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abbotjack · 1 month ago

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She Wants To Move

summary : You weren’t supposed to be at the bar. He wasn’t supposed to notice. But then the bass hit, your dress stuck, and Jack Abbot—forty-something, dog-tagged, black zip-up and ruin in his eyes—started watching you like you were the emergency. One look turns into a dance, a kiss, a cab ride, and a night tangled in heat and restraint. You make him work for it. He’s used to control. But tonight, you’ve got the upper hand��and Jack? Jack’s not sure if he wants to fight it or beg for more.

word count : 5,413

content/warnings : explicit language, intense sexual tension, one extremely hot dance floor encounter, graphic descriptions of oral sex and penetrative sex (couch setting), dominance/submission power play (light), delayed gratification, consent emphasized, Jack Abbot being deeply feral, mutual teasing, grinding, age gap (reader late 20s/Jack late 40s), dirty dancing, emotionally charged eye contact, and one (1) couch that will never recover.

a/n : You need to listen to “She Wants to Move” by N.E.R.D first. I’m serious. It’s hot, throbbing, unapologetic tension—the kind that takes its time before it lets you break. And, it will let the fic come to life.

It starts with bass. Thick, hot, slithering through the air like smoke.

The kind of bass that doesn’t ask permission. It grabs you by the hips and pulls you under. The kind of beat that doesn’t just live in your ears—it makes a home in your bloodstream.

The bar’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies. Dim lighting spills gold and crimson across bare collarbones, button-downs, and sweat-slicked hair. There’s condensation sliding down every glass, heat rising off every inch of the dancefloor, and the scent in the air is some dangerous cocktail of perfume, cologne, and late-night decisions waiting to happen.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not because you’re too good for it—though that’s what you said earlier, in the Uber, arms crossed, jaw set, swearing you were gonna stay thirty minutes max. But because this isn’t your usual Friday. You’ve had the week from hell—coworkers breathing down your neck, your manager “circling back” on every email like a threat, and your ex having the audacity to like your story with the outfit he once said made you look “too much.” Your friends said you needed to blow off some steam.

But you didn’t come here to be watched.

You came to move.

You’re in a backless dress that makes no promises and keeps none. Black, tight, cinched just right. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs when you walk, and clings higher when you dance. Lashes curled to hell, nails done in a color you picked just because it made you feel expensive. You’re not trying to impress anyone—but God, you look like sin.

You’re three drinks in. Gin and lime, no tonic. Lips slick, eyes glossed with a buzz that feels better than clarity. Your best friend is already halfway to hooking up with a guy she said looked like a 'knock-off Timothée Chalamet,’ and you’ve been fending off some finance bro with gelled hair and a chin sharper than his personality.

You keep brushing him off. But he won’t take the hint. He’s standing behind you now, one hand hovering just close enough to make your skin crawl. Not touching. But too close. Like he thinks he owns the space you’re in.

And that’s when he sees you.

Across the bar, tucked near the exit like he’s been trying to leave for twenty minutes but hasn’t moved an inch, there’s a man watching you.

Not watching you like the others are.

Watching like he knows something.

He’s older—late forties, maybe, early fifties if the light hits his jaw right—but it doesn’t age him. It makes him dangerous. A little wrecked, a little unshaven, in a way that says he’s not here for games. Broad shoulders beneath a black zip-up, dog tags under his collar that flash when he turns. His hair’s short, face a little sharp, there’s a tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look lived in. Like he’s been through it and came out the other side still standing.

There’s a drink in his hand he hasn’t touched in ten minutes.

And he’s looking at you like you’ve been looking for a way out.

Not out of the bar.

Out of him—the guy still trying to press his chest to your back. The one talking too close. The one whose hand you moved for the third time.

And Jack?

Jack sees everything.

He sees the flash in your eyes that says you’re about to lose your patience. The way your spine straightens. The quick flick of your wrist when you knock the straw against the side of your glass. He sees the way you dance for yourself—not anyone else—and he sees how your mouth curls when the beat drops, like it’s the only thing tonight that actually touched you right.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t wave.

But he straightens. Watches the way your gaze lifts—like you can feel his attention even from across the bar. And when your eyes finally meet his?

You feel it in your chest like a drop. Like gravity shifting.

You tilt your head. Curious.

He raises one brow. Just barely. An invitation.

And that’s when it hits you:

You want to be seen.

The man behind you leans in again, murmuring something in your ear, too loud and too close. You don’t even listen. You’re already turning, sliding past him with a practiced smile that means nothing.

You walk toward the bar. Your heels bite into the floor with every step, but you don’t flinch. You don’t swerve. Don’t smile too soon. Don’t hurry. You walk like you know what you’re doing. Like you’ve already decided how this ends.

Jack watches you the whole way, one hand still curled around his empty glass, the other flat on the bar like he needs to anchor himself to keep from leaning into you too fast. Because there’s something about the way you move—undeniably hot, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s unbothered. It’s deliberate. It’s yours.

There’s a gap at the bar between him and the next guy down, and you step into it like it’s been there waiting for you.

You don’t look at him right away. You flag the bartender first, ask for another gin and lime with your voice a little hoarse from the music, and only when she nods and turns away do you glance sideways.

He’s still watching.

You raise a brow. “You gonna keep staring or say something?”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wasn’t expecting you to throw the first punch.

“I was trying to decide if you wanted to be interrupted.”

“You decided yes?”

“I decided the guy behind you wasn’t getting the job done.”

You huff a laugh—sharp and surprised. “What gave it away?”

“The way your shoulder tensed when he leaned in. That, and you haven’t smiled much in his direction all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s heat behind his eyes. “Not all night. Just since you started dancing like the beat owed you something.”

Your drink arrives. You wrap your fingers around the glass, wet with condensation, and raise it to your lips.

“You always this smooth?” you ask, chin tipped toward him now, that spark in your eyes daring him to keep going.

Jack leans in—just slightly, just enough to let the scent of him hit: clean soap, bourbon, faint antiseptic. Something warm and late-night and not meant to be shared.

“Only when it matters,” he says.

You arch a brow, smile tugging at your mouth like a secret. “And this matters?”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Yeah. Think it does.”

You look at him closer now. The stubble at his jaw. The faint scar above his eyebrow. His body language says he’s not on the clock. Not unless it’s for you.

“Rough day at work?” you ask, voice lower now.

Jack nods. “Twelve hours. Four codes. One too young to call it.”

You blink. Not because you’re startled—but because it tells you something.

“You work in a hospital?”

“Emergency department.”

“You a nurse?”

He quirks a brow. “Would that be a problem?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not even a little.”

He leans in just enough to make your pulse skip. “I’m an attending.”

You raise your glass, lips twitching. “Of course you are.”

He lets the silence stretch. You both sip. The bass is still throbbing, the beat is dirty, sweaty. You let your body move to it, just slightly, hips shifting, lips parted, half-aware of the way his gaze lingers.

“Do you dance?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

You don’t answer with words. You slide one hand lightly across the bar—your knuckles brushing his—and lean in close enough that he can hear you over.

“I’m asking.”

He studies you like a problem he’s already half-solved. Then finishes what’s left in his glass, sets it down with a clink, and says—

“You gonna let me touch you, or are we just flirting for sport?”

Your smile sharpens.

“Try me.”

You don’t ask if he’s coming.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking like you’ve got the devil on a leash and a drink to finish.

You’re halfway to the floor when it happens.

The music dies. A weird second of static. People looking up, confused. And then—

Shake it up Shake it up, girl Shake it—

The opening hits like a slap.

And you smile.

God, this song. You haven’t heard it in years, but it drops into your bloodstream like it belongs there. It’s not a cute track. It’s filthy. Brazen. Throbbing in all the right places. The kind of beat that doesn’t ask you to dance—it drags you into the center and makes you beg for more. Everything thumps. The floor vibrates like a live wire. The crowd shifts to make space for you—not because they’re being polite, but because they feel it. That something’s happening.

You’re not the drunkest girl here.

You’re not the loudest, or the flashiest.

But you’re moving like you know the beat personally. Like it owes you money. Like it’s trying to make you forget someone and failing spectacularly.

She makes me think of lightning in skies (Her name) she’s sexy! How else is God supposed to write

The beat licks your skin like oil on asphalt.

You don’t dance for anyone. Not usually.

But tonight?

Tonight you dance like the floor owes you rent. Hips slow and sharp. Legs steady, knowing full well the hem of your dress is flirting with godlessness. Your arms move lazy, loose, intentional—one above your head, the other trailing a line across your own stomach, like you want to touch you too.

You know he’s behind you before he touches you.

He stands behind you. Close. Just shy of touching. And then, slowly—carefully—his hand finds your hip. It’s not sleazy. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional. He holds you like he’s getting a read on your pulse. Like he wants to know where to put the pressure.

You tip your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Jack,” he says, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “Before you ask.”

You smile. A sharp curve of lip and teeth. “You always this polite when you’re groping strangers?”

He huffs a laugh against your cheek. “If I was groping you, you’d know.”

“Oh? And what’s this, then?” You grind against him once, slow, letting your dress ride up a little.

“Me,” he says, dry as hell, “restraining myself.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and his grip tightens slightly, like the sound caught him off guard. You feel the front of him line up with the back of you. Not gross. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“You always dance like this?” he asks.

“Only when I like the song.”

Move, she wants to move But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her She wants to move

His hands twitch. Your ass brushes the front of his jeans, and it’s not subtle. He leans in behind you, mouth near your cheek, voice a low rasp against your skin. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I supposed to keep calling you trouble?”

You don’t answer right away. Just keep moving, slow and taunting, grinding back against him until you feel his breath catch.

Then—calm, smooth—you turn your head over your shoulder, lips brushing his jaw as you say it:

“Astrid.”

Jack stills.

Then, voice low and certain: “No, it’s not.”

You glance back at him, one brow raised. “Excuse me?”

He looks amused. “No offense, but that’s a girl who studied abroad, wears linen, says ‘divine’ unironically.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what am I?”

Jack smirks, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows the punchline. “You’re the girl who walked onto the dance floor like she was dragging hell behind her. I don’t know your name yet, but it’s not Astrid.”

You laugh—low, dangerous, curling in your throat.

Then, slow and deliberate, you turn to face him. Your body brushes against his as you do—chest to chest now, sweat-slick skin catching under the low lights. Your fingers trail up the front of his shirt, just enough to remind him who’s been leading.

And you tell him.

Your real name.

No smirk. No shield. Just heat and honesty, dropped between you like a match.

Jack says nothing. Not at first. He just stares at you like you’ve cracked something open in him—and now he can’t look away.

Then:

“There she is.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. “Was she hiding?”

“No,” he says. “Just waiting for the music to be right.”

Mister! Look at your girl, she loves it I can see it in her eyes She hopes this lasts forever

You feel something break. Something good. Something electric.

“Atta girl,” Jack says under his breath.

And you burn. The way he looks at you? Like you’re a fucking sermon in stilettos? It’s worse.

It’s better.

The kiss lands like a blackout.

It doesn’t ask. Doesn’t flirt. It takes.

You feel it in the backs of your knees. In your fingertips. In the hard thump of your heart against his chest. Jack kisses like a man who doesn’t beg for shit—but knows how to ask with his mouth. And when you break—flushed, panting, lip-gloss ruined—you don’t step back.

You grip his zip-up.

Because you want to see what he does next.

He’s breathing heavy. Not winded, just—changed. Like something in him just got rewritten and he’s trying to pretend it didn’t shake him.

Your lips are still hovering near his. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

He stares.

Eyes sharp. Searching.

Then—voice low, steady—he says:

“Now I’m really fucked.”

You laugh.

Jack grins like he hates that he said it—but not enough to take it back.

(Move, she wants to move) But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her

“I should go,” you murmur, voice unsteady.

“Yeah?” he says, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You don’t move. “I don’t do this,” you add, quieter.

Jack hums. “What’s this?”

“This—floor. Bar. Random men.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m not random.”

You blink. “Aren’t you?”

He tilts his head. “Are you?”

You look at him for a long beat. The song’s still pounding around you, hips still brushing, heat still everywhere. But there’s something sharp in his eyes now. Something that wasn’t there before.

“I don’t make sense, do I?” you ask, not sure why you’re even saying it.

Jack studies you like he’s unwrapping something he shouldn’t touch but can’t stop himself from pulling apart. “No,” he says. “But I’m not here for sense.”

You let that sit. Then, tilting your chin up, you say:

“So what are you here for?”

Jack doesn’t blink. He steps in closer. So close his mouth grazes your cheek when he says it:

“You.”

Somebody get us some water in here ’Cause it’s hot!

Your breath stutters.

He presses his hand flat against your lower back. Doesn’t pull you in. Just holds you there. Anchors you.

His jaw flexes. He looks like he’s trying very, very hard to behave.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Doing what?”

Jack leans in—nose to yours, mouth ghosting your cheek.

“Letting you get in my head.”

You laugh again. But this time it’s softer. More dangerous. He mutters something that sounds like a curse and presses his forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

For a second, it feels like the music vanishes. Like the floor disappears. Like you’re somewhere else—somewhere quieter, somewhere worse.

You open your eyes and he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped. You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there. Breathing the same air. Holding the same pulse.

And then—you move first. You grab his hand.

You don’t look back.

And Jack?

He follows.

Again.

You don’t say a word the entire ride to his apartment.

You sit in the back of the cab like you own it, legs crossed, one arm draped over the seat like you’re posing for a noir film. Your hair’s a mess. Your lipstick’s ruined. And you look like you planned it that way.

Jack doesn’t ask questions. He just stares out the opposite window like he’s trying to breathe through a four-alarm fire.

But his knee’s bouncing.

His jaw’s tight.

And when your heel nudges the inside of his ankle, just light enough to be casual, just sharp enough to be intentional—his entire thigh jerks like he’s been shocked.

You don’t look at him when you say it:

“You gonna survive the ride?”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smile. “Too late.”

The cab stops. You slide out first without waiting, and he throws a couple bills at the driver before catching up, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide just how badly they’re shaking.

You wait by the front door of the building like you live there.

“Top floor,” he mutters, unlocking it.

“Of course it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “You seem like the type who’d want to be above it all. Elevators. Silence. No neighbors to hear you beg.”

His mouth twitches. “You think I beg?”

You lean in, brushing past him just enough to graze his chest as you step into the elevator. “I think you’ve never had to.”

He follows like gravity. Like hunger.

The elevator ride is silent, but not still.

You feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or kneel. You feel it in the breath he lets out when the doors open, and the way his palm flattens against your lower back as he guides you down the hallway—not possessive, not protective—anchored.

He unlocks the door and steps aside, letting you enter first.

You walk in slow.

Deliberate.

Like you’re casing the joint.

“You bring a lot of women back here?” you ask, voice light, almost careless—like the question doesn’t already carry weight.

Jack drops his keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter, the sound sharp against the hush of the apartment. “No.”

You tilt your head, one brow arching. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes then—direct, unreadable, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to give you. “Most don’t make it past the bar.”

You laugh, low and smoky, lips curled around it like the edge of a cigarette. “So I’m special.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. "You’re dangerous."

“I get that a lot,” you murmur, half to yourself, like it’s a warning and a dare all in one.

You drift deeper into the living room, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing along the scarred edge of the coffee table like you’re reading it in braille. There’s no hesitation in your steps—just the kind of quiet certainty that comes from already having imagined this place in some half-formed dream. And now you’re here, seeing if the real thing matches the version you built in your head.

It does, mostly.

The couch is worn but clean, cushions slouched like they’ve weathered more than one exhausted shift. There’s a stack of JAMA journals on the end table, dog-eared and coffee-stained, buried halfway under a trauma manual and what looks like a folded VA benefits packet. An old Army rucksack slouches near the door. One of the kitchen chairs holds a crumpled black scrub top, sleeves still rolled. On the mantle: a coin from a combat medic unit, polished with habit. No pictures, no sentimental clutter—just usefulness, memory, and muscle memory dressed as routine.

It smells like soap and black coffee. Like someone who’s trying. Like someone who didn’t expect company but hasn’t minded the silence until now.

Jack doesn’t follow. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way you move—like every motion might be a trick wire.

You lower yourself onto the arm of the couch, smooth and casual, one leg crossing over the other with practiced grace. Your heel dangles in the air, catching light as you tilt your head, waiting.

Testing.

“Take your shirt off.”

He blinks, like the words short-circuited something in him. “Excuse me?”

You lean back, spine arching just slightly, mouth curved like sin. “What, shy all of a sudden?”

Jack breathes through his nose—controlled, clipped. “No.”

But he stays exactly where he is. Doesn’t lift a finger.

So you stand. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of your heels against the floor barely audible over the tension winding between you.

You cross the space with the grace of a fuse burning down. Stop just in front of him. Your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt—brush against the warm skin beneath.

Then pause.

You glance up, smile ghosting your lips.

“You want me to say please?”

His voice is low. Rough. All gravel and gasoline.

“Wouldn’t kill you."

You smile. “No. But it might ruin the fun.”

You trail your fingers just under the fabric, brushing the bare skin of his stomach. His abs tighten.

Then you back away.

And he follows.

God, he follows.

You circle the couch, slow and predatory, every step measured. Jack shadows you without hesitation, his gait looser, rougher—controlled chaos barely held in check. You feel it behind you, the tension, the heat, the way the air stretches thin and electric between your bodies. Like a wire dipped in oil, ready to catch flame.

Then—his hand closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just decisive. A touch that says enough without raising its voice.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing,” you murmur, voice slick with heat and intent. “I’m building tension.”

Jack pulls you flush against him, the heat of his body undeniable. His breath ghosts your jaw before his lips do, and when he speaks, it’s a growl under his breath.

“You planning to snap it?”

You smirk, tilting your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Eventually.”

He kisses you—hard, sudden, like he’s trying to reclaim ground he never owned. It’s messy. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and something older than want. His hands slide up your sides, slow at first, then firmer, more sure—fingertips skimming under the edge of your bra just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

But then you push him off.

Just a few inches. Just enough to break the kiss.

To remind him—you’re still calling the shots.

“Not yet.”

He blinks. Dazed. Breathless.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You reach up, slow and certain, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands at his hairline. You brush it back from his forehead like it’s nothing—like it’s everything—and watch the way his breath hitches, how his eyes stay locked on yours even when they flicker like a flame in wind.

“You’re used to being the one who calls the shots, huh?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you—like he’s not sure whether to pull you under or fall at your feet. Like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“I’m used to getting what I want,” he says finally, voice low and raw.

You don’t blink.

You lean in. “And what do you want right now?”

He swallows hard. “You.”

You hum. “Say please.”

Jack closes his eyes. Jaw clenched.

You wait.

And wait.

Then—

“Please.”

You grin.

“There he is.”

You push him onto the couch and straddle him, grinding down slow. He groans, head tipping back, hands clutching the fabric of the cushion like he’s going to tear it in half.

“Can I touch you?” he pants.

“Not yet.”

He curses under his breath.

You lean down and whisper, “But soon.”

You kiss him again—messy now, deep and open-mouthed, your teeth catching on his lower lip. He groans into it, hands flexing at his sides like it’s taking everything he has not to touch you.

You slide down his body slow, lips dragging over his neck, collarbone, chest. You unbutton his shirt halfway just to make room, push the fabric aside. He’s warm under your mouth. Tense.

When you sink to your knees, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, already wrecked.

You glance up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Breathe, Jack.”

But he can’t—not really. Not when you’re undoing his belt, not when your fingers slip inside the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips without being asked, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy and untrustworthy all at once.

And when you free him—thick, flushed, already leaking—his jaw drops open, like the sound he makes gets lost somewhere in his chest.

You drag your tongue up the underside of him once. Light. Teasing.

He shudders.

You hum like you’re tasting something expensive. “Is this something that you want?”

He nods, but it’s not enough.

You look up. “Use your words.”

His voice is hoarse. “Yes. Please.”

So you give it to him.

You take him in slow, the kind of slow that ruins men. Hollow cheeks, wet lips, just enough pressure to make him twitch.

You don’t break eye contact when you take him in your mouth.

Not once.

Jack’s head tips back with a groan, low and guttural, like he’s trying to stop himself from unraveling. One hand curls into the couch cushion behind him, the other hovers mid-air, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know where to put it.

He’s trying so hard not to touch you.

Trying to be good.

And you love that.

“Jesus,” he rasps, the word punched out of him. “Fuck, you—”

You pull off suddenly, lips wet, breath steady, and just smile.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” you ask sweetly.

“Worse,” he mutters. “You’re fucking lethal.”

You run your thumb along his slick length. His whole body tenses like you’ve rewired his nervous system. Your lips are swollen, chin slick, breath steady only because you’ve trained it to be. Jack’s a fucking mess—his head tipped back, chest rising like he’s trying not to lose control of every muscle group at once. His shirt’s halfway open, clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Good.

You lick your lips and sit back on your heels, slow. Measured. In control. Until your voice cuts through the air like a match to gasoline:

“All right, Doc.”

He looks down at you—lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Dazed. Wrecked. Like he can barely focus through the aftershocks.

You tilt your head. Smile like a loaded gun.

“You earned it.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. Breath shallow. Jaw clenched. And then it hits him—what you mean. Something flickers behind his eyes. That clean, military stillness, the ER control—it burns off like vapor. What’s left is heat. Dark. Focused. Dangerous.

He moves like a lit fuse—controlled, lethal, immediate.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, rasped, already rising like the question doesn’t matter.

You nod once, slow. Deliberate.

“Don’t go easy.”

He doesn’t.

Jack grabs you with both hands—one under your thighs, the other cradling the back of your neck—and lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. He drops you onto the couch with a roughness that makes your breath catch, not cruel, but deliberate. Like he’s finally been unshackled.

“You tease me like that,” he says, peeling your dress down with sharp, practiced motions, “and think I’m gonna be gentle?”

You’re already gasping when he drags your underwear down and parts your legs. His thumb presses against your inner thigh like a hold order. His eyes—fuck—they’re so locked in it’s like he’s triaging you.

“Jesus,” he mutters when he gets a full look at you. “Dripping.”

You tilt your hips forward, inviting. “Guess you made an impression.”

Jack growls.

Actually growls.

He drops to his knees between your thighs, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward like he’s anchoring you. You barely manage to exhale before his mouth is on you—hot, devastating, tongue working you open like he’s angry about it.

You gasp, loud, your hand shooting out to grip the armrest. “Jack—fuck—Jack—”

He doesn’t stop.

He devours. Moans into it like you taste better than anything he’s had in years, and every flick of his tongue feels designed. Precision-trained. Weaponized. You grind against his face, and he lets you, lets you lose the last of your power because he wants it.

When he pulls away, your thighs are shaking. His mouth is wet. And his voice is wrecked:

“Still feel like running the show?”

You stare down at him, breathless—lips parted, chest rising fast. “No.”

Jack moves without a word, the shift in him absolute. He pulls the condom from his back pocket, movements sharp, assured. The foil tears with a sound that feels like a warning.

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your waist and flips you, quick and certain—like instinct. The cushions press against your chest as your knees sink into the couch, legs spread, back arched. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—just the give of the cushions beneath you and the way he holds you there, open. Offered. Ready.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring.

He leans in, breath hot against your shoulder.

“This okay?”

“Yes,” you gasp, already shaking.

He squeezes, hard enough to ground you. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, Jack, please—”

He slides in with a brutal, delicious thrust that knocks the breath clean out of you.

“Holy—fuck—”

Jack doesn’t ease in. He’s slow for maybe one, maybe two strokes, just long enough to feel you clench around him—and then he lets go.

He grabs your hips and he slams into you again and again, groaning low in his throat like he’s been holding this in for years.

“You feel what you did to me?” he pants, one hand sliding up your back, gripping your shoulder as he fucks you like he’s chasing something.

You moan into the cushions. “Yes—yes—fuck, Jack—”

“Losing it in my own damn apartment, couldn’t even breathe—and you just smiled. You think I wasn’t gonna make you pay for that?”

He hits deeper. Harder.

Your back arches, your nails digging into the upholstery, every nerve ending lit up like a switchboard.

He leans over you, one hand sliding under to toy with your clit, the other braced at your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“Come for me,” he growls into your ear. “Let me have it.”

You fall apart with a gasp so loud it rips straight through you. You convulse around him, hips bucking, whole body shaking as the orgasm slams into you with no warning, no mercy.

Jack fucks you through it—grunting, holding you tight—and then he’s gone too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, voice low and ragged like gravel dragged across pavement.

When he finally stills, he stays there—pressed against you, catching his breath, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other braced on the back of the couch.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

And then, low, lazy:

“You always give control up that easy?” he mutters, voice rough—still wrecked from it.

You laugh, breath catching on the inhale.

“That wasn’t easy.”

Jack kisses your shoulder, mouth warm, open. “No?”

You shift back against him, ass brushing his thigh, grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“That was me returning the favor.”

He laughs—low, broken, completely unrepentant.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice all gravel and smoke.

“I’m screwed now, huh?” you breathe.

Jack drags you into his lap like gravity’s got a grudge. Like the space between you was never meant to exist. The couch creaks under the shift, one cushion dipping low beneath his weight, the other barely holding you up—like even the furniture knows how close this is to collapse.

His hand slides around your waist, anchoring you there, and he leans in—breath warm at your temple, mouth brushing skin like it’s a promise.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and wrecked. “You have no idea.”

#the pitt fanfiction #the pitt smut #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot smut #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #smut #fanfiction

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rueclfer · 10 months ago

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saturdays are for the blondes // fratboy smau part three

a/n: bakugou probs gives the bare fucking minimum as a frat boy like barely participates in the campaigns and rushes/recruitments and the only reason why he hasn't gotten booted yet is bc he's frat president kirishima's scary dog best friend and helps him make decisions lmao *written under cut*

denki kaminari, katsuki bakugou, hawks

"Embarrassing how much effort I put in for a man who doesn't even want me." You dramatically sigh as you gently tilt Katsuki's head back by his chin, and holding the opening of a chilled bottle of water up to his lips.

Walking out to see him alone under the dim buzzing light barely hanging onto to the roof and hunched over a bush with his palm pressed against the side of the frat house to hold himself up was a sad sight for you to see, but you couldn't help but enjoy the rare humiliation.

He scowls and swats your hand away, wiping his mouth against the back of his hand.

"The fuck are you talking about?" He coughs into the collar of his shirt.

"What? Am I wrong?" You press your lips together, suppressing a growing smile, and setting the empty bottle on the window ledge beside you

He rubs his temple in annoyance, clearly not near sober enough to have a conversation about his feelings. "Irritating as fuck is what you are."

With the noise of the party and thumping music leaking from inside of the house, you two were left alone by yourselves in the side yard with the occasional person or two stepping out for a smoke or to vomit.

"I'm just teasing, Kats." You chuckle, reaching up to rake your fingers through the sweaty strands of hair glued to his forehead. "It's not that serious."

"I told you not to come out here, didn't I?" He mumbles, closing his eyes and leaning his back against the wall.

"Well, Denki's occupied with the other brothers and I'm not going to leave you out here yacking in the bushes."

He remains silent for a moment, lazily intertwining his fingers with yours and swinging your hands from side to side.

"Dumbass." He murmurs under his breath. "Too nice for your own good."

"Trust me, I know." You roll your eyes. "Let's get you to your room? You look like you might drop any second." You attempt to wiggle your hand out of his iron grasp.

"It's too god damn loud in there." He groans "Stay here with me."

His flushed cheeks and swollen lips made his usual scowl falter into a perpetual pout, making your nerves twitch and it impossible to say no to him.

"You're not scared of anyone seeing us like this? Being so close? Me taking care of you?" You peer around for any sign of watching eyes.

"Like it matters. Everyone knows you're mine- or they should at least." He tightens his grip on your hand.

"Yeah? Prove it, then" You challenge, sparking a quirk of interest in his eyes.

A lazy smirk grows on his lips as he looks down at you through his lashes, scanning every corner of your face before he pulls you in against his chest and leans down to press a kiss to your lips.

"You wanna give everyone inside a show or some shit?" He mutters against your lips, peppering kisses in between every few words. "Give me 10 minutes with you out here and I can sober up real fuckin quick."

"That, or also," You wrap an arm around his torso, and the other slapping a hand over his mouth, pushing his face away. "you can ask me out on a date, dipshit."

He narrowed his eyes, furrowing his brows in the process.

"Nu uh. No fucking way. You don't want to go out with me."

"Yuh huh." You mock his drunken childish tone, keeping your hand clasped over his mouth. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I think I love you." He muffles behind your hand. "So that'll be a fucking wreck for both of us."

"Wha-"

He pulls your hand away from his mouth and cuts you off with his lips with more desperation and force as he pulls you closer to him by the back of your neck and grip around your waist.

An efficient way to shut you up.

"Don't remind me about that tomorrow, alright?" He mutters against your lips, knowing well that if there's one thing his mind will cling onto in this drunken state, it'll be this moment with you in the side yard where your cheeks are perfectly flushed from the alcohol and cold nice breeze, your hands all over him, and his heart racing as he admit to you and himself for the first time that he loves you.

#drunk bakugou could save me #mha #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha smau #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou #bakugou smau #mha katsuki bakugo

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kissandtellus · 3 months ago

Text

𝙻𝚊𝚙𝚍𝚘𝚐🦴🎀

Synopsis: Gojo and Geto take in a Puppy!Hybrid who is so willing to please! Until she’s left alone for longer then an hour.

Warnings: Smut, pet!play, use of Daddy/Papa/ Hybrid!AU, Choking, washing your mouth out with soap, punishment, etc.

Your knees were swollen and bruised from the hardwood floor. Only good puppies were allowed on the dog bed. You had chewed through a corner of the wall out of pure boredom. Waiting patiently for your Masters to get home wasn't working anymore so you had to find other means of enjoyments. You hadn't been a good puppy and you knew it. You just prayed that Geto got home before Gojo.

Geto and Gojo had rescued you around 5 months ago from a Cursed Spirit attack. You were homeless and just trying to find shelter when the grocery shop you were taking shelter in was overtaken with Curses. Geto and Gojo had been partners for a few years prior and convinced one another to let you stay with them.

It had been all fine and dandy and they given you everything you needed. They never forced you to do anything you didn't want but were always at your beck and call when you came crying.

You were their little good girl and could do no wrong. Or at least you thought. With the both of them being at work so late, you got bored very easy and tried to find ways to lash out.

The door creaked open and someone was cursing even before they stepped through the threshold.

Oh shit.

Gojo was talking on his phone and didn't even see you cowering under the table, tail tucked between your legs. When he saw the mess you had made of the wood paneling, he growled to the other person on the other line and slammed down the grocery bags.

"This stupid mutt chewed our shit, Suguru! She's been a very bad girl." He squatted in front of you and angrily pushed away the chair you were hiding behind. He grabbed your collar and dragged you out from the table. He pressed his phone against your ear. Geto's cool voice echoed from the phone.

"Tell daddy what you did puppy. Go ahead." Your bottom lip quivered.

"C-chewed up the wall..." It was silent for a few seconds before Geto groaned and you could visibly hear how upset he was.

"Oh puppy...Daddy isn't home right now so you know Papa has to punish you. I'm sorry it has to be this way puppy. Daddy will be home in a few." And with that, the line went dead. Gojo snapped his phone shut and drug you by the collar all the way to the front door. He hooked your leash up to the metal ring on your collar and struck your barely covered breasts with the handle.

"Didn't you hear Daddy? I'm the one punishing you mutt. Suguru takes it far too easy on you and that's why you keep tearing up shit. First our shoes and now the wall? We should tie you up outside." You whimpered and laid at his feet, giving him the biggest puppy eyes you could manage. You hated being outside and you hated storms even more. Gojo wipes away the wall crumbs from your mouth. "Fuck, I have to clean you up. C'mon mutt." He stood again and lead you to the bathroom.

Most dog-hybrids liked baths but you hated them. When you caught sight of the bathtub you were howling and trying to pull away. Gojo growled and tied the end on your leash to the tub claw. He rolled up his sleeves and grabbed the bottom of your shirt. He pulled it over your head and left you completely exposed from the top up. Your bottoms and the tiniest of underwear were stripped from your body.

You stood naked shivering with the leash and collar. Gojo grinned and shut the door, locking it behind him. "Only good girls get to take hot baths." Gojo started the water and your body instantly chilled. It was going to be a cold bath. Gojo grabbed your jaw and forced you to open your mouth. He examined every crevice and grunted.

"It doesn't look like you hurt any of your teeth. That's a good thing, you hate the vet." You whined at event the word vet. The white haired man chuckles evils and stopped the water flow. He lifted you with ease and sat you down in the nearly freezing water. You whimpered and nearly shot out of the tub completely. Gojo was quick to grab your leash and tug you back down in a sitting position.

"Stay still." He growled. Your Papa wasn't one to be disobeyed. Gojo poured a cup of ice water over your head and you shivered and howled again. This, in itself was a punishment. Your core was hot at how he manhandled you but the cold water was brutal on your cunt. He squinted some body wash on a rag and rubbed it all over your body. It was a quick but efficient way to clean you of any dry wall. He pulled the plug on the tub but you were cold to the touch. Your lips were nearing a slight blue color and your ears were flat against your skull.

Gojo let his body heat warm you and held you against him as he towel dried you. You cling to him and soak his clothes trying to get more warmth. His kindness didn't last long and he pulled you back by the scruff of your neck. "Dumb dog. Stop getting my work clothes wet." He ordered. You tucked your (f/c) tail between your legs and looked down in shame. He finished drying your off and unhooked the leash. A moment of relief washed over you but you knew the punishment was far from over.

Gojo stripped off his black button-up and his chest was bare. "Clean me off puppy. Clean up your mess." You didn't take long at all to start lapping up the water droplets that soaked through his shirt. He groaned at the feeling of your tongue. You rested your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself. Gojo slapped away your filthy paws and you yelped. "Did I say you could touch me?" You pulled out your puppy dog eyes again and Gojo just rolled his eyes and your pathetic attempts to apologize.

"Crate. Now." Oh no. He was serious. You had never spent more than 5 minutes in your crate. It was mostly because Geto would also complain to his boyfriend about how inhumane it was to watch you sit in the (rather super comfortable) cage when their bed was big enough for all three of you. Usually it ended by Geto cuddling you to death and Gojo angry that you hadn't learned your lesson.

But Daddy wasn't home right now.

You kept looking over your shoulder as you crawled naked to the bedroom. Gojo walked behind you with arms crossed. He wasn't giving you an easy way out. When you crawled into the bedroom and looked at the cage, you tried giving him one more look to try and persuade him. "Inside y/n." Ooo first name. This was bad.

He locked the metal crate behind you and tried to ignoring you pressing your face against the side and begging to be let out.

Gojo stood beside the cage where you could clearly see him. He looked down at you and unbuckled his belt. You stopped whining and started flicking your tail back and forth in excitement.

You loved playtime.

Gojo wiggled the jeans down over his hips and pulled his member from the confines of his red boxers. Your mouth watered at the sight of his cock, drool forming at the sides of your mouth. "Aww, poor pretty puppy. I bet your cunt is aching isn't it? You haven't had a treat in a few days." He lazily strokes his cock. Precum began to build at the top and drool fell from your mouth.

"Aw Satu, have you been mistreating my baby?" Geto's voice had you running circles in your cage. You yipped happily at the sight of the dark haired man. His long hair was pulled back into a low bun and his sickening sweet grin was ever present. He gave Gojo a quick kiss and kneeled down to the entrance of your cage. He put his fingers through the wiring and watched you lap happily at his fingers.

"Satu, ignore her. She needs to learn." Gojo huffed with crossed arms. Geto pouted and stroked your ear with his finger.

"My sweet girl could never do something like that right?" You were so quick to deny everything. You just wanted to touch both of them and cover them with your scent. This was torture. Geto's eyes darkened and he linked his fingers under your collar and pulled. Your cheek was pressed right up against the metal and you whimpered when he leaned in closer. Geto was never rough with you.

"You lied to me puppy. You know what liars get right?" Gojo came from your side with a cup in his hands. Geto opened up the cage just enough to grab your jaw and forced your mouth open. Gojo poured a strong smelling liquid over your tongue and you started coughing.

He had poured soap on your tongue.

You sobbed and tried to break out of Geto's hold. The dark haired haired man cooed at you and stroked back your ears. He let go of your jaw and held you up against him for a second. "All done puppy. No more soap." You tried desperately to get the taste out of your mouth but there was no way to get rid of the foul taste. "Your punishment isn't done puppy. Papa and I are going to play, and you are going to be a good girl, kneel by the bed and watch." You pouted and buried your face in Geto's strong shoulder.

Geto brushes your hair behind your ear and pulled you away from him. "Keep that pretty mouth open puppy. If you’re lucky, you can be on cleanup duty." Your tail thumped at the thought. Gojo pulled Geto to his feet and you followed the couple to the bed, watching them battle for dominance for a few moments. They shared laughs and clashing teeth before Geto came out on top and was fisting the white haired man's swollen cock.

"Puppy come here. Get me nice and wet for Papa." You crawled between them and opened your mouth wide. "Good girl. Nice and easy." He presses his cock head past the barrier of your throat and watched your eyes roll to the back of your head. He fucked your mouth at a slow pace and stroked his boyfriends cock in rhythm. Both men were squirming in pleasure and you felt empty.

Geto pulled the sensitive hair between your ears and fucked your mouth in earnest for a few more seconds. He then pulled completely out of your mouth and let your spit soak your tits and chin. "Use your tongue on Papa, little one. You know it doesn't feel good when it goes in dry." He held the sides of your head with one hand and pushed Gojo's legs up so his knees were near his ears.

You took no time in lapping at his puckered ass. Alpha and Daddy always tasted so manly, so sweet. Your tail was swinging so fast Geto was afraid you would injure yourself. He rubbed your ass and gave you encouraging words as your tongue slipped inside of Gojo. The white haired man moaned and pressed against you so your tongue could delve deeper. You began to crawl up on the bed, eager for more but Geto chuckled and pulled you back down to the floor again.

"No, no puppy. That's enough. Floor. Now." He snapped his fingers and pointed to the carpet next to the bed. You grumbled and nipped at Gojo's thigh before settling down on the carpet and staring up at both men. Geto coated his cock with lube and pressed a few fingers into Gojo to prepare him.

"Fuckkk Sugu'!. I'm fuckin' ready. Just do it." Geto clicked his tongue and eased his huge cock past each tight muscle ring. Gojo sounded weak for a few seconds, struggling to take all of it. Your tail thumped again and drool started to form again. You wanted to help them.

You were a good dog, you'd show them both!

#gojo satoru #satosugu #satoru gojo x reader #Gojo #gojo smut #jujutsu gojo #geto suguru #getou suguru x reader #suguru geto smut #jjk smut #JJK omegaverse #omegaverse

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getouyuri · 6 months ago

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Haha is this thing even on??? taps the mic and tugs on collar of shirt guuuulppp,, could… we get like head canons for characters favorite positions?? Specifically Toji. I like Toji.

nawt even playing with u rn but the second I read ‘specifically toji’ I was like sigh… thinking about kat… and then my eyes flick up and I read ur user and was like ????4&1&3& MYYY WIFEEEEE???? 70% of the time I see toji I think of youuuu icb like that’s literally ur man 😭😭 BUT OH MY GOD I YIPPEEDDDDDD HI WIFE I gotchu 😋🤍 i’ll do extra toji just for u

characters: satoru gojo, suguru geto, toji fushiguro, choso kamo, shoko ieiri, yuki tsukumo

content: most can be read as gn!reader but a few are afab!reader, fem!reader for the girls since they’re sapphics, oral sex, penetration, sex toys, the world’s briefest subtlest allusion to anal in toji’s, yada yada why list positions when they’re down below

18+, MDNI

satoru gojo:

• before I say anything… #weloveyousubmissivetopsatoru

• missionary is his second favorite position. trust. not only does he get to pin you down with his full weight so that he can feel eeeevery inch of your skin against his, look into your eyes, and push deep into you, but. BUT! you can also grab his hips/ass in this position and guide how he fucks you, taking control of the pace. this always gets this man WHIMPERINGGGG into your neck. smothers you in kisses the whole time

• his ultimate favorite is cowgirl though 😋 satoru needs you bouncing and moaning on it at all times 🙂‍↕️👆🏽 he loves just reclining back and watching you through hooded eyes, lashes batting against his cheeks and toes curling every time you drop back down

• bites his lips to stifle his loud ass noises but this position makes it easy for you to grab his jaw/chin and force his mouth open which gets him extra hot and bothered

• bonus points if you stick your fingers in his mouth… 👹 he loves that shit

• slaps and gropes and licks your tits like his life depends on it while you ride him into oblivion

• also loves lying between your legs so he can go down on you while he humps the mattress like a dog in heat 😇 satoru busts just like that

• if he’s pent up you get the naaaastiest backshots. fucks you like his life is on the line 😭😭 drools into the crook of your neck while slamming into you over and over again until you’re both cumming, stays inside of you until he’s hard again, and then goes for round 2, 3, 4… also satoru always keeps his full weight on you cos he wants to crawl beneath your skinnnn so you’re always like damn. I’m trapped here

suguru geto:

• prefers positions where he can look directly into your eyes and watch you fall apart. that’s his favorite body part of yours— since they’re windows to the soul and whatnot

• also cos the front of your body is his personal charcuterie board; suguru can play with your nipples, kiss you all over, lightly drag his nails down your stomach/sides and watch you shudder, play with whatever the hell is between your legs, etcetera. his Second favorite body part of yours is your thighs so he also likes stroking, squeezing, and kissing them

• also when you’re face to face you can pull his hair and he lets out the most seraphic grunts/whines… he has a sensitive scalp and he loves when you tug at his strands (but he’ll brood for days if you rip his hair out 🧌 be careful with his 40inch bussdown or he’ll end up on national news)

• missionary is a classic but he likes taking it a step further and folding you over like a lawn chair into a mating press. he fucks you dumb stupidly fast like this

• suguru’s also a fan of having sex when you’re both on your sides, either facing each other or spooning. he’s always the first one to wake up so he’ll sometimes just hold you, petting your hair and drinking you in. inevitably gets hard when you rub up on him in your sleep. he’ll wake you up with kisses and murmured words, then lazily fuck you on their sides… he looooves slow unhurried morning sex

• ride his face and he’ll propose 🤷🏽‍♀️ CALL YOUR PUSSY BRITISH WITH THE WAY HIS TONGUE IS INNITTTTTTTTT

Brief intermission oh my god I just killed the fattest spider and actually cried cos it was so terrifyinggggggg I had to take a 10 min break tjat was embarrassing

toji fushiguro:

• let’s unpack this list— doggystyle, prone bone, happy scissors (THE NAME?), wall sex, and reverse cowgirl

• not even gonna get into mating presses cos everybody and their mother knows he loves that. obviously. MY GOD AND TITTY FUCKING yeah yall already knowwwww you knowwwwwwww

• doggystyle and prone bone yup yup two of his go-to’s. BEND THAT ASS OVERRR LET THAT COOCHIE BREATHE SHAKE THAT ASS BITCH HANDS ON UR KNEES!!!

• toji’s an ass mannnn he needs to cop a feel while destroying ur 🐱 likes pressing down on your lower back with his palms and forcing your stomach flat against the bed to make you arch cos his bitch pose is nyaaaasty!!! get ready to wear turtlenecks after he gives you backshots cos his mouth mauls your shoulders and neck

• you guys are getting audio for the damn anal thing (it’s really not that explicit you’ll see) (it’s 5 seconds)

• happy scissors… still ctfu at the name. anyways toji basically just stands up while you’re on the bed on your back and he spreads your legs heeeella wide so he can watch how you spasm around his cock. likes watching every millisecond of you taking him 🙂‍↕️ says the nastiest detailed shit about what’s going on downstairs

• “wanna come shower with me babes?” “yeah something sinister is definitely afoot” “what’s that?” “oh nothing… omw 😁😟”

• and you’re right— cos showering together and scrubbing his hair while he closes his eyes like a content cat suddenly turns into him grabbing your goods. which then turns into him fucking you against the shower wall and he just grins while listening to the filthy noises echo off the walls

• sometimes when toji returns home and you give him his daily hug at the door, he just picks you up with one arm around your waist and pounds you against the wall/door until you start wondering what’ll break first— the surface you’re pressed against or your back 😭😭

• aside from doggystyle + prone bone this man is a fieeeend for reverse cowgirl. folds his arms beneath his head while watching you do splits on his dick without lifting a hand to help you… buuuut he does sometimes grab your hips and hammer up into you. may you survive the night 🙏🏽

• ik his ass is playing nba 2k on the dailyyyy on his beat up console!!! so reverse cowgirl lets him play while you ride him LMAOOOOHTKAJEND y’all either end up on the bed with him on his back, you in reverse cowgirl but you lay your stomach flat between his legs so he can peek over your head, or y’all end up on the couch like this so you can cockwarm him… plus you’re his personal set of bongos 🥺😇🌸🕊️🧚

choso kamo:

• this man is a sucker for any position where he gets to cling to you like a koala

• lotus position is his #1. instead of properly riding him, this position allows you to just grind against him and do like. all of the work. and since he’s the king of dry humping they do this clothed sometimes too

• choso turns into a whimpering mess that melts beneath you every time you two have sex like this, pretty brown eyes rolling back in his head while he squeezes you close in a hug… my shaylaaaaa 😭😭😭

• his second favorite position is having sex on their sides ESPECIALLY when y’all are spooning. he reaches around you to roll his nipples between his fingers. always grasps your jaw/chin and turns your head so that he can kiss you while rocking into you

• missionary is another go-to of his. loveslovesloves the intimacy of it, how he can pepper you in kisses, maintain eye-contact as he praises you, asks if he’s doing good, how you’re feeling, what you need. always guides your legs to wrap around him so that they can be impossibly closer

• satoru and suguru are the reigning champions of munching but best believe choso is on their heels! you’re breakfast lunch and DINNERRRRR he’ll do anything to get his mouth on you. megan thee stallion voice THAT AINT MY BAE HE REALLY MORE LIKE MY BIDET sorry. he doesn’t stop until you’ve cum all over his face and in his mouth multiple times

shoko ieiri:

• no matter what position it is she’s absolutely slaughtering your meow meow 1000

• ive written something about this before but mmmm shoko on top while they scissor and she smokes while intently watching you, those low eyes of her never missing a thing. usually lifts one of your legs or fully drapes it over her shoulder so that she can turn her head and mouth at your leg, squeezing the top of your thigh all the while

• if she’s doing paperwork at jujutsu high or at her desk at home, half the time you end up sitting on her lap so that she can finger you while getting her shit done. or shoko just lets you ride her thigh, occasionally bouncing her leg a bit to hear the way you hiccup as you squirm atop her. she’s addicted to having you on her lap

• shoko also looooves resting on her stomach, reading something or scrolling through her phone while you hover behind her and rub your cunt against her ass. she makes casual conversation or ignores you entirely cos my gawwwdddd she eats up the way you progressively get more and more desperate and needy cos it’s not enoughhh and you want attentionnnn. but something about grinding on her ass makes you cum every single time without fail. and that gets shoko going which is why they end up doing this often

• often guides you to sit between her thighs with your back to her chest so that one hand can reach around you to palm your tits while her free hand goes to town on your 🐱. uses toys like vibrators and dildos on you in this position too

• and speaking of toys… her strap game goes CRAAAAAZY. prefers fucking you like this in missionary, dropping her whole weight on you so that their tits press together. always sucks hickeys into your neck too

yuki tsukumo:

• CERTIFIED FREAK SEVEN DAYS A WEEEEEEK

• walk with me MOTORCYCLE SEX. does that count as a position Idk but I’m rolling with it anyways

• I need to write a fic about this SO. BAD. but she sometimes lets you drive her motorcycle so that you’re in front, and when they get back home and park, yuki’s instantly reaching around you to grab the handlebars and revs the engine. she kisses your nape and whispers teasing words into your ear as the two of you rock against the vibrating seat of the harley. grins like the cheshire cat when you cum in your pants… but she’s quick to follow

• you riding her strap in cowgirl or reverse cowgirl? OH SHES IN! you start internally singing LET ME SIT THIS AAAAASSSSSSS ON YOU from that one beyonce song as you lower yourself down onto the strap

• for a few minutes you’re under the impression that you’re in control, setting the pace as she drags her hands up and down your body and showers you in praise. that is until she grabs your hips and fucks up into your cunt and cheerily smiles as you instantly lose it

• yuki definitely switches positions a lot. she’ll either keep going like that or eventually flip them both over to peg the shitttt outta you. from there, there’s a 70% chance that she’ll pull out and maneuver you into doggystyle

• and speaking of being on top she also likes being on top when they scissor. guides you to lie down halfway on your side cos yuki is a tits And ass woman so she wants to see both jiggle as she grinds down against you. and yes she’s always grabbing and smacking both

• the queen of 69ing truly… she’s an eaterrrr she has the time of her life whenever you ride her face while you bury your face between her legs. yuki wants that cookie so effin baddddd 😭😭 she tends to accidentally break your concentration cos my gawd she is SLUUUURPING on that thang like it’s her last meal

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moronkombat · 2 years ago

Note

Mk 1 men reacting to someone insulting their s/o right in front of them? Aka how to commit suicide in 12+ different ways

Reiko would not tolerate any slander to his partner and would instantly get up in the face of the person who dare insult you

He doesn't do the pleasures himself. Instead he advises you to beat them into submission while he watches with a coy smirk

Is very offended and doesn't sit idle when he hears it. He'll move past you tell them to try repeating that again

He's threatening but only in body posture and and facial expressions. If they were to throw a punch his way, he'd catch it and headbutt them

He's upset at what he hears and feels like lashing out towards the one who insulted you

Syzoth regains his composure and instead comes to your side and gives you a compliment and tells you not to listen to fools who like to bark like dogs

He laughs, maniacal and wicked. He tells them, through chocked laughter to repeat what they said

Once they do, he laughs some more before beginning to viciously beat them to death, screaming at them to never insult you again

Raises a brow and asks them to try and say that again because they must not be talking to you, his perfect partner

Trips them with his staff before spitting on them and leading you away with a caring smile

Hums a laugh, while looking them up and down. He claps his hands telling them that was a good attempt at an insult but Shang Tsung will show them real hurt

Absolutely eats them alive with his words. Tearing them apart and absolutely destroying all their confidence with just his words alone

Sneers toward the one who insulted you and walks over to them slowly. He looks up them up and down very quietly

His hand finds their neck and he squeezes tightly until they can no longer breathe before dropping them to floor

Gets up in the person's face and begins telling them to say that again and more than that while he begins to back them into a corner

He corners them and threatens them. Tomas tells them if they dare say another word, he'll have them choking on their tongue

Raiden tries to defuse the situation and is then insulted too. He doesn't mind, he simply nods his head

But then he quips back with something witty which angers them and they go to hit him but Raiden is too quick and dodges it before easily subduing them

Isn't one to stand idle after hearing someone insult you. He calls out to them, calling them an asshole before pushing them

Kung Lao begins threatening them and says if they're gonna try and be a tough guy then try to be one with him and see what happens

Absolutely furious. He can't hope to contain his rage and he's grabbing them by the collar and shoving them against the wall

He lashes out at them with his words and nearly crushes their throat but he sees you from the corner of his eye and you look scared. Bi-Han stops then, dropping them to the floor and rushing over to you before the two of you depart

Asks if he heard thar right and wraps on arm around their shoulder. He shakes his head and gives them a hardy slap on the back

Johnny offers some "friendly" advice by saying that if they dare say anything like that again, they'll have no more teeth left to talk with

Any insult given to you is an insult to him. Shao does not take kindly to insults

He doesn't say a word to them, merely crushing their head with his large hand before returning to your side as if nothing happened

Furrows his brows. He wants to get you out of that situation as quick as possible He leads you away from that person.

When the person who insulted you tries to follow, Geras is quick to freeze them in time and break their nose before continuing on his way with you

Tells them it is unwise to insult the lover of someone powerful and when they laugh in Liu Kang's face he sighs

He had hoped for a peaceful ending but it seems that not an option. He sharply kicks them straight in the gut, sending them colliding into the wall

His heart hurts knowing someone has disrespected you. Kuai Liang gets between the two of you and stares them down

Tells them if they are looking for a fight, they'll find one quickly and that it will not end well. Flames will engulf his fist as a show of power

Baraka has had many insults thrown at him but hearing one being thrown at you? He will not tolerate that

He grabs them by their shirt and begins threatening to turn them into minced meat if they dare insult you again

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rebeccathenaturalist · 2 years ago

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Unsurprisingly, a lot of the commentary I'm seeing about this has been of the "But--but--I would do the same thing because I don't want anything bad to happen to the deer!"

Look. I love wildlife, and I love getting to see deer, coyotes, and even the occasional black bear in my neighborhood. But they are here because there is good habitat nearby with lots of natural food sources, not because I deliberately put out food for them to eat. I respect them as wild animals with whom my relationship is very different compared to the domesticated animals I take care of every day. A deer is not a sheep or a horse; a coyote is not a dog.

People who do things like try to tame deer or, worse yet, try to raise a fawn or other young wildlife like pets are robbing those wild animals of their natural existences. We've already wrought our own preferences on the landscape to a severe degree, tearing the wildness out of it to create lawns and farms and subdivisions and strip malls. When we then dismiss the wildness of these animals and impress our own desire for connection on our terms on them, we are harming them.

I've already written elsewhere about the difference between "tame" and "domesticated". No matter how docile that deer seems, it is never going to be as (relatively) safe and tractable as a domesticated sheep or goat. It will always be more unpredictable, and more likely to lash out suddenly at a person due to fear, or hormones, or protection of young.

These animals need their wild instincts to be intact if they are going to survive without being dependent on us. They need those instincts in order to find mates and keep the gene pool stirred up. Their instincts keep them safe from danger, including humans. And their instincts never totally go away, no matter how much we may try to tame them otherwise.

This is why a good wildlife rehab is going to minimize handling of the wild animals they care for, especially those that are going to be able to be released back into the wild. The less comfortable these animals are with humans, the better their chances of surviving in the wild and having fulfilling, natural lives. Wildlife that retain their wariness of humans are less likely to end up falling prey to hunting, or being killed as nuisance animals when they get too aggressive in seeking food or otherwise coming into conflict with people.

The person who painted "pet" on a fully grown white-tailed buck and put a collar around his neck may have felt like they were doing that deer a kindness, but they have likely robbed him of the chance to just live a natural life as his own, independent being out in the woods and fields. He might be out there, sure, but perhaps he won't mate because he imprinted on humans. Or maybe he will end up shot by a hunter in spite of the precautions because he's just too friendly and those antlers are worth taking the shot.

There will always be something missing from this deer's life because of the arrogance of someone who thought they could own and keep and control a wild-born animal for their own enjoyment, instead of allowing him to come and go as he pleased. Honestly, it reminds me of King Haggard from Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn, whose response to seeing something beautiful was to capture it and keep it rather than simply enjoying and remembering that magical moment:

"I like to watch them. They fill me with joy. The first I felt it I thought I was going to die. I said to the Red Bull I must have them, all of them, all there are. For nothing makes me happy but their shining and their grace. So the Red Bull caught them. Each time I see the unicorns, my unicorns, it is like that morning in the woods and I am truly young, in spite of myself."

That's how I feel about people who are willing to drastically alter a wild animal's behavior for their own selfish benefit, even if they think they're being kind. I know I'm fighting a bit of an uphill battle in this, but I'm rather stubborn that way.

#deer #wildlife #wild animals #nature #animal welfare #animal cruelty #hunting #white tailed deer #zoology #animal behavior #ecology #environment #conservation #wildlife conservation #feeding wildlife #pets #animals #The Last Unicorn

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quandledlngle69 · 5 months ago

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･ﾟ★ " DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR ? "

FROM THE BLACK!BUTLER X BLUE!LOCK COLLECTION.

☆ CONTENT: Ness brushing readers hair at her vanity, reader having a short temper with Ness, Ness basically being a dog for reader lol.

☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Reader having a snobby and bratty personality, Reader having curls, Ness being obsessed with reader and kinda pathetic, slightly suggestive, verbal abuse, degrading, bully tendencies towards Ness by reader, collar pulling, power play, forced close proximity, use of 'good boy' and Ness's first name once.

☆ PAIRING: Lord!Reader x Demon!Butler!Ness.

☆ W.C. 0.7K

In the dead of night, the estate seemed to take on a different rhythm: quiet but with an underlying hum of emptiness.

It was usually like this after hours, with the occasional howl of a wild animal, or the servants doing hushed late night work. The room slightly dimmed with a deep orange hue, the handful of candles placed one your vanity ever so slowly burning; making the room feel warm and undisturbed. Yet you were an anomaly in the calm atmosphere. You tapped your fingers mindlessly on the wooden desk, yet as time passed, the sound growing louder along with your impatience.

Ness sensed the shameless stare of yours drilling into his skull, yet he let your nasty glare roll right of him, such facial expressions coming from you were like second nature to him. You gazed heavily at him through your lashes, piercing through the man in the reflection of the mirror. He kept his lidded eyes on your hair, savouring the way the silky curls so effortlessly shined in the tangerine tinged light. His movement didn't falter for a second, skilfully undoing any knots with the brush firmly in his other hand.

“Ness,” you practically hissed, your eyes squinting into slits as his hand paused, a loose curl of your locks wrapped around his gloved fingertips. His plum coloured eyes met yours through the mirror, and even your sneer fails to penetrate his sheepish smile for you. “Are all demons this slow? Or is it just you?”

Tension lingered in the air, and a slow beat passed before he responded. “I-I apologise my lady, my mind is wandering off again isn’t it? Forgive me–”

“I'm not here to listen to you ramble like a self–deprecating whore.” you interrupted with a shooing hand in his face, his lips nervously pressing shut at the blunt gesture. There was a sound familiar to a disappointed sigh that slipped from your lips. Without warning, your manicured hand shot out, grabbing the front inside of his collar and pulling it down firmly, as if he were a disobeying dog with only a collar and leash to his name.

His mulberry hued strands of hair brushed against your cheek from how close his head was to yours. This position had him stooped down to your level, clearly not caring about the awkward stance you put him in as you kept your eyes on his face in the reflection in the mirror. From your peripheral vision, you could see his widened eyes focused on the side of your face. You inwardly thought that if Ness were a human, he would be holding his breath, except you heard nothing but your own breathing. This seemed to aggravate you even more.

Ness bit his bottom lip, his next words quiet and slow, “yes, My Lady.”

“Good.” Your grip tightened on Ness’s collar, twisting it slightly as you pondered your next question. “Did you arrange that meeting with the head of my jewellery company?”

He swallowed thickly, not daring to move even the slightest from your concrete grip. “Yes–My Lady…” His eyes meeting yours through the mirror, nodding pathetically. “Straight after tea, in your office. Like you asked.”

There were a few moments of unsettling silence, before the harshness from your eyes faded ever so slightly, your lips curving into a small smile. Yet Ness knew it was only from the satisfaction of being told what you wanted to hear.

You hummed slightly. “Good boy. I knew I could count on you.”

Your hands grasp on his collar relaxed, before letting go completely, leaving a wrinkled mess around his top button. But Ness didn't move from his position. Twisting your upper body, you finally look up at the man, smirking slightly at his expression. Taking advantage of the fact he was perched still, your fingers gingerly attempted to smooth out the creases you caused.

He could feel the warmth of your fingers through his shirt. It made his fingers tremble.

“Make sure everything is perfect for tomorrow, no fooling around. Oh–and do find some Black Tea, our client is a French man.” You mentioned nonchalantly, ignoring Ness’s dilating orbs flickering back and forth on your face as you talked, like he wanted to devour you.

After a moment of silence, you spoke again, eyebrows furrowed. “Did I make myself clear, Alexis?”

“Yes, My Lady.” He replied in a slow whisper, his gloved hand snaking up to securely pause your preoccupied hand, almost too intimately for any butler. His uncanny smile making your skin crawl.

#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ voidlocked #.𖥔 ݁ ˖ shatteredconstellations #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bluelock x you #bllk #Alexis Ness x reader #ness x reader #alexis ness #ness #black butler x reader #black butler

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artcbyviet · 2 years ago

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Tailoring Love And Style: Personalized Dog Collars & Lashes

Introduction:

Our beloved furry friends are not just pets; they are cherished members of our families. As pet owners, we strive to provide them with the best care and attention possible. Personalized dog collars and lashes have emerged as delightful accessories that combine style and functionality, allowing us to express our love for our canine companions in a unique and fashionable way. In this blog post, we will explore the charm of personalized dog collars and lashes, their benefits, and how they have become an essential part of modern pet care and fashion.

1. Expressing Your Pet's Personality:

Every dog has its own distinct personality, and personalized dog collars and lashes offer a delightful way to showcase their individuality. Whether it's a vibrant pattern, a unique design, or even their name engraved on the collar, these personalized accessories allow you to celebrate your pet's uniqueness and show the world just how special they are.

2. High-Quality Materials and Craftsmanship:

Personalized dog collars and lashes are crafted with care and attention to detail. They are often made from durable and comfortable materials like genuine leather, nylon, or fabric, ensuring they can withstand the wear and tear of daily use. The quality craftsmanship ensures that these accessories not only look stylish but also provide a secure and comfortable fit for your furry friend.

3. Enhancing Safety and Security:

Safety is a paramount concern for pet owners, and personalized collars can play a crucial role in keeping our four-legged friends safe. Many personalized dog collars come with ID tags, which include your contact information, making it easier for others to help reunite you with your pet if they happen to wander off. Additionally, reflective elements or LED lights on the collars can enhance visibility during nighttime walks, ensuring both you and your pet are visible to passing vehicles.

4. Fashion-Forward Canine Couture:

The world of pet fashion has grown exponentially, and personalized collars and lashes have become a part of this ever-evolving trend. With a wide array of colors, patterns, and designs to choose from, you can effortlessly elevate your pet's style quotient. From chic and sophisticated to playful and whimsical, these accessories allow your dog to step out in fashion-forward canine couture.

#Personalized Dog Collars & Lashes #Personalized Dog Collars #Dog Collars & Lashes

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hermitcraftx · 1 year ago

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ren: pet wolf dog, remniscient of a pet but never truly able to fully act as one, exotic thing to look at, one of those dogs that lives in the laps of luxury with plush pillows and diamonds for collars. serves as a guardian, mostly, but he’s still a wild animal. not meant to live in a home

joel: attack dog, pit dog, dog that has been taught nothing but violence and as such serves no master but violence, irrational and lashes out, high strung on a thin leash and eager to tear someones throat out, especially when given cause by another person. in the right situations capable of just barely sheathing his teeth, but as time passes on he grows more cornered and will always, without fail, grow desperate and lash out

pearl: feral dog, dog that should by all means be domesticated and tamed but was forsaken by the community, wanders around for scraps of love and affection but wary of humans. cannot survive within a household but is so domesticated cannot survive without one either. doomed to wander the neighborhood

martyn: abandoned guard dog, one of those dogs that needs a job or it’d go insane but has no master to leash him anymore, wanders around feeling lost and feeling scorned. devoted himself to a life of servitude and keeping someone safe and now that he has no one to pull on that leash he’s no longer functional. as time passes his teeth sharpen and he learns how to bite in the face of scorn

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macabrecabra · 11 months ago

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Now can't have the Silph Bros having a gang without the prominent members of it! Introducing the Nightshade Mafia members under the direct command of Ghast, formerly Hauts' underlings.

Exception is Hund. Hund is only ever with Gen 100% because he's the 100% competent good boy.

Read more for more info and some design notes on each!

Hund VonDoom (Hounddoom)

The ever loyal butler, bodyguard, and all around the one person Gen tells everything to, Hund is often regarded as a member of the family for how he is always with Gen. He is a silent sort, never speaks unless spoken to and follows orders faithfully without question. Probably the only person Gen trusts without a second thought.

The question most have is if Gen and Hund are actually a couple or not which is hard to say as Gen says nothing about it and Hund is a quiet judgmental look to all. However, it can't be understated that no one probably knows Gen best than Hund.

Design Notes: I just imagined this bodyguard of Gen who hides the lower half of their face in their collar, giving them a kind of stern and mysterious look as a minion. Hounddoom because they are good boys and Hund would def have that guard dog vibe!

Kofco & Whezle Smogbur (Wheezing)

With the strange evolution of pokemon without humans about, the Wheezing evolution has taken a turn! Usually the two parts of Wheezing are surgically removed, leaving the two as close brothers. Such an ascension is seen highly in the Koffing community, thus Kofco and Whezle command some level of respect among their fellows.

The two have a rough and tough street-wise attitude and like to think they are the big pokemon on the block, more than willing to get into a scrap and show people who get in the way of the mafia who's boss.... until things get sticky, then they are both looking for the door in a blast of gas attack.

Design Notes: When I started to design their outfits, I kept thinking of Jasper and Horace from 101 Dalmations and the style of clothing they wore and it just really stuck in my head! The tiny hats on their heads was just the icing on the cake <3

Arbel Jessic (Arbok)

Arbel is a classy snake who is in the criminal business to satisfy her lavish spending habits and get access to all the best fashion at a discount. She is not above getting her hands dirty or taking charge of her dumb co-workers is need be. Can be the voice of reason at times in the group, tampering down the chaotic leanings that can happen. She is looking for love and loves to date in her free time, looking for the one.

She can be a bit vain though and when someone makes a comment about her looks she doesn't like, she will be quick to anger and to lash out. She gets along best with Victor in the group, mostly because Victor doesn't know what she is saying half the time... Design Notes: I was channeling Jessie from Team Rocket when making Arbel, just wanting a strong lady in the gang and just really brought the design together in the end <3 the patterns she has is different than official Arbok art as I feel each Arbok has its own special markings!

Victor Belkavitch (Victreebel)

An immigrant from another region, Victor came to Kanto for a new start in life and to take care of his very large extended family of cousins, nephews, grandparents, aunts, and uncles that followed after him. He fell in with the Nightshade Mafia for his impressive work in a bar shootout and has been with them ever since as the pay is good and he does not have to talk much. He is still learning the local language of Kanto and struggles at times with things.

He is the largest one in the gang and can brute strength a lot of things. Loyal to his co-workers whom he treats as family, he is a dependable sort and not above sticking a fight out to keep others safe. Also he is of a pokemon kind that is not above swallowing things whole, including other pokemon when ordered.

Design Notes: As soon as he was named Victor, his design of leather jacket and dark jeans was set in stone as a nod to the dress of gangs/mafias that are found in Eastern Europe. A hat didn't really fit as he had that leaf to be his hat. I just like Victreebels....

Wolbert Buffet (Wobbuffet)

They have been the mafia since it was form as a best friend of Hauts. They actually have the other half of Hauts' hat so between them is the whole hat which means a lot to both of them. Wolbert can come across as rather energetic and a bit absentminded about things, more emotional than most, but more than willing to take the brunt of an attack without hesitation. They took news of Hauts' death hard but remained in the gang to keep an eye on Ghast and make sure he doesn't get into trouble.

They really want to help Ghast in leading the mafia, but they themselves aren't really good at leadership things as motivating people is hard. They just yell loudly and act like they have an idea of what they are doing most of the time. They really shine when it comes to being in a fight or having to get through doors with their sticky fingers.

Design Notes: Wolbert was, by far, the hardest one to design of the gang. Wobbuffet has a simple design that I had to translate into a more anthropomorphic style. Also it felt better with their body type that they probably favor dresses or skirts, so they got a blend of a suit and skirt! Also no shoes, but nice socks!

Gilliad Gligland (Gligar)

Gilliad is the new face on the block and the only one of the mafia who never knew Hauts. Ghast has adopted them as their best friend as a result, teaching them how to be a real ganster! Gilliad is a tad gullible as a result, believing everything they are told. still green about the gills, they get really scared by being in situations and stumble a lot. He's still learning!

Design Note: Given that Gligar has the webbing for gliding, it felt important that their outfit gave them access to their ability naturally and that clothing was designed around them. It is something I'm keeping in mind with designs to take in the pokemon's anatomy when humanizing them! Also having a goofy friend for Ghast was key, so they share similar fashion and being goofy little boys!

#Pokemon #Pokemon AU #pokemon gijinka #End of the Line AU #The Nighshade Mafia #houndoom #Arbok #Wheezing #Victreebel #Gligar #wobbuffet

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whatsnewalycat · 7 months ago

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Passenger / Chapter 7

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Four)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

Chapter Summary: Our heroes fuck around and find out.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.1k+

Content / Warnings: smuuuuuuuuut, dirty talk, inner conflict, outer conflict, jealousy, dog grogu, the mandalorian au, fascist propaganda, not beta read

Notes: Ayooo! This “day” is gonna be split into 2-3 parts, which will conclude the story arc for Wyoming, then I’m taking a small pause from writing this to finish another ongoing series (Designated Person). This series is going to be ginormous in terms of longevity (I have at least 20 more chapters plotted out and fully intend on completing them) so pls don’t worry, I am not abandoning them. Also I switched the POV from 2nd to 3rd person and will be updating the backlog of chapters to this POV.

—

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—

Din feels around blindly for the alarm clock and presses the big SNOOZE button, releasing a sigh into the sudden silence.

Someone else’s body heat sticks to the edge of him. He shifts onto his side and tugs at the warmth, huddling closer. It mumbles something into his chest, but trails off, weight going slack against him.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—

Din unravels to turn off the alarm clock, then rolls back over, letting his arm fall loose over the lump beside him. The warmth wiggles closer with a groggy hum.

Prying open heavy lids, he blinks until his eyes start to adjust to the dark motel room. His surroundings come into focus gradually. Stiff sheets and body heat and a nest of blonde hair.

He draws back to look at her face, studying her peaceful dozing features. The curve of her lips and the dip of her Cupid’s bow. From this distance, he can map out all the tiny freckled constellations smattered across her face.

He syncs his breath to her quiet snores and absorbs the steady rhythm of her pulse.

Just for a few more seconds, or a minute.

It might be the only time he gets to see her in this way, so defenseless in such close proximity. Mona Lisa without the protective glass, she is precious and vulnerable.

If that much is true, who is he? The thief sent to rip her from her frame? The night guard posted to protect her? Or both, or neither, or does it even matter? Because here she is, a real life enigma, and all he can manage to be is the awestruck witness who stumbled upon her.

She starts to stir, burrowing into the crook of his neck. He should wake her up. Separate himself, at least.

It feels wrong to hold her this way.

It is wrong to hold her this way.

‘Unprofessional,’ he reminds himself, as if that were the only reason and not just one of many.

She stirs again.

This time, a yawn expands her rib cage and puffs hot down his collar. He pretends to sleep, closing his eyes as her lashes flutter against his thudding pulse.

Shit.

He braces for impact. Waits for her to come to her senses. To shove him away or pull back.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she nuzzles closer and yawns again. On the exhale, she relaxes into him.

Her weight and warmth melt through him, unclenching muscles he never knew he had. She curls and uncurls her fingers against his chest, a gentle affection that flickers up his spine. Her touch wanders to the elbow draped over her waist. It slowly roams up his arm, lulling him into a trance-like state as she skates along his bicep, then his tricep, rounding his shoulder to trace his collarbone.

When her fingertips graze his neck, heat swells at the very center of him and spills over the edges, reverberating through his body. A groan scrapes his vocal cords and his cock throbs against her belly.

Traitor.

Before panic can call him to action, Charlie arches towards him and releases this sweet, quiet gasp that empties his mind of reason.

He tightens his arm around her waist and rocks his hips, blood burning when she pushes back.

Rolling onto his back, he pulls her on top and they both moan at the weight of their hips settling together. She wastes no time working herself against him, huffing and whining in his open mouth.

He has enough sense not to kiss her, but not enough to keep his uncuffed hand from slipping beneath her shirt to explore her soft, warm skin.

“Oh fuuuck,“ she moans, body tensing as she speeds to a frantic pace.

His eyes roll back at the violent rush of stimulation. He finds the small of her back and pins her hips to his so all she can do is wriggle and whine with frustration.

“Slower,” he pants, grinding the damp fabric between their bodies, “Feel that? Just like that.”He softens his grip to guide her, nodding when she matches his indulgent momentum, “There you go. Fuck, that’s perfect.”

“So fucking good, holy shit—”

Sucking in air through gritted teeth, he starts to gather her hair in his fist. Her hand follows on its short leash, clinging to his handcuffed wrist as he pulls her hair taut. She moans and melts against him, but her hips never miss a beat.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, spurring her faster when she chokes out a guttural noise.

Every time she slides up and down his swollen cock, a hunger inside him deepens.

He wants to feel the heat of her in every conceivable way, to explore the aching need simmering between them. He wants to strip her bare and count her freckles and fuck her senseless. He feels her panting breath on his and desperately wants to kiss her. How pathetic. He wants and wants and wants, and yet, he knows there’s no time for all of that.

Not with the way she starts to sputter and shake, heating his blood with second-circle hellfire. When he tightens his grip to wield her body against his, assuming control, she doesn’t resist in the slightest.

“Din—fuck, it feels sofuckinggood, don’t stop. Don’t stop—oh my god don’t stop don’t stop—”

“Are you gonna come for me like a good girl?”

She whines and digs her nails into his wrist, nodding frantically, “Yes yes yes yes yes—”

All her muscles go tense and gasping steals her breath. It returns to her a moment later with a choked sob and shaking limbs while his heartbeat pounds through his body, thick and hot, growing louder and louder until it consumes him completely.

He groans, hips stuttering against her as the warmth of ecstasy washes over him.

They go slack-limbed in the moments that follow, liquefying into a throbbing, panting puddle on the mattress.

It’s what heaven must feel like, he thinks. Blissed out and serene, the weight of her ironing out every adversity he’d ever faced into a single flat line leading to this. Leading to her.

The saccharine thought sours on his tongue.

What the fuck am I doing?

—

What the fuck am I doing?

Charlie pokes at her half-eaten cheese omelette a few times before wrinkling her nose and pushing the plate aside.

As she folds her legs up in the squeaky wooden booth, she allows herself to glance across the table at Din, whose aviators are fixed on her. She doesn’t know that he’s looking at her but she does all the same. No proof except whatever gnaws at her stomach lining.

“Just like that… There you go. Fuck, that’s perfect.”

Heat rises to her face.

Averting her gaze, she searches for words to start idle chit chat, but comes up blank. Her mind keeps wandering back to the ghost of his touch.

“Are you gonna come for me like a good girl?”

She squirms a little, then buys herself some time by taking a slow sip of lukewarm, watered-down coffee.

This silence isn’t normal.

She needs to act normal.

Make conversation. Just don’t mention what happened, because it couldn’t have happened. There’s no way she would allow… that. This.

No. Not a chance. It didn’t happen.

It was a dream, that’s all.

A really really hot dream.

Drawing a deep breath, she tries on this new version of truth and finds enough comfort to let her shoulders fall away from her ears.

RULE #5: Live in the now.

Onward and upward.

Today I will paint the sign and play a show and take every moment as it comes.

She digs the notebook from her rucksack and pulls the pen from its spine. Flipping to a blank page, she finally breaks the silence.

“How big would you say the Giddyup sign is, ten by five?”

Din takes a sip of coffee, then shrugs, “Ten by eight.”

“Ten by eight?” She frowns, visualizing both ratios on the paper, and concedes, “Ok, yeah. That seems about right. Thanks.”

Using her thumb as a benchmark, she sections off the page in a rough 5:4 grid. While outlining her design, she watches Din at the edge of her vision, who scans the cafe between sips of coffee.

“So after this, we pickup clothes from the laundromat, pick up the pup, and head over to Paul’s?”

“Yes.”

“My first set starts at eight. Figure I can get most of this done by… pfff, I dunno, five? Maybe six, depending. I’ll have to make myself presentable, eat something, then we can head over to Outlaw.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Got any song requests for me?”

She looks up at his silence and finds his aviators fixed on something across the room. Right in his crosshairs, the waitress jots down a bald man’s order.

Of course he’s enamored with the waitress. Why wouldn’t he be?

She has a kind, gentle way about her. She’s delicate and ladylike. She has long, shiny hair and a contagious smile. She probably showers every day. She probably reads the Bible and young adult novels between assigned texts for her nursing school program. She probably has childhood friends and a five-year plan and regular communication with her family.

Most people are into that sort of thing.

So sure, it makes sense that he perks up like a dog earning table scraps every time she stops by their table.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

It doesn’t matter that he likes the waitress. Not in the big scheme of things, anyway. She should utilize his tongue-wagging, not detest it.

The logic is sound, but the feeling inside her doesn’t change.

Cloying and desperate.

So fucking stupid.

If she were traveling with him under her own volition, she would’ve parted ways with him before this had a chance to germinate.

Yesterday, probably.

This morning at the latest.

Right after she woke to find her body curled up against him, his arm draped over her side. His skin felt so warm and good on hers. Comfortable.

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

Din shifts.

She looks up from her gridlocked mountain range in time to see him pull his shoulders back and puff his chest out.

Predictably, the waitress approaches their table and begins picking dirty dishes off the table, “Can I get y’all anything else?”

“Just the check is fine,” Din answers.

“Excellent.” She props the stack of plates on her hip so she can pull the bill from her apron. Placing it face down on the table, she smiles at him, “No rush, just whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” he nods.

Charlie gives her a polite smile when she departs, then watches Din’s attention follow.

Red flares through her, a bull in a china shop.

Fuck. This.

She flips her notebook closed and tosses it in her rucksack, “You should invite her to the show.”

His focus snaps back to her. “Why would I do that?”

“I dunno,” she shrugs, taking out her wallet to evaluate its contents, “Seems like you’re sweet on her. Might as well give it a shot.”

He draws back and frowns, studying her too close for comfort.

She grabs the check, doing some quick math before teasing, “Wow, you’re a cheap date.”

“What are you doing?”

“Buying breakfast.“

“There’s no need—”

Waving him off, she wriggles out of the booth and swings her bag over her shoulder as she starts towards the cash register.

He catches up with enough time to hiss in her ear, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“All set?” The waitress smiles between them.

“All set.” Charlie hands her a stack of fives under the check, “The change is for you.”

“Oh, well thank you. I appreciate it,” she punches the total into the register.

“Yeah, of course. It was delicious. And the service was excellent, obviously. But, umm… Hey, you know, if you’re not busy tonight, I’m playing a few sets at Outlaw. You should come.”

Din’s glare burns a hole in the back of her head, lending her a sick sense of satisfaction.

The waitress blinks up at her, eyebrows jumping a little, “Oh, are you guys in a band?”

“No, just me and my guitar. He’s security,” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at Din, but doesn’t dare turn around. “Anyway, no pressure or anything if you have plans already. But if you don’t, it’ll be a good time.” She leans in closer and drops her volume, “Between you and me, I think he would like it if you came.”

The waitress chuckles a little, glancing at Din before tucking a wave of hair behind her ear, “I have to check to make sure I don’t have plans, but… Yeah, maybe.”

“Perfect! Oh—My name is Charlie, by the way,” she nods over her shoulder, “The big guy is Din.”

“I’m Marla.”

“Marla,” Charlie repeats, trying to regulate her manufactured enthusiasm, “We’ll see you later, then, yeah?”

A coy smile spreads across Marla’s face, eyes flicking to Din before she nods, “I’ll see what I can do.”

—

In the swollen silence of the laundromat, Charlie plucks a freshly-toasted shirt off the clean clothes pile, glancing at Din’s sharp movements beside her as he does the same.

She swallows the frantic buzzing in her chest that urges her to smooth the tension.

It was the right thing to do. There needs to be enough distance between them for her to find the escape hatch.

Discomfort is temporary. This discomfort is necessary.

She cannot let it get to her.

RULE #3: Keep your wits—

Din chucks a balled-up shirt back into the pile and spits, “Are you taking this seriously?”

“The laundry?”

“I told you we need to keep a low profile.” He He faces her, all rigid and puffed up, “First it was the show, then the sign, now you’re trying to get us in with the locals—”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way. I got you a deal with Paul and a date with Marla, plus I’ll get spending cash—”

“We shouldn’t even be in public, let alone keeping a social calendar. You don’t understand how dangerous it is for us to be visible.”

“Do you really think Marla from The Pantry Cafe is going to ping my location to all your buddies?” She scoffs, trading her folded shirt for her crumpled up pair of jeans. “I highly doubt anyone here gives a shit about me.”

“That’s not—” He sighs, propping a hand on his hip, “If someone from the guild picks up your trail, they will come for you.”

She rolls her eyes and tucks the folded jeans in her knapsack, muttering, “What then, you won’t get your finder’s fee?”

“It’s not about that, it’s about your safety.”

A voice at the back of her head reminds her she’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

She almost listens to it, too. Until Din opens his trap to drive his point home further.

“I know what these people are capable of—”

“Kidnapping and murder, I assume.”

“There are worse things.”

She turns to him and blinks, “Scare tactics, Din? Really?”

“Not a scare tactic. A reality check.”

“Oh my fucking—”

“You’re being reckless and you know it.” He squares his shoulders, jabbing her chest as he grinds out, “Tighten. Up.”

Swatting his hand away, she scowls up at her reflection in his aviators. Her fingers twitch with the impulse to rip them off and stomp them to pieces.

“You know what? Fuck you.” Searching his face, she envisions barbed wire and life sentences. She hardens to stone and doesn’t dare fucking flinch as she speaks.

“You keep acting like you’re doing me some big favor because you’re not an absolute fucking ghoul to me. You fucking stand there and say it’s about my safety like you’re protecting me or something, but you’re not. You are protecting an investment. Din. The dollar sign attached to my head. You said it yourself, I am nothing to you but a payload.”

A bitter laugh escapes her, resentment bubbling up from an old crack in her heart, “You don’t give a shit about my well-being. My fucking safety? Fuck off. You’re delivering me to the same fucking slaughterhouse they would.”

Every visible sign of anger sloughs off him like dead weight, leaving him with this raw, deflated expression that undermines her certainty.

As she stares at him, bracing for a response, her own self-righteous fury withers up and dies in her chest. It turns to a plea.

Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s not about the money.

Taking a step back, he turns and starts shoveling clothes into his backpack. “Let’s go. We’re already behind schedule.”

It shouldn’t feel like a punch in the gut, but it does.

She nods solemnly, then falls back into place helping him clear the folding table.

—

Din crosses the vacant road from Jackalope Motel to Giddyup Auto, holding Grogu’s leash taut at his side so he can’t wander.

Dawn begins to eat away at the night sky, dusty orange fading to light blue, leaving only a tiny sliver of dark over in the west. Daylight dyes wispy eastern clouds blood red and banishes morning fog, drying up the damp that collected overnight.

Ahead of him, Charlie’s dusty green knapsack sags from her squared shoulders, swaying back and forth like a pendulum with each purposeful stride. She keeps her spine straight and her eyes forward and an invisible yardstick between them, as she has since their spat in the laundromat.

The distance is necessary, though. For both of them.

Somewhere along the way, he allowed the line drawn between them to become blurred. He lost all definition. It never should have happened in the first place.

He should be grateful she had enough sense to pull the trigger this time.

Grogu perks up and lets out a small, “Boof.”

Din tears his eyes away from Charlie’s backpack to see Paul emerge from the shop, waving at Charlie, who walks up to greet him. They both look back at Din, then Paul tells her something that makes her snort with laughter. It’s strange, he thinks, how she can flip her demeanor at the drop of the hat.

As he draws closer to the conversation, his ears attune to her voice.

“… this is the easy part, honestly. I should be able to finish up before sundown.”

Paul grins, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his coveralls, “Seems we’re runnin’ on the same timeline then.”

“Oh. You mean…?” Charlie shuts her mouth and glances at Din when he comes to a stop within their circle of conversation.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Paul teases. “I was just telling Miss Charlie here that the rig should be finished up quick, long as I don’t find any surprises.”

Din frowns, “By tonight?”

“That’s what it’s lookin’ like.”

“I thought it would take longer.”

“Made good time,” Paul shrugs. “Figured y’all would be itching to get back on the road.”

Grogu starts whining at Charlie, who crouches down to pet him. The dog heels and pins his ears back, lapping at her hands as she gives him all her attention.

Din clears his throat and gives Paul a nod of appreciation, “How much do I owe you?”

“Lookin’ at twelve hundred, give or take. We can settle up later.”

“Hey Paul, can I grab your tall ladder?” Charlie gives Grogu a pat before rising to her feet, “Oh, and do you have an extra stereo I could I borrow for the day? I don’t want the big guy to chat my ear off.”

Paul cackles while she shoots Din a teasing look that makes his blood pressure spike.

“Come on, I’ll see if I can’t find one for ya.”

—

CEO Pushes City to ‘Clear Homeless from the Streets’ in Open Letter to Portland Mayor.

Amidst recent controversy surrounding the growing homeless population in Portland, one local businessman speaks out on behalf of property owners.

In an open letter to Mayor Ed Kneeler released this morning, Tom Bucheron, CEO of Empire Property Management, LLC, calls for the Mayor Kneeler to “take action against the epidemic of homelessness in Portland,” which, he goes on to claim, presents undue financial burden on Portland property owners.

Din follows the link to a PDF of the letter, looking up from his screen to observe Charlie as it loads.

On her perch at the top of the ladder, she paints while singing along to some 80’s power ballad on the radio. The blonde bun at the crown of her head, lops from one side to the other as she bops around to the beat.

With her constant squawking and beak of a nose, she sometimes resembles an ill-tempered bird. This only solidifies the likeness in his mind. A yellow cockatiel whose domesticity never took. She screams and nips at those who dare try closing her cage door.

She glances back over her shoulder, so he drops his eyes to the screen of his tablet.

Mayor Ed Kneeler:

I call upon you today to take action against the epidemic of homelessness in Portland.

In recent years, we have seen a dramatic rise in homelessness, drug-related and violent crimes, and overdoses. We have also seen property values plummet as of late. I have been residential property management and real estate investment for 34 years. I’ve seen property values ebb and flow with the market, and can say with certainty that our current state is unprecedented.

Homeless encampments are epicenters for crime and disease, sprouting up through the cracks of our beautiful city and spreading at a disastrous rate. Property values suffer. As such, the real Portland citizens suffer. Those of us who have families and homes here. The real Portland citizens, we invest in our community through fellowship and commonwealth. We are the lifeblood of this city and we are suffering dearly. Dually so are Portland property owners. Our property values plummet with the blight of homelessness. Not only that, but we also foot the bill for welfare and social programs with our taxes so that the City can enable the miscreants that come in droves to suck up our resources.

In a lineup of cities comparable in size and population density, Portland stands out for all the wrong reasons: low property values, high crime rates, high taxes, and an epidemic of homelessness. Cities that rigorously enforce vagrancy laws reap the benefits of higher property values and lower crime rates.

It couldn’t be clearer. The City should strive to eradicate homelessness in Portland, not enable it. Today I ask that you enact a citywide ban on vagrancy and start disbanding encampments.

The only reason I ask this of you in such a public forum, Mayor Kneeler, is because I question your motives for not addressing this matter sooner.

Do you act on behalf of the real citizens of Portland, or in your own self-interest? If your peers in the Democratic Party frown upon law and order, does that affect your decision-making? While pondering whether or not to act on this problem, what holds more weight? Potential backlash to your career, or the burdens suffered by real citizens of Portland?

Please do not let your pursuit of legacy destroy our beloved city. Step up and do what’s right.

Sincerely,

Tom.

Din saves the PDF and checks on Grogu, still curled up in a ball beneath his chair. He looks up at Charlie, who went quiet when the radio started warbling the weekend forecast.

As she rolls green acres onto the sign with quick, short strokes, her fluffed-up bun still bops back and forth like she’s dancing with just her head. Probably singing to herself.

Did she tell him the truth about what happened in Portland?

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Whether it’s true or not, she was right. He’s delivering her to the slaughterhouse.

Normally he finds comfort in this ambivalence. This time it settles like lead in his belly, heavy and poisonous.

He digs the phone from his pocket and dials Karga.

“Din! Just the man I wanted to speak to.”

He frowns, “Why?”

“The client is looking for an update on the asset. You still have it, correct?”

“Yes.”

“When can they expect your arrival?”

His gaze wanders to Charlie, painting away without a care in the world. Guilt twists his stomach raw.

“What do they want with her?”

A beat goes by before Karga responds.

“They didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. Neither should you, if you know what’s good for you.”

Din looks down at the gravel and nods. “I’ll have her there by Sunday at the latest.”

#din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #passenger

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dark-frosted-heart · 11 months ago

Text

Roger Barel Main Route - Chapter 9

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. I’m doing this for archiving purposes and you can probably find a better translation out there.

Roger: A collar of course. You’ve now been promoted from dogsbody to pet. Congrats.

Kate: Thank you! This is a cute collar…Hm, collar? Wait, didn’t I tell you to stop treating me like a dog?

(Geez, it’s such a lovely choker. A collar…)

When I glared at him and pouted, he just stared back with a pleased smile.

(...Roger reminds me of me of an innocent boy when he smile)

His usually tense, thick brows were relaxed, and his parted lips revealed his canines.

Why does seeing him smile make me feel happy too?

(...Also)

Since becoming Roger’s exclusive Fairytale Keeper, I haven’t been feeling anxious or confused.

(Even if he’s teases me, I have someone with me, watching my growth)

(It makes it all worth it, and motivates me to work harder)

(Though…I think Roger’s got me dancing in the palm of his hand)

Regardless, I’m happy with the changes I’ve been going through during my time with Roger.

(No doubt Roger’s getting to know me better with the time we spend together)

(It’s like exposing your research subject)

Me on the other hand—

(The more time I spend with Roger, the more mysterious he’s become)

(That’s why…I want to know more about him)

Kate: Roger, um…Can I get one more reward?

Roger: Oh, that’s rare coming from someone who tends to be reserved. Go ahead and say it.

Kate: The more time we spend together, the more I wonder why you chose to be with Crown. And then I start to wonder what you’re even researching at this point. That’s why, I want to know the reason why…

Roger: Are you asking as my exclusive Fairytale Keeper, or for your own personal interest?

Amber eyes expose my heart.

Kate: …Probably both.

As Fairytale Keeper, I record his “sins” as a Cursed One.

As for myself, personally—

I wanted to know what made my chest throb sometimes.

I definitely had an interest in Roger.

But I couldn’t say what kind of interest.

Kate: Still, I don’t want to overstep any boundaries, like a past you don’t want to talk about. If you don’t want to, then we can forget…

Roger: Pfft, haha. You really are a sincere one. Sure, I got nothing to hide. Summarizing it would be a pain, so hope you don’t mind a long story.

I don’t mind +4 +4

You’re going to tell me?

We have a long trip back.

Kate: I don’t mind. Please tell me about you, Roger.

Roger: In that case, let me tell you a story for our ride back to London.

With that, his long tale began.

—Unlike the train that’s moving us forward, Roger’s story takes us back into the past.

Roger: My old man’s a doctor, you’ve met him before. So for as long as I could remember, going to his clinic’s been part of my daily routine. I’m the eldest of 5 brothers and sisters. That’s probably why my dad relied on me a lot. Before I knew it, I wanted to be a doctor.

(In the beginning, I did get the impression that Roger was like an older brother…)

Kate: So you’re the eldest sibling. No wonder you’re so good at looking after others… What were you like as a kid?

Roger: Haven’t really changed. I was a brat with a thirst for knowledge that’d steal my old man’s medical books and charts. Maybe it’s because he also did as he pleased, but he was a pretty tolerant guy. Most of the time, he’d laugh it off. However, I remember getting a real tongue lashing when I tried to read a certain piece of research without asking.

Kate: And that piece of research was…

Roger: “About Cursed Ones”.

Cursed Ones—A term I hadn’t even heard of until a few weeks ago, but am now familiar with.

Had I not stumbled upon them that night—I would never have known.

(Roger learned about it from his father’s clinic…)

Kate: But only a few people know that Cursed Ones exist, right?

That information is regulated, and both the existence of them and Crown is kept from the public.

(I became a Fairytale Keeper because I knew…)

Roger: My old man’s “a part” of that world. Well, he probably “noticed” while examining a patient.

Kate: …I see. Doctors do examine a variety of people. When your father scolded you, it was because it was information that shouldn’t be known to the public. He tried to keep it a secret from you.

Roger: Yeah. A kid’s curiosity’s dreadful. So I went and read everything I could about Cursed Ones without my old man knowing. Should’ve locked that all up in a safe. He’s disorganized.

Kate: …That’s how you had free access to medical books and charts. I mean, hehe, you’ve been the same since you were a kid.

Roger: I guess. Now onto the main part of the story. When I was nearly done reading through all the research on Cursed Ones. It got to the point where I wanted to meet the author of a document, “Alexander Taylor”. In my search, I found that he was formerly a doctor at Gracefield Royal Hospital. Turns out he was my old man’s coworker.

Kate: When you say formerly, do you mean he left the hospital?

Roger: Yeah. Not sure why.

Kate: Is that how you found him?

Roger: Found him sooner than I thought. When he left the Royal Hospital, my old man rented the Barel family conservatory in the outskirts out to him. I found out he was doing some research by himself there.

“Alexander Taylor” left the Royal Hospital to continue his own research on Cursed Ones.

The more I heard about him, the more my imagination grew.

Kate: Then you…

Roger: Yeah, of course I went to see him. It was late at night, after my old man went to bed. I snuck out by myself.

~~ Flashback ~~

—The conservatory was empty and filled with silence.

Except for a young man in a white lab coat named Alexander Taylor, who was researching Cursed Ones all alone.

Roger: My name is Roger Barel. I’m the eldest child of the Barel family. I’m interested in your research, so let’s be friends.

Alec: …Yeah, go home okay?

Roger: Ah, haha…so that’s how it is. Well I didn’t think this would be easy, but it’s worth the challenge.

Alec: …You’re an annoying kid.

Every time I visited him, he’d turn me away.

However, when Alec realized I knew about Cursed Ones, he gave up and took me in.

Alec: You’re so persistent…

Roger: Yeah, I’m the kind of guy that’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants.

Alec: *sigh* I know. I give up. You can visit me here as long as you promise me one thing.

Roger: Yeah, I will! So from today on, we’re friends!

Being friends with him made me happier than I thought.

I grabbed Alec’s hand and swung it around.

That was the first time I saw him smile.

Alec: Heh, okay. We’re friends now. Nice to meet you little doctor.

~~ End Flashback ~~

Roger: After that, I started spending a lot of time with Alec at the conservatory. He was my first friend.

There was affection in his voice as he muttered nostalgically.

Roger: Even though I was a kid, I knew Alec was a very brilliant man. That’s why I couldn’t understand why he left the Royal Hospital. I was skeptical that he was just doing research on Cursed Ones, hidden away in a conservatory.

~~ Flashback ~~

There was a time when I asked him—

Roger: Hey, Alec. Why are you researching Cursed Ones in a place like this? They’re born all around the world, but hard to come by. Wouldn’t it have been better to do something like establish a treatment center for cancer since it’s incurable? Then the world would know just how talented you are!

Alec: Perhaps. But I’m willing to throw my position, reputation, and money away for this research.

As he said that, he looked off into the distance with a sad look.

Alec: Someone might eventually find a cure for cancer…but I’m certain no one would find one for curses. The voices of the minority tend to get drowned out. That’s why I have to listen carefully.

Roger: Hmm. You’re great for working so hard for others.

Alec: I’m not that good of a person, Roger. I just don’t want my soul to rot away.

~~ End Flashback ~~

Roger: Whenever I went to see Alec, it was always at an appointed time. He didn’t let me come by at any other time. There was a day when I went to see him at the appointed time…But no matter how long I wanted, he never came back. …So I just kept waiting.

Roger’s lips drew tight as if to swallow back his hoarse voice.

Kate: …Something happened.

Roger: Yeah. Alec burst into the conservatory with police after him.

~~ Flashback ~~

Suddenly, the door to the conservatory was thrown open.

Alec: Roger…Why. I thought you went home.

Roger: …Alec, what’s with the police? What’s wrong, what happened?

Police with black hair: Alexander Taylor, former doctor of the Royal Hospital, you are under arrest for being the prime suspect in organ trafficking!

Roger: Organ trafficking? Alec? Alec would never do something like that…!

Police with brown hair: What’s with this child? Is he involved in some way?

Police with black hair: Let’s bring this kid in as a witness.

The police officer reached out for me.

Roger: Stop it.

Alec: …

Alec—he saved me by touching the top of the police officers’ heads.

In an instant, their hands were smacked together.

As if in prayer.

Police with brown hair: W-what? I can’t move my hands apart…

Roger: …Special ability… Alec…you’re…a Cursed One?

Police with black hair: M-monster! Hey, kid with glasses, do you have anything to do with this?

Roger: Of course. Alec’s my fr—

Alec: …Roger. …Our promise?

Roger: Ah.

~~~~ Flashback within a flashback ~~~~

Alec: You can visit me here as long as you promise me one thing.

Roger: Promise?

Alec: If anyone asks about our relationship, reply with this. “We’re not friends. That person and I are complete strangers.”

Roger: What’s with that weird promise? Well, I guess it’s embarrassing to be friends with a kid like me.

Alec: …Yeah, let’s go with that. Promise me, Roger.

~~~~ End flashback within a flashback ~~~~

I was a child then, but I realized the meaning of that promise.

Roger: T-that person…and I… “We’re not friends. That person and I are complete strangers.”

Alec: …Thank you. —"That’s enough."

His POV | Next

#ikemen villains #ikevil #ikevil jp #ikevil translations #roger barel #ikevil roger #ikevil roger route

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the-whispers-of-death · 1 year ago

Note

Thinking about my Canine Handler! Stone x aggressive Dog Hybrid! Reader and I raise you (or myself, I guess) Canine Handler! Kali with aggressive Dog Hybrid! Reader. 🫧

Same concept, Kali is Reader’s last chance because he tore his last handler apart (the handler kinda deserved it though, he wasn’t very nice). Kali looking at his collection of feral children and thinking “eh, what’s one more?”

Reader immediately lunging at Kali and only being stopped by the fact that the too-tight collar is attached to a heavy metal post or the wall or something - if a person was holding it, they would have been dragged along. Kali being immediately angry but not at Reader, instead at the conditions they’re keeping him in.

Kali somehow calming down Reader enough that he can give him skritches behind the ear, Reader is confused because instead of lashing out at him for trying to kill him he’s just like “shh, it’s okay, Daddy’s here” while glaring down whoever is in charge of Reader right now because it’s pissing it down freezing rain and they have him tied to a post outside.

Canine Handler!Kali is so Daddy. He immediately unties you from the post and gets you inside, very carefully approaching you with slow movements when he needs to towel you off due to you being out in the rain. He's not scared you'll lash out at him, he just doesn't want to scare you.

His words are soft when he speaks to you, a stark contrast to the way his words are so clipped with whoever had tied you to the post. He's giving your scratches behind your ears, cooing at you.

Kali is so pissed when he finds out you haven't been fed your dinner yet, so he goes and gives you food, his heart breaking at the way you eat it so fast because your previous handlers took away your food when you were "bad". Don't you worry, Daddy Kali won't do that to you, he'll prove it to you too.

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revkian-ruins · 6 days ago

Text

homecoming (the long way around) - masterpost SIDE STORY: The Fall of Minyas there's a man on high, with the devil in his eye, 2/?

TW: The fall of a city, feat historically expected raping and pillaging. Verrrry dubiously consensual bootlicking turning into bootfucking, branding. Choking, non consensual touching of all sorts. The world’s worst timed kink discovery, probably.

After some time, Ilmatar gets brought to his own Great Hall to be branded. He also gets to see some of his own people. They get to see him too.

He doesn’t know, how long he’s left there. Chained by the neck like a dog, sitting by the very seat his father once ruled from. Surrounded by human men that, after the emperor is gone, start to talk to each other. He doesn’t know what they’re saying but he can see their faces. See their expressions, see their gestures, and he knows at least some of it is about him.

His breath catches at the memory, so fresh and painful. His throat is already so sore, from the combined dehydration and abuse. He wants to cry again, but he doesn’t want the soldiers to see anymore than they already have. Besides, he’s pretty sure he’s out of tears.

Judging by the light through the stained glass windows, stained glass windows that are not unlike ones he’s made, the sun has long since set by the time the emperor returns, with another human in tow, beyond just his guards. This one similarly doesn’t wear armor, and there’s something wrong about her presence in the fabric of reality. Like the area around her is both more malleable and firmer. Ilmatar eyes her nervous. He knows he should be paying more attention to the emperor— to the man that had raped him hours ago— but something tells him she’s the bigger threat right now.

She stays a distance away while the emperor steps in close, once again violating Ilmatar’s personal space and putting his hands in his hair before taking the seat again. Ilmatar tries to squirm away, but all he manages to succeed at is choking himself on the collar.

At least he doesn’t have Silmacil anymore, he tells himself, but it’s a hollow reassurance. It’s not like there’s anywhere good his father’s sword could be. It’s a trophy of war now, just like he is. He swallows down the knot in his throat at that thought.

“You’re cute when you’re scared,” the emperor tells him, and Ilmatar feels his skin crawl. The past however many hours have given him plenty of time to turn all of the emperor’s words over in his head, try to make some sense of them. Or at least, to try to make some sense that isn’t terrifying. He whimpers, despite himself. The emperor keeps touching his hair like that, the sort of intimate that Ilmatar wouldn’t even expect from a one off consensual sexual partner. It’s almost more familial— almost paternal. “You like that, don’t you?”

“No—“ Ilmatar tries to say, but it’s muffled to incomprehensibility by the gag.

“You’re going to pay me back for every day I had to wait for this, every soldier I lost taking this city,” the emperor promises in a low tone, and Ilmatar shakes under his touch. If his hands were free, he’d use them to bat the monster away from him.

The woman says something in an impatient tone. The emperor replies in their language, and she sighs.

The emperor reaches one of his hands further down, having to lean over some, and Ilmatar stops breathing entirely but all he does is grab at where the collar attaches to the chair. He undoes that particular tie, and Ilmatar wants to take the moment to try to lash out of the man’s grip, but the other hand’s slipped around his throat. The emperor says something else and one of the soldiers hands him something else from Ilmatar’s chair. Another leather piece, this one longer.

The emperor attaches it to one of the circles at Ilmatar’s throat, and Ilmatar realizes with horror that it’s a leash. He tries to protest, but the gag— the muzzle.

“Don’t worry, my sweet prince,” the emperor tells him. “This won’t be long. Soon, I’ll have you chained up somewhere much more comfortable for the night. Maybe I’ll even let you get some rest, if you behave yourself.”

Ilmatar eyed him suspiciously, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. When the emperor gets to his feet, he tugs on the leash, hard, and Ilmatar has no choice but to get to his feet or risk choking more. He suspects that whatever is left of his life is going to involve a significant amount of threats to his airflow.

Anything to let my parents rest properly, he tells himself. It’s a bargain he would’ve made even if it weren’t for what the emperor had did in displaying Narmion’s body.

The emperor asks the woman something and she nods. The emperor gives the soldiers in this room one more command, before turning to follow her. Some of the soldiers, on top of the four men that Ilmatar can only assume make up the emperor’s personal guard, come with them, their swords pointed at Ilmatar to make their purpose exceptionally obvious. Ilmatar doesn’t risk provoking them— he moves with the emperor to try to keep the leash from choking him again.

He almost wishes the emperor had popblindfolded him too, once he steps into the hallway. At least the elven bodies that were here before have been moved— hopefully for the burials the emperor had promised him, in exchange for what was almost certainly just the first rape. He can still see the bloodstains from where they were.

Most of the human dead are still there, which makes Ilmatar wonder what Auknian funerary practices are like. And the smell is still there too, worse than even before, but it’s not like Ilmatar’s been spared that completely, forced to sit where his father’s body laid. Ilmatar’s briefly glad that he doesn’t have anything left in his stomach to throw up, seeing the flies starting to cluster around spilled intestines. He’d choke to death in this muzzle.

The emperor doesn’t seem to pay much heed to the corpses. Used to it, maybe. Neither does the woman. Ilmatar knows he’s older than the both of them combined, but he hasn’t exactly gone to war before this. Impressively forged blades and armor aside, all of his people’s trainings had been theoretical. This rebellion was the first time any of the Rethyar had seen war, something that’s clearly not true of the Aukniaks.

The woman leads the group, and Ilmatar’s got no idea where she could possibly be going. This is the opposite direction from the dungeons, if they want to stash him somewhere out of the way.

They round a corner, and they pass an alive, albeit severely beaten, elf being marched in the opposite direction. The elf— Ilmatar recognizes her as Lírwen, daughter of Vilyissë, once he has a second to account for the bruises — stares at Ilmatar, and Ilmatar realizes, with the intensity of having been punched, that he probably still has the emperor’s cum on his face.

And she’s not collared, or muzzled. Though that doesn’t mean she’s been spared the same sort of humiliation. Her armor is gone, and her shirt is torn open, with bruises littering her breasts and neck. She pulls in on herself at seeing Ilmatar, though whether it’s in disgust at his disgrace or shame for her own, he can’t even begin to guess. She lets herself be marched.

Ilmatar is dazed enough that the emperor needs to give the leash a tug.

“There’ll be time for reunions later,” the emperor says, and it’s not particularly reassuring. Ilmatar nods, then stumbles to follow. He keeps his eyes on the ground. “So obedient already.”

I just don’t want to be choked again, he thinks, not bothering to try to make himself heard through the muzzle. Hearing his muffled noises is a humiliating reminder.

They cross the hallway and Ilmatar realizes the door facing them is to the Great Hall. The emperor pauses for a moment by the entrance, watching Ilmatar’s expression. Ilmatar tries to keep it blank, but he’s sure he can’t hide the confusion. The emperor chuckles at that, then gestures and one of his guards opens the door for him. The emperor leads Ilmatar in further, leads him into a room his father built.

The room is as beautiful as ever, the same carefully and lovingly cut tiles making up a geometric pattern on the floor. The same tables made of only the finest wood, with delicately carved inlay on the ends, only there are human soldiers and not elven civilians sitting on the similarly elaborate benches.

Some of the furniture is damaged from the impact of weapons against them, one of the stained glass windows is shattered, and there’s plenty of bloodstains to prove there was fighting here, but it’s not completely devastated. The biggest change seems to be that some of the tables are rearranged, to some sort of semicircle around the big fireplace, though plenty have been left in their original positions.

The humans are spread out in clusters, mostly on the benches but several are standing. Their armor and weapons are nicer than most of what Ilmatar’s seen from the soldiers so far. Class difference? Ilmatar knows that’s supposed to be a big thing among humans, though it’s hard for him to wrap his head around.

Group divisions in Minyas usually come— came— from different occupations, with those that made military and diplomatic decisions being comparable to royalty but without any particularly unique degree of prestige. There’s a reason that the people were able to overrule Ilmatar’s father, on the subject of rebellion.

If they’re wealthier, they don’t seem to be any degree of classier. They’re loud, probably crude if Ilmatar could understand their words. Ilmatar at first thinks they’re the only occupants of the Hall, a sacred place of community merely stolen and not completely desecrated by the abuse of its proper occupants. But he looks again, and— he still manages to muster up the energy for fresh horror, the same horror at seeing Límwen’s exposed chest. The horror she must’ve felt at seeing his face.

The first elf he spots is a nís he recognizes as Isilien’s daughter, though he doesn’t recall her name. Her pants are pulled down around her waist, and her shirt all the way off. From the bruises in similar spots to Límwen and additional ones up and down her thighs, as well as the patches of blood and other fluids, he can guess what the men have been doing to her.

Her hands are free, but she’s not trying to do anything with them. She’s slumped on the ground now, in front of a human man that’s laughing at something one of his comrades said. Her eyes are wide but hollow and her hair is mussed, torn out in patches. At first Ilmatar thinks she’s dead, the look in those wide eyes not unlike the one on his father’s face, but she turns her head slightly at seeing Ilmatar.

Their gazes meet. When she recognizes him, her eyes light up in something like hope, if only for a moment, before she processes the muzzle over his mouth and the collar around his throat. She opens her mouth but no sound comes out.

Once he sees her, he looks around. And he sees they’re everywhere. It’s almost all níssi, though there are a few neri. Some of them have been abandoned, half dead, but there are still plenty being actively — used. Barely responsive, their bodies more like dolls. A few of the neri are on top of the níssi, though none of them look particularly happy about it.

Ilmatar realizes— this is his fault. He’d thought too small before, considering only the abuse of the dead. He’d failed to consider what these monsters would do to the living. He opens his mouth, tries to speak, tries to say, “emperor,” but it comes out incoherent.

The emperor looks at him and raises an eyebrow. Ilmatar dips his head forward, trying to indicate that he has something to say. The woman gives him an impatient look, but he gives her an order in their language and she leaves, crossing to the spot in the middle of the semicircle of benches. The emperor closes in on Ilmatar, and Ilmatar lets the monster touch him, despite knowing his people are watching. His empty stomach churns in disgust.

“Be respectful,” the emperor warns as he loosens the gag enough for Ilmatar to speak. He gives Ilmatar some slack on the leash. “And if you have something to ask of me. You know how to.”

Ilmatar nods, and he drops to his knees. It’s only temporary, he tells himself, though he doesn’t believe that.

At the very least, most of the men stop what they’re doing and adjust their positions to watch. They climb off of níssi, allow the neri to roll off. If nothing else, he can grant these elves a break. But of course, they take their moment of reprieve to watch the scene too. Some have the strength to adjust their positions, to something more comfortable, but mostly they just shift their heads.

He thinks he understands now. What the emperor meant about his mother.

“Master, tell them to stop— to leave my people be. Please. All of them, please.”

He wonders how much this will cost him. Another blowjob? It was horrible, violent and violating, and doing that here, in front of his people, would be worse, but he can endure it. He can endure anything, for his people. Besides, it’s not like that can’t tell what’s happened from the sake of his face.

“You ask for so much, my prince,” the emperor says, and Ilmatar can see the other elves, the ones who are conscious enough to make out the scene, react with surprise at hearing a human speak their language. He leans down to caress Ilmatar’s chin. Just until I can guarantee everyone else’s safety. “I can’t just deny my men their reward like that, they’ll overthrow me. What would you have me do, let every man in my army have a turn with just you instead?”

Ilmatar looks through the emperor��s legs. Makes eye contact with Isilien’s daughter again. She’s more alert than she looks, because she shakes her head, no. She mouths the word too, in case he couldn’t make out the signal.

“Yes, master,” Ilmatar answers, after swallowing down his fear. It’s what his father would do. Besides. Could it really be worse than what he’s already done? “Please, master. Let them take me instead.”

“Unfortunately,” the emperor tells him after a thoughtful pause. “I’ve already decided that you’ll be mine. And I don’t share, especially not with my soldiers.”

Ilmatar thought he was out of tears. But his eyes are going blurry again.

“Please…” he whimpers. It’s not even about doing the right thing. He knows the emperor brought him here for a reason, probably at least partially to show him this display.

“However,” the emperor says, pulling the leash a little bit to force Ilmatar to look up and at him. “There’s one more thing I wouldn’t mind from you, before you’re branded. And she’ll need some time to set up, anyway.”

Ilmatar tries to pretend like he doesn’t know what branding means, like he wasn’t there for the conversations surrounding Narissë.

Is that why? he wonders briefly. The taxes, the demands from their distant overlords, had seemed to ramp up suddenly, and not right after this latest emperor ascended or in response to any particular event like normal. Did he find out about her?

“What…?” he starts. The emperor narrows his eyes at Ilmatar, and Ilmatar realizes his mistake. “What, master?”

“I’ll tell my men to start to wind things down… if you lick my boots.”

“What?” Ilmatar repeats the question, but this time, it’s as an exclamation of shock. He jerks his head backwards. “You — you can’t be serious.”

Raping him— that’s one thing. Ilmatar knew it was on the table, as a consequence for if they lost, even if that had seemed like such a distant impossible thing before. His father had been very clear about that. But this? He’d seen those boots on his father’s corpse. They’re covered in blood.

At least with the rape, Ilmatar knew what the emperor was getting out of it. But this— what’s the point of it? Just pure humiliation?

The emperor tugs the leash up, sharply, and Ilmatar chokes. He pulls his hands up, even bound as they are, and tries to pull at the leather, loosening it, but there’s nothing he can do. The emperor just looks at him with the same steady smile, letting Ilmatar hang there for long enough that Ilmatar’s starting to see black again. Then he lets go.

“Respect,” the emperor emphasizes. “I can take back what I’ve given you already at any moment.”

Ilmatar scowls, but he sees the looks on his people’s faces. Conflicted. None of them want to ask him to do this, they don’t want to see their prince— their king now, if both of his parents are dead— forced to endure this. But— neither do they want the reprieve to end.

“Now,” the emperor orders, giving Ilmatar enough slack to go down further. Ilmatar looks back between the faces of the elves, and he sees Isilien herself. One of the níssi that a nér was being forced to penetrated. One of his father’s old friends, although not one who had ever wanted a seat among his councilors. She could’ve had it, if she’d asked. He feels sick, wondering if they’d been forced to watch each other’s humiliation. Her eyes are begging him, to just bear this.

So he does, the muzzle hanging loose around his neck. He sticks his tongue out, tentatively putting it to the weather. His face flushes, tasting the iron of his father’s blood and the rough feeling of the leather against his tongue. The emperor pushes the shoe forward, and Ilmatar instinctively opens wider, his tongue lapping against every available surface. The heat in his face spreads, the texture so good and the taste of the well tanned leather breaking through the blood and he—

In a moment of panic, he jerks his head back, shuts his mouth. No. No, no—

“Did I give you permission to stop?” the emperor asks, sounding almost bored at the same time his pleasure is still clear. Then he looks down, sees the flush on Ilmatar’s face, and then looks even further down and sees what Ilmatar felt. “Oh, I see. You like that, don’t you, little innocent prince?”

Ilmatar shakes his head, desperate, like his body isn’t betraying him. How? At a time like this? His city is burning around him.

He realizes he’s hyperventilating, especially as the emperor scratches his head. Ilmatar looks up, tears that shouldn’t be possible blurring his vision but not enough to keep him from seeing the emperor’s hard too.

“No…” he whimpers, almost moans. The emperor says something in Ausniak to his men, probably pointing out Ilmatar’s arousal. The crowd laughs.

“You can lie with your words, but your body speaks louder,” the emperor tells him. “But I suppose I should let you get something to drink. Make sure you have a productive first time, if you’re really enjoying yourself. You look far too pretty down there for me not to make thorough of that tongue.”

The emperor makes a gesture, and one of his guards brings the emperor a goblet full of watered down wine. Ilmatar looks up at him, then at his bound hands. He hopes, fruitlessly, that the man plans on freeing him.

“Open up,” the emperor tells him, holding the goblet to Ilmatar’s lips. He recognizes the silver cup, recognizes the jewels and the design around them. Because they’ve stolen everything here. He does, horribly and selfishly grateful for every drop, but it makes him so much more aware of his thirst.

“More, please, master?” he begs, and he realizes shamefully that’s not a beg on behalf of his people. It’s for his own selfish gratification. The emperor ruffles his hair and passes the goblet back to the same guard.

“If you’re good for me here, I’ll let you drink all you’d like,” the emperor tells him. and he’s so grateful he almost manages to ignore the flush has returned, settling solidly throughout him. The emperor adjusts Ilmatar’s head and leans over, whispering into his ear, and Ilmatar’s painfully aware of how quickly his cock hardens at the whisper. “It’ll be easier, if you don’t fight your instincts. If you’re really good, maybe I’ll let you touch yourself later.”

Ilmatar feels his soul leave his body at the moan that escapes him, but he nods.

“Good boy,” the emperor tells him, standing back up, and Ilmatar forces himself back down onto the boot to distract himself. He tries to imagine the boot is a clit as he drags his tongue across the firm surface, but some horrible, disgusting part of him can’t help thinking — this is better.

He does want to touch himself now, and the monster mentioning it makes the mental image impossible to escape. He wants to so badly, his firm dick is starting to ache. Even the eyes of his people, which he knows must be going from pitying to judgmental so quickly, can’t keep his skin aching from the want of it.

He tries to get some measure of spit into his dry mouth, and he barely manages it. Pathetic, but the worst part is, Ilmatar knows it’s only because of the dehydration. The worst part is, he wants to do better.

“You probably won’t be able to get the king’s blood out,” the emperor says, with some degree of disappointment, but it’s gone in an instant. “Especially not as dry as you are. Don’t worry too much about actually getting them clean, this right here is more about proving a point. I’ll have to teach you how to do this right later.”

Ilmatar wants to scream at the monster, telling him to shut up about later, but instead he just lets the man move him to the other boot. His father’s blood. He wonders if this is the first the other elves are hearing about that, then tries to banish the thought. Focusing on the task. It’s not as bad as sucking the monster’s dick had been, by a long shot. He can breathe easily, and he’s able to establish a steady rhythm.

A collar. A muzzle. Now, licking the monster’s boots.

Ilmatar glances nervously at the underside of the boots, aware that’s where the most viscera will be, but the emperor just chuckles.

“That’s good enough for now. But oh, if I ever had even the slightest bit of doubt about this…”

Ilmatar looks at his work, sees he’s barely made a dent in the grime, and he feels— shame. He knows he hasn’t done a good job, knows he can’t possibly under the circumstances. This is a skill, one he never even considered before. Of course he takes good care of his own leather, he respects the craft of the níssi that made it for him, but not like this— with soap.

But— he imagines Curuwende, the nís he’d almost married all those years ago, wearing the boots she’d made. The nís he wishes he had. Imagines himself at her feet, just like this.

To his complete and utter debasement, he adjusts his position to try to push the monster’s boot between his legs. He needs something against his cock, some sort of stimulation, and his hands are tied. He hasn’t had any time to pursue níssi within the past several years, the rebellion taking up everything he had, and somehow it’s this, rather than the cock in his throat, that’s awoken something he’d tried to burry while he’s been so busy.

For longer than that, really.

He thinks of Curuwende, imagines it’s her work pressing between his thighs, and he moans.

“Oh, my little prince…” the emperor practically purrs as he finally gets with the program. Ilmatar distantly hates himself, so, so much more than he hates the emperor right now, but that distant self is drowned at by the want as thick and painful in Ilmatar’s gut as his hunger and thirst. There’s a pressure building in Ilmatar, spreading further and louder with every second the emperor presses that beautiful boot into Ilmatar’s erect and oh so sensitive cock.

If he pleases the monster, especially by being proactive in his own debasement, maybe he can purchase further mercy for his people. Later, he’ll tell himself that’s why he’s doing this, trying to ignore the sick pleasure that rises up in him. The heat.

He’d sacrifice anything for them.

Then, the emperor has the boot on top of Ilmatar, and he starts to press down and — the world disappears. He breaks.

When he comes back to himself, his mouth hanging open and his penis mercifully soft again, he realizes with absolute horror what he just did. He looks around, tries to find those familiar faces in the crowd, and he’s not surprised to see the horror and disgust on their faces. He feels it too, hates himself with a passion as hot as any fire burning in the city.

What’s wrong with him? He just raped himself on this monster’s boot, a boot that only hours ago was buried in his father’s corpse. He wants to die.

But the emperor is giving new orders and the men around him seem disappointed, so Ilmatar can only hope his ploy was successful. Some of them even get up and leave.

(He tells himself it was a ploy, that any part of this was anything other than pure instinct on his part. That he didn’t want that. That he could never want that.)

The monster pulls the muzzle back on, and with horror, Ilmatar realizes he’s starting to pay attention to the texture of the leather against his mouth. Starts to wonder about the cursed thing’s construction.

“Now, as lovely as that display was, I did bring you here for a reason. Stand.”

Ilmatar follows the order automatically, too dazed to even consider anything else. He wonders if his eyes look dead too. He lets the emperor lead him over to the fireplace at the heart of the semicircle, where the woman is waiting with an exasperated look in her eye.

When the emperor removes the leash and has a guard cut Ilmatar’s hands free, he warns Ilmatar that if he tries anything, his people will face the consequences, but Ilmatar is so far gone, so far hating himself, that he barely processes the words. The emperor orders him to raise his hands to the sky, and he does, letting a guard tug off his shirt. He half expects the guard to go for his pants too, for the emperor to rape his ass then and there, but that’s all.

The emperor orders Ilmatar to lie down, on his stomach, and he does, completely dead inside. It’s only when four soldiers step in to hold him down that he comes back to himself enough to process what they’re doing, or to think back to the woman— the only woman he’s seen this entire day. The emperor’s endless references to branding him, making it so he couldn’t even try to resist.

The fireplace.

He tilts his head to the side to face it, and he sees the woman holding a rod of metal that he knows wasn’t by the fire before. Long, with a design on the end. Runes— that strange human magic. Where elves naturally pull out what potential already exists in the world, allowing things to be the best versions of themselves, humans distort it, bending it into the wrong shapes. Chaining it.

That’s what she’s doing here, that’s why she seemed so wrong. She practices that abomination. Worse than that, she’d dare practice that abomination here. In Minyas, the jewel of elvenkind. The first city.

His begs are muted. He’s stronger than any of the individual men holding him down, might even be able to jerk his way to freedom, but not like this— not half beaten to death by the guards, dehydrated and hungry, hating himself for having walked into this like a mindless rabbit jumping into a snare. Hating himself for whatever that shameful display was.

“And here you seemed so eager to be my pet before,” the emperor says. The men adjust their position to allow the emperor to put one of those boots, still wet with Ilmatar’s pathetic spit, on Ilmatar’s now completely bare back and digs the heel in, hard. He must have found a spot that’s particularly bruised, because Ilmatar screams.

(Or maybe he screams because the thought of that boot, the firm leather, against his bare back is already threatening to make him hard again.)

“Stay still for this, or I’ll take back all my orders protecting your people.”

Ilmatar pales, and he forces himself to still, forces his body to go limp. He can’t keep himself from tensing, every muscle in his body taught. He puts all his fear, all his dread into clenching his fists. His stupid, idiot, confused body has him hard for this— what’s wrong with him?

He can feel the heat of the iron descending even though he can’t see it. Feels the heat both from the fire and the wrongness— in the way the shape of the rune bends reality around it. Or threatens to— he doesn’t know the details of how this works, he just knows how it feels, and it feels—

—it feels—

He screams again through his bruised and battered throat, not caring how much worse it makes the ache. No, he doesn’t just scream. He howls, like the dog that the emperor is trying to make of him. He knows he should be trying to put on a brave face, for his people, but he doesn’t know how—

His father would know how.

His father is dead.

It’s a cut, deep into his flesh, but one that’s cauterized in an instant. It’s just a burn. It’s a violation, as bad as the emperor’s dick choking him. As much of a rape, except this time, of his spirit and not his mouth. Of his soul— his back aches from the burn, but it goes so much

He hears the words the woman speaks. He knows they’re in her language, not his, but somehow, they make sense to him. He thinks they’d make sense to him even if he was somehow raised without language. The command, a statement of fact so obscene that it makes him want to wretch, burns throughout his entire body, choking him more strongly than the collar around his throat, every sort of pain Ilmatar’s ever known at once and also something entirely new.

You are the personal property of the Ausniak Emperor.

Ilmatar notes from a distant haze that she didn’t specify this emperor, not merely the man who has those damn boots on top of him, but the office itself. Whoever fills that role. How long did the original Ausniak Empire last, he thinks? How long will this command bind him?

He’s sobbing into the muzzle, any attempt to be docile forgotten as the pain overrides his senses. He’s almost grateful for how the leather— don’t think about that— keeps his sounds from carrying. Keeps his people from knowing the full extent of the agony.

At some point, the men must’ve let up, because once he comes back to himself, no longer insensate from pain, he’s curled in on himself.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” The emperor says, his tone too reassuring. He’s got his hands in Ilmatar’s hair, and he’s — undoing the braid? Ilmatar whimpers, reaching his finally free hands up to try to bat the emperor away. “Nope, not of that. My property doesn’t get a say in what happens to it.”

The pain, which had only just been dying down, returns with a vengeance. Ilmatar tastes blood in his mouth, and he wonders when he bit down so hard. Or maybe that’s just his father’s blood, lapped up from those boots.

It dies down faster this time as Ilmatar’s hands drop, resistance gone. Just like Narissë, he realizes. He’d swallow, if there was anything for him to swallow in his throat.

“I’ll have to explain the full extent of what that means later, I suppose. Too much to do, and I should give my binding-mages space to do their work. Such a lovely thing, made so much lovelier to know just how long it will last.”

Ilmatar stares up at the emperor. His hair hangs free around his head, much like his father’s had hung around his corpse. The Ausniak men keep their hair short, at the longest just barely past their ears. He wonders what it means to this monster, that he’d take out Ilmatar’s hair ties. It feels intimate, so much more like being stripped than his shirt being taken from him did.

“For now, I’ll be sending you to my camp to wait for me to finish up here. You’ll be a good little pet and not try to escape, won’t you?”

Ilmatar realizes after a second that he’s supposed to reply. He nods, miserable.

“By the end of the week, there won’t be a single free elf left in the city,” the emperor promises, before giving some soldiers orders. The soldiers pull Ilmatar up, these ones at least mercifully quiet. “I’ll see you later, my sweet prince.”

The numb horror, mixed with disgust and self loathing, sets back in, the temporary panic at the prospect of being branded defeated by the fact it’s happened.

It still hurts now, of course. It’s a burn like any other. But at least for now, as long as he obeys his master’s commands, it’s just a burn.

#whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #homecoming (the long way around)#whump oc #Ilmatar #the aukniak emperor #elf whump #royalty whump #pet whump #side story: the fall of minyas #branding #leather #Ilmatar doesn’t have a choking kink. Yet.

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