as you start to feel the pain that the adrenaline can no longer hide.

"of course y/n, i would go to the ends of the earth with you. what's one hospital?" spencer smiles, bringing a little warmth to your evening. it may be to help you not realize just how freaked out he is, either way, his smile is exactly what you would've wanted to see last before passing out.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid angst #angst #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fic

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defoozor · 1 year

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Me and my friend had a brainstorm on what animals could MCs friends be if they also became animagi

And we came to a conclusion that it would be fitting and kinda ironic if Chiara was a little lamb

Wolf in sheep’s clothing

Or more like, a sheep forced into wolf hide or whatever

#hogwarts mystery #hphm art #hphm #chiara lobosca #hphm chiara #animagi #werewolf

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ax-cx · 8 months

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INTOXICATING

Luke Castellan x Fem!OC

slight Pervy!Luke and Toxic!Luke

Warnings: swearing, heavy make out, mentions of slight stalking, super obsessed Luke, mention of drugs, flirting

Just pure fluffy love really

“You can’t keep dancing with the devil and ask why you’re still in hell.”

Intoxicating

adjective

- (of alcoholic drink or a drug) liable to cause someone to lose control of their faculties or behaviour.

- exhilarating or exciting.

- "an intoxicating sense of freedom"

Laila was intoxicating. Just looking at her made my mind run miles. Her beautiful brown hair, falling down over her shoulders. Her beautiful green eyes, glinting when she looks up at me. Her beautiful smile, contagious and bubbly.

Fuck man, I’m so done for. The way she says my name, gods help me.

“Luke.” soft, sweet and silky. Just imagine how it’d sound beneath- no shut up Luke. She’s perfect. Don’t ruin her.

“Yes sweetheart?” oh gods, stop looking at me like that dollface. Can’t you see me melting here?

“I need your help.” her cheeks reddened. Like strawberries and summer sun.

I can’t be this crazy for a girl, right? I’m just Luke. I’m the best swordsman at camp, son of Hermes, and a silly little Demeter girl can’t make me feel this way. Even though she picks flowers everywhere she goes, and the roses greet her like an old friend; even though the shrubs and plants seem to bloom brighter when she walks past, nature pouring from every pore of her pure soul.

“Of course Laila, what do you need?” my voice was shaky, of course it was. She was so fucking stunning my heart hurt. She gave me a headache and a high I couldn’t chase anywhere else. So I was her little servant instead.

She wanted help? Always. Can’t choose an outfit? Sweetheart you look perfect in blue. Someone giving her a hard time? I’ll fucking kill them. She wants food? I’ll get her anything. That bracelet’s cute? Bought it already.

I followed her like a wolf trailing behind a little lamb. All I wanted was her aura, her devilishly inducing soul. I’d do anything she asked. I’d burn the goddamn world to the ground. Just to make her happy. Anything to see her smile.

Chris told me I was obsessed. Maybe I am. Just a little. Just a lot. She takes up my every waking thought, tying up my mind in flowers and thorns, sweet smiles and sugary sounds. The way she walked. The way she talked.

I found myself hidden outside her window, looking in on her dressing once. Like a child outside a candy shop, my face was pressed to glass so hard I nearly fell through. The curves of her body, the scars on her knees, the freckles across her shoulders and clavicle. She rivalled Aphrodite, the fucking beauty she is.

“I need a new bikini and I don’t know which one to get.” fuck. How am I meant to hold myself back now? Surely she’s trying to kill me.

“Laila you look great in anything. But-“

“Blue’s your favourite colour, I know Luke, I know.” Laila I’m begging you, don’t put a blue bikini on, I might fuck up this perfect relationship. “So I picked out two blue ones but I don’t know which ones better.”

Oh god. I could feel my blood going south already. I watched as she slipped into the changing room, drawing the curtain, metal scraping metal. I listened as she shuffled, watched her clothes hit the floor and the shadows of her curves pulling the material on. I hated how long I waited, I was dying to see her.

I was dying to see my girl.

Metal scraping metal, and a soft whisper. “Luke?” my eyes met perfection.

Shamelessly letting my eyes wander, the blue fabric was tastefully perfect on her sun-bronzed skin. I’d forever be grateful for Apollo for how he made her shine. Her hips, her breasts, smattered with freckles and battle scars, marred in its most perfect form. Glowing and radiant. A princess in its finest definition. My beautiful drug. Little shells and gold trinkets were looped into the mesh, woven into the blue and trailing down her ribs and thighs.

Her hair was tucked behind her ears, her face on full display. Strawberries and summer sun dancing across her cheeks. Playful freckles smeared on her skin, full lips pulled into a meek grin. I stood up, and took her chin by the finger, lifting her embarrassed eyes to meet mine. I saw her curl in on herself.

“Laila you don’t need to be ashamed. You look great.” great. A disgusting understatement for how ethereal she looked. Aphrodite worked her magic and worked hard on her. The word felt filthy on my tongue. A princess like her needed to be praised and showered in the filthiest compliments, degraded by affection and ruined by attention. She glowed, and the world stopped.

I couldn’t hear a thing but my heartbeat. Racing, trying to tear from my chest and embrace hers. Her eyes gleamed, and I felt my resolve crumble. My confidence, my senses, my mind and soul falling to bare parts of who I am.

A man so effortlessly infatuated with a woman.

Losing all my thoughts, all my being, I melted into her. I gave up, finally leaning into my instincts and pressing my lips to hers.

They say your first kiss with a person you love is like fireworks. Your lips ignite and everything feels right.

It’s a lie. It’s like a fucking war. Winning and losing, fighting and failing. Kissing the girl I’m completely besotted with. Fuck. Her lips were heaven on earth, soft and plump, the perfect fit to mine. Gods this girl was meant for me. I truly must’ve been blessed, for finding a girl that just fits effortlessly, lips the missing piece to my fucked up puzzle, is a one in a billion girl.

I reluctantly pulled my lips from hers, immediately missing the warmth that bloomed in my chest, the warmth of her lips.

“Laila I’m so sorry.” she blinked, once, twice, still processing what is just done. I’d fucked it, I��d royally fucked it. “I couldn’t, I just couldn’t help my-“

My breath cut short, her fingers pulled on my belt loops, pulling me in, roping me further into her spell. She kissed me. Crashing our lips together, all teeth and tongue, all love and war. My perfect girl perfectly kissing me. My eyes were shut so tight, sight a pathetic sense when compared to her taste, her smell, her feel. Like the world was put right.

My hands swallowed her hips, kneading the supple bronze flesh. She was gold personified. Glowing, valuable and just stunning. Her skin was putty in my hands, the perfect golden feeling against my calloused hands. Soft and untouched. All mine to ruin.

I almost felt bad. Touching something so celestial, with my broken and damaged hands. With my plans and my anger. With my disgust and falsified details. With my wrath and rage. With my betrayal and my suffering. But I didn’t care. My care was out the window as soon as she kissed me. I finally got to be selfish for once. Thinking only of myself for once.

She was pure sugar. Addicting, intoxicating. Like my own personal cocaine.

Her hands were woven into my curls, like the soft curves of a tapestry twisting a timeless tale. This is a moment to remember for as long as I live, something I don’t ever want to forget.

She pulled her lips from mine, and my lips ached for the contact again. “So this one?” she grinned, her beautiful beautiful smile on her beautiful beautiful lips.

“I’ll get you both princess.”

My beautiful drug.

#fanfic #fanfiction #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy pjo #percy series #pjo #pjo fandom #toxic love #toxic relationship #obsessive love #actually obsessive #love #lovers

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alien-magnolia · 2 years

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Eddie Munson's Little Housewife: Part 2: Cottage Life

Fic description: You and Eddie take a little getaway to a cozy place in the woods, where you can be his sweet little housewife. Daddy dom!Eddie + subby fem!reader

Warnings: D/s dynamics, service! Kink, collaring, breeding kink, daddy kink, praise/degradation kink, size kink, casual dominance, drug use

18+ Minors DNI. Don't like, don't read. 180 follower celebration!! Happy holidays :) enjoy, pls reblog ✨🖤

You couldn’t stop thinking about your night with Eds, where you got to be his sweet and cute little housewife. The dress, the outfit, everything, just felt right!! It made you just weak in the knees thinking about how he rocked you on his thick cock for a few hours, ruining your pretty little dress.

You wanted to do it again. You told him, and he was over the moon. “Who am I to say no to my pretty little princess? Of course, honey. We can do it the whole day too, if ya want.” You told him you’d love nothing more!! The two of you agreed on what the scene was to be like, and that it would be nice to do it for the whole day. Turns out Eddie’s Uncle Wayne had another, more secluded, trailer back in the woods a few miles upstate. Eds’ said it would be perfect, that nobody could find you there! (And that nobody could hear you as well)

He opened the door, and told you to stay inside while he brought in all the groceries. “I can bring the groceries in too, Eds. You sure that I can’t help you??,” you ask. “No, no, princess. I can’t have my sweet little housewife straining, can I? Let your big strong daddy do it,” he chides at you, while he goes to bring in the groceries and clothes the two of you packed for the weekend. You squirmed a bit. You loved it when he talked down to you like this, it made you feel all nice and warm and subby!!

After he has brought in all the things, he sat down on the couch, manspread of course. You go to sit down next to him, and all of a sudden he manhandles you into his lap. “How about we start our little scene, sweetie? It won’t be sexual just yet, we have the whole day to do that. What do you say, hmm?,” he asks, while trailing a few kisses on your cheek and down to your neck. “Ok, Eds. Need to get changed first,” you murmur.

One thing about Eddie is that you loved how easy it was to fall into a subby trance with him around. All he had to do was talk down to you, or make his voice a little deeper, or use his title! And here you were, already starting to drop in so easily.

“Stand up, sweetie.” You do as said. He goes to pull out your outfit for the day: a pink dress with polka dots, some pure white kitten heels, and to top it all off, some white Pearl earrings and a golden cross necklace, topped with your little pink heart collar. He also gave you your makeup pouch. He picked it out for you of course, and you didn’t mind at all. “Go to the bedroom and get all dolled up for me, hun. I’ll be waiting right here on the couch.” You nod and start to walk to the back of the trailer. He grabs your arm. “Forgetting something, are we, princess?,” he asks, his deep brown eyes looking into yours expectantly. “Yes, daddy,” you murmur. He looks down at you with satisfaction, and gives your ass a little smack before he sends you on your way.

———————————————————————-

It takes you a while to get all dolled up but you enjoyed every minute of it. You feel so pretty and you know your Eds will love it. You come out of the room, your little heels click-clacking across the hardwood floors. He looks up at you with a predatory smile. You’re a little lamb in a cute shirt dress, and he’s that big bad wolf waiting to ruin you.

“My sweet little housewife. All prettied up, just f’ me. Come here doll, twirl around for me,” he says, as he takes your hand and twirls you around a bit so he can see you from all angles. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, and gives you a sweet kiss on your lips.

“Are you going to be a good girl and listen to everything daddy says?,” he chides. You nod, mind all hazy, eyes all doe-like. “Good,” he continues. “Now here’s the deal, sweets. I have a basket of laundry waiting for you. You’re going to do laundry, make that bed all nice and neat, and make me dinner. I’m getting a little hungry. Oh and, you’ll clean that little bathroom too — I got you some cleaning supplies. I’m going to check if it’s done properly, and if it isn’t, then you will get punished.”

“Okay, daddy. Wanna be good for you,” you tell him, hazy and shy with subspace. He pats your head and gives you a forehead kiss. Sometimes just his dominance itself made you feel all subby and even little — so eager to please Daddy, because he’s your world. And he was!!

You set off to do your chores as he turned on some horror movie on the tiny tv in the main room of the trailer. You scurried away from there because you did NOT like horror movies. Sometimes you’d watch them with him and you’d hide in his chest whenever a scary part came on. You knew he could be a bit of a sadist, so he liked it when you got scared for him.

You take the basket, it’s all full of his clean clothes, but there’s a lot to fold. You stand in the bedroom and begin folding — making sure it’s nice and neat, just how your Eds liked it. You falter a bit when you run across some of his boxers, but you get back on track when you think of what’s to come. You made yourself a little list too, just to keep track! You checked off laundry, and then grabbed some sheets from a drawer to change the bed.

Next — was cooking dinner. All the laundry work took you about an hour, and you decided to doll yourself up for him again, brushing your hair all nice and neat into a cute little ponytail! You spritz on some sickly sweet perfume and reapplied your makeup too. You make your way down the hall again, and out to the living room. You try not to look at the tv because it is just still too scary!! You see him sitting, engrossed at the movie, but you do notice that his shirt is off. Suddenly he turns to look at you. His gaze is neutral.

“Sweetheart. Why don’t you bring me that bag of weed and my ‘lunch box’ over there, hmm?,” he calmly orders you. You do as said, slowly walking over to him. “Good. A glass of water too, sweetie.” You nod and quickly scurry over to the kitchen, pouring him some water with ice. You bring it back as carefully as you could. “What a good girl, listening to daddy,” he coos at you, brushing some of your hair back. “You’ll do anything just f’me, huh, baby? I’ll be waiting here for my dinner. You have half an hour, hun.”

With that you scurry off again to the kitchen, to make him a nice sandwich. You set the sandwich onto the plate, and make your way to the living room. The movie is over, and you feel the smell of weed in the room. He smoked, of course. Sometimes he’d include you, but not tonight. You were there simply for his pleasure. To use, to serve.

You set the plate in front of him. He smiles, that same wolffish, predatory smile that makes you melt under him. “Thank you, princess. Gonna eat this now. You just kneel right next to me and be good.”

“Yes, daddy,” you murmur, as you drop down to the pillowy carpet. You fold your legs behind you, and rest your chin on his thigh, holding his leg with your arms, looking up at him. He looks down at you, so patronizing, so caring, so hungry. You were so so wet already, and you see his hard on peeking through. He pats your head some more, and you sit by his feet for another half hour before he finishes eating, drinking, and smoking too. He brings the blunt closer to you. “Does my little girl want a few hits?,” he asks. You nod, silently. “And she has such good manners too, so well trained. Suck it in, sweetie,” he says, as he brings the blunt to your lips.

Weed always helped you get into subspace some more!! “Feeling a little fuzzy, sweetie,?” his voice brings you back from your thoughts. Every little touch was more intense now, and so was your hunger for him. You wanted to suck his cock so so badly!! Luckily for you, he wanted it too.

You watch with wide eyes as he starts to undo his belt and jeans. You see that he’s rock hard now, and he grabs your wrist to pull you more in front of him, where you are now kneeling right in front of his weeping cock. You start to pull off his boxers, and his cock springs out in front of you, the tip looking very angry and red. You look up at him for permission. “Go ‘head, honey. Take daddy’s cock down that sweet little throat of yours,” he says, as his big calloused hand brushes your throat lightly. And you do. It’s so good, that you just start drooling, and some of it spills onto the floor. Your mouth just felt so full and warm with his cock in there!! You could see he was struggling to not buck into your mouth. “Just like that, sweetheart. Keep drooling over my cock, so good f’me,” you hear him rasp out above you, his voice starting to get a little uneven by how nicely you’ve been sucking him off.

You feel his hand reach down and tug on your little pink collar, with a heart in the center. You loved it when he pulled or even led you by it, it was just so so demeaning but also honoring, you knew you were his, and you loved every minute of it. He pulled you harshly closer to him by the metal ring of your collar. His other hand is on your head, slowly but surely pushing you down to take more of his cock. You keep gagging periodically , but you wanted to be so good for your sweet daddy, so you kept at it. Suddenly he pushes you away.

“You forgot to clean the floor in the bathroom. That’s 15 spanks, sweetie. Over my knee,” he commands you. You quickly scramble up over his knee, you feel his calloused hands brush over your pink lace thong, pulling and tugging at it, just a little.

All of a sudden you feel the first hard spank come down on you. Your backside was burning, he was using all his strength. “Count f‘’me, honey.”

“O-one. Thank you, daddy. Two. Thank you, daddy. Three, thank you daddy. Four, thank you daddy.” You kept continuing, your legs twitching from the searing pain on your backside. But then you remembered what Eddie would always tell you, that you were almost done, and that you were made to take his pain. That made you feel better, because it was all worth it to please him, and that’s what you were there to do. To please him, to be used.

“All done, princess,” he said, so soothingly as he wiped away your tears. You had trouble getting up off his lap, but you knew that now he’d take care of you. He gently lifted you, careful not to touch your backside, and laid you down on the couch, face down. You felt his fingers trail down to your clit, his big calloused hands playing with your puffy little clit, teasing you. “Gonna get you ready for my cock, sweetie. Gonna give it to you, nice and deep. Housewives always obey their husbands. They listen. And you did so good today, baby,” he coos at you as you feel his soft but warm mushroom tip slide into you.

It was heaven. You were so full, so stuffed with his cock. It was so hard, inside you like a searing rock, but you loved when that soft tip itched closer towards your cervix. You felt him grip your hips harder as you started to twitch from all the pleasure. You loved when he took you like this, it was such a vulnerable position, but since it was for Eddie, you loved it. You were so pliant under him, and he loved the control. He started to rut into you faster, without even asking. It was his choice, and you were loving it.

“Fuck, just sucking me in so much, sweetheart. You were just made for my cock, weren’t you? Made for me to breed you like this?,” he grunts out, his voice and his words driving you closer to the edge. You feel him inside you, his white and hot cum filling your insides. He grunts like some kind of beast, and you were his cute little prey for the taking. You cum a few seconds later, squeezing and milking his cock for all he’s got.

He pulls out of you, and manhandles you gently so you’re laying on him now, with your legs to the side and head on his chest. “Sleep, hun. Did so well for me today. You just rest, and I’ll get you all cleaned. He reached over to the night table, bringing some painkillers to you alongside a glass of water. He tilts the water towards you. “Drink, honey.” You do as said as he also feeds you the painkillers. After, he rolled you onto your side and bandaged up your backside, along with some aloe Vera to soothe it. “Than’ you, Eds. Love you…” you trail off, still a little hazy and coming out of your subby trance! All you had to do now was lay there and let him baby you for the rest of the night.

You started making a subby attempt to reach towards him. He smiles, and brings you some clean clothes, alongside your favorite pink stuffie bunny. “I’ll take care of you now, sweet girl. Brought your favorite stuffie for you, and some food if you need,” he gently says as he rubs your back a bit. You smile back at him and his face lights up. You cuddle the bunny as he gets in bed with you and pulls over the covers. A successful day for Eddie and his sweet little housewife.

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