#and my brain is just fighting itself over this

[hrrtshape]

foods i ate in my better cr that now haunt my waking hours.

i have returned from the other side. the gilded penthouse doors have shut, the streets of new york have blurred into the mirage of memory, and yet......i am afflicted. by longing. by hunger. by the ghosts of meals past. my taste buds have been irreversibly colonised by another reality’s superior gastronomy, and now, in this lesser plane, i am left to rot, salivating over what i once had. let’s discuss.

　　　　　　　　　　　  ⊹　 ︶︶　 ୨୧　 ︶︶　 ⊹

　[ i , ] that one bagel that was a religious experience :  i’m talking about the perfect bagel. a bagel so transcendent, it made me believe in fate. it had the perfect chew, the kind that fights back just a little before yielding to divine softness. a smear of scallion cream cheese, the exact right saltiness, balancing that toasty, malty warmth of the bread. try finding that exact bite in this reality....impossible. i am forever chasing the ghost of that bagel.

　[ ii , ] the $24 salad that ruined all other salads for me :  new york, in any reality, is an absolute menace for making you pay obscene amounts of money for food that, logically, should be cheap. and yet, this overpriced, greens-based epiphany had no right being so good. it had the perfect ratio of crunch to creaminess, crisp little gem lettuce, buttery avocado (in this reality i for some reason...liked avocados??? came as a surprise!), these impossibly thin radish slices that made me feel like i was eating couture. the dressing..... i don’t even know what was in it. it tasted like wealth, people. it tasted like i had stocks in something lucrative. now every salad i eat in this reality may as well taste like sorrow.

　[ iii , ] the pasta that might have been a love letter :  there was this tiny restaurant, candle-lit, the kind of place that only seats like 10 people at a time, where i ate the most immaculate cacio e pepe of my life. it was poetry in pasta form. each strand coated in a glossy, peppery, pecorino-laced sauce that clung to it with the devotion of a lover. the pasta itself was handmade. you could taste the craftsmanship. it made me want to sit down with the chef and ask what great tragedy in their life had led them to perfect this dish with such aching precision. because surely, no one cooks like that unless they’ve known longing.

　[ iv , ] the coffee that altered my brain chemistry :  i had a latte so good, i saw colours. it wasn’t just coffee. it was a sensory event. the milk was frothed to the exact texture of a daydream, the espresso was rich but not bitter, caramel-like but not sweet. it was served in a heavy, warm ceramic cup, the kind that makes you want to wrap both hands around it and tell someone your deepest secrets. it made me feel like a person who writes letters on expensive stationery. it made me feel like my skin was clear, like i had purpose. now....i drink coffee and feel nothing.

　[ v , ] the slice of pizza that was more than pizza :  new york pizza is a spiritual entity. the slice i had wasn’t just food. it was a promise. the crust had that perfect crisp-but-chewy balance, the cheese melted in strands of longing, the sauce tangy and bright in a way that could cure seasonal depression. i folded it, i took a bite, and for a moment, i understood the meaning of life. even with lily moaning next to me about how good it was. in this reality, i put frozen pizza in the oven and am met only with disappointment.

 　　　　　　　　　 ‧　　 ₊　　˚　　 ⋅

i could go on..... i should go on. but the pain is too great. these meals have marked me forever, and now i am left to mourn them, to wander this reality’s restaurants like a forlorn ghost searching for something i will never find. if anyone needs me, i’ll be in the kitchen, staring at a sad, lesser bagel, wondering what could have been.

　until my next shift. 　　emma........

[feaches]

Lucanis and Spite Thought Thread

I just need to get this out of my brain...

You know how Lucanis was fed something in the Ossuary that caused the possession?

Bellara: You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, Lucanis, but... how did the Venatori stick you with Spite? Lucanis: They fed me something. Like he was a parasite in uncooked meat. Bellara: You know, I've spent lots of time around demons, but I've never heard of them being used that way. Lucanis: Zara said she got the idea from some cult in Orlais. They used it on Seekers. Who are immune to demons.

That act—forcing a physical transformation rather than a spiritual one—makes his condition distinct from traditional demonic possession in Dragon Age.

And yet, it reminds me a lot of two other characters: Allen Walker from D.Gray-man and Eddie Brock from Venom.

I'd like to draw a few comparisons.

Though they come from very different universes, Lucanis, Allen, and Eddie have some overlap.

Their power isn’t something they sought out or willingly accepted; it was forced upon them, leaving them in a constant battle for control over their own body and identity.

1. Power That Wasn’t Chosen

None of these three characters chose their power—it was thrust upon them, binding them to something alive and invasive:

Allen Walker was chosen by the Innocence, which fused with his body and transformed his left arm into a weapon of divine power.

Lucanis Dellamorte was force-fed a piece of demon flesh in the Ossuary, permanently binding the demon Spite to him.

Eddie Brock was infected by the Venom symbiote, an alien parasite that latched onto him after being rejected by Spider-Man.

Each of them was altered against their will, their lives forever changed by an entity they never agreed to host.

2. A Power That Thinks for Itself

Their abilities are not just tools—they are alive, capable of acting independently and often against their host’s wishes:

Allen’s Crown Clown can activate on its own to defend him, even when he is unconscious.

Lucanis’s Spite is opportunistic, constantly pushing him toward violence and, at times, taking control outright.

Eddie’s Venom symbiote is fully conscious, talking directly to Eddie, influencing his behavior, and demanding sustenance (usually in the form of human brains).

Unlike a normal power or skill, these entities don’t simply enhance their hosts—they argue with them, influence them, and fight for control.

3. Losing Oneself

At the heart of their struggles is the fear of becoming something else entirely—of losing the battle for control and ceasing to be themselves:

Allen fears becoming a Noah, one of the very beings he fights against, as his connection to the 14th Noah threatens to rewrite his identity.

Lucanis dreads full demonic transformation, knowing that the more he relies on Spite, the thinner the line between them becomes.

Eddie struggles with his humanity, questioning if he’s still himself or if he and Venom have become something entirely new.

Each of them walks a dangerous tightrope, trying to coexist with their 'parasite' without allowing it to define them.

[fruityenderman]

I seem to have caused myself a good bit of executive dysfunction oops

[rawliverandgoronspice]

not to. Return There. but. I am compelled to burn my wings against the bright light until the end of times, so.

I think that if Totk Ganondorf was ever meant to be a criticism of imperialism, it's a pretty incomplete one without Rauru taken into account.

While Ganon is very representative of the "conquest" aspect as a Strongman Fascist who reveres strength and the violent part of the initial domination, he has no concrete plans of enforcement and structure down the line, no way to preserve his flimsy grip on power (the game makes a point to tell us he doesn't care for survivors and he doesn't ever seem eager to preserve any kind of infrastructure). Rauru --who somehow couldn't "come to the aid" of Hyrule without crowning himself king about it-- isn't about the conquest or the violence, but Hyrule is nothing if not an extremely well oiled system with a centralized religion, coin, language, history, legends and social class self-replicating since the literal beginning of times.

The *very long sigh* imperialism thing isn't about making one of these two egotistical weirdos more righteous than the other: it's about acknowledging the parallels, even if the game itself throws hissy fits at the mere suggestion Ganondorf and Rauru are two characters who are begging to be compared (and even make vague strides that they should be during cutscenes, though they are not super specific and immediatey dissolve into a little puddle of nothing, I'll give you that willingly), because if Ganondorf represents stage 1: the conquest... then Rauru should represent stage 2: the consolidation.

And the fact that the game is desperate to refute that these two kingly idiots adhere to the same fundamental system of governance (and the one who's deeply into the concept of centralization and automation and leveling of culture and repression of literal identity through the liberal use of masks not being the chaotic dramaqueen on his edgy unicorn giggling to himself about awkward murder scenes) feels like pretty offputting denial --because, truly, what is so scary about noticing the similarities? Wouldn't it be enriching and worth the conversation?

What are we so afraid of?

[starlight---starbrights]

Undertale yellow flowey embroidery

This took about 40 hours, give or take a few

[cuteniaarts]

Behold, my latest and most enamouring new obsession:

Malina, Lady of the Chief of the Northern Water Tribe. As if Red Lotus child OCs weren’t niche enough

[jorvikzelda]

reading is… frustrating. I first read this thing when I was in an all too foggy state, I’ll think, so I didn’t really absorb it all too well — I’d best read it again and really make sure to take it all in. And so I do, and I really do take it all in! Except then I’ll be all too foggy to read for a few days, and when I get back to it and continue on to the next chapter I’ll just have. Completely forgotten what happened in the last. Makes you feel rather defenceless to the fog

[certifiedyapperx]

imagine you’re dating ghost and no one knows. the two of you have kept it a secret on your end and his just for your protection— because ghost knows what could happen if someone finds out, how someone might try and target you to get to him, or worse, given his line of work.

but then imagine that he’s on a mission, interrogating some piece of filth ready to decorate the fucking wall with his brain matter when the guy says “you know what, simon, killing me would be the biggest mistake of your life.”

immediately ghost would pause, eyes narrowed, though his hardened demeanour wouldn’t fade much, he’d just blankly stare at the prick like “oh yea? n’ why don’ you tell m’ why.”

the shit-eating grin that would crawl across that fuckers lips would have ghost ready to kill him right then and there, but then he’d say “reach in my pocket. pull out my phone.”

id like to think ghost would have absolutely none of this assholes bullshit, not at all entertained by his theatrics. i’d like to think he’d just press the muzzle of his gun to the fuckers temple within an instant, all teeth barred and ready to get it over with when the guy would add,

“your girlfriend is a fucking beauty, isn’t she?”

everything would pause. ghost, time, the world, air, the universe itself—the life that would drain from ghosts face would almost be enough to make his alias a reality. his heart pounding in his throat, his fingers fucking trembling as he immediately reached into the assholes pocket to find his phone—a picture of a woman tied up (face not in view however) lighting up on the home screen. there’d be no thinking rationally, no thoughts in ghosts head except for making sure you were fucking okay. he’d do whatever he’d have to do, kill the guy, leave him strapped there, whatever—he’d be out of that room in two seconds flat and personally flying the helicopter back to your house calling you nonstop every fucking second until you answered.

“hello? si?”

he’d wait a second before answering. taking everything in. background noises, the inflection of your voice. it sounds calm, maybe too calm? he’s grasping his phone so fucking hard it’s a miracle it hasn’t shattered between his fingers.

“princess,” he breathes, fighting with everything in him to keep his voice steady. “see any birds today?”

though it was a genuine question, it also was an established one. ghost had set up a series of questions for a situation precisely like this. if you said blue jay, it meant you were fine, at home, as usual. if you said crows, it meant you weren’t.

“oh just the usual blue jays, si.” he could almost hear the smile on your lips. “everything okay? i miss you.”

ghost would exhale a shattered breath. “i’m coming home.”

and then he’d show up, not all but a few hours later, hands still trembling slightly, heart rate still struggling to regulate. it was too much, reminding him too much of his past traumas, he knew he needed to find better protection for you, but that was a conversation for another time.

he’d come in the house, barely even taking the time to shut the door behind him, almost frenzied again, relentless, unable to relax until he could finally lay eyes on you. and then, the second he did, he’d just pause and look at you, all messy hair and pyjamas still on, in the kitchen cooking breakfast for you both since you knew he was on his way.

and he wouldn’t say a goddamn word, he’d just come up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist, hugging you so tight you’d hardly be able to breathe, his face buried in your hair and his heart thumping at your back. you’d feel the pain the fear the anxiety radiating off him and you wouldn’t try to say anything because you knew he needed this, you knew he needed to see you, hold you, feel your pulse stable and alive. you knew he just needed a moment to breathe.

and so the two of you would stand there like that for a while, and then he’d take a big inhale and spin you around to face him, pulling up his mask to plant soft kisses on your jaw.

“i love you so fuckin’ much.”

[lovelyghst]

just imagine ghost getting his Jacob's ladder piercing while he's dating you and after it's healed yall have sex for the first time and it's just like sensory overload

i know absolutely nothing about piercings, but this idea is simply too good to pass up. my brain is melting.

hmmm, thinking about ghost who, despite not being able to properly get off himself, is still so attentive to his sweet girl throughout the whole healing process; offering you his mouth and fingers whenever he notices your focus beginning to drift off and shift elsewhere, having you rub yourself up on his jean-clad thigh when you can’t seem to shake the burst of energy.

because while you never outright asked him for anything of the kind, he just knew.

and even if you were the one so insistent on following the piercer’s advice—taking each and every precaution possible in avoiding the risks that simon shrugged off as ‘not gonna happen.’—you still felt bad. though, he couldn’t resist your stern pouting for long, turning weak the moment you cocked your head and promised him a sweet treat when he’s all healed up.

so, of course, ‘whatever you say, doll.’

anything to put your pretty mind at ease. he is a soldier, after all. he can wait, even if it kills him. it got pretty damn close to it, too.

which is what makes the first time back so fucking good. that reunion, and the return of that glimmering look you get in your eyes every other time he presses his pink lips to your collar and gently hikes you up the mattress after a long time away.

and truthfully, he was done in the moment you tapped him on his shoulder and told him to guess what day it was.

“shit, baby—” he grits out with a heavy breath, eyes trained on your own as he watches you reverently lick up the underside of his cock. your fingers tighten around the base when his abs pull taut, tongue gliding over the cool metal.

taking your time in feeling each and every barbell leading to the tip, making him twitch in your hand at the hot and wet drag over his sensitive skin. a heavy breath seeps from his lungs, his jaw clenching as he fights to hold off. jesus, you’re too good to him.

a sweet fucking treat, indeed.

you giggle before taking the head of him between your swollen, spit-stained lips, reveling in the quick hiss he sucks in through his teeth as you whine at the familiar taste of his pre leaking onto your tongue. your other hand slips up his thigh while you squeeze your own together, your freshly done-up nails leaving little, pink crescent shapes in his thick skin.

“fuck— not gonna last ‘f you keep that up,” he warns, a struggle in and of itself, and it’s an utter miracle he doesn’t collapse to the floor when you only hollow your cheeks and suck in response. he hardly manages to stifle an embarrassingly whorish moan at that.

god, you look so pretty down there, on your knees for him. so fucking debauched, and so, so perfect.

the way your thumb toys with the piercings as you have your own fun, and how you preen in his hold like a sweet cat when he slips a hand to the back of your neck. he’s going to miss it when he forces himself to pull you away, frowning at the pout you give him as he’s lifting you off your feet and carrying you over to your bed.

“’m sorry, sweetheart… just too fuckin’ pretty for yer old man anymore— didn’t want it t’go to waste.”

he kisses your temple, mumbling his apologies in your hair. you hardly even register your bare back making contact with your sheets, so wrapped up in his hold, before he’s kissing his way down your neck.

“wanna fill yer pretty cunt,” he murmurs, and it’s nearly incoherent as his lips press against your racing pulse point. “make ‘er cum ‘round my cock… know y’missed it too, sweet girl. a proper fuck…”

he’s talking more to himself than anything, and a small gasp from you follows soon after when his arm is snaked between your bodies and his fingertips make contact with your swollen, little clit. won’t even stretch you out with his fingers; he’s had his fill of that over the course of the last month. let him feel how much you missed his cock.

“poor thing’s soaked f’me, baby.” he groans as he adjusts on his forearm and regains his bearings, dick twitching against your thigh with every noise squeaked out from your throat. “cunt’s gonna take me just right, lovie… so fuckin’ well…”

he rambles a lot when he’s needy, you’ve come to learn.

you whine when his hand leaves you to take his cock in a fist, your nails digging into his chest and shoulder when he presses the head to your messy pussy. just the tip in and you’re already seeing stars, the shared moan between the two of you raw and pornographic.

he’s gritting out his swears before you try to shush his dirty mouth with a kiss, and he accepts it greedily, almost too eagerly.

your body reacts to his, simultaneously craving more and trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation all at once. your brain is fuzzy by the time he’s nearly bottoming out inside you, ears deaf to the unabashed sounds spilling from your lips as the feeling of his fresh piercings dragging against your every sweet spot burns itself into your memory.

and before you can catch your breath, a thumb is being pressed up against your sensitive bud once again, your legs constricting around him involuntarily as you jolt with a cry. heat prickles at your skin, his teeth at your jaw making your spine tingle.

he’s telling you to cum, begging you to make a mess of his cock.

his hand picks up its pace, hips grinding against yours sloppier than ever as he pleads right up against your temple for you to use him, just finish him off, fucking cum for him.

you squeeze around his cock like a vice and pull him straight under with you, arms locked tight around his neck as your pretty cunt utterly wrecks him. making him throb and twitch, fucking himself dumb through his high and wringing him dry of everything he’s kept pent up for you. at least for now, anyway.

his and your panting rings out in the room as he sits back on his knees, his cock still hard as he gently pulls out of you. watching his pearly cum bead from your slit, your chest gradually slowing down within the time he takes to drool over the sight of you.

it’s not long before simon has you laying on your tummy with your head in the soft sheets, a pillow slipped underneath your hips to prop you up. not making you do an ounce of work as he uses your warm, pliant cunt as his sweet cum dump for hours on end.

fucking you gently, lovingly, all while trying his best to keep his weight off your back. he kisses behind your ear, cooing praises and choked grunts that make your tummy flutter with butterflies. you can only giggle into the pillow nestled in your arms as he makes up for all the lost time.

filling you with load after load, the number becoming lost on your fuzzy mind after a certain amount, until your belly is achingly full and his cock is numb from overstimulation. only to coax you onto your back, easing your limp legs apart to watch his cum leak from your pretty hole. pressing a flat palm to your lower tummy, sighing in time with your strangled noises as your sensitive pussy drips more of his spend. leaning forward and licking it all up like some starved mutt; groaning at the taste, arms tightening around your hips as he eats his mess out of his pretty girl.

[astronomalyy]

Thinking about the lifespans of Dungeon Meshi elves... The fact that they're completely unnatural alters my brain chemistry, because you can tell just how haphazardly the demon implemented their wish. They live five times the length of tall-men, so they age at a fifth of their rate. It's simple maths and the implications are terrifying. No wonder their birth rate and population are declining - their early development is so slow that at the age of two, they're still unable to stand.

They don't reach adulthood until their eighties. What does the infant mortality look like? How many elves succumb to illness or injury before they're fully mature? It only takes one accident to lose the child you've been raising for decades - and could you bring yourself to care for another? Add to that the implication elf culture has no idea how to process grief... just look at the way the Canaries treat Rin after the death of her parents. They're callous and insensitive and detached - part of that's racism, but there's also an element of pure cold ignorance. They don't even recognise the emotion on her face.

And that's just scratching the surface... does elven memory accommodate their extended lifespan? Once you reach two hundred or so, do the years start blurring together? Kabru mentions that their temporal awareness is remarkably poor.

Two years feel like a few months. Their lives are longer but not fuller. They're older but not wiser than the short-lived races, and most refuse to understand this. Those that do grasp it are interesting - namely Otta, who's ostracised for pursuing half-foot women.

A 30-year old elf is a young child; a 30-year old half-foot has entered middle age. Otta is in the equivalent of her late twenties. She knows that her elven lifespan makes her no more mature than a half-foot - but she also acknowledges that it creates a rift between herself and her partners, and not just in the eyes of society. 'She dumps them as soon as they pass 30', but probably not for the reasons Lycion assumes. For this to be a pattern, decades must have passed - it's possible Otta doesn't want to watch them die as she herself barely ages. No doubt some of her previous lovers have already passed away. In the end, all living 400 years accomplishes is leaving them out of sync with the rest of humanity.

Marcille's perhaps the best example. As a half-elf, she's got 95% of her life ahead and the thought terrifies her. She's going to lose everyone she loves, over and over and over again, and this cycle has barely even started. She runs at a different pace. This context adds so much to her dynamic with Falin in earlier chapters.

Marcille loves her! She's scared for her! Maybe even of her! She's grown attached to a short-lived girl who she met as a kid when Marcille was a teaching assistant! Biologically and developmentally, they're the same age, but chronologically she's twice as old as Falin! Considering what happened to her mother, is history repeating itself? Her feelings towards Falin are tangled and messy and fascinating. They're also more than a little homoerotic, which makes Marcille's infantilization of her friend all the more interesting. It feels like her way of resolving their power imbalance, of remaining a responsible (former!) authority figure... but it's also a coping mechanism. She's frightened by the ways Falin is maturing and changing - aging - and keeping her mental image of her friend as young as possible is her way of denying the march of time that's destined to sever their bond.

Marcille's dream of lifespan extension would remove the need for this obfuscation, render them equal... only, they already are! This desire is imposed onto Falin, but it's primarily for Marcille's benefit. Watching her fight for a world nobody wants, for reasons both selfish and altruistic... it's as tragic as it is understandable. I love this manga.

[birdkittenn]

who fucking drew this i need to know

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[reginyani]

Wet Dreams | s.reid x fem!reader

summary: Spencer decides to call it a day and head to bed, where he has a vivid wet dream of one of his female coworkers at the BAU.

cw: 18+, mdni, nsfw, dom!reader, sub!spencer, fem!bau!reader, oral sex, blowjob, reader swallows, use of Y/N, wet dreams

wc: 1174

authors note: sorry for the inactivity on my account! decided to pay back for that with some spencer smut;) enjoy! if you did, like and reblog!

It was an ordinary night, or so Spencer thought. The hum of the lights in his apartment, the soft tick of the clock on the wall, and the familiar weight of the blanket wrapped around his lower body. Yet something was still different.

 

When he closed his eyes, the world around him slowly started to drift away into an even deeper atmosphere.

 

It started like any other dream he has had—disjointed, unclear—but soon it shifted, warped. He found himself still lying down, leaning up on his bed. The room was dimly lit, and the air was thick with unfamiliar tension. The walls were dark, shadowed, as though the room itself was alive and shifting with every passing second.

 

Before he could process what was happening, the sound of footsteps echoed through the space. He looked up from his covers and found you standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

 

It was you, his BAU co-worker. Unlike anyone he had ever seen, a vision so striking he forgot how to breathe for a second. Your eyes glowed deeply in the low light, and your presence radiated an intense, magnetic pull. You weren't just beautiful; you were something otherworldly. It was odd; he had never noticed it before. As you stepped closer, Spencer's heart skipped a beat.

 

"What are you... doing here?" He asked, his voice hoarse, as if his body were betraying him. It was unable to comply with his usual levelheadedness.

 

"What do you mean, silly? I've been here," you said, continuing to walk over to the edge of his bed.

 

"I—uh..." He's at a loss for words, raising an eyebrow as he watches your body sway side to side as your footsteps make noise against the wood floor.

 

Once you finally make it to his bed, you crawl onto it, on all fours, making your way up his body. You smirk, looking into his big brown eyes. You snatch the blanket off, throwing it somewhere to find some other time.

 

"I can give you exactly what you need, Spencer," you said, your voice soft and melodic, your words carefully crafted to seduce him. It made his pulse race, a sudden heat rising in his chest that he couldn't explain.

 

"Need?" He gulped, sitting up straighter as your body towered over his, his brain trying to catch up with the situation. "I don't... I don't understand," his sad brown puppy eyes staring into your glowing ones in confusion.

 

You leaned in, your face mere inches from his, your breath warm against his skin. "I'm what you need in this exact moment," you whispered. "A way to... release tension, free you from the weight of your thoughts. You think so much, analyzing everything, but sometimes... you need to have an escape."

 

His chest tightened at the suggestion, his mind racing with undignified thoughts. There was something about your presence that made it impossible for him to think straight. It was as if you knew every part of him, every desire, every worry he buried deep inside himself.

 

"You don't have to think anything," you murmured, your fingers brushing over the waistband of his pajama pants. "Just feel."

 

Spencer's breath hitched as he looked down at your hand. He always prided himself on his control, but here, in this strange dream, that control seemed to slip through his fingers. His mind screamed to not allow this to happen, but his body betrayed him as he let out a whimper in anticipation.

 

You smiled at his inner conflict, his whimper music to your ears. "You don't have to fight it," you continued to whisper to him, seductively. "Do you want this, Spencer?" you finally ask.

 

He looks back up at you before finally nodding his head. "...Yes."

 

You grin, quickly pulling down his pajama pants and boxers all at once. His cock sprung out, already hard. He looks away from the scene, closing his eyes in embarrassment.

 

"Don't be embarrassed, baby. It's just me," you say, reassuring him and his doubts about this. Although there was no turning back now.

 

You look back down to his throbbing member, taking it in your hand and stroking it slowly. He turns his head back over, his mouth opening as a low groan escapes his lips.

 

"Oh... oh." he let out, throwing his head back in pleasure. You looked up to see his messy brown curls fall from his slightly wet forehead, his image more beautiful than ever.

Pathetic. It turned you on.

You finally lean your head down, taking it in your mouth slowly, your lips gliding over him as your hand worked the rest that couldn't fit into your mouth. Your tongue began to swirl and flick against the tip, feeling the smooth surface in your mouth.

 

Spencer couldn't hold back anymore. His hands flung to your head, gripping your hair, and he pushed your head further, allowing his cock to be fully pushed into your mouth. He holds your hair back as you begin to bob your head up and down, gagging as his cock hits the back of your throat.

 

Spencer's legs began to shake slightly, moaning loudly. His shame wasn't apparent anymore, as he allowed himself to guide your head on his length, beginning to thrust his hips unwillingly.

 

"Fuck... Just like that." He continues to thrust, this time in a steady rhythm, sliding in and out of your mouth with a swishing sound. Your lips gripped around his cock, driving him closer to release. "God, Y/N. You're so... talented."

 

You look up at him, your eyes locking with his, filled with lust and desire. All his problems seemed to fade away, nothing on his mind but the feeling of your lips clenching against his cock. You moan slightly, sending vibrations up his length, making him stutter out a whimper.

 

"I'm... I'm close..." he warned, his voice low but filled with pleasure as you worked your mouth on him.

 

Suddenly, a loud whine escaped his mouth, his legs heavily shaking uncontrollably. He clutched the sheets, his knuckles turning white as a warm liquid began to fill your mouth.

 

You swallowed.

 

You slide your mouth off his cock with a loud pop, sitting upward as you gaze at his face.

 

"You did so well, baby." You cooed, praising him as you brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear. He sighed softly, his arms shaking as he struggled to keep his body up. "I'm glad I could help you escape, even if it wasn't real."

 

That was the last thing you said before his eyes opened, breathing heavily as he sat up in his bed. The remnants of the dream lingered in the edges of Spencer's mind. It had been so vivid, so real—the kind of dream where every detail felt significant. Spencer rubbed his temples, pulling fragments of the haze, but the more he thought about it, the further it seemed to fade away.

 

How was he gonna act when he saw you at work? He flipped his sheets off his hot body, then looked down at his pajama pants.

 

Fuck.

 

Is all he thought as he looked down at the wet splotch on his crotch.

 

 

tags:

[lilreidgirl]

For the very first time

Summary: You and your college boyfriend, Spencer Reid, have both of your first times together

Warnings: MDNI(18+), fem!reader, smut, protected sex, fingering, virgin!Spencer, virgin!reader, first time (both), swearing, I think that`s about it but if there`s more; let me know!!, English is not my first language

WC: ~3.3k

A/N: This is my first fully smut fanfic and my first one quite this long, so... keep that in mind and enjoy? (NOT PROOF READ, SORRY!!)

“Can we pleeeeeeeease take a break?” You plead, making your eyes endure the best puppy eyes you could conjure up even though Spencer isn’t even looking at your face, his eyes firmly planted on the book on his lap.

“C’mon, 5 more minutes, princess?" He said, his head finally turning to look at you. His slender hand, that wasn’t holding up his Chemistry book, rubbed your shin that was thrown over his thighs.

You sounded a long “mm…,” feigning a deep-in-thought expression before perking up and exclaiming in a joyful voice, “Nope!”

Spencer`s face made an unimpressed look but you could clearly see him fighting his smile muscles.

You pushed the book off his legs, making sure not to close it as to make him lose the page he was on. With the help of his hands on each side of your thighs, you climbed onto where the book once had been lying and straddled his lap.

His hands travelled up from the skin of your legs to your waist, along your chest, all the way up to your neck to finally settle on the sides of your face. His large palms rested on your cheeks while his fingers splayed out on your hair, threading through a few of the strands.

A small smirk played on his face as he pulled you towards him, connecting your lips. He moved his mouth gently against yours, but as impatient and honestly, downright needy you were, you quickly force the kiss into a heated state. A little gasp escapes his parted lips as you intensify the moment, though he moulded into the new rhythm at a fast pace.

His hands roamed all over your body, willowy fingers gliding over the skin of your face as it heated up before not even a nanosecond later finding home on your thighs.

A surge of boldness wept through Spencer in the haze of affection, pushing him to grip the muscle of your upper leg, right where your ass begun, and move you down onto him in a rough staggered movement. The sound that left you as a reaction to his sudden forceful manoeuvre was a mix of a surprised gasp and a moan you tried to supress. Your eyes, looking as undomesticated as ever, met Spencer`s as your hot breaths mingled between your touching lips.

“Sorry…,” he murmured, regret plaguing his voice but the lust and need also present in it was about the only thing you truly process through your foggy brain.

“No, no, don’t apologise,” you rushed out. “It`s- it`s fine… I… liked it…,” you continued in a lower register, slight embarrassment staining your flushed face.

A small moment went by where neither of you moved, the surrounding world seeming to follow you two in the silent state you found yourselves. Then, just when you had decided you needed to blurt something out to fill the void of soundlessness, Spencer grasped onto your jaw and smacked his lips against yours.

Unbearable warmth rose in both of your bodies, your insides tingled and your skin was tainted with rosy blushes.

Spencer`s touch found itself on the hem of your shirt now, gently slipping it up a bit.

“Can I take this off?” Well that’s definitely a way to deal with the uncomfortable temperature.

“Yes,” you responded immediately before helping him pull your shirt off and throwing it on the floor.

He took in your bare torso, only clad in the midnight blue bra that surrounded your chest. His hazel eyes, sparkling in the light filtering in from the open window, travelled all over your heaving upper body as sweat trickled down your neck and onto your unclothed breasts, glistening in the sunset`s rays of sunshine.

“God, you`re gorgeous,” he exhaled heavily. His gaze was directed intently at your boobs, one would think he was talking to them and not you.

“Thanks,” you giggled out your thank you, leaning in a bit closer to his body as you did.

With a tantalizingly small distance to your skin, his fingertips made their way up your back, resting on the clasp of your bra.

“Can I?” he asked, looking up at you and taking in your lightly dishevelled appearance.

“I don’t know, can you?” you teased, a wide grin adorning it`s self on your features.

His soft but wry chuckle filled the air for a moment before he stated firmly, “May I?”

Predictably you nodded your head, your teeth dragging into your bottom lip as you conveyed your eagerness and acceptance of his pleading question.

As a result he moved his other hand behind you as well and unhitched the little metal and steel hooks, the cups on your breasts immediately loosening after the action.

Spencer moved his hands towards himself again, unsure of what to do with them, he awkwardly placed them on either side of him on the white sheets of your bed.

Reluctantly you swiped the thin straps of material down your shoulders, revealing your chest to him. His eyes stared aimfully at your bare tits, mouth falling open to a slack one as his eyes blinked in awe of the sight before him.

“Fuck, baby, you`re gorgeous,” he groaned, his gaze shortly meeting yours before flicking his eye sight back down to your bosom.

You chortled at his comment, your hands nervously fiddling with the bra that now lay, unused, between your two bodies. “You already said that,” you tittered as you smiled at his astonished face.

He gave no response to that. Instead he lifted his right hand from the mattress and attentively rested it on your waist.

The look in his eyes and the sudden repositioning of his hand told you exactly what he wanted. Good thing, you wanted it too.

Ploddingly you levied your hand onto his, guiding it up as you made eye contact with Spencer.

“Is this okay?” you asked, scared you might be going further than he had initially wanted.

“Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, very,” he stammered out as soon as he realised you were in doubt about whether you were doing the right thing.

You carefully laid his hand on your right tit, squeezing your hand over his. Precipitately he continued to grope your breast, watching the reactive twitches of your facial muscles. With a tedious stride of his hand, he connected his fingertips to your left nipple. He tweaked the sensitive bud, making your neck throw your head back because of the pleasure that shook through your lithe figure.

“Is- is this correct?” he queried. “Mm-hmm. Yeah, you`re doing great, baby,” you encouraged sweetly as you inadvertently rolled your hips down onto his own.

His hands fell from your chest to your hips, squeezing the apex of your thighs. His lips gingerly found the sweet spot on your neck, gently sucking on it before pressing small kisses around the area. Your fingers dropped to Spencer’s crotch, pressing down on the bulge that strained in his pants.

“Shit.” He hissed. “You- you sure?” he asked as he studied your face intently.

“Yes.” You answered certainly. Before you could ask him the same question he had already started to unbuckle his belt, already giving you the answer.

 You moved off of his lap, daftly unbuttoning and pulling off your own pants as Spencer did the same.

Once you were both only situated in your underwear, Spencer yanked his body over yours, hovering above you.

“We can stop at any time, okay? Just say the word.” He prompted. “I know. Same goes for you.”

He gave a curt nod before leaning down and leaving kisses along the column of your throat, his nimble fingers holding your slightly shaky figure in place.

Your eyes followed the path his hands made to reach your hips and then they observed how they fidgeted with the flimsy material of your underwear.

Spencer lifted his head, looking at you as he worded his question in a caring tone, “Am I allowed to take this off?” In response, you gave a small nod, chewing on the gummy flesh of your mouth. “I need more than that, princess,” Spencer probed on.

“Yes,” you uttered out in a hushed tone, your nerves running wild with nervousness and excitement.

Slowly, very very slowly, he pulled the black cotton down your thighs and out from around your feet, throwing it to land on the edge of the bed. The cold air of the evening hit your now unclothed core in a sudden rush, a small gasp escaping you at the feeling.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his gaze directed at you.

“Yeah. I`m fine,” you offered him a slight upturn of your lips.

The smile you expressed made a smile of its own appear on Spencer`s face before it ducked down and lay a kiss on your shoulder.

“Tell me if I`m doing it wrong, okay?” he murmured onto your collarbone as he rested his head under your chin.

After you agreed, the sight of his hair gliding down your trembling body towards your core was to be seen. He massaged your thighs and by the looks of it, was trying to hype himself up to start.

“Hey,” you spoke up, “it`ll be okay.”

With a new found of bravery from your reassuring words, he mindfully brought his fingers close to where you longed him to be.

While concentrating completely on the matter, he hesitantly touched your sensitive clit, causing a jolt to ripple through your body and force a moan out of what felt like the deepest part of your stomach. Dubiously he started drawing squiggly circles on your swollen bundle of nerves.

“Mm…” you mewled, multiple high-pitched bleats leaving you as you grabbed at the headboard with one hand and fisted the pearly sheets with the other.

Taking in your positive reaction to his touch, Spencer took the chance of making his other hand useful, hovering it over your entrance nervously.

When you looked at him with your lust-clouded eyes, it pushed him to finally take the plunge in. Literally.

He inserted his index finger with as much slowness and care as he could, groans escaping the both of you at the sensation. Just a moment later he dragged his finger out again, leaving only the length of his fingernail in before pushing back into your warmth.

The emptying feeling of the soft shapes he was rubbing to your clit and the fact that he was filling you up with his finger quickly brought your orgasm upon you. You screamed as the dense feeling in your lower abdomen loosened and a haze of post-pleasure took over your body.

“Holy shit, baby, that was… amazing,” you praised as your droopy eyes opened to see Spencer hovering above you again.

“It was,” he reiterated with a small crow.

“Do you want to stop? If you don’t want to continue, that’s completely-“, Spencer starts to ramble a symphony of assuring phrases. “No, Spence, I want to. Unless… you don’t?” You said conspicuously.

“No, no, I want to as well. But… just to be sure, you mean…”

“Sex,” you finished his sentence when he had dragged on the “n” for too long.

“Right, right, yeah…,” he postulated shortly.

After a moment of both of your heavy breathing being the only sound in the room, you awkwardly reached your hands up to his boxers.

He lets out a hum of approval before squeezing his eyes shut, preparing for his last piece of clothing to be stripped off. You took them off in a timely manner, letting him take over and kick them off when they were out of your reach. Your eyes widen as they land on his length. Shamelessly you studied it, tilting your head as you took in the sight. Long, but not too girthy, the tip blushing one shade pinker than your cheeks and glistening with pre-cum.

Now with a bit of shame added to your expression when you realised how long you`d been staring, you looked up nervously.

Spencer had grown a small smirk on his face during the time you gawked at his hard-on.

“Do you have a condom with you?” You said suddenly, comprehending that you wouldn’t be able to do it without.

“Oh. Yeah, I- I think so.” He climbed off of you and grabbed his bag from the place where he dropped it when he came into your dorm almost 3 hours ago.

“Yeah?” You pushed yourself up on your elbows, looking at him with a condescendingly sweet grin manifesting your features.

“Well, it- it was just in case, you know, I…” his words died down and he continued searching through his black backpack.

“Oh sure, sure,” you teased.

“Hey, just be thankful that I have one, okay?” he said with a small firmness to his voice as he held up the same square packet.

“I am thankful. Trust me,” you prompted. “Plus if I’m not, I sure will be soon,” you murmured, the whispered comment making Spencer chuckle enthusiastically as he crawled his way back on top of you. His skilful fingers ripped open the packaging before they rolled the condom on.

“Woah. You really paid attention in sex Ed. class, huh?” you giggled when he managed to put the rubber on in one go with no hesitance and no stumbling.

“Well, I am a genius, princess,” he remarked smugly before pecking your lips.

After the kiss, a solemn silence fell over the room, the wind breezing by the two of you as you both deeply inhaled and exhaled.

“Are you ready?” Spencer’s soft, familiar voice broke the domestic moment.

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice sure of what it was stating. Because you truly were sure, not about what you were about to perdure and what you would have to do, no, you were sure that it was Spencer you wanted to be perduring it with and doing it with.

He guided his length to your entrance, taking one last low breath before slowly entering you. Your hands flew up to his shoulders, squeezing them just as fast as you squeezed your eyes shut and just as tight as you clenched around Spencer as soon as he penetrated you.

“Oh. My. God.” He spoke between panted breaths.

A few moments flew by before the feeling of him staying still became uncomfortable.

“You can move,” you urged on.

That seemed to be enough for him as not even 5 seconds later he was slowly dragging himself out of your tight walls before snapping right back in again. A rugged moan escaped his throat as you squeaked, the sounds meshing together to perfectly fit the unruly scene of the two of you.

He repeated the movement over and over again his hips moving more and more erratically and less and less of a distance each time.

The brutal pace coaxed a series of whines and cries out of you, the sounds bringing Spencer`s hips to a slow stop.

“Are- are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he stammered eccentrically.

“I`m fine, I’m fine. Just calm down, okay, Spence?” You cupped his face bringing it to rest on your bare shoulder.

“`M sorry,” he croaked out.

“There’s no reason to be sorry. You got carried away its fine,” you reassured him, stroking his messy and sweat ridden nest of hair.

“Can… can you be on top?” he asked shyly. “It`s just that I- I don’t want to hurt you again and… um…”

“Don’t worry, Spencer, you didn’t hurt me. But if that’s what you want then of course.” You petted the back of his neck, threading through his baby hairs.

“You sure? I just don`t want to ruin this, I- it’s our first time.” He bashfully closed his eyes.

“You can`t ruin it. You know why? Because we`re doing it together,” you say matter-of-factly.

“God, you`re so corny,” he laughed. “Yeah, and you love it,” you joined in on the laughing.

When you both had calmed down he slowly pulled out, the feeling unsettling you both. He rolled off to the side, coming to rest on his back before he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you on top of him.

Your shins dug into the bed as you situated yourself, positioning your entrance over Spencer’s angry looking tip with a bit of a helping hand from him.

“Ready?”

“I was born ready.”

With a light feeling in your stomach at his words, you start to ease yourself down onto his length, immediately enveloping him with your sopping walls.

He whimpered and gripped your hips tightly. His head flew back at just the right moment as, as soon as you reached the maximum amount of him you could take. You immediately fell forward, crashing onto his pale chest. Your body moulded into his, feeling every inch of his skin clad on yours, feeling his deep inside of you.

“You okay?” Spencer’s face contorted into a worried cowering frown.

“Yeah, I am.” You kissed him softly, melding your lips together as you bring your arms up to either side of his head and grip his messy locks in between your fingers.

With the leverage that your grasp on his hair gave you and the help of Spencer’s hands on your ass and thighs, you started to desperately move your hips against his, snapping away before sinking back down on his length.

The kiss you were sharing became sloppy as you started moving faster, letting your hands roam over his torso.

Spencer frantically snapped his hips up into yours when he felt you stuttered your motion and his hands gripped the back of your head, making out with you like he never has before.

His index and middle finger knowingly found your clit, circling the sensitive bud.

It wasn’t long before you reached your high, being thrown into a realm of bliss as you lay motionless on top of Spencer who came with you just a second later.

Your stomach felt warm and full, that feeling leaving you when Spencer swiftly pulled out, pulling you closer and onto his chest. His lean arms wrapped around your slightly quivering body, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you,” he whispered into your boisterous hair. “I love you too,” you spoke in a soft, hushed voice.

You fortified your chin on his chest, gaping up at his beautiful face.

In the wake of the silence and euphoria that subsequently followed, Spencer spoke up, “We should probably shower.”

An ornery frown graced itself on your tired face, a small grumble leaving you as you cuddled close to him, “5 more minutes, pleeeeeeeease?”

“Okay, fine, 5 more minutes,” he gave in instantly, still in the aftershock of experiencing that striking event.

You spent the next 20 minutes basking in the afterglow and each other`s love, every once in a while placing little kisses here and there.

When Spencer knew he couldn’t ignore the fact that you two needed to shower, he smoothly tapped your hip. “Come on, princess, time to clean up and you still need to pee.”

Begrudgingly you clambered off of him, pulling him out of bed with you. You brushed some desolate tresses from his forehead, smiling a shit eating grin before turning around and heading for the bathroom.

Spencer watched with a beam, his heart filling with complete and total delight. His eyes fell to his Chemistry book splayed out on the carpet floor, grateful that he didn’t push to continue reading about things that seemed so damn unimportant now.

“Coming, Spence?” you called as you started the shower, the sound of water hitting the fiberglass of the shower pan filled the dorm.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping over the unimportant Chemistry book.

@emma-e-a

[xjulixred45x]

I could't contain myself guys sorry--

Bro, do you realize how scary it would be to have Vox as a Yandere?

just imagine it. You could be one of his workers, maybe too good at your job, because not only do you do what Vox tells you without asking questions, but you also know what to say and what not to say to avoid a "tantrum" from him. or rather, when his insecurities attack with force like when Alastor returns.

Vox would probably be a somewhat condescending yandere (as seen with Val) but don't think you can't turn tables easily, if you stroke his ego enough, you can have him around your finger. but that doesn't make it any less dangerous for those around you.

He makes the typical 180 degree turn in attitude when it comes to Other Employees and when it comes to You. Damn, you may be the only one of his employees who gets paid vacations (or even vacations) or even birthday bonuses, things like that. He likes to give you his things or products with the excuse that "they are for testing" even if they have already been released on the market.

Like:

Vox: who the fuck eat My leftovers!?! WHENEVER WHO WAS I'M GOING TO-

Darling: it was me sir.

Vox:--give You the rest and take You out for lunch, You haven't eaten in the whole day AGAIN, didn't ya?

He definitely avoids conflict with you by hypnotizing you, when he starts to feel hostility, fear on your part or that you want to leave, he makes you "out of nowhere" have "ONE MORE TASK" and you can't help but do what he says.

and IT IS NOT just to avoid fights or for you to leave, it is something CONSTANT (once every two days MINIMUM), although Vox is not worried about your brain turning into mush due to its powers, it always keeps nutritious things in your diet and they come out relatively often , as you have to follow him everywhere.

Eventually he becomes more clingy and needy in this case, it's practically not that he's proposing to you or anything, he's just slowly dragging you into a relationship without you realizing it (because you're not lucid enough). Unless you develop a higher level of tolerance to his hypotonic trick, I don't think you'll notice his Red Flags.

I think it would be ESPECIALLY BAD if Darling is also a Sinner, because then they wouldn't even be able to get out of the pride ring to run away from Vox. leaving you with many fewer options and having to avoid all of Vox's technology, which you could only achieve by 1- going to the Cannibal Legion or 2- going to the Hazbin Hotel.

Running away is EXTREMELY DIFFICULT, not only because of his hypnotic trick, but because he literally has EYES EVERYWHERE, on every screen in hell. If you somehow manage to get away with it and run away, Vox would be SO ANGRY and looking for you all over hell with their screens.

Although definitely if you were gone more than a day, he would be more distraught than angry and would begin to despair. Even Val and Velvet would give him a hand because of how bad it would be.

Just imagine, thinking that you finally lost sight of Vox's search drones, without realizing that you stand in front of some store and VOX ITSELF appears on the screens :)

If you made the stupid decision to go to the Hazbin Hotel, Vox would be distraught and would even think that Alastor was somehow holding you hostage, obviously! Why would you go there if you knew his biggest enemy was there? Alastor must be using you as a bargaining chip! How dare he!?

(in this case, fortunately, the punishment is much less severe, but he would definitely monitor you for the rest of your life)

When he eventually gets you back (after a few days or even WEEKS of anguish) expect, first of all, to be in a mortal embrace that lasts AT LEAST 2 days and then receive your "punishment" which would be to be under hypnosis for AT LEAST 1 YEAR to be sure that this NEVER HAPPENS AGAIN.

Although calm down! He gives your mind breaks periodically because 1- he doesn't know if that would ultimate mess with your head and 2- it's nice to hear YOU talk instead of the robotic version.

When that year FINALLY ends, you will be a much more obedient, more terrified, sweeter version of You, according to Vox, like a frightened Deer. It was a long and hard process, but the good thing is that you don't have to do anything anymore! absolutely! Just do what he tells you and everything will be fine.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

Not one of the Best yanderes to have, but Def not the worst

[your-highnessmarvel]

Insatiable

AN: No one asked for this but the Butcher brain rot is crazy and i can't stop myself. Alas, I couldn't resist so welcome to the madness. Anyway, I went insane and absolutely wrote a devoted piece to this man. Jesus help me.

Warnings: dub-con (use of sex pollen-ish mind control), smut, fingering, language, and Butcher is a warning in and of itself.

MINORS DNI Below the cut

"I'm not wearing any underwear."

The admonition echoed in the habitat of Butcher's Cadillac like a bird's call. Even the sound of leather on leather, as the man sitting beside you slowly turned to examine you, wasn't loud enough to get the stupid ringing out of your head.

This had all started off like a bad scab you thought was healed but wasn't, and now it was bleeding all over your favorite pink pull.

Hughie and MM had uncovered a rightful piece of Temp V hideout; a Supe's mansion on the Upper East Side who, just happened, to be throwing one of his renowned "XXXchange" parties for Supes and their pets (this was how it was described on the e-vite MM hacked).

This Supe, still unknown to everyone because he kept the mansion under a random woman's name, was supposedly a Seven-in-the-making, as Hughie put it. If he could prove himself, he was next in line for a comfy beige seat in the Tower. So hence, him keeping and distributing Temp V to teens and young adults who didn't know any better.

So what had been Hughie's grand ol' plan? Bring you in. As the newest Supe member of The Boys, no one had yet seen your face. No one even knew of you. You were a low-level "barely considerable" Supe...as Butcher had put it the first time he blew the hinges off your front door.

Your power wasn't really a - well, a power at all. It was mostly an advancement, an intellectual add-on, or a sixth sense. You could read lies. More coherently, because someone with a beard and a giant stick up his ass didn't understand correctly--you could tell when someone was lying.

You weren't really an attribute to the team when it came to brute force. You left that up to Annie and Kimiko. But you had your perks, and since you were still under Vought's radar, you could slip through the cracks and get intel for the Boys.

Now why was Butcher with you, the most notorious Boys' member? Well, one might say he was eager to see your 2-hour fight training in practice, but really, it was because he "didn't trust a dumb twat with highly sensitive information and tech". His words.

So he'd garnished a Tommy Bahama blouse with pink flamingoes and palm trees and a matching set of swim shorts, sunglasses, and a stupid bright pink bucket hat that was way too small for his big ass head.

And now here both of y'all were, headed to the Upper East Side, dressed like a hooker and a pimp. Annie had insisted on this get up, a tiny, tiny pink skirt, a white bikini top, and a pink cover up with flip flops to finish off this fucking look. Because apparently, no one would let you in if you weren't A) a Supe and B) not dressed like a House Bunny.

"So you're tellin' me," Butcher drawled as the New York skyline darkened, "that your bare pussy is suction-cupping my leather seats?"

You crossed your arms. "I'm sitting at an angle."

Butcher slapped the wheel. "You should've told me earlier!" he laughed. You frowned in return when he swivelled that giant head of his towards you. "Come now, if you're not wearing panties, why should I, eh?"

"You wear panties?"

He hummed, regaining control of the road as the car slipped passed the last townhouse to enter Mansion Ville.

"I like you, little Truthteller," he mumbled to himself. "Thought you were a bit worthless at first, but you might just prove yourself tonight!"

You didn't dare answer the last bit, instead focusing on the details Annie and Hughie gave you before you flip-flopped your way into Butcher's passenger seat (and did absolutely not suction-cup his leather seats).

The idea was to go in and place a few bugs in and around the mansion in key locations. You could try to figure out who the Supe was or even find out where he stashed his V, but it didn't matter. The Boys would find out over the bugs.

The mansion Butcher parked the Caddie in front of was like a cookie-cutter version of the 90s PlayBoy mansion.

"Alright, love," Butcher sighed, killing the engine and stepping out, rounding the nose of the car to open the door for you. "Give 'em a nice peek of that minge, eh?"

You blushed from head to toe, a torment of fire assaulting your skin until Butcher caught on and chuckled low in his chest, helping you step out the car with his hand.

You still hadn't gotten used to the crass words that could tumble out of his mouth like vomit.

He guided you to the entrance, where a man dressed in black boxers and a black neck tie asked for your invite number, which you recited from the one Hughie gave you.

Then he asked, "And which is Supe and which is pet?"

You blushed even hotter. "Um." Your throat got sticky and dry all at once. "I'm the Supe and he's my... um, he's my-"

"Her pet," Butcher interrupted with a wide smile, the sunglasses hiding the glint in his eye that was surely showing. That ridiculous bucket hat made him look almost two heads taller than you as he bent down to whisper in your ear, "bark, bark."

You groaned inwardly as you lead him into the foyer, where a sprawling staircase lead to a mezzanine and a mahogany banister and a wide archway gave way to a mess of bodies in the living room.

"Oh my God," you mumbled, turning away from the onslaught of legs and arms and slithering bodies like a pile of snakes.

"Oh, nuh-uh," Butcher chuckled, grabbing you by the shoulders, steering you right into the mass of party-goers, moaning and groaning and thrusting into one another or bouncing on top of each other like mad dogs. "If you want to play the part, you have to look the part." His mouth was right next to your ear, and for some reason, the breath caressing your skin sent a slowly gliding shiver down your spine.

Why was this happening?

You felt the flesh melt where his fingers lay, clutching at your shoulders, pulling your coverup off of you.

"Butcher," you said, stopping his hand.

He shook his head. "Show them what you got, mama," he whispered again, the rough of his beard tracing against your cheek. He scooped the coverup off your shoulders and threw it across the room, leaving you in your bikini top.

Butcher had never seen you so exposed before. You'd always worn pants and t-shirts around the safe house, so watching all that bare skin available to his hungry eyes flipped a switch in his head.

A woman, tall and elegant, cream skin and sultry black eyes, approached you before Butcher could do something stupid. He straightened up, lifting the sunglasses from his nose.

"Miss, look at you," he cooed.

Miss was naked. Someone had left a bite mark on her right breast, just above her peaked nipple. She was so long-limbed and beautiful, and the sight of her naked body made you turn away instinctively.

"I like you," she said, voice low and husky, like a purr.

"I like you too, sweetheart," Butcher answered, the heat of his body completely leaving you as he zeroed in all his attention on the naked, wanting lady before you.

She huffed. "You're great too," she answered, and when you turned, her lascivious brown eyes were settled on you. "But it's her that I want."

Butcher gasped and then erupted in laughter, taking the bucket hat off his head and putting it to his heart. "Woah, I never imagined I'd see this in my lifetime."

The other woman smiled slowly and you gulped. She was pretty, but she was also not part of the mission.

So you back-peddled.

You put a delicate hand to Butcher's arm, digging your nails into his skin, and put on a lovely, sweet smile for the offering girl. "That's nice of you," you said, voice sultry like a wet candy cane. "But we're more interested in watching." As you said this, you dropped into your act as best you could, mustering up the strength not to blush but to play the part of the sex-obsessed Supe.

She brightened up at this, gesturing to Butcher. "Well I could fuck him while you watch," she suggested.

Butcher's body tensed up against you and he turned to you. "Please say yes," he mumbled.

You smiled, throwing him a glance. "Both of us are watchers," you corrected, watching as she bowed her head, a lustrous gleam in her eye.

"It would've been a pleasure," she said before walking away.

When she was climbing onto another woman's lap, Butcher grabbed your bicep and brought you into a corner, sheltered in the dim lighting of the room, smothered under the moans and groans and the sloppy sounds of...intercourse.

"You were this close to fulfilling a fantasy of mine," he groaned, and when you looked up, he looked more angry than turned on.

"We're not here so I can watch you have sex with a woman, asshole!" you gritted between your teeth. ''We're here to plant bugs and find some V."

He huffed, rearranging his Tommy Bahama. "I'm obeying just because you're wearing this outfit," he grumbled, following you as you led them into the next room.

A kitchen, stock full with boxes of canned beverages and food platters.

"Okay, here." You pointed to the dinner table in the adjacent room, a teakwood marvel that surely housed a few meetings or two.

Butcher expertly placed a bug under the table.

You meandered safely through the house, planting bugs in various living rooms, meeting rooms, and spare bedrooms. Whenever some couple or lone masturbator dedicated their attention to you both, you pretended to watch, Butcher enlacing you in his arms.

It's only then you noticed how tall, how big this man was. He was easily dwarfing you by just standing there, your head against his chest, his fingers drawing lazy circles against your exposed spine.

When the onlookers would pass, he'd chuckle as you pushed him away like he was a booger wall.

But the more you traveled in the house, the more people seemed to stare, wanting, questioning. So you ended up holding Butcher's hand, at his command: "Wouldn't want the lovely ladies stealing you away, eh?"

And hand holding turned into his arm around your shoulders, the tip of his very long fingers ghosting your breast.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispered in your ear once he'd bugged up the toilet.

"Ew, no."

He sucked his teeth. "I mean," he gritted, pushing you up against a wall when a man with a considerably large strap on made his way towards you. Butcher bent down, squeezing the breath from your lungs as he grazed his mouth on your bare shoulder. He pressed a featherlight kiss, all while observing the passing man, dragging his lips up to your ear. "We should go bug up the rooms, eh? Maybe see if we can find this cunt's V supply?"

You nodded, a wicked shiver pebbling your flesh.

Butcher blew cold breath onto the thin line of saliva he'd left on your skin. "Cold?"

You swallowed hard. "Let's just go."

He chuckled as you grabebd his hand and led him back to the stairs, galloping up to the second floor.

Truth is, you'd never imagined Butcher like this. He was so arrogant and he loved to make people jump out of their skins by how uncomfortable they were with him, but you'd chopped it up to the old chip on the block; Butcher pushing people away to keep himself safe.

So when the Boys had initiated you, you'd figured it'd be best to steer clear from this tyrant of a man. He was way older than you anyway, and he was always calling you every name in the book except your government given one. And he was always dismissing your ideas, so you'd always assumed he had an image of an immature little girl in his head.

But he'd dreamed of you more times than he cared to count. The messed up parts of his brain, where most of it was left behind in his old life, conjured up hauntings of you every night. Of those soft, plump lips whenever you'd eat cherries. Of your legs in your pajama shorts and your giggle when Kimiko signed something stupid. Of that perfect little body of yours.

"Okay, in here." You interrupted his chain of thought, the one that was going to crash into a puddle brains that would eventually leak out of his ear.

You lead him into a room, which turned out to be some kind of antechamber with a hearth and a giant portrait of a small, bald man.

"He looks like a mouse," you muttered.

But Butcher froze, tearing his hand away from yours. "Oh, fuck me," he groaned, putting his sunglasses and hat onto the low table. "That's the fucking Seducer."

Your skin crawled. You turned, examined Butcher's expression as he leaned against the far wall. "This cum guzzler is the one trafficking V?" he thought to himself, just as you asked, "who's the Seducer?"

Butcher turned to examine you across the room, lit by a few lights in the sconces. "He's the world's number 1 date raper," he answered, frowning. "This guy can intoxicate the female species into a mad heat, like dogs."

"What?" You frowned.

Butcher walked a bit closer, turning his head to watch you out of one eye, like a bird. "Yeah, he secrets this hormone on a whim and boom, bitches go mad for his dick."

"Oh." You swallowed, turned to push the handle of another door, leading to a darkened room fit for a king. "I think this is his room."

Butcher muttered behind you, "Lucky guy if you ask me."

"Trouble getting women, Butcher?" you asked absentmindedly as you entered the dark room, lights from the lawn outside filtering milky-white through the windows, illuminating your path like a trail of snow.

Butcher followed, closing the door behind you. "Not really," he answered, immediately pulling cubbards and drawers open. "The ladies love me."

"Oh, yeah I bet," you muttered, pulling open the wardrobe. A loose floorboard creaked loudly and you froze, turning to meet Butcher's eye.

He scrambled to where you stood, pressing on the floor and repeating the awful creaking sound.

"Pants jizzer must be keeping the V under his floor," he mumbled, pressing until at least 6 floorboards rose from the ground on one end, a whole door to the underside of the Seducer's floor.

"Bingo," you giggled, helping Butcher pull the damn thing open. But there was nothing there, only an empty black space that could've fit maybe two people, gaping at you like a dark maw. "He must have transfered them," you whispered.

"Or he's trafficking other things," Butcher replied darkly.

Just as you were about to close the floorboards, a loud thud rang out in the antechamber. You froze, listening, until a feminine giggle made you and Butcher lock eyes.

"Get in," he whispered, motioning to the black pit under your knees.

"In here!?" you whispered tightly.

Whoever was on the other side was making their way towards the room, painstakingly, and this was not the place you and Butcher needed to be found.

"Yes, fuck, get in," he insisted, and your heart thudded so loudly, so harshly against your throat you thought it would burst right out through your chest.

Shaking, you got into the little space, falling onto your back because you couldn't see where this thing ended. As soon as you got your hair out of your eyes, Butcher was tumbling onto you, closing the floorboards a millisecond before the bedroom door burst open.

Sound was immediately muffled, like being underwater, and the only thing you could hear was your breathing. Butcher's breathing over you. Your heart in your throat, nauseating you, the adrenaline rushing like a flood in your veins.

Butcher's chest heaving against yours, the entire length of him pressed up on you like a heavy blanket.

"Get off," you whispered, feeling the heat of his forearm next to your head.

"There's no space," he grumbled, his voice catching on your cheek, your neck, as he tried to maneuver himself every which way that meant he wasn't pressed up on you, but he was just so damn big, like hiding with a grizzly bear, that whenever he tried to move, he just ended up being half on and half off you.

"Fuck it," he grumbled, pressing one hand under your thigh, wrenching a gasp from your throat as he placed himself comfortably between your legs.

The pressure of him on your bare bottom half made you freeze, heart hammering like an angry drum against your ribcage. The way you were positioned, thighs wide open, knees bent each side of his waist, made the skimpy little skirt bundle up onto your tummy, leaving you completely bare.

"Hush up, little thing," Butcher whispered in your ear, holding himself up on his forearms as not to crush the breath out of you. But his voice was wretched, pulled and tight, no doubt reacting to the heat he could feel through the thin fabric of his swim shorts.

The noise overhead intensified; a moan, a few garbled words, thudding.

"They're going to do it while he lie here," you whispered, hands balled up by your sides.

Butcher chuckled silently, breath fanning your neck. "So we really are voyeurs."

You smiled, holding back a giggle until a heavy thud caught your attention and the voices suddenly got a bit clearer. They were right over you.

A woman's voice floated through. "How ever I can serve you, Seducer."

The last word made your insides coil in fear. It looked like this woman was answering a command from the Seducer himself, the man who owned this house, who trafficked all the V and worked with Vought.

"Fuck," Butcher muttered. "This is worse than I thought."

"Why?" you asked silently, your fingers trembling against your thighs.

You felt him bend forward, his body tight like a rod. "This is going to hurt, love."

And just as you were about to ask what he was about to do, a soft pang echoed in your lower belly, like someone had tied a rope to your bellybutton and pulled. You squirmed, the thudding overhead leading back to the bed.

The pulling again, making you heave in a breath, squeeze your eyes shut. "No, no, no," you muttered, feeling an ache build between your legs, a force pull through your veins like molten honey.

The Seducer was using his power. And it wasn't just affecting the woman he was with... it was starting to affect you.

You felt yourself clench on nothing but air when the ache throbbed against your clit, like an invisible vacuum seal had closed over it, and you lifted your hips off the floor slightly.

Butcher immediately grabbed your hip, bringing you back down forcibly, sending a new wave of heat, of ache, of hurt through your body just at the touch of his bare fingers on your bare hip.

"Don't," he breathed, his word clipped. "Don't do that."

He could feel the heat of you through his shorts, just how impossibly hot you were, probably dripping from the Seducer's power, and the little control he exhibited around you was pulling quite taut.

"It hurts, Butcher," you gritted through your teeth, hands settling on his shoulders for support as another wave of need, of painful, painful need, throbbed through your body like a pulsing nuclear explosion. Your legs tightened around his waist, nails digging into the fabric of his Tommy Bahama. "Make it stop," you pleaded, heaving, throwing your head back, bucking your hips to get the pain to stop. Just stop.

Butcher huffed, cradling your face, his insides in turmoil with his brain. God had given him such a gift right now, a chance to take you, mark you as his, finally fuck that perfect little body--and he didn't know if he was man enough to stop himself.

You groaned in pain, subconsciously grinding your bare pussy against his thigh, searching for any kind of friction, of relief. Your skin was so hot, sweat beading your forehead as you braced through another wave of this unknown ache, throbbing relentlessly against your clit, deep inside you, just grazing your g-spot.

Your fingers balled into fists against his shirt, your face finding his chest, and you sobbed, "Make it stop, Butcher, please, it hurts."

You weren't aware that your hips had started grinding against his thigh, the knee he'd placed between your legs for leverage. And just the fact that he could feel his shorts getting soaked had him straining against the stitches of his sanity.

"There's only one way," he breathed against your ear. You sobbed, heaving, breathing raggedly, grinding so hard on his knee it was almost pathetic. "Are you sure you want to try?" he asked, voice trembling.

You sniffed, hung onto his neck for dear life. "Please, anything, this is--ah--this is unbearable."

He bent his head, mumbled for God to forgive him, and then pressed a deep, hard kiss on your lips, pressing you back into the floor completely. Somewhere above him, he heard a woman moan loudly, but the only thing that registered to him was the way you clung to him like a pawing animal.

A strangled moan, quiet and restrained, left your throat, caught behind your teeth as he ravaged your mouth.

"N-no," you mumbled. "No."

He pulled away, kissing your jaw, your neck until your were humping his thigh like a woman gone mad.

"This the only way, little Truthteller," he murmured in your ear, dragging his knee away and feeling your entire body go stiff against him.

A whine, like delicious music, lifted to his ear and he groaned inwardly. He had to convince himself he was doing it for you, but half of him was delighted at the idea of finally having you. Like a meal he'd been mouth-watering over for some time, and now it was fresh and warm right in front of him.

"I need," you muttered, groaning through another wave of the Seducer's power, your hips bucking into nothing. "I need..."

"You need to cum, little dove," Butcher whispered, caressing the side of your face and you shook your head.

"No."

"Yes, love," he muttered, tracing the line of your neck, down your chest until he softly cupped your breast.

A quiet moan rippled along your throat like a symphony to his ears. He played with your hard nipple through the fabric until he pushed it aside and replaced his thumb with the warmth of his mouth.

"Fuck," you whispered, pushing against his shoulders. "This is wrong." Your voice was so thin.

Butcher lapped at your nipple like an ice cream cone. "Want me to do this to your pretty little pussy?" he mumbled, and the crass words sent a hot wave of need pulsing painfully between your legs.

His other hand skimmed down your side, over the swell of your hip, and down to where you needed him most.

When he swiped a slow finger across your soaked folds, the grunt that left him was purely predatory. "You're so fucking wet," he whispered, to the accompanying sound of your panting. He brushed his thumb across your clit, holding you down as you jolted, flicking his tongue against your nipple.

"Butcher, please," you begged.

"Billy, love," he whispered, raising his head to kiss the corner of your mouth, brushing his thumb against your clit once more to capture your gasp in his kiss. "Call me Billy."

You gripped onto his shoulders, feeling the wide, powerful muscle of his right hand playing with you.

He pressed three fingers flat against you and you bucked, searching for more, as he circled slowly, starting you off.

"Say it," he commanded quietly, circling your clit faster.

"Billy," it came out as a whine and he groaned lowly, capturing your lips and kissing down your throat. The way his fingers played you like a harp wrenched a pornographic moan from your throat and immediately, Billy put a hand over your mouth, the skin between his thumb and forefinger snug under your nose.

"Quiet for me, little Truthteller," he whispered.

He moved his fingers to your entrance and slipped one in so easily it was almost embarrassing. He cooed at you, gliding his finger in and out so slowly it was almost arrogant. "So fucking wet, this perfect little hole."

You keened, squeezing your eyes shut at his crude words, searching for more friction until the heel of his hand pressed snuggly against your clit.

Your hips moved on their own, bucking against his hand as he pumped his finger, faster and faster until your pants turned into hyperventilating and your legs started to close around his hips.

"Got my whole hand drenched, pretty love," he whispered. "That perfect little cunt can handle another finger?"

You preened against his hand, your sounds muffled against his large, meaty palm and he chuckled at you.

The second finger was a tighter fit, his thick digits spreading you and squelching into you slowly.

"Ah, there's my girl," he moaned in your ear. "Fucking my fingers like a good girl."

You wanted to tell him to quit teasing, to bring you to orgasm as quickly as possible because the heat stirring under your skin was insatiable, but you didn't understand how much Billy was enjoying himself. He didn't know when he'd get a chance to have you so willingly spread open for him again, or if he'd ever get the chance again. So he savored this moment like a dying man's last meal.

He let you adjust to his fingers, fucking them into you, palming your clit before he thrust in another finger, opening you wide to him. You gurgled against his hand, muffled moans and pleas stuck behind his palm.

He didn't miss just how tight you were around his fingers, how snug and warm. "So tight, my little love," he cooed, thrusting his fingers in and out slowly, enjoying the way your hips bucked.

The sloppy sounds of your cunt sucking on his fingers drove you mad and a hot, painful knot formed in your belly, pulling and tugging at your insides.

He felt you trembling, your orgasm on the horizon, and he lifted his hand off your mouth, capturing your lips in a warm, sloppy kiss.

"Want you to cum with my name in your mouth," he mumbled, almost incoherent in his chase for your climax. He pressed his thumb to your mouth, opening it, listening to your panting, your quiet moans as he fucked his fingers into your cunt, pressing down on your clit, rubbing it with his palm.

"Billy," you breathed. "Billy. Billy." Like a mantra, a prayer.

"That's it, my pretty girl," he whispered, thumb on your tongue, fingers fucking your pussy until that knot in your bely tightened impossibly and your legs went numb. "Cum my pretty dove, gush all over my hand, come on now."

He grunted against you, and somehow, that guttural, manly sound made stars explode in your belly and you came, shuddering his name quietly, over and over and over until the pleasure had seeped out of your veins and you crumbled back to the floor. You felt his fingers slip out of you, his wet hand pull your knee apart, press against the meat of your thigh, spreading you wide, wide open.

He slithered down your body like a snake, pushing you up against the confines of this box until you felt the warm breath of him against your clit. When he lapped at you, humming around your hole like a satiated man, you mumbled his name, searching with your hands until you grabbed onto the thick strands of his hair. Panting, you mumbled his name again.

"Just having a taste, love," he mumbled, sucking on your over-sensitive clit until the heat came blasting through you again, all over, like you were under the Seducer's spell again.

"Fuck," you gritted, biting your lip, caging in the awfully loud, guttural moan that wanted to spring free.

Billy grabbed onto your hips, holding them down, his forearm over your belly like an anchor.

"One more, little Truthteller," he mumbled, flicking your clit with his tongue, his beard scraping on the inside of your sensitive thighs.

"Billy, please," you whined softly.

"Always wanted a taste," he said. Not a lie. "Always wanted to tongue-fuck this perfect hole." Not a lie.

He pressed his tongue flat to your clit, sucked and nibbled on it until he pressed his tongue right into your cunt, fucking you with his tongue like he'd promised. The mix of his hot breath, his tongue inside your walls, his thumb working on your clit made all your senses flush full of adrenaline. Bucking against his face, you rode his mouth until another flash burst through you and you came all over his face, grinding down on his nose until the last waves of your orgasm had left you.

When he climbed back over, kissing your belly, your nipple, covering you with his warmth, you were just a numb shell of the girl you were when you walked in here.

Billy kissed your jaw, your neck, stroking your hair as you regained your senses.

Whoever had been overhead had gone. It was completely silent. And it left you wondering if that last wave of need had been the Seducer's spell or Billy's.

"We should go, love," he whispered. "Before I stuff you full of my cock and have you cumming on it for the third time."

His filthy mouth brought you back to your body, cold and sweaty and oh so comfortable with two orgasm singing in your veins.

"Yeah," you whispered as Billy pushed the trap door open, peaking out to make sure the coast was clear, and then hopping out. He helped you out with his hand, gentle and calm, smoothing down your hair, covering your nipple, patting down your two-inch skirt.

"I've made a real good mess of you, love, eh?" he chuckled, standing and taking your hand. "Was I a good pet?"