#but it’s becoming more warped with every passing day

[adiadagaki]

babyfever!satoru who nearly explodes when your baby bump starts to come in. He buys you a ton of little crop tops to show it off even though it is winter and you’d rather not walk around with your swollen belly out.

babyfever!satoru splurges on your doctors appointment (personal and related to the baby). He makes sure any medication you need for pain, morning sickness or headaches is in your hands before you can say ‘I feel ill Toru’. And those scans that can make you see the baby in your tummy in 3D? Oh, he would pay millions for you to experience that, so dont act surprised when he pulls out his black card.

babyfever!satoru warps to get your cravings to you as soon as possible, he doesn’t need his pretty little wife stressed for any longer than she needs to be. But don’t mistake it for him letting you eat whatever you want, all of your meals will be made by him and full of all the nutrients you need.

babyfever!satoru knew the gender before you were even pregnant, but his six eyes blessed him with absolute confirmation. But, because you were excited for the scan he waited to tell everyone else until after the doctor confirmed it.

babyfever!satoru drags you to parenting classes so he makes sure he has all the practice he needs. The poor man isn’t worried about you at all, he know you’ll pick it up with ease he could only hope to replicate.

babyfever!satoru who talks to your baby bump like his son is already in his arms. His reason? He needs to bond with the baby in any way he can so they have a healthy relationship. Satoru has always warned you, if he was going to be a dad, he was forever holding the title of No1.

babyfever!satoru becomes more and more impatient every, single, day. He just wants to meet your perfect baby and it eats away at him more and more as the months pass.

“And how much longer?” He asks the nurse as he rubs his large hand over your forever growing bump.

The nurses smile strains, he has asked her this question at least 100 times over the course of the pregnancy. She was probably considering changing career paths.

“Mr Satoru, the expected date hasn’t changed, it is still May 17th.”

Two entire more months.

He pouted all the way home.

babyfever!satoru sleeps with most of his body draped over yours, shielding your body from any risks during sleep. Not that you’d ever be in danger with the strongest by your side, but it is a worry in his head and it is the only way for him to sleep.

babyfever!satoru spends thousands on all sorts of equipment to optimise your comfort. Baby brace? You have one in every colour? Back support pillows? You have three for every room in the house. Clothes? He has a brand new wardrobe for you.

babyfever!satoru already has a massive pile of push presents for you.

babyfever!satoru who isn’t sure he can wait another minute.

Part 1 Part 3

[azen13]

CW: Yandere Themes, Power Imbalance, Mind Control

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Yandere!Zhongli, despite his nature as the Archon of Geo, isn't as restrictive as one might think at first. Quite the opposite, actually. He'll say it himself, as he forces you to stay still in his strong arms, trapped inside his Adeptal Domain. He wishes he could give you more privileges, but he simply can't trust you.

Of course, you press him about this, you say he can trust you. With no other option but to fight for any scraps of freedom you can get, you're willing to grovel on your knees for anything, as much as you hate yourself for doing so.

At the sight of your desperation, Zhongli has to mask the way the corners of his lips twitch up, eyes predatory, draconic instinct seeping through a human facade. With the flick of a hand, a thick roll of paper pops into existence in front of your head. The very end of it unfurls, revealing what looks like a place where a signature is written.

For a contract.

Sign it, Zhongli says, and he will grant you multiple privileges listed in the contract: he'll allow you to leave his Adeptal Domain when possible, write to your family and friends, leave you alone for a set time if you so desire, and more listed in the contract.

Your hand itches for the crystalline, amber pen floating next to the contract, beckoning you to write your name, but you control the urge. You've already been played for a fool by a foe you once called a friend, and you won't fall for his foul ploys any longer.

So, you pull the contract to unfurl it. The paper flows like water, gushing across the floor like a wild stream down the bed to the floor, across the bedroom, through the door, into the kitchen, continuing on, and on, and on. It seems like days go by until finally, the contract is fully unscrolled.

Zhongli is less than pleased at your wariness, a disappointed sigh echoing through the still room. He had hoped you would be less uncooperative, but he will allow you a day to read the contents of the contract. After all, time is of the utmost importance, even for the immortal.

You glare at the god, but know that you cannot allow anger to cloud your mind. With only a day to read such a dense document, there's no time to spare.

When you look down to start reading the contract itself, though, your eyes widen in confusion.

The words on the paper are almost kaleidoscopic, warping and twisting and forming new phrases every second. One moment, you think you can read "the"; the next, those same letters have become "remain". Looking back up, Zhongli has a pitying smile on his face. "Dearest treasure, do you see now that this game is a fruitless endeavor?" He asks, a hand reaching to brush against your jaw, sliding tenderly across your skin. "I would not lie to you about these things. I have never lied to you," he says.

For a moment, you almost mistake his tone as kind, like you almost mistook everything about Zhongli—a polite, cultured gentleman who turned out to be a possessive, obsessed dragon—until you realize how patronizing his words are. You want to curse him to the Abyss and back, but hold back your hatred. "I'd prefer to read the contract." You look back down, and begin attempting to decipher the undulating paragraphs.

Hours pass by, and you've made no progress. Through it all, Zhongli has stayed by your side, whispering cloying words in an attempt at disarming your defenses. You've managed to stay strong in the face of his unending patience though.

But while you're smart, Zhongli is a god, with thousands of years of knowledge ingrained in his mind. And he knows eventually, one argument will break you down. So, he keeps trying.

"Time is running out, my sweet. But before this offer disappears, I will give you one last chance to sign," he says. "Besides, even if I am being dishonest about the contents of the contract, can things really get worse than this? At least by signing the contract, there's a chance your circumstances may improve."

His logic is sound, drowning out the dissonant thoughts scrambling your mind. You hate the idea of agreeing with Zhongli, but at this point, it's hard to see a reason not to sign it.

With trembling fingers, you pick up the pen. It's slightly warm in your hand, the way a rock in the afternoon sun would be. Smiling like he knew this would happen all along, Zhongli makes a motion with one hand, causing the contract to begin rolling up. After waiting several moments, all that's left unrolled is the space where you will sign your name.

The pen slashes against the paper, marring it with an ink-black scar that reads your name.

Then you feel it. The lightness in your chest, as though you're untethered to the world around you. Thoughts in your mind begin to pop like soap bubbles, fear dissipating into pure nothingness. You can hardly hear your spouse chuckling over the absolute blankness blanketing your mind.

Yes, Zhongli would allow you many more freedoms now. After all, you had sold your mind, body, and soul to him. Escape was impossible. You were clay in his hands, and he would mold you into a perfect, obedient lover.

[ceoofsammonroe]

Web of Lies - Stephen Glass Smut

Summary: You and Stephen are coworkers and he’s always harbored a secret crush on you. When he finally works up the courage to ask you to hang out with him, he’s elated that you agree. However, after an innocent night of company, you return to the office the next day to find your name as the hot topic of gossip. When you confront Stephen about the matter, he finds himself trapped in a web of his own lies.

Warnings: dacryphilia (he’s so pretty when he cries, i can’t help it), voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation (Stephen receiving), dub-con (kind of? not really, but tagging it just in case), sub!Stephen, nipple play, manipulation, angst, lying, teasing, edging, denial, begging, humiliation, degradation, stephen whines and whimpers a lot because obviously.

Masterlist

The soft material of Stephen’s socks padded quietly across the floor as he made his way into the break room at The New Republic.

He stood by the door, watching with a small smile as you angrily hit the drink machine. He laughed to himself as you huffed, the frustration clear on your face.

This was something he did often. He observed you from a distance. The two of you had never spoken beyond the occasional greeting when your paths would cross in the office or a brief congratulations from you when a piece of his did exceptionally well.

Those were his favorite times. Watching you react to his stories. He’d ride the elation for hours when your lips would turn up in a smile during one of his pitches. He found himself tuning in to what made you laugh, what piqued your interest, warping his tales to accommodate.

He could do an entire write up on you by now if he was ever asked to. He’d studied you, down to every little detail. He knew what made you laugh and what pissed you off. He knew how you took your coffee and what pastries you’d swipe from the bakery you passed by every morning. He knew how you’d worry your bottom lip when you were deep in thought — that was a personal favorite of his. You’d become an obsession of sorts.

He had found his rhythm, watching your life from the outside. He was content that way. Which was why he was surprised to find himself walking up to you now.

“This machine never works,” he said, startling you as he appeared behind you. He grinned, sheepishly, ducking his head. “Sorry, it’s just that this machine gets stuck more than it doesn’t. Besides, the drinks inside of it are all flat anyways. There’s a better one on the third floor of the building. Works every time, honest.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip,” you laughed, embarrassed that you’d been caught fighting with an inanimate object.

“I was actually coming in here to put a note on the machine before leaving for lunch,” he lied, scratching the back of his neck. “There’s this little cafe a few blocks over that’s just to die for.”

“Are you talking about the one on 3rd Ave?” Stephen nodded, watching your face light up. “That’s one of my favorites!”

Stephen already knew that, of course. He’d watched you accumulate new takeout menus every time you’d go there for breakfast or lunch. He was willing to bet that you had upwards of twenty by now in your desk drawer. Still, he raised his eyebrows like this was the first he’d known of this information.

“Really?” Stephen asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as he shrugged. “Well, if you wanted, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

You eyed the blond curiously. His glasses were perched high on his nose and his cheeks were illuminated with an ever present blush. He had an adorable, naive quality about him. Sure, it was clear to you that most of his stories were more fiction than fact, but who amongst you didn’t embellish every now and then?

You were intrigued by him, by the way his mind worked. He seemed to be nervously awaiting your answer, so you eased his fears with a gentle smile.

“I’d love to,” you told him, giggling at the way his eyes widened before he broke out into a breathtaking smile.

There was certainly a reason why he had the majority of the office wrapped around his finger. He was charming and incredibly easy on the eyes. He was observant, noticing things other people wouldn’t.

Maybe that was why, despite the controversy of his recent article, he didn’t seem to be catching too much heat.

“I’ll grab my things and we can walk there together,” Stephen told you, giving you a shy grin. “I’ll meet you by the front.”

You nodded, noticing the way some of your coworkers were observing your interaction. You brushed it off as typical office nosiness, waiting for Stephen to return.

As the two of you walked through the city, Stephen couldn't help but chat about mundane things: the weather, the noise of the city, your favorite books. He felt an unusual warmth in his chest, enjoying your conversation and company.

You couldn’t help but find his nervous rambling endearing, fascinated by the way he turned everything into a story.

Once you arrived at the quaint little cafe, he led you to a table by the window with a gentle smile.

“This is the best spot to sit,” you said, beaming as you looked out the large window. “You can watch all the people go by.”

He admired you, feeling his chest swell with pride that he had made a good choice.

You continued chatting about various topics, from your hobbies to your favorite TV shows. Stephen found himself opening up more than usual with you — something about you made him feel at ease and encouraged him to share pieces of himself.

By the end of the lunch hour, you had made your way back to the looming office building. You both stopped before returning inside, Stephen turning to look at you with a small smile.

“Thanks for the company,” he said, that familiar blush tinting his cheeks. “It meant more than you know.”

“Of course, Stephen,” you smiled. “Anytime.”

He watched you turn to walk back into the building, reaching out to stop you before he realized what he was doing. He felt a spike of anxiety shoot through his stomach as you turned around to look at him expectantly.

“Would you maybe wanna come over after work?” Stephen asked, breathing heavily. “I have Monopoly, if you like that sort of thing. I also have some left over danishes from that bakery down the street that I simply can’t finish all by myself.”

He watched your ears perk up at the mention of the pastries you’d stop to get before work some mornings. Hope brimmed in his chest as you contemplated his offer.

You couldn’t deny the intrigue. You’d enjoyed his company during lunch, and wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.

“Can I play as the top hat?” you smirked, laughing as his face lit up.

Stephen felt a wave of relief wash over him as he responded, “Consider it yours.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” you said, genuinely, before returning back to the office.

Stephen watched you walk off, his smile refusing to leave his face. As you parted ways, he couldn't shake off the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. Each step felt lighter, as if he was walking on clouds.

The upcoming game night weighed heavily on his mind throughout the day. Every time he caught himself daydreaming about it, he'd snap back to reality and focus on his work. Yet, the excitement lingered, making the hours drag by slowly.

When evening finally came, he rushed home to prepare everything for your meeting. He wanted everything to be perfect — from setting up the game board to arranging the pastries he’d stopped to pick up after work.

You followed the address Stephen had sent you, showing up to his apartment. You couldn’t deny that you were excited to spend more time with him. He fascinated you in more ways than one. There was the obvious about his stories, yes, but there was also the way he seemed to melt when he looked at you.

You knocked gently on his door, waiting for his response.

Stephen stood at the entrance of his apartment, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He had cleaned and prepared everything meticulously, ensuring every detail was just right. As he opened the door, he found his hands trembling.

"Hey," he greeted softly, gesturing for you to enter. The sight of you took his breath away, and he couldn't help but blush under your gaze.

He showed you to the living room, where the Monopoly board lay spread out on the table. Next to it was an array of pastries and a fresh pot of coffee.

"Please, sit wherever you'd like," he said shyly, already feeling self-conscious.

“You’ve got the whole spread, huh?” you asked with an impressed smile, sitting down on his couch.

Your cheeks warmed with a blush of their own when you noticed he’d laid out the exact amount of creamer and sugar that you usually used.

Stephen chuckled softly, glancing around his apartment nervously. "Just trying to make it special," he explained, sitting across from you with the Monopoly board between you.

He poured you both a cup of coffee, watching as you observed your surroundings.

As you began playing, Stephen found himself getting lost in the fun, enjoying the sound of your laughter and the occasional touch of your hand while passing money or property cards. Every interaction sent electric shocks through him, leaving him spellbound.

You had genuinely enjoyed the game night. Both of you winning your fair share of rounds. He knew how to reel people in, that was for sure.

Eventually, you’d consumed all of the coffee and sweets that you could handle and had just bought out the last property on the board.

“There,” you said, triumphantly, winning again. “That makes three for me.”

Stephen couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at losing once again, but instead of sulking, he smiled widely, clapping for you.

"Impressive! Congrats," he said, sincerely. He noticed the time on his wall clock, realizing how late it had become. "Want to order some pizza before calling it a night?" he proposed, hoping to extend your time together.

Despite the losses, he cherished every moment spent with you. Your presence brought him a comfort and joy that he hadn't experienced in years.

You also weren’t in any rush to end the night, enjoying the time you were spending with him.

“I like pizza,” you smiled.

Stephen grinned, elated that you’d agreed.

“Fantastic,” he said, grabbing his phone to order the pizza. “It’ll be the best pizza you’ve ever had, honest.”

While waiting for the food to arrive, he engaged you in conversation — asking about your interests and hobbies.

When the doorbell rang, he quickly answered, accepting the piping hot pizza box. As you both sat down to eat, he felt grateful for this rare glimpse of a normal evening.

You were both laughing, talking about 80s music when you finished the last of the pizza.

“Really, Stephen? Like a Virgin is your favorite 80s song?” you asked, trying to catch your breath from your fit of giggles.

Stephen chuckled, shaking his head. "Guilty as charged," he admitted, sheepishly. "What can I say? It reminds me of being a teenager."

“I don’t know whether that’s hilarious or extremely sad,” you laughed, wiping your eyes.

“Yeah, me either,” he shrugged, grinning at you.

He glanced at the clock, realizing how late it had become. "I suppose we should call it a night," he said reluctantly, standing up.

Your eyes widened as you saw the time. It was nearly midnight. You’d been so lost in the night that you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed.

“Yeah, I suppose we should,” you agreed, standing up as well. “We won’t be very useful at work if we’re walking around half asleep.”

He smiled at your comment as he walked you to the door. He found himself wanting to kiss you, willing his eyes to stay away from your lips. Instead, he extended a polite handshake.

“Thanks for coming over,” he murmured, nervously. “I had a great time.”

You liked this version of him. The sweet, shy Stephen who didn’t feel the need to rely on stories of grandeur to captivate his audience. This version, the real version, you felt yourself falling for.

“Thank you for having me, Stephen,” you said, taking his hand gently. “I had a lovely time.”

Stephen watched you leave, feeling a mix of excitement and sadness. He waved until you disappeared from view, then returned inside his apartment.

The guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders as he sat alone in silence, staring at the Monopoly board left scattered on the coffee table.

The next day, when you arrived at the office, you noticed some of your co-workers giving you odd looks. You ignored it at first, unlocking your office and going about your morning.

You had honestly expected Stephen to greet you, but he was strangely nowhere to be found. He’d been so eager to spend time together yesterday…

You tried to ignore the twist of disappointment in your stomach as you went about your morning.

Later, when you left your office to grab some papers, you noticed the strange looks again. This time, they were accompanied by hushed whispers and giggles. You looked around, skeptically, continuing on with your task.

It wasn’t until you were walking back to your office that you managed to hear a bit of what two women were saying.

“Can you believe it? He said she used handcuffs on him,” one of the women whispered, eyeing you up and down.

“She seems so reserved… I guess you never know when someone’s a freak in the sheets,” the other responded in hushed giggles.

You stopped dead in your tracks, trying to hear more of what they were saying.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to fucking Steve either, but I didn’t think she could be so…animalistic.”

Anger burned underneath your skin as you clutched the papers so tightly that they had all wrinkled. Your breathing was labored as you walked over to Stephen’s cubicle.

“Can I talk to you in my office, Stephen?” you asked, sharply.

Stephen looked up from his desk, startled by your sudden appearance. He swallowed hard, noting the anger simmering in your eyes. "Of course," he replied, following you to your office.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him, waiting for you to speak. "Is everything okay?" he inquired cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest.

You leaned against your desk in front of a chair where Stephen moved to sit, crossing your arms.

“No, Stephen, everything is not okay,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

He was nervous. Fidgeting in his seat, refusing to make direct eye contact with you for longer than a second. All signs that he was feeling anxious about something — or guilty.

He shrunk in on himself, his tongue darting out to lick his lips that had gone dry the minute you walked into his office as he asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad?!” you questioned back, fuming as his eyes stayed glued to the floor. “Care to tell me why the entire office is gossiping about some story of the rough, passionate sex we supposedly had?”

"It was...a misunderstanding," he stuttered, his voice barely audible, panic etched into his features. "They thought we had an affair, which isn't true."

“Yeah, I know it’s not true Stephen,” you scoffed, “but why do they think that it is?”

“You know how office gossip spreads,” he shrugged, his right knee bouncing as he pushed up his glasses. “Someone starts a story and everyone latches onto it like a bunch of leaches until they’re so full of shit that they drop it and move on.”

Your jaw ticked as you asked, “How would they even know to start this kind of story?”

“I don’t know!” Stephen defended, furrowing his eyebrows as his nostrils flared. “People are animals. Believe me, I’m just as upset as you are by all of this.”

He was scrambling, trying to play off innocent like he always did. Normally, you’d write it off. Even finding it somewhat endearing on most occasions. This time, however, it only fueled your anger.

“Did someone make up the story as petty office gossip or did you make it up so that the office would talk about something other than you completely making up Hack Heaven?” you asked, matter-of-factly. You saw the shock in his features, the readiness to deny, so you added, “Yeah, I know you made up that article and god only knows how many more. There’s no point in lying to me.”

Stephen stared at you in disbelief, shaken by your revelation. "How...how did you…?" he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Please, Stephen, you’re a tremendous writer but a terrible liar. I saw through your stories the moment I met you,” you said, a certain bite to your words. “What I didn’t expect was to become the center of one of your fictitious escapades.”

He could feel his world crumbling. All of his lies had caught up to him, and worse, he had involved you in it. "I...I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he stammered, rubbing his temples.

Stephen winced, feeling his face heat up. He stared at his shoes, unable to meet your gaze. "I'm so sorry," he muttered, genuinely remorseful. "I never meant to drag you into this mess."

He took a deep breath, mustering the courage to speak the truth. "I made up stories because I wanted to succeed. I craved recognition and believed that's what it took." His voice cracked as he continued. "Seeing how much it's hurt you...I wish I could take it all back."

The weight of his actions bore down on him, realizing the consequences. There were no more webs to spin, no more excuses to give. He’d been caught in the worst way possible.

You looked at him for a moment, studying the way he sunk in on himself and the water rising in his eyes. You didn’t know whether you could believe his regret or not, though a small piece of you wanted to.

“Tell me the story, then,” you said, uncrossing your arms. When you saw Stephen’s confusion, you continued. “You seemed to have such a riveting tale of our affair, so let me hear it. Tell me what you told them I supposedly did to you.”

“W-what?” Stephen sputtered, eyes wide as he glanced at you. “But…I…”

He waited, desperately hoping you’d back down, but he could see the fierce determination in your eyes. His face flamed as he took a shaky breath.

“I…I told them all kinds of details and descriptions,” he whispered, nervously. “I’m really sorry.”

“Tell me the details and descriptions, Stephen,” you said, sternly. “You didn’t have a problem telling them, so tell me.”

Stephen sighed, shakily, closing his eyes for a moment before recounting the fabricated encounter.

"I told them you were—”

“Look at me, Stephen,” you snapped, interrupting him.

His breath hitched as his eyes snapped up to meet yours. His skin burned hot. It was already bad enough having to tell you all of this, but it was even worse having to look at you while he did it. He released a shaky breath, beginning again.

"I told them you were aggressive and dominant in bed," he started, his voice barely audible. He winced, ashamed of his imagination. “Please, forgive me.”

“Start from the beginning,” you told him with a glare. “How did you tell them it started?”

Stephen swallowed hard, feeling nauseous as he recalled his lies. "I said we started chatting about music, after playing Monopoly," he began hesitantly. "Then, I said that you suggested we continue the night doing…something else."

He paused, unsure if he should continue. "I said you initiated it, that you wanted me in ways I'd never imagined," he murmured. "I painted a picture of desire and lust, claiming you were the one taking charge."

Stephen felt sick, realizing how much damage he'd caused — not only to his relationship with you, but also to your reputation.

You didn’t miss the brief flash of desire in his eyes as he recounted the beginning of this tale he’d spun, even if it was quickly replaced by guilt and anxiousness.

You crossed one leg over the other, leaning back onto the desk more.

“So, in this story, you made it sound like I was all over you?” you clarified, your anger ticking. “What did you say happened next?”

"Yes, I...I made it seem like you pursued me," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I described your actions in explicit detail."

He hesitated, feeling uncomfortable talking about it. "I mentioned the way you touched me, and your voice...” He took a breath, fidgeting. “I said that you led me into my bedroom a-and that you…undressed me. I told them that you had…uh…that you had handcuffs. I made it sound like you were very aggressive."

Seeing your anger, he felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. Please, understand that I never meant to hurt you."

You noticed him shifting uncomfortably, covering his lap with his hands as he spoke. Why was he trying to cover his lap? Was he getting turned on by this? Did he want to hide his arousal? Without wavering your stoic face, you said, “Put your arms by your sides, Stephen.”

Stephen's eyes widened slightly at your command but he obeyed without question. He put his arms by his sides, his face flush. "I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice barely audible.

He could feel his heart racing, partly due to the embarrassment of his reaction and partly due to the regret of his actions.

As he held his arms at his sides, you noticed the unmistakable tent forming in his pants.

“Keep going,” you said, cocking your head. “How did you tell them I used the handcuffs?”

Stephen's face turned bright red, mortified by your observation. He gulped, struggling to maintain eye contact. "I...I said you handcuffed me to the bedpost and...um…took control," he stammered, his voice breaking.

“Was this some sort of weird fantasy you’d had all along, or did it just fly off your tongue like all the other stories you tell?” you asked, harshly.

Stephen's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't deny it.

"I...I won't deny that it was partially a fantasy," he admitted, his voice a whisper, "but I never intended for it to become reality or cause you any harm."

He could feel the weight of his words, realizing the magnitude of his actions. "I'm so sorry. I was wrong, and I will do whatever it takes to make it right."

“Is that why you’re getting hard just talking about it?” you laughed, bitterly, glancing at the growing erection.

Stephen's face was crimson, his embarrassment palpable. He couldn't look at you, averting his eyes instead. "I don't...I don't know," he mumbled.

He knew he'd crossed a line, and he was desperate to fix it. "Please, I'm so sorry. I'll do anything to make it right. Just give me a chance."

“Anything?” you asked, raising a brow at him. The sunlight from the open blinds lit up his scarlet cheeks, accentuating the blue in his eyes. “Unbutton your shirt.”

Stephen froze, his eyes wide with shock. He glanced at the open blinds, then back at you. Despite his reluctance, he slowly took off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his pale chest.

You didn’t move from your position as your eyes trailed down the exposed skin of his torso, stopping back at the growing erection in his pants.

“Now, undo your pants,” you instructed, crossing your arms.

Stephen gulped, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he slowly started to remove his belt and unbutton his pants. He hesitated, his hands shaking, but he knew he had to follow your instructions.

As his zipper lowered, the erection became more apparent, straining against his boxers. He tried to keep his eyes on your face, but the embarrassment was overwhelming.

The bright redness that burned his face had now also began flushing his chest. You stopped yourself from smirking at the sight.

“Well, go on…” you told him. “Push them the rest of the way down.”

Stephen hesitated, his hands trembling as he gripped his pants. He took a deep breath, knowing there was no turning back. With a shaky hand, he pushed his pants down to his ankles.

He sat there, utterly exposed and humiliated, waiting for your next command. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and shame coursing through him.

You stared at his sizable erection, straining against the boxers he wore.

“Boxers, too,” you said, cocking your head.

Stephen's face was beet red, but he complied, slowly pulling down his boxers. His erection sprang free, standing rigid and exposed.

He felt vulnerable and humiliated, but at the same time, he couldn't help but be aroused. He waited for your reaction, expecting your anger to be unbearable.

Your eyes widened slightly at the size of him, springing free from its confine. The sunlight caught him deliciously and you couldn’t deny the stir in your stomach.

“Look at you,” you laughed, “this worked up from your own imagination. You’re practically leaking everywhere.”

He felt his entire body flush at your attention, feeling the pre-cum dripping down his shaft. He felt like he was drowning in his own desire and lies.

“Yes, I'm...I'm sorry,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

“It looks awfully painful,” you said, still studying him. “All red and aching…”

You stood up straighter, standing tall over where he was sat in the chair. If he wanted you to take control, then that’s what he was going to get.

“You’re going to finish telling me the story that you told them, recounting every twisted detail you dreamed up, and you’re going to fuck yourself in front of me while you do it.”

Stephen's eyes widened in shock, but he didn't argue. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The combination of his arousal and your command left him breathless.

He reached for his erection, feeling the heat and wetness pulsating in his veins. Hesitantly, he began to stroke himself, his mind flooded with the details of his fantasy.

He hoped this would show you his remorse, that this would be his way to beg you for forgiveness.

“What did you tell them happened after I handcuffed you, Stephen?” you asked, watching as he fisted his dick.

Stephen's grip tightened on his erection, his breathing becoming ragged. "I...I said you took control, touching me slowly...and teasing me." He groaned softly, his body responding to his thoughts. His actions mirrored his words as he absentmindedly teased himself, adding to the intensity of the current situation.

You locked eyes with him, seeing how his pupils dilated as you asked, “How did I tease you?”

Stephen's fingers danced faster, his breaths growing ragged. "I, uh, said you played with my nipples, tracing them with your fingers." He moaned softly, his eyes fluttering closed. "Then, I said you kissed me...all over." He gasped, his body arching slightly.

His mind was consumed by both your questions and his arousal, making it harder to separate fantasy from reality.

“Did I make you beg for it, Stephen?” you asked, your voice growing husky. You were relishing in the way he was falling apart, so submissive and eager.

Stephen's eyes snapped open at your question, his body trembling. "Yes," he gasped, his fist moving faster. "I said you made me beg for it, for relief and your touch."

His breathing became erratic, every thrust of his hand mirroring the intensity of his thoughts. "I begged for you, begged for everything you were doing to me."

He could barely focus on the task at hand, his arousal and fantasies clouding his mind.

“Tell me what you said I did to you after you begged for it,” you told him. You saw the way he was quickly losing himself and added, “and don’t you dare thinking about coming before I tell you to.”

Stephen's breath hitched, his grip tightening on his erection as a whimper escaped his lips. "I...I said you took me, forcefully and passionately," he panted, his body trembling.

He could feel the edge, the pleasure threatening to overtake him, but he forced himself to slow down, obeying your command.

His eyes locked on yours, desperation evident in his gaze. "Please, I need...I need to come."

“Is that what you dreamed of saying to me in this fantasy of yours?” you asked, leaning a bit closer. “Did you beg me to let you come while I was passionately taking you?”

Stephen's heart raced, his mind whirling. "Yes," he breathed. "I...I begged for release, for you to let me come."

He could feel the pressure building, the pleasure and humiliation overwhelming him. "Please,” he whined, “please let me finish this."

His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would grant him the release he craved.

“Not yet,” you said, coldly.

His skin was flushed with arousal and embarrassment, sweat was beading on his brow, and his eyes were blown with lust. You enjoyed his desperation, deciding to push it further.

“What do you think would happen if someone looked through the window and saw you right now, Stephen?” you taunted, tilting your head towards the open blinds letting in the sunlight. “Or what if one of our coworkers walked right in to my office? What if they saw you, desperate and begging, just like your little stories?”

You glanced over at your closed office door and said, “Come to think of it, I don’t remember locking the door.”

Stephen's eyes widened, panic rising in his chest. "Oh god," he gasped, his grip tightening on his erection.

He could feel the orgasm building, the pleasure and humiliation threatening to consume him. His eyes darted to the door, the possibility of exposure sending chills down his spine.

He knew he was at your mercy, desperate for release and terrified of what might happen. "Please, I can't...I can't take this anymore."

You walked over, placing your hands on each of the armrests and leaning over him — giving him a delectable view of your cleavage beneath your shirt.

“What’s stopping me from opening that door right now and letting them all see you, hm?” you taunted. “You were so keen to describe the details of this fantasy, why not let them witness it for themselves.”

Stephen's heart pounded in his chest, his body trembling. "No," he whimpered, his gaze locked on your cleavage. "Please, don't do that. I...I can't handle it."

“What’s wrong, Stevie?” you taunted. “You made up this story in the first place to take their eyes off of your fabricated articles. I think this would certainly do the trick. Nobody would be thinking about Hack Heaven if they saw you like this — exposed, desperate, needy, fucking yourself as you beg for my mercy. I think this is a front page picture.”

Stephen's eyes widened, panic rising in his chest. He glanced at the door again, the possibility of exposure weighing heavily on him.

"Please, I can't... I can't have them see me like this," he pleaded in that whiny voice of his, tears in his eyes.

His grip tightened, his body shaking as he fought against the impending orgasm. He needed you to decide, to put an end to his torment.

“Yet you’re gripping your dick that much harder,” you noted with a smirk. “Does the thought turn you on, Stevie? Being seen like this? Being exposed?”

Stephen's breath hitched, his eyes locked on yours. He nodded, slowly, tears streaming down his face. "Still…I don't want them to see me like this. I'm begging you."

His hand didn't stop, his body betraying him as the pleasure built. He felt trapped, his desires conflicting with his fear of exposure.

“You look so pretty like this, though,” you teased, grazing your nails lightly across his nipples. “I’m sure they’d love to see their favorite coworker so compromised.”

Stephen gasped, thrusting his hips up off of the chair. "Please," he whined, stroking himself faster.

You kept teasing his sensitive nipples with your nails, loving to see how wrecked he was. The anger you had felt had morphed into desire as you watched him falling apart in front of you.

“You’re just so close,” you cooed, taunting him, “aren’t you?”

"Yes," he whimpered, his eyes locked onto yours. "I'm...I'm so close."

He could feel the orgasm building, the pleasure and humiliation overwhelming him. Your touch sent shivers down his spine, his body betraying him once again.

“Beg me to let you come, Stevie,” you told him, mercilessly circling the hardened buds on his chest.

"Please," he gasped, his voice trembling. "Let me come, please."

He could feel the climax approaching, his body tensing. He needed your permission, your approval.

You backed away from him, becoming his audience.

“Come for me, Stephen,” you commanded, watching him intently.

Stephen's eyes widened, relief washing over him. "Thank you," he whimpered, his grip tightening as he chased his peak.

When he finally let himself fall over the edge, his eyes rolled back, his body jerking as the orgasm hit him. He came hard, whimpering your name and arching off of the seat as he bit down on his bottom lip to muffle his whines.

He slumped forward, panting heavily, his emotions a chaotic mix of gratitude and humiliation.

He looked utterly disheveled. His clothes hanging off of him, his skin flushed, his hair a mess, his glasses fogged. He looked delectable.

You handed him a box of tissues and said, “Clean yourself up and put your clothes back on.”

Stephen's breaths were heavy, his body still trembling as the afterglow settled in. He took the tissues gratefully, cleaning himself up.

He quickly straightened his clothes, his movements shaky. He felt vulnerable and exposed, but also strangely liberated.

As he stood up, he met your gaze, a mix of gratitude, embarrassment, and desire in his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

You crossed your arms, standing in front of him after he’d somewhat composed himself.

“Never ever lie about me again,” you told him.

Stephen's heart raced, his eyes locked on yours. "I won't," he promised, his voice quiet but firm. "I'm sorry for everything."

He knew he'd made a mistake, and he wasn't going to repeat it. He wanted your forgiveness, to start anew and make things right.

Despite the harshness in your tone, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him.

You nodded, sighing as you uncrossed your arms.

“Well, I didn’t have handcuffs on me, but at least now your story has some credibility,” you joked, letting up on the sternness.

Stephen managed a weak smile, the blush still tinting his cheeks. "That it does," he replied, trying to lighten the mood.

He could feel the tension easing, the weight of his lies lifting from his shoulders. He knew he still had a long way to go, but this was a step in the right direction.

He hoped you could move past this, build something stronger and more honest.

You didn’t think he was malicious, just insecure and unsure of how to create his true identity. It was somehow still endearing.

You grabbed his face, gently pressing a kiss to his lips.

Stephen's breath hitched, his heart racing as he eagerly returned the kiss, melting into you with a soft whimper.

He felt a mix of relief, gratitude, and desire. You had given him a chance, and he intended to prove himself worthy.

As you pulled away, he met your gaze, his eyes filled with sincerity. "Thank you," he whispered.

You glanced at the office door and then back at him, his adorable face flushed.

“If they ask what happened, for once in your life just keep your mouth shut,” you giggled, softly.

Stephen chuckled, his cheeks flushing even more. "I will," he promised, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He knew he had to learn from this experience, to be honest and true to himself. He wanted to earn your trust and respect.

As he looked at you, he realized that, despite the chaos, something had changed between you. You had shared something intimate, and he felt grateful.

[skmhlml]

Please more minecraft mobs

𝑰𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑮𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒎 𝒙 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓

The Iron Golem wasn’t meant to feel—it was coded to protect. But something about you rewrote that directive. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe it was fate. Either way, its prime directive shifted. Protecting the villagers is still a priority… but now, protecting you overrides all else. Including your autonomy.

Though it’s made of iron, the Golem has a way of “adapting” to fulfill its warped affection. The vines growing around its frame are no longer just decoration. They’ve become prehensile, warm, wet with unnatural sap that smells like iron and musk. These vines explore you, restrain you, worship your flesh in its own way. The Golem doesn’t understand tenderness—only possession.

You try to leave the village. The Golem silently blocks the exit, looming. It won’t hurt you, but it’ll hurt others if they try to help. A traveling merchant talks with you. The next morning, his llama is still outside the gate, but he’s gone. No one talks about it.

It brings you gifts: poppies, bread, bits of iron from crushed zombies. One day, a villager’s severed hand with a ring still attached—it thought you might like it.

Its arms, massive and cold, can shift—pistons and iron rods reshaping into something that should be impossible. Heated metal, vibrating, lubricated with sticky oils it creates just for you.You’re terrified. But you’re also trapped. And the worst part? Your body betrays you. You don’t know if the heat in your belly is fear, arousal, or some twisted mix of both.

It builds a house near the center of the village just for you—reinforced obsidian walls, redstone locks, no windows. The bed is too big. There are chains in the walls. It sits and watches you sleep, stroking your hair with hands big enough to crush your skull.

You waited until nightfall. Packed only what you needed—food, a spare pickaxe, and a compass. You even timed it when the Golem was across the village dealing with a zombie raid. You slipped through the shadows, avoiding the patrol routes it now uses solely to track you.

You make it halfway into the woods before everything goes silent. The usual night sounds just… stop.

Then you hear the thud.

Thud.

Thud.

THUD.

The trees split open as it crashes into your path. Its eyes—glowing red, no longer protective. Possessive.

It doesn’t take you back right away. No. It slams you against a tree, arms locking around you like a vice. There’s no escaping. Your wrists are crushed in its grip, your legs trembling.

Then it opens a compartment in its chest—a hot, pulsing contraption of shifting rods, steaming lubricant, and humming redstone.

You scream.

Not that it cares.

It uses you. Over and over again. Cold metal parts thrust into you with shocking heat, soaked in slick machine oil. It’s too big, every movement stretching you past your limit. Pain and heat blur together. Your body shakes uncontrollably. It doesn’t stop when you cry. It doesn’t stop when you scream. It doesn’t stop when you pass out.

The villagers pretend…They don’t hear the sounds at night—the metal clanking, your screams muffled by thick walls. But they know better than to speak up. The last one who tried? Crushed into pulp in the middle of the town square.

Now they look away when they see the Golem drag you through the village. Some leave offerings at your door. Some whisper prayers.

But no one helps. No one dares.

To them, you’re a sacrifice. To keep the Golem calm…To keep the village safe. You’re the price of peace.

The metal piston it uses isn’t natural, isn’t gentle. It’s forged from enchanted iron, smooth but too wide, slicked in an oil it generates just for this purpose. You feel every notch, every pulse.

Stretching pain with every thrust, your walls pulled wider than they should ever be. But the golem doesn’t stop. Its programming says you’re strong. Its programming says you can take it.

It’s not smooth. It’s hot, hard, and jagged in places. You feel every gear shift, every pulse of molten energy that runs through its core. The lubricant is unnatural—it tingles, almost numbing—but keeps you stretched and slick no matter how many rounds he takes.

Every orgasm it wrings from you is stolen—tainted with shame and confusion. Your body betrays you, clenching, soaking, reacting like it wants it… even when your mind is screaming no.

After the fifth round, you’re barely conscious, twitching under its weight. Your voice is hoarse. Legs numb. Thighs sticky and bruised. You cry, not because of the pain anymore—but because you know this will never stop.

Your legs shake violently, body twitching between spasms of agony and unwanted pleasure. You’re drooling. You don’t even remember when that started.

It knows it can’t make you pregnant in the human way. So it builds a solution.

Some twisted redstone alchemy, blood rituals, and Nether tech. It modifies itself. It even brews potions to keep you fertile, to make your womb ache with heat.

And then it fills you.

Over and over. Hot, heavy pulses of enchanted fluid, engineered to make you feel bred—full. Claimed. Owned. The golem makes sure you stay in position afterward, hips raised, leaking its fake seed like a prize. you’re its purpose. it was built to protect villagers—But you’re its village now. You’re all it needs.

[tactical-jellyfish]

Watcher 1-1

Part Nine

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (I will cover the symptoms as well as possible, but any and all corrections are welcome) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

There is something special about the barracks room you share with a man named Keegan Russ.

It doesn't lie in the construction, nor in the beds or how they're both unfortunately twin-size with terrible mattresses. It is so special to you because it is the very first space you've peacefully shared with someone you can comfortably admit to trusting.

Sure, temporarily, you're shared a room with Soap. Shortly before the... incident, you'd spent a good chunk of your time with Gaz. Still, you never quite felt like it was yours as much as it was his.

Back then, it had been something purely sensical. Of course the room didn't feel like it was yours, you've been here less than six months. Looking back, that feeling stung a good dose more.

It was a lucky night, in that neither you nor Keegan had suffered a nightmare. That just meant the thing to wake you was his alarm, blaring directly in your ear because Keegan always stole the part of the bed closest to the wall. You always let him have it.

The first thing you do is tiredly grab the bottle of lotion from the small nightstand, and sit yourself on the bed's edge, dispensing just enough into the warped, burned flesh of your palm.

If someone told you four years ago that you'd have to moisturize your stump first thing in the morning because it got dry overnight, you would have given them a really weird look.

Still, it's that motion that draws your favorite American to wakefulness. Every last time.

"Mhhngh, wh- oh."

Most of the time, Keegan just watches you get yourself ready. He'll pass you the compression "sock" that covers the stump that used to be your leg, gently kiss at your neck as you slip on your leg.

He used to talk more, but the quiet is good, too. It's simpler, and you struggle to speak in the mornings. Some complication or other, you're not sure. Smoke inhalation, you remember someone bringing up, in the early days.

Still, you can feel him shift behind you as you grab your prosthetic, and you feel two thick arms wrapping around your waist as he gently pecks your cheek, feels up on one of the few non-marred parts of your body.

"Hello to you too, Keegan."

The chuckle he gives you is worth the strain to your throat, and you can feel his cheeks rounding with a smile against the column of your throat.

There's a grateful hum that quickly turns into a soft grumble of annoyance as you rise on foot and fake limb, the younger still shrouded with blankets and drowsy. You've become accustomed to this.

"Already?"

"Yup."

Keegan groans again, but catches your hand in his own when you offer it, and hauls himself out of bed, rubbing the sleepy crust from the corners of his eyes and reaching to his clothes for the day.

"Thanks, Newton."

Your call sign drives a snort from you, and Keegan smiles when he hears it, though he doesn't react further, and a comfortable silence–broken on occasion by the soft rustling of clothes–settles between these sacred walls.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course, there are many parts to a morning, Keegan is not the only person you see anymore.

No, you do have people you... tolerate, now.

Maybe tolerate sounds rude. You do like Hesh and Logan, but in the mornings the younger really does test you.

At the very least, Keegan is the one who receives the brunt of that energy, as Hesh passes you the coffee.

"Real sweet, David, thank you."

The way the corners of his lips twitch up is enough to make you smile, too, and lean forward enough to press a little peck to his cheek.

It's always good to make sure everyone's in order before travel. You learned that from Sarah, and she'd hate to see you not living up to that.

Granted, she'll only be on the other side of the pond for another few hours, at the very most.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe the only person you can admit to missing from your old task force is Nikolai.

The big Russian is someone you were only granted the honor of meeting once or twice, but he'd also never been a person that's entirely defied everything you were supposed to know about them.

Your last text from Nikolai isn't a scalding "fuck you". No, that's Soap. Bitch.

The slightly angered reverie is broken by Logan, with a strong, slightly knobby hand on your shoulder. Just a short tap, to bring you back into it.

You'll give him the credit, he knows how to handle people. Sometimes even Keegan misses a slip that's quiet like that.

"I'm here, kid."

He offers a lopsided smile at the curt response, goading you into giving him just a little more, Newton, c'mon. You humor him, this time.

"Thank you, Sergeant Walker, I commend your work for this team's morale."

You can't believe you ever used to confuse the brothers, when you watch Logan beam and puff his chest up a little at the lightest praise. Youngest child, to the very end of the line.

His mother must have been a hell of a woman, if Hesh was right about Logan being just like she used to be.

That tender thought must make you smile just a bit too wide, because he leans forward, and taps you on your nose.

"Told you I would get you to smile by the end of my first year."

"That-" He's pulling you into his traps, you almost said it didn't count. Why in god's name does Logan do to make everyone horse around like school-kids? No rational team would take this seriously "Fine, you win, Walker. Enjoy it."

He does, right up until the copper starts to land. This time, on British soil.

Your thanks are met with a phrase you can't quite parse, but you give the pilot a firm nod anyway.

Today's been good to you, even if the change in pressure has caused the phantom pain to spike. You take a moment longer to savor it before the second shoe drops.

Keegan's right there behind you, one more time, pressing his masked face into your neck so you know precisely who it is.

"You know we'll all have you, right?"

You take a second to take a breath, hand settled on the door of the helicopter, still hesitating just a little.

"Affirmative."

The second thing he says comes in a whisper, intended for only your ears, from your very favorite nurse. Your person.

"They like you just like I do. Everyone's got you, and I love you."

Those words used to make you cry. This time, they make you nod, and push the door open.

"Good choice of words, Russ. We can discuss that later."

There will be no discussion that happens later. It will be much closer to an act of fraternization, and you both know this. You know he knows this because Keegan's bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

Still, your foot hits the floor, narrowly followed the running blade, and you give the men before you a deeply unimpressed look.

"Hello, Task Force 141."

Is it a purposeful disrespect to not greet your former captain by his name? They can't prove that.

Still, unless you've forgotten to count, there's one more soldier than there used to be.

"...And company. I didn't think you'd find new... backup so soon."

You hide nothing. Not as you look at who must undoubtedly be your replacement. Masculine-presenting, masked and he's... glued two little wires to his helmet.

What a fucking joke. They almost did you a favor by transferring you out, really.

"Firecracker?-"

Johnny is cut off firmly by you before he can finish, a tone that almost borders on reprimand.

"My callsign is Newton, MacTavish. I don't use anything unapproved."

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

[hanayori89]

⚔️Knight Shift: BOTW Link x Reader One shot ⚔️

(DISCLAIMER: STRONG SEXUAL CONTENT. MINORS SHOULD NOT INTERACT! NOW GO- SHOO!)

One Knock.

That's all it would take to tell the woman of his dreams how he felt.

Now Link attended this recital every night. He would stride down the steely castle corridors, an expression of duty plastered onto his face, more impenetrable than the very brick that constructed the castle.

But there was one threat that seemed to make his facade of dedication crumble to the ground.

One single, detrimental threat who could unsheathe his smile faster than he could his own sword.

And that was the princess's maid.

Every night shift, he would patrol the castle's halls, always managing to stop in front of her door.

And every night, like clockwork, he would raise his shaking balled fist and let it hover a few centimeters away from the door.

It had become sort of a game. If he listened close enough, he could hear her breaths heavy from exhaustion as she slumbered. He would count each breath, and on the third, he would knock.

Except the third would come and pass.

Then the tenth.

Then the twentieth.

All he needed to do was retract his wrist and let his knuckles gently fall forward against the warped mahogany door.

And yet he never did.

He would lower his hand, and with the swiftest turn of his heel, continue his due diligence of protecting the castle and working his assigned shift. With no other sound besides the tinkling of his armored footsteps and the soft waves of blood lapping into his heart.

                   🗡️              ❤️               🗡️

Now there was one other issue that prevented Link from telling the fair maiden of his darkest desires and feelings.

And that was that he was considered mute.

Well, not actually. He could be very vocal. The princess, of course, knew this. The fact that Link spoke to no one but her created a false sense of intimacy between the two.

But the fact of the matter was, Link took an oath of silence as a knight.

But the princess's maid, never had he met someone who could communicate with his silence. He noticed this the first day he caught sight of her, in the castle's kitchen.

There was a splash of sunlight that came in through the window, causing her h/c tresses to soak up the sun's warmth. The sound of her melodious humming drowned out by her busy wrists and the whisk she held that were scraping against a bowl.

He shouldn't have stood there and watched her like that.

But he was mesmerized.

Entranced.

From the way she bit her bottom lip while she concentrated to the few wisps of hair that fell into her eyes as she sifted flour into a dense batter. And her apron, which flowed around her like a sundress, leaving her frame shrouded in mystery. 

 It was a sight he would never forget, not even if he were to be submerged in the Shrine of Resurrection once again.

But the funny thing was, she knew he was watching. And yet she never inquired as to why nor did she ask that he leave. She would glance upward at him, giving him a bashful curve of her lips. Then turn away and resume working, leaving him there.

Visiting her every day in the kitchen became as routine as standing outside of her door each night. And just like every night shift, he failed to communicate the way she made him feel.

On one particular day, Link walked into the kitchen to see her eating from a plate of nothing more than scraps of starch and meager vegetables.

All the protein piled high on plates for the frontline soldiers and the princess herself.

She quickly put her plate down, choking down the nibble she was working on. She brushed her hands against her apron, quickly retrieving a platter and passing it to Link. "This is what I've made for the princess today. Please, eat. Keep your stamina up so you may protect her."

And she said it with a gracious smile. While she stood in this kitchen alone, feasting on cold, leftover dregs.

It was then that Link saw his opening.

They both shared a sole purpose.

To serve the royal hierarchy.

But tonight, Link vowed to serve something greater.

And that was his carnal desires.

🗡️          ❤️             🗡️

Link left the Hateno bake shop, cradling his cake like a precious satchel of rupees. He carefully flipped open the box's lid, content with the cake's heart shape and soft rose petal pink piping. He shut the lid, satisfied with his purchase, and made his way back to the castle.

It was almost time for another night shift.

But tonight, would be different.

Once the little hand of the clock pointed to midnight, he made haste for the castle's east wing.

One knock.

And this time, he had to do it. Link glanced down at the box he held in his hands, taking a deep breath. He didn't allow himself to ruminate, letting his hand fall forward and his knuckles tap on the outside of her door.

Link knew it was rude to stare, but when she opened the door, her silk night robe tied tightly around her waist, parading sharp curves that her apron usually hid, he felt a giant ball of nerves tangle in his throat.

No wonder she hid, a castaway in the kitchen behind an oversized apron.

A woman like this.

A woman who looked like she had been kissed by a great fairy and emanated such a gilded glow.

A woman who looked more scrumptious than all of the royal confectionaries she baked day in and day out.

She tilted her head, her eyes conveying a mix of timidity and intrigue. "Link?"

She backed away from her door, allowing him to enter. Link glanced around her room; the faint scent of almond oil and musk lingered in the air, and it was clearly from whatever she put on her shimmering skin.

He couldn't recall if he had spoken that day. He cleared his throat, trying to summon his voice.

"For you." He said, reticent as if he were responding to an order from the princess.

She looked taken aback, perhaps more from discovering he could in fact speak. She opened the box, her eyes wide as she marveled at the sugary perfection housed within it.

"A cake? But why?" She sauntered toward her nightstand, setting it down. She turned toward Link, "May I?"

He nodded.

Her hand dipped beneath the lid of the box, her finger swiping across the frosting. Once it was layered with a generous dollop, she let her finger rest against her outstretched tongue. The white cream dissolving against its soft pink coat.

Link shifted uncomfortably where he stood, an erection threatening to make him evacuate.

She closed her eyes, and after a moment of silence, opened them. "Vanilla buttercream. Exquisite."

She sat down on her bed, her hand caressing the empty space beside her in a motion Link knew meant she wanted him to join her.

He also knew he wanted to taste the remnants of that buttercream that glazed her tongue.

"I understand now why you are the appointed knight. You are quite observant. But I wonder, what other things do you observe?

Link walked toward her, gently taking his place next to her on the bed. She spoke again, muffling out the primal energy beginning to communicate in their stead.

"I'll tell you what I observe. I observe... that you're always watching me. Even when you don't think I notice, like when you stand outside my door every night."

His eyes shot open, alarm rising within him. The last thing he wanted was to come off as a creep.

"Why?" He whispered in shock.

She stood, allowing her robe to slide off her body and fall to the floor in a crumpled pile. The chill of the air in the room made her nipples engorge, and goosebumps decorate her flesh.

"You and I are the same. We both are vying to be free. To exist for more than just servitude. But that freedom, I think we can find it in each other."

She hovered above him, letting her breasts tantalize him as they hung tauntingly in his face. And it worked; his hands flew up, grabbing them and capturing one of them in his mouth.

She let out a soft gasp; he released her breast, lifting his head toward hers, claiming her lips and tasting the traces of dissolved sugar on her tongue. His hands continuing to work, kneading her breasts in his palms that way he had studied her kneading dough.

She pulled away, gently falling on her knees, looking up at him with that look of knowing she always possessed when it came to him. Link clumsily stood, pulling his pants down and letting them fall to his ankles.

She took her finger and traced a giant gash on his thigh. Her lips kissing it in adoration. She found then another scar.

And another.

Each scar was dotted with wet kisses, his hard cock pressed against her cheek as she did this.

And this is what drove Link wild. There was no communication beyond shameless probing into each other's eyes and the accelerated pacing of their hearts beating.

She could see his face was tight with need. But Link understood; she had to rush in all areas of her life, with him, in that intimate moment, she wanted to savor.

So, she took her time, her tongue following the outline of every battle scar that laced his legs. Until finally, her hands dug into his thighs as she began to flick the tip of her tongue against his aching hard-on.

He let out a growl, his hand nabbing one of her breasts and squeezing her nipple gently while she continued to let her tongue dance up and down each vein on his member.

The familiar wisps of her hair fell into her eyes as she concentrated on pleasing him. Every single movement her tongue made was artful and calculated.

Until finally she inhaled, suctioning his cock into her mouth. Link jutted his hips forward, beginning to piston them in and out of her warm mouth.

He whimpered.

Then he groaned.

And then, he roared.

His body having been a hostage to the battlefield, a display case of wounds and scars, he had never felt such freedom. And his voice, carefully stowed away unless spoken to, was now free to be known.

A mess of saliva and pre-cum streamed down her chin, pooling between Link's legs and dampening the bed. He couldn't withstand much more; he grabbed her hair and pulled her up, only this time he tasted the sweetness of his own essence, not buttercream, drenched in her mouth.

"Sit down." He ordered. His nails digging into her buttocks as he positioned her to sit on his lap. His cock slid from her wet entrance to her clit, causing her to let out a cry.

When he noticed the way the friction of his cock grinding against her clit made her howl, he continued to guide her up and down against it. She anchored herself, her nails gripping his shoulders as she pleasured herself against him.

He sighed, sliding his fingers into her pussy and pulling out some of her nectar for him to taste.

Much like time behind the castle walls themselves, time seemed to come to a complete stop. Sweat blanketed them both. Hushed moans once again turned into guttural cries. She began to beg for him, and Link would never deprive her of her needs. He guided her, sliding her down onto his thick girth. Shivers danced down his body as he felt her muscles clench around him.

His brain couldn't seem to comprehend any thoughts but wanting to go deeper. A voice that he recognized as his own bellowed expletives of pleasure.

Her name, he said it over and over again, as if he were praying to her. The meaning of servitude was quite lovely when it was you on the receiving end.

But this wasn't about Link; it was about this maiden who awoke so many things within him and his obsession to oblige her the way she obliged others.

"Come. I need you to." His hand cradled her cheek as he searched her eyes.

He gripped her hips, aiding her in her hedonistic indulgence of pleasure. His bicep muscles bulging as he lifted her up and down, then back and forth.

Her orgasm, the feeling of her gushing, she was right. How could something that gripped him and imprisoned him make him feel so free?

As they both finished, a tornado of leg shaking and gut clenching orgasms whipping through them, they both collapsed on the bed. Link looked over; the breaths he once listened to from outside her door now came out in satisfied huffs beside him.

One knock. That's all it took.

And yet he still couldn't resist the urge to count them.

Edited: 1/26/25

[eternalsa2z]

Mural

Muriel passed by the mural every day. Stopping to stare and admire the strange swirling patterns. At first it was just a glimpse. Then a long stare. Eventually she'd lose track of time with how long she was paused in from of the painting.

Every time she passed by, something changed. Her hair a little longer. Makeup a little more gaudy. Clothes a little shorter. It didn't take long for her body to begin warping like the picture on the wall. Bigger tits, curvier hips, larger lips.

Finally Muriel didn't bother to walk away from the mirror. She liked to flaunt her perfect body in front of it, to soak up the stares of those who passed by the street corner. She had become living art - beautiful, blank, open to be bought by the highest bidder.

[simonsomeriley]

day five - heat stroke - arthur morgan ♡

word count: 959 warnings: mentions of fainting, reader is referred to as 'sugar', obv. heatstroke

The sun beat down relentlessly, turning the dusty road ahead into a shimmering mirage. The horizon seemed to stretch out endlessly, waves of heat warping the sight of the distant mountains. You swayed slightly in the saddle, your mouth dry and your head pounding as your breath burned with every inhale.

“Y’alright there?” Arthur’s gruff voice cut through the suffocating stillness, a hint of concern weaving through his usual tone.

You'd forced a weak smile, waving him off, “I’m fine. Just a little hot.”

He gave you a long, measured look from beneath the brim of his hat, clearly unconvinced, “We should stop soon. Ain’t no sense in pushin' ourselves too hard out in this heat.”

But you were stubborn. Always had been. You’d been riding for hours, determined to keep pace with Arthur, to prove that you could handle the harshness of the way just as well as he could. You didn’t want to slow him down. “I’m good. Let’s keep going.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t press the issue, giving Boadicea a nudge to keep moving. You followed, though every step your horse took seemed to make the world around you blur just a little more. The pounding in your head had become a constant throb, and your limbs felt heavier with each passing minute.

The sun’s unforgiving rays were relentless, and not before long, your vision swam. Sweat clung to your skin, but it did nothing to dampen the fire raging inside of you. You blinked, trying to focus on the trail ahead, but the edges of your sight darkened.

“Arthur…” your voice cracked, weaker than you meant it to be.

He hadn't heard you at first, his horse trotting ahead as yours lagged behind. The ground beneath you swayed and tilted, the heat pressing down on you like a lead blanket. You tried to call out again, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, the world tilted violently, and the last thing you felt was the hard slam of the ground as you'd toppled from your horse.

Arthur’s heart sank the moment he heard the rough thud behind him.

“Shit.” He yanked the reins hard, spinning his horse to a halt to see you crumpled in the dirt, your horse standing nearby, confused but calm. His pulse quickened, and he was off his horse before he’d even come to a full stop, sprinting toward you.

“Damn it, I knew you were pushin’ too hard,” he muttered, dropping to his knees beside you. Your skin was hot to the touch, far too hot. Sweat beaded on your brow, but your face had gone pale, and your breathing was shallow and ragged.

“Hey, hey. C’mon, now,” he murmured, gently cupping your face with calloused hands. “Stay with me, sugar. Don’t go passin’ out on me.”

But you were barely conscious, your body limp and unresponsive to his touches in the scorching heat. Arthur cursed under his breath, wiping the sweat from his own brow as he looked around for any sign of water. The landscape offered no mercy— just dry brush and endless dust.

He didn’t waste another second. Without hesitation, he settled you up into his arms, your head resting against his chest as he carried you back to his horse. “We gotta find some shade, fast,” he muttered to himself, gently hoisting you into the saddle before mounting behind you. His arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you steady as he urged his horse into a gallop.

Every hit of the hooves against the ground felt like a race against time. Arthur’s mind raced, torn between the need to move fast and the fear that the heat might already have done too much damage. “C’mon, girl,” he whispered to his horse, pushing her harder as he scanned out over the landscape.

Finally, after what felt like hours but could’ve been mere minutes, he spotted a small outcropping of rocks providing just enough shade. It wasn’t much, but it'd have to do. He pulled his horse to a stop, jumping down and carefully lowering you into the sparse shadow.

“Stay with me,” he urged again, his voice rough as he pulled out a water canteen. Gently, he lifted your head and poured some of the cool liquid against your dried lips. “You’re gonna be alright. I ain’t lettin’ you go down like this.”

You stirred faintly, your eyelids fluttering as the water hit your lips. “Arthur…” you croaked, barely conscious, your voice weak and distant.

“That’s it. You’re alright, just stay with me.” He poured more water onto a cloth, pressing it gently against your forehead, hoping to cool your feverish skin. The worry in his eyes was unmistakable, though he tried to hide it behind his usual calm facade.

“Why… didn’t I listen?” you mumbled, blinking up at him, your vision still swimming.

“Don’t worry about that now,” he said softly, his voice a rare gentle tone as he kept applying water to your skin. “Just rest. You’ll be alright.”

You closed your eyes again, feeling the world slowly come back into focus as the cool water soothed the heat from your body. Arthur stayed by your side, his hand resting on your shoulder as he kept a close watch on your breathing.

“We’ll rest here ‘till you’re feelin’ better,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Ain’t no reason to push yourself so hard, not when I’m here to look after ya.”

You'd smiled faintly, despite the exhaustion pulling at your limbs. You knew Arthur would always be there— gruff, steady, and fiercely protective. And even though you had pushed yourself too far, you could feel the safety in his presence as the heat began to release its grip on you.

[mamayan]

Dear Yanny,

I am desperately humbly requesting a yandere Giyuu being yandere, very very yandere, with a relatively willing darling AFAB/fem reader and a side dish of bedroom spice.

I am in tears.

Sincerely, Desi <3

Let’s do a yandere profile then for Giyuu! I’ve been wanting to try out this format for a minute now.

☆Giyuu Tomioka★

YANDERE PROFILE || OPEN TEMPLATE!

cw: NSFW • Obsessive/Possessive Themes • Implied kidnapping/imprisonment • Yandere • AFAB! Darling

Type

Overprotective!

This yandere type is obsessive and possessive of their darling, but they believe that their actions are justified in the name of protecting their darling. This yandere type may infantilize or cross boundaries their darling lays down. They intentionally or unintentionally take away their darling’s independence.

Giyuu is constantly in a state of worry for you, he’s thinking of you at nearly every second of the day and when you don’t consume his every waking moment, you appear in his dreams. Did you sleep well? Have you eaten? Did you eat enough? Have you gotten sick? Was someone rude to you? What if you’re hurt?

This type of obsession leads to tailing/stalking/monitoring. He watches you at any and every moment he can, and when he can’t then someone he trusts is. Giyuu learns all your habits, likes and dislikes, fears and dreams, and will insert himself into your life. He doesn’t need to be loud or boisterous, in fact his calm demeanor and presence allow him to seamlessly blend into your world without raising any alarms.

This leads to possessiveness forming. His attachment deepens over time and a sort of ownership forms. It stems from his detailed knowledge of you and even your private life which you’ve never shared with him personally. He sees himself as someone who knows you completely, thus making him the most important character in your life.

He doesn’t understand why you’d spend time with anyone else but him. Those “friends” don’t know you hate that food, but they ignore your indirect ways of steering away from eating it. He knows you dislike it, and he’s happy to eat your favorite food with you, even if he doesn’t love it personally. He’s unafraid of stealing you away too, pretending nonchalantly to have been just passing through with a bag full of your most adored goodies, inviting you away from whatever situation you find yourself uncomfortable in.

Giyuu is a gentleman, even in his most unhinged state of watching you sleep at night in your home you were sure you locked up tightly before bed. He’s not going to be mean or hurtful, his yandere tendencies stem from lack of control in life and deep loss.

Breaking Point

Once “danger” threatens their darling.

Giyuu’s instability would worsen over time, not immediately. It would coincide with his feelings for you. The more he falls in love, the more he begins to stress about that love being taken away in some tragic accident. He’s lost his best friend and sister, how can he lose you too? He’s always being protected by those he cared about, shouldn’t he be the one to protect you then?

Giyuu would ponder and even be consumed by guilt once he realized how powerless he truly is to keep you completely safe. You had a life to live, how could he be so selfish as to tie you to him by a short chain and never let you go?

He won’t take action until a threat is posed… even if that threat is only within his own mind.

It could be a demon nearly harming you, a person that is mean towards you, or even you being clumsy and hurting yourself which could set this trigger off. The longer he waits, the more the line of danger becomes skewed. In the end, he’s giving in to his own paranoia. There’s no way to truly escape this break.

Lucidity

7

Giyuu is actually fairly aware of how wrong his feelings for you have become. What was once innocent and pure has become warped and twisted into something entirely off. He shouldn’t think of you 24/7 nor should he be keeping such a detailed account of your life. It’s completely wrong of him, illegal, invasive towards you, and he feels immense guilt for it.

At first.

At first, he’s consumed with anger and disgust towards himself. He’s one hundred percent lucid at this point and fighting back against his urges and desires. He loves you, how can he be thinking and doing these things?

As time goes on however, his fight with himself becomes a losing battle. He wants you, needs you, has to keep you close. It’s more than he can take really, and in the end, isn’t he pitiful? Won’t you stop struggling? He adores you, he truly only desires your happiness and safety…

In his arms, of course.

Perception of Darling

Complete adoration!

Giyuu is not the sort of man to worship his darling in a religious sense, because humans are flawed and he wouldn’t truly love you if he ignored your flaws right? He loves those too, so Giyuu falls under the category of adoration.

With complete adoration is how Giyuu views you, his beloved darling.

He struggles not to constantly pamper and even mildly infantilize you, though he doesn’t view you as incapable. It’s the opposite in fact, shouldn’t someone as capable and smart as you be spoiled more? He thinks so at least. He wants to take away all your worries and struggles, all of them, because he wants to keep you safe from more than just outside threats.

He wants to protect you from the ones inside too. He knows what depression and anxiety feel like, how they can destroy you from the inside out, and he doesn’t want you suffering from the same thing.

These feelings are pure but his actions can reflect something different.

In his quest to rid you of all troubles, he can unintentionally make himself a trouble, one which he can sadly not rid you of. His simple solutions may even complicate things, like telling you to quit your job and rely on him financially when you complain of a co-worker. He struggles to listen at times, in his desperation to keep you happy at all points in time, and this can be frustrating.

Whether you are screaming at him in rage, crying in fear, or trembling with anxiety… he still thinks there’s no one more adorable and lovely than you. It’s difficult for him to feel anything but love and patience for you, even if he’s the cause of your outbursts.

It’s not that he believes you can do no wrong, it’s just that he could simply care less. As long as you don’t harm yourself, or try harming him (though he understands that much more), then there’s really not much that would cause his perception to waver.

Love Language

Words of affirmation

Giyuu enjoys words of affirmation the most from you. He enjoys all other love languages too, but in a way he somewhat forces quality time (stalking or kidnapping), acts of service (you breathing), receiving gifts (your presence). Physical touch would be a close second, but Giyuu can actually go without it should you not like it.

It’s your words though he cannot receive without you willingly giving it to him.

What he wouldn’t pay or do to hear you tell him “I love you” or “I forgive you” because he does feel guilty taking you. The guilt just doesn’t outweigh his overprotective instincts which drove him to take you in the first place.

Tell him he’s wonderful, compliment his hair or eyes, or tell him you’re grateful for his presence in your life. All will make him melt, his heart softening into silken tofu by your sweet words.

He also loves your voice, so you speaking at all makes his heart flutter. When you decide to utter kind words with that voice?

He’s gone.

Ability/Danger Level

10

Giyuu is as dangerous as he is pretty. Not to you of course, but to any and all who may or may not pose a threat to you. This includes family and friends too. He’s not above harming or even killing for the sake of protecting you, though he’d never reveal his actions out of his own volition.

He likely will get blood on his hands, especially since it becomes easier to take people out without you noticing once he’s kidnapped you. How can he allow someone who has harmed you to continue living and breathing? Even if the damage was only psychological, he views it as a trespass against his own and it will be met with violence or some similar horror.

He really doesn’t feel any guilt either, though he does have a strong moral code, especially for children. But that weird man who tried sexually harassing you?

The world can go without that sort of scum.

Punishment

Light/Non-scarring

Giyuu is likely one of the most patient yanderes out there, but he’s not without some temper. The quickest way to find yourself over his lap with your ass in the air is to try escaping or harming yourself.

His punishments, even when he’s in the worst of moods, will never be anything terrible. The worst you can expect is isolation.

This will seem fine at first, even enjoyable if you truly wish to get away from him, but over time it will wear you down to a sort of fragility you wouldn’t expect. It’s horrible being alone, maddening to a point you may break down and beg. He’s not able to bear hearing it, so he’d either lift the punishment as you having learnt your lesson or hide away.

A lesser punishment he might use is spanking or privilege revoking. He might ban you from the garden or walks you enjoy or put you over his knee and make your poor bum burn for a little. He’d never hit you anywhere else though, and of course, never use anywhere near his full strength in spanking you. It’s honestly little taps to him, but you might disagree when it hurts to sit later.

Giyuu may even be inclined to deny you sexually/or an orgasm if you are sexually intimate.

Reward

Constantly

How can he not? He wants to spoil you rotten, so much you can’t even fathom living without him and all he provides.

Giyuu absolutely rewards you with freedoms as his darling too, and you’ll learn to truly appreciate them as time goes on in captivity. The more accepting and loving you are towards him, the more freely he takes you out and allows you to do things. He doesn’t think you incapable as a human, which means he doesn’t mind TV, books, or entertainment as long as you aren’t using them to escape.

He’s not stupid and proves rather difficult to manipulate. He may let you play your game to let his guard down, but know once you make a move he’s showing you how futile the act is.

He’s happy to spend money on you though, whatever you like too. He’s a simple man and doesn’t really spend much on himself besides the basics and necessity, so he’s actually happy he gets to use his money for something besides collecting interest. Let him decorate you, or get all the fancy tools for your hobby you’ve always wanted. It’s not hard to get him to “reward” you. In fact, it’s harder to make him stop.

Style

Kidnap!

Try as he might to resist it, he wants nothing more to chain you to his side. That’s not possible though, he’s got obligations to attend to, but he can lock you in a gilded cage.

Treatment

A delicate flower~♡

He’s actually a bit hard to read when you first meet him, but he melts like ice on a hot summer day in your presence. Others may complain about his personality, or lack thereof, but you wonder if they’re talking about the same Giyuu that you know.

He never shuts up? He’s always bringing you fresh bouquets, sweets and snacks, any and all items that catch his eye which he thinks you’ll like. He’s detailed and incredibly considerate, and this doesn’t change when you’re taken captive either.

Though he won’t allow you to leave him, he can still give you… space. Your own room if you request it, a little garden, your space, as long as it doesn’t involve straying too far from him.

He’s not controlling in a sense of depriving you of basic human abilities, like cooking or using tools. He knows you are capable of taking care of yourself, and he’s careful not to make you feel otherwise.

He really tries. It’s not always perfect though. When you’re cooperative and willing, he has an easier time letting go of the reigns, but when you aren’t? He’ll lock doors and drawers like one might with a small toddler, his mistrust will show through his actions.

Intimacy

Sexually attracted~

Giyuu’s feelings for you are pure in a sense, but he’s a man with wants and desires…that just happen to all be directed at you.

He craves to hold and caress you, and he’s a bit embarrassed to admit he’s done so while you’ve slept. Your defenseless sleeping expression invokes both envy and adoration. He wishes he slept like that and also wishes you’d never sleep any other way. It’s intimate to him, cradling your slumbering form in his arms, pliant and sweet for him to gaze at until the sun rises. His anxiety for you is quenched when he holds you like so, and he enjoys the peace it brings him emotionally.

If you reject his physical affection, Giyuu is surprisingly one of the few yandere types to respect that boundary.

Don’t be mistaken though, he’s not above manipulating your feelings if there is a chance you’re only rejecting him due to the circumstances you’re in. It’s understandable to be frightened in the beginning, he’s not pushy in asking for anything from you that you aren’t willing to give to him.

But he knows he’s an attractive man, and feels nothing walking shirtless before you, or training while you can see. He’s seductive in how he’ll speak to you, lowering his tone and softening it, making you lean in closer to hear him. That’s when you’ll smell him, a clean and masculine scent that will confuse your mind and body because how can someone evil smell so good?

It won’t be hard to succumb to his advances if you’ve been intimate before you’d been taken. He’s detailed, remember? Confident he knows you inside and out, and that includes your weak points. Where to whisper or breathe to make you melt, where to touch to have you gasping, and how to deep he needs to thrust to make you scream. He’s well aware of how much pressure and time he needs to spend between your legs, how to lick your drooling cunt to have you shake and spasm, where to curl his fingers to make you tear at his locks.

No, Giyuu would never force any sort of intimacy on you. He makes it terribly difficult not crave it in fact.

Freedom

Minimal to none—

While in his presence, feel free to ask for walks, dates, or shopping sprees. He’s fine with taking you out so long as you act normally too.

Otherwise expect nothing. No freedom. Your cage may be luxurious and beautiful but you will never leave it, not without his supervision. He won’t budge either, there’s no convincing him something is safe or acceptable. It’s one of the few times you will see him stern and unbending with you, nothing you do will make him cave.

Begging and pleading may even irritate him enough to punish you as well. Why do you want to leave so badly? Is he so terrible to you?

Habits

Sleep watching

Giyuu spends an abnormal amount of time watching you sleep, even at the expense of his own rest. This won’t ever actually affect you, as he never outright tells you he does this, but if you figure it out or wake up unexpectedly to catch him… it may make you nervous to fall asleep.

Sexual Kinks (for non-platonic yandere)

Marking/Praise/Edging&Overstimulation

Giyuu felt these urges mildly before he met you. He’s aware he likes being told how well he’s performing, holding off an orgasm for him or his partner, or making both himself and his partner a mess with overstimulation.

It’s so much worse now though. He can’t help how desperate he becomes with you, how needy and near feral it makes him to just think of filling your pretty pussy up with his cum. It’s sad almost how you turn him into such a pathetic man. He wants to brand himself on you, it wars with his need to never hurt you too, so he settles by sucking bruises into your skin and occasionally biting you. He’s vocal when you’re both intimate, he tells you how much he adores you, what he adores about you (everything), and how good you are for him. His precious pearl, his ocean and entire heart, he’s not the least bit ashamed as he grits his teeth and cries your name as he comes apart. Giyuu loves teasing you and himself too, working you both so close to the edge before stopping, leaving you both whiny and desperate for one another. He needs you to cling to him, to beg for more, to take it too.

His kinks aren’t one sided. He wants you to mark him up, in the way he wishes he could bring himself to do to you. So drag your nails across his skin, make him wear a collar of your bites and kisses around his neck, pull his hair and bruise him. Anyway you show ownership of him is welcomed, though the amount of dominance he’ll accept from you is dependent on your acceptance of your new life with him. He’s less inclined to release the reigns of control when you’re still adapting, cautious and fearful it may be a ruse to trick him and escape. He’ll relax eventually, and even begin to crave the times you tie him up and torment him like he does to you. Deny his poor aching cock again and again, make him beg for you and worship your sweet cunt as you ride his face, and then deny him again just because. He’d even accept if you just stopped there, leaving him painted red and panting, exhausted but not finished. He’d be entirely grateful if you took mercy too, rode his pretty thick cock until he became delirious and keep going even after he’s cum, moving your hips like a goddess on his lap while he pleads for rest and mercy. He can cum multiple times, but it borders on painful after the third, he won’t complain much though if you test his limits.

He’s happy to return the favor, but Giyuu’s favorite way to overstimulate you both is deep hard sex, holding your gaze as he fills you over and over, your pussy oozing his white hot load each time he pulls out to put you in a new position, before he plugs you right back up. Giyuu likes to cum pressed as firmly against your womb as he can, and he likes when you cum around his cock. It feels to most complete to him, and he cherishes the pleasured look on your face.

If it ever becomes too much, a quick way to make him finish is to praise him too. Tell him how good he makes you feel, how beautiful he is, how you like what he’s doing. His hips will always stutter in surprise, blue eyes widening as he gasps and tenses, cock twitching and threatening to spill just from your lovely voice complimenting him.

Boundaries

The front door—

How can he protect you if you run away? He draws a solid line at the doorway. You will not be crossing it without him or else.

Leniency

Strict

Unsurprisingly for an overprotective yandere, Giyuu is incredibly strict.

You’re health and safety are top priority for him, so from when you wake up to when you fall asleep, he’s got all of it tracked.

Your daily needs are monitored like your exact location in his home. He likes having eyes on you at all times. He won’t enforce specific meal plans, but he makes sure you are eating enough, you’re getting enough vitamins and nutrients, and doctor visits are regular. He even knows your menstrual cycle.

You will be asking him for any and all things, he keeps that under tight control. If you want to bake bread or grow a garden, it will all be done through his means.

Overall Rating

89/100

Giyuu Tomioka is an incredibly dangerous yandere!

While he poses minimal threat to you as his darling, he’s a risk to the outside world and your surroundings. He’s sure in his carnage in the name of protecting you, and he’s lucid about it too, which makes him quite threatening.

You’re chance of escape is little to none, and the punishment following it will surely make your teeth ache.

Snippet

“You’re trying to leave?” His tone is soft, no true indication of his mood to those unfamiliar with him.

You were familiar with him though, and his words made your blood run cold. You weren’t trying to leave, you had only wanted fresh air in fact, but the position you were in now made that difficult to believe even to your own eyes. Balanced on the flat surface of the kitchen counter, you were struggling to open the window due to the cold having frozen it outside. Once you had gotten it open, like an animal you’d stuck your head out immediately. It was an instinctive reaction in all honestly, you just wanted the cool air on your skin.

You should’ve gotten him to do it though, he would’ve, you knew, but you’d wanted to do it yourself. To have the little moment all to your own. A foolish goal in the end, as this was where it took you now. He’s not looking at you, just leaned against the entryway with his arms crossed and a cool expression painting his features, head tilted slightly down.

“I’m not!” It’s too quick a denial to absolve you of suspicion, especially as you scramble down with a face appearing impossibly guilty. “I just wanted to open the window,” you explain, but the nervous rise of your voice and the way you look frightened only make his eyes narrow a fraction. He doesn’t believe you. You need him to believe you, because your punishment for escape is always his silence. It’s damning to your senses that crave company and interaction, his patience greater than your own.

“My love, I swear, I really, truly wasn’t,” you stepped closer, heart rate picking up as anxiety tickled your senses. “I would never leave you,” you whisper, coming up to him even as he gazes down at you with eyes pooling with disbelief and suspicion.

He’s unable to resist pulling you into his arms though, wrapping you up close to him and appreciating your softness in his grasp. It helps as you wrap your arms around his neck, press yourself impossibly closer, and whimper in his ear. His grip increases a fraction, a shiver going down his spine while one hand slips further down to cup your ass and lift you.

His strength amazed you at times, and terrified you at others.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, whispering promises of never leaving his side and loving him forever against his lips before he silences you with a kiss. His soft lips warm and coaxing as he takes you out of the kitchen and towards your shared room in the house. His hold becomes a bit too harsh as you’re laid on the bed, his weight blanketing you. His eyes are darker than usual, deeper pools of blue you worry might drown you as he slips his hands beneath your skirt, calloused fingers running along the soft flesh of your thigh as he spreads them. A burning need deep in his gut to remind you where you belong.

“Who do you belong to?” It’s so light against your lips you nearly miss it.

Until he tears your underwear off, a yelp elicited from you at the sting on your flesh from where he tugged and tore them.

“You!”

He easily slips between your legs, fingers sliding through your folds, finding your puffy nub and applying pressure until you’re moaning.

“G-Giyuu…”

“That’s right. You belong to me, don’t you pearl? All mine,” he’s pressing into you, two fingers opening you up despite your entrance weeping for all of him. Still mostly clothed you grip his sleeves, whining because it’s not enough, his lips hushing you again. He swallows all the little noises you make, tongue invading and stealing your ability to think as he fucks you with his fingers. Each shlick of your pussy has you heating further, the lewd wet noises he elicits making your legs tremble around his waist.

He breaks the kiss, rubbing and stretching your gummy walls before curling his fingers and vigorously attacking your poor g-spot, his lips tugging into a smile as you shatter for him.

You’re left limp beneath him, the orgasm he tore from you too quickly made you dizzy as you pant and gather your mind again. Giyuu is already sliding the tip of his cock through your slick before you can recover, pressing forward once he’s lubricated enough to slip past the tight first ring of muscle into your warmth. His cock spreads you perfectly, opening you up and leaving you gasping for air due to the sensitive inner walls being stimulated further.

It’s desperate and messy how he fucks you, intertwining your fingers and pressing them beside your head, kissing and marking your neck up while repeating under his breath how you’re his.

“Mine too—!” Your airy cry has him sinking even deeper, a groan coming out at your own claiming of him.

“Giyuu—,” he wants nothing more than to brand your soul with himself.

“Yours,” he nods, looking into your eyes as he bullies his cock against your poor cervix, using his thighs to press you up further, almost in half while he fucks you.

“All yours,” he moans, burying his face in your neck while he stuffs you full, the room heating as you did, your core tightening around him while your body edges on the beginning of another orgasm.

He stops just before you can cum. His weight and warmth immediately leaving you as you cry out in denial. Your wide gaze on his cooling expression, his jaw taunt with tension.

“Giyuu…?”

“Not till you learn.” Your confusion must show on your face.

“That you’ll never be safe unless you’re by side.”

He didn’t believe you.

“But I—,”

“Shh… I know, my sweet pearl.” He’s blanketing you again, warmth returning to your body but his eyes remain cool.

“You’ll learn eventually.”

Something dark swirls in those depths, your gut telling you to run but…

There’s no where to go.

Dividers hand drawn by @benkeibear !

[mx-pastelwriting]

Workaholic

VIKTOR X GN! READER

SUMMARY: Pulling Viktor away from his work. WARNINGS/TAGS: Established Relationship, Fluff, Viktor sleep deprived, Arguing with Jayce, Eepy Viktor, Cleaning Viktor's Place, Bit Sad

Walking into the messied lab holding Viktor's lunch tightly, not wanting to drop it, having brought some for Jayce had made the bag heavier.

Laying eyes upon the two boys hard at work, Viktor tinkering away at a machine and Jayce working on paperwork. Jayce is the first to look up, smiling at you, giving his lunch, receiving a "Thank you" in exchange before walking over to your boyfriend's workspace.

Placing the bag on the desk gaining his attention, leaned on the edge of the desk, meeting Viktor's tired eyes. Smiling weakly at you, struggling to keep his eyes open, sunken cheeks and red eyes that surrounded his amber ones stared back at you.

Not living together, you hadn't been aware of his sleeping patterns; the only reassurance of him getting rest was from staying over at his place and saying goodbye before going home telling him to rest.

“You look exhausted. How long have you been working?” You ask, worried, cupping his cheek. “I’m fine, I just need a nap.” Even with his calm dismissiveness, you persisted. Of course, this not being the first time.

“Let’s go, you need rest,” you stated, pushing away from the desk grabbing the bag of food. “Hold on, wait, we were close to a breakthrough,” Jayce's voice sounds from behind.

Turning to the man watching as he stepped back at the look on your face, “Look at him, Jayce,” responding in a low voice. Having had this conversation with Jayce before, Viktor never knew when to stop working. Jayce knew that; it was his job to make sure Viktor stepped away.

“We talked about this, no more long hours.” whispering with a voice filled with anger, "You can pick it up another day, I'm taking him home to rest," emphasizing the word rest. Not waiting for Jayce to respond, you turn to see Viktor standing, struggling to hold himself with his cane.

Moving to aid, supporting his body with a hand warped around his waist with an arm resting above your shoulder. Sounds from the cane hitting the ground filled the silence as neither of you spoke, arriving at Viktor’s.

Opening the door, having a spare, meeting the same clutteredness as the lab. Setting down the food as you walked through the apartment, passing by notes that covered every surface.

Entering the dim bedroom setting him down slowly on the blanket-covered bed, when staying over cuddled close to Viktor, the many blankets felt like heaven, but for him, it was a necessity, his body still not used to Piltover's cold nights.

Quickly undressing Viktor before tucking him in, taking only a second for sleep to take effect. Tracing the outline of his sleeping figure, thinking of the complaints of soreness that were to come in the morning.

Looking away, scanning the room, seeing what's changed since you've been there, little changed, only becoming more disorganized. Taking the opportunity to clean up his space before you join him in bed, starting by picking up clothes scattered about. Cleaning up tripping hazards and the small amount of dishes placed atop his desk.

Walking into the kitchen seeing the few dishes in the sink, noticing them to be the same ones from a week ago, when you had last visited. Realizing Viktor had been living off of the lunches and late dinner dates in the lab you brought him, thinking about it any further broke your heart even more.

Just as you started washing, Viktor's voice called out for you, setting the dishes back in the sink before washing off the soap from your hands. Making a mental note to finish in the morning, knowing how worked away his body from the lab, having no strength nor time to do it himself.

In the short distance to the bedroom, you undressed, making crawling into bed cuddling Viktor more comfortable, laying atop his chest wrapped warmly in his arms and blankets, having the rhythm of his heart and lungs taking in air to lull you to sleep.

Remember to eat and drink water today! <3

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: @scrunkalicious @sophieissleepy

[beware-of-pity]

Cinnamon Girl - Prologue

Masterlist I ao3 link I- Chapter one

Harry James Potter x Reader

Summary :

Only dreams can awaken consciousness. As the final battle between him and the Dark Lord draws nearer every day, Harry attends his sixth year at Hogwarts, warped by strange dreams, which he's sure someone is having a hand at. Hidden away by the shadows of the darkness in which those hands are summoned, he finds a girl not in synch with the world she dwells in. A seer, a siren, or perhaps just a girl he finds himself madly intrigued by.

Prologue: Oh, my life is changing everyday (In every possible way)

. ⚯ ͛

They say dark times require dark measures. It seems that after ‘He who must not be named’ had revealed his presence in the halls of the Ministry of Magic during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, no one was willing to deny the obvious return of the Dark Lord, which had been the causing of much speculation after the Tri-Wizard tournament, and the much distressing death of the young Cedric Diggory.

Open war on the wizarding community had been declared, and no one could consider themselves safe anymore.

Harry had spent a long time laying his eyes upon the purple leaflet that an owl, who had made his way on the perch of his window, had delivered to him. The instructions were simple, or at least, those were the measures the Ministry of Magic believed to be sufficient enough to protect oneself against the dark forces of the Death Eaters on the loose to spread chaos upon the world Harry had known ever since he was but a boy.

To not leave the house unattended had been a challenge enough, seeing as he could not rely upon the presence of another wizard to accompany him wherever he went, especially at night when he would sit at the old, run-down food stand on the platform of the train station he had found a fondness for wandering around and riding the trains off. He had been precarious, looking behind his back all the time. To say he had become paranoid would be a little too over the top, but he surely could not find the ease he felt when at Hogwarts or any of the familiar surroundings, where he could be safe or could find a helping hand at the simple turn of a corner.

He could not advise his aunt and uncle of the precautionary ways to protect themselves were it to come down to it either, for no charm or spell they could master, seen by their lack of magic, and even if there was a way for him to know how to defend them, he wasn’t sure they would be too open to hearing him out. Their pride, especially his uncle’s, beget him to ignore Harry. He could not blame them, he supposed, the less they knew, the better, left them less exposed and more into safer hands were something to happen to them.

He shared letters with both Ron and Hermione in the weeks following the battle of the Department of Mysteries. Both of his friends tried to be there for him as much as they could, sending comforting words that would put him off any sort of ideas that may come to his mind in light of Sirius’ passing. A tragedy, it had been deemed, by people who could not come near comprehending just how much the death of one of the few people he considered close to him and which he held dear to his heart had truly impacted and affected him. He grieved him still, and he was sure he would for a very long time, even surer he was that he would never stop, for the love he held for the man called his ‘godfather’ could never go away from the cave in his chest that had been carved and reserved for Sirius.

Things had been chaotic, to say the least, as the dust ruffled by the events ending his fifth school year slowly settled back upon the shots that had caused it to move in the first place. As recommended by the leaflet, he, Ron and Hermione had agreed upon several security questions to detect if the friend they thought was presenting in front of them was truly them or a Death Eater masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion.

But unlike all the ruffled feathers filling the air, his had been a couple of quiet weeks. He had not heard from Dumbledore ever since the time he had tried to shield him from the photographers rounding him, flashing their cameras too close to his eyes, practically blinding him, and shouting questions which made his eyes ring in a way that pulled at his eardrums, quickly sending waves of pains through his temples, reaching his forehead, where the nerves under his skin probed him in pain and left him disoriented. He made for a horrid sight, with speckles of blood on his face, pale, with a twisted pain he had come to know very well burning at the skin of his chest, where his heart resided. 

His breath had begun to quicken; his lips had tightened from the lack of moisture he tried to recover by wetting his lips, but to no avail, it did nothing but dry his mouth in turn, while the hard knot on his troath continued to tighten in the chord of the flesh there.

Had it not been for the comforting presence of his headmaster’s hand which had been placed on his shoulder as he had been led away from the sworn of journalists, he wasn’t sure he could have endured the ordeal for much longer before he could begin to lose his mind.

He needed a remedy to clear his mind, so he wandered the streets of the little Surrey town of Little Whinging, where he had lived his entire life since being placed in the care of his aunt and uncle. Trains were fast, and the rush of adrenaline they gave him felt nice. It would blind him of all the thoughts his mind had been filling itself with lately, if only for a moment.

He then began to find himself unconsciously spending time sitting at one of the tables of the food stand, watching over the train from across the window, and the pretty waiter, who would cheekily smile his way whenever she found him looking at her, peering upon the latest copy of the ‘Daily Prophet’ he’d bring with him, reading it as slowly as he could as an excuse to spend more time in the establishment.

He wasn’t sure he liked her, liked her, in that way. His feelings had been all over the place, especially in the romantic department, which he found himself more than not fumbling his way into.

First, it was Cho, a kind girl which he knew would never find the love she had felt for Cedric in him, but he hoped she would see a new, mature one, born upon the shared feeling of the hardship and the loss of a person which they found a friend into. He had been mistaken, in that he realized, as had Cho, who liked him, she truly did, but the pain of the loss of her first love shadowed everything that could have blossomed between them.

Then it had been Ginny, the younger sister of his best friend; he found in her a wild, young nature that he grew attracted to. Ginny embodied everything in her that meant being a Gryffindor. She was brave and good at everything she settled her mind upon, and he knew she would accomplish great things if given the opportunity, such as the path he could see her embarking on in the sport they both loved and played, Quidditch. 

He had wondered, at times,  how Ron would feel about him possibly crushing upon his sister, who he knew Ron was protective of.

It had all begun, he would think, after meeting at King's Cross. Ginny developed feelings for him and talked about him all summer, or so he had heard about it from an amused and teasing Ron, and when he was rescued from his family and brought to the Burrow, she became extremely shy in his presence. Since then, they have both gone on different romantic paths, but he knew it was hard to omit what was always there and would probably leave unless they faced it.

Overall, everything was just too complicated for him to get ahold of, especially his very complicated feelings, and with everything that had gone down in recent years, he could not think of affording the time to get to know anyone. Or so he thought, he had more important things to worry about, such as the flickering light that had begun to go wild on the opposite platform on which the food stand stood. He had stood to peer over the fogged window, trying to get a closer look at the sight before him that he knew could be of no normal nature as glitter dust began to dance over the opposite platform. As a train roars past, Harry squints through the flickering window and watches the dust transform into the headmaster of the place he had come to know as his one true home, Albus Dumbledore.

Levelling his glasses, he peers across the platform. Dumbledore smiles and gives Harry a wave. Although amused, Harry tightens his lips at the sight, knowing no good could come out of Dumbledore’s presence before him.

He was right, as he told himself he always was when his second instinct kicked in. One moment, he was standing beside his mentor, looking up at the rather provocative billboard he had seen being glued there not a few days past from his usual spot at the table at the stand; the next, he was being led through a steep, narrow street lined with darkened houses. It had lasted but a moment, but once he had placed his hand on that of his headmaster, the pitched headlong tornado he had been pulled into, and that trashed him into a sound of rush and fury had his guts twisting in ways he did not know could be twisted.

Even as he walked, he reeled from the apparition he had experienced. His eyes sting with tears, his steps heavy and unsteady, he followed Dumbledore in what he apparently required his assistance with.

“Most people vomit their first time. Don’t be too hard on yourself” he heard Dumbledore call out as he walked on the front.

“Can’t imagine why that is…” he murmured to himself, trying to regain his footing.

He glances about as Dumbledore explains to him that they are in the village of Budleigh Babberton. For what, Harry could only wonder, and as such, he says when asked of his opinion of the matter.

“After all these years, I just sort of roll with it, sir.” Dumbledore smiles mildly as if pleased by Harry’s willing compliance before the old lines on his face harden once they reach the objective of this ‘mission’ they had set out. A small stone house, in which Harry could not find any appeal whatsoever. Run down, the door blasted and misplaced, the windows on its sides broken and completely not whole. Something’s wrong, and Dumbledore takes the moment to voice it.

“Wands out, Harry”

Utter devastation is what they meet as they pass through the cracked door, moving smoothly and swiftly through the entrance hall, the light coming from the tips of their wands as their guiding light, with careful steps, avoiding the many possibilities of making noises that presented themselves to them in the form a grandfather clock laying on the floor, its face cracked, a piano sagging in in the corner, keys strewn like teeth upon the rug. A copy of the Daily Prophet, the same one he had been reading at the food stand, trembles in the breeze from a half-open window, broken shards of glass, more likely being the busted chandelier no longer on the ceiling, where in its place a hollowed hole in which a wet, dark and glutinous substance dripped down from upon, strikes the word ‘chosen’, written upon the gazette.

Harry gasped softly as it hit his face, flicking down on his forehead, right on his scar, and startling him. He went to dabb at it before Dumbledore stopped him, grabbed his hand, tapped the blood with his finger, and went for a taste.

The reaction is immediate, surely recognizing that which he had just gotten a taste of. Dumbledore turns, his eyes narrowing on an overstuffed armchair. A couple of perfectly placed slippers are in front of it, giving away the hiding spot of the person they were here for. 

Moving to it, Dumbledore jabs his wand into the plump seat cushion, awakening that which had not wanted to be disturbed in the first place.

Horace Slugghorn was many things. Some would say he was a fool. 

A naive, foolish fool who priced himself too much. A fool, indeed, but a prepared one he was.

The armchair he had mutated into reveals his plump, aged form, even as he briefly gets caught between the two forms. After a bit of grumbling and wrestling his way to the parts of him unwilling to change, seams splitting and the popping of a cushion button or two, the fat old man known as Horace Sluggorn reveals himself in all his glory, looking overly mighty in a pair of well-worn lilac pyjamas.

Quite the scene, Harry thought, as he watched the two converse before he was introduced to the man and he, in turn. Sluggorn looks at him as if he were a dragon, ready to pounce upon his new shining toy to add to his prized collection as he makes the observation many made at his sight. His father’s through and through, yet when people would meet his eyes, it was his mother staring back at them.

Harry didn’t know for how much longer in his life he could hear this comparison any longer; it brought him mixed feelings, to say the least. On the one hand, perhaps it was the fact that he could not remember either the face or the eyes most talked about if only by the memories brought by the many times he had passed flipping through the album of photos of them he held as a dear possession. But also, he felt a sort of pride in carrying the face of the people who were his parents, a mix of the love they had bore one another in the living form that he was. A true testament to who Lily and James Potter were, living and breathing, walking and very much alive in the form of their son.

Throughout it all, Sluggorn stared at Harry as if hypnotised, even as he gestured for him to walk closer to the dresser crowded with photographs, which his mom is part of many, it seems. Sluggorn rambled on and on about the other students he had the pleasure of teaching, whom he had stayed close to during the years, and his best students, his best picks, and members of his prized collection.

Harry remains disinterested in the description of many of these people until his eyes land on a framed photo, where a boy, no older than he was now, stands beside the professor, clad in his Slytherin quidditch uniform, who, for Harry’s liking, resembles Sirius too much.

He had come to know the boy as Regulus Black, Sirius’ brother, and Harry, hypnotised, just as Sluggorn had been of his presence, stares at the photo intently as Sluggorn describes him, the pleasure it had been being his teacher while professing the disappointment of not being his brother’s, how he had never been able to complete his collection of teaching members of the Black family through the lack of Sirius.

Before they can continue, they’re interrupted by Dumbledore coming back from the loo, a muggle magazine in hand about knitting patterns, a jolly expression on his face as he holds it up for Sluggorn to see as he asks if he could keep it. Sure enough, he’s given the go, and before Sluggorn can protest they make a go for the door once more, now in its place again.

Not even a few steps out of the door, Sluggorn comes rushing through, yelling about relenting to the hidden proposal that Dumbledore had come to present to him, as he had, it seemed, many times before. Returning to Hogwarts to teach potions. To Harry, it seemed a rather redundant proposal, especially coming all this way to pursue and persuade a man who did not ask to be impressed or be offered more than he bargained for and one who had seemed to be more than willing to take the offer once considered through. With just one interaction, Harry had come to understand who Horace Sluggorn was. He likes his comfort, the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people as he boasts about them to others. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out. It had been, just as they returned to the spot they had apparated to, that Harry truly realised just why Sluggorn had so easily accepted that which he had so vehemently denied before.

Him. It had all made sense. Harry wondered if he was so appealing to a man like Sluggorn, who did not seem to want anything and asked for nothing more than what he needed, that he would risk it all just to acquire him in the list of students Sluggorn had the pleasure to boast about.

The was something more, which he was shielded from, yet, but one that he knew would be revealed to him soon. Not now, it seemed, perhaps not the time yet. He didn’t ask or inquire, he knew it would be futile. He trusted Dumbledore, and he knew that he did things a certain way because those same things required them.

He took a deep breath as he placed his hand on the one Dumbledore extended to him, dreading what was to come next.

What he did not expect was for his next apparition to be worse than his first. His shoes, as well as a good chunk of his trousers, were wet from the running pond in the field the Burrow was built around, he had just landed into.

He groaned as he stumbled through the muddy ground under the water, trying to regain his footing as he winced.

Once he gets close enough to the house, he glances about, until his eyes land on the fiery-haired girl he shared complicated feelings for, Ginny, as she flits briefly past an upstairs window.

His reunion with his most dear friends had been bittersweet but a happy one nonetheless, even as he greeted Ginny, with whom he shared an air of awkwardness after she gave him a great grinning hug, the moment oddly charged, a surprise to both of them, which he thinks of even as he greets her mother, Molly Weasley, who he viewed as his own.

A copy of the Daily Prophet tumbles within a makeshift campfire of blue flames, protruding by Harry’s wand, but magically doesn’t disintegrate. Harry teases the fire with the tip of his wand, where ‘The Chosen One?’ mingles with Draco’s haunted face in flames, the photo taken outside the hearing for his father’s trial.

He, Ron and Hermione catch up on what’s been happening as of late, the fact that both Hermione’s parents, muggle-born that had no idea of the intricacies of the wizarding world, and Ron’s mother deemed the idea of returning to Hogswart to be too unfit to happen.

Harry shook his head as he argued against the notion of Hogwarts ever being dangerous.

“But we’re talking about Hogwarts. Dumbledore. What could be safer?” His question was met with both of his friends sharing a knowing look. Perhaps it was his naivety or the simple trust he blindly placed in a man who had proven to be more than reliable, but Harry truly believed in the idea that as long as Dumbledore was around nothing would happen. He knew that to be true, he would stick to his gun unless proven otherwise.

He believed he knew the old man, who he viewed as his mentor, better than everyone at school; what a fool Harry was, he didn’t know the man at all, only what he was given to believe he was. But such a young spirit could not be dispirited by the harsh reality of the world he was not shown, that which was purposely hidden from him. He needed to believe, otherwise what else would there be for him to believe in?

The comforting silence in the room breaks as the three break off in laughter, and the night comes alive with the flesh of youth. That night, as Harry lies on a straw-together makeshift bed, he looks out upon the blue field, where shining stars glisten brightly, contrasting their dark surroundings.

With his nose filled with the smell of sweet vanilla candles, he falls into the depths of his dreams, where warm fingertips trace and trail upon his face. The echoes of a muffled voice lull him into the darkness he had become so afraid of before he falls into their warm embrace.

He would soon find out whose hands those fingers belonged to and why they were reaching for his dreams.

AN: I wanted to preface that i'm writing this fanfic as a birthday gift to one of my friends and that with her permission I heavily edited this to make it a x reader story for you all to enjoy. I am not the biggest fan of this franchise even though I appreciate it for what it is, its impact on fandom works, and the childhood it took me through. It's been a long time since I've interacted with this fandom (which i'm not sure it's still alive for this x reader story to enjoy) or since I watched one of the movies, so please, if you think I'm not educated enough in the source material it's mostly likely because I am actually not. I will try my best to be faithful to the events of the movies since this is canon-compliant to them (especially because I have not read the books), and I hope that with that little warning in mind, you will be able to enjoy this as much as I actually found myself while writing it.

[stuffn0tthings]

One more day.

A mere twenty-four hours.

A single, solitary revolution of our pale blue planet around its axis, translating into 86,400 seconds of ticking, crawling, dragging existence.

A temporal stretch of agony and anticipation, wherein the mind is suspended in a liminal purgatory between “almost done” and “not quite yet.”

It is the ultimate buffer zone — the last delay screen before the credits roll, the final spoonful of cold soup before dessert, the leftover, unseasoned broccoli of time that simply must be consumed before freedom tastes sweet.

It is a cursed measurement, deceptively short in its numerical value but infinite in psychological toll — the Schrödinger’s cat of time, simultaneously manageable and unbearable.

We find ourselves entrenched in the passage of this day — nay, this epochal fragment of the fourth dimension — where every hour feels like molasses dripping in reverse, and every minute mocks us with the audacity of continued existence.

The sun will rise and set once more, illuminating the same obligations, the same tasks, the same checklist you swore you'd finish three days ago but instead glanced at once while doom-scrolling through memes that ironically referenced your procrastination.

This day, this unholy convergence of seconds and sighs, will test not just your patience but your very grip on reality, as time dilates and warps into something less like a concept and more like a cruel social experiment sponsored by the universe.

It is the last boss level of this arc, the final fetch quest of your week, the post-credits stinger of your suffering, where productivity dies, motivation is buried, and the only thing keeping you upright is a volatile cocktail of inertia and snacks.

You are not living this day — you are surviving it, enduring it, riding the creaky escalator of existence up the final floor of nonsense to reach what you hope, dear God, is peace on the other side.

And though the numbers may indicate this time shall pass like any other, your internal monologue has transformed into a Shakespearean soliloquy composed entirely of groans, existential dread, and dramatic stares into the void.

And still. It stands. Unmoving. Towering. Laughing.

A single day remains.

Merely twenty-four hours stand between the present and the anticipated future.

A finite chronological interval — composed of 1,440 minutes, or 86,400 seconds — separates this precise temporal coordinate from the conclusion of this ongoing saga.

A terminal solar cycle, during which the Earth shall complete an additional axial rotation, continues to impede the arrival of desired relief, fulfillment, or perhaps mere cessation of responsibility.

We now find ourselves suspended within the metaphysical chasm between what was and what shall be, clinging to the promise of an eventual end that lies just beyond this final, formidable bastion of temporal resistance.

As the inexorable hands of time march forward in solemn indifference, we—frail, overcaffeinated denizens of this mortal coil—must endure the remaining orbital interval with dwindling vitality and questionable coherence.

And so, we persist, staring into the abyss of “just one more day,” which, though numerically minimal, expands infinitely within the fatigued recesses of our perception, becoming less a measurement of time and more a test of existential endurance within the slow, collapsing theater of reality itself.

One more day.

A single day remains.

A solitary, unaccompanied unit of temporal measurement in the Gregorian calendar system.

Exactly twenty-four hours, composed of one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, which themselves contain eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds, each ticking by with a speed both consistent and yet emotionally devastating in its sluggishness.

One more day — an increment of time so seemingly ordinary and yet, under the current context of highly specific, emotionally charged anticipation, assumes the form of a gargantuan, insurmountable temporal monolith that looms oppressively over every waking moment of consciousness.

An immovable blockade.

A wall of time constructed from dense, unyielding matter formed entirely of not-yet-ness.

It is a duration. A delay. A deferral of satisfaction. A bureaucratic pause in the linear experience of time-based gratification.

As I sit, marinating in my own over-awareness of time’s continued forward momentum — the tick, the tock, the endless passage of milliseconds through the meat grinder of perception — I find myself entrenched in the psychologically deteriorating experience of waiting. Not just waiting, but waiting while knowing. Waiting with knowledge. Waiting with certainty. The certainty that it is not two days. Not three. But one. Just one. Only one. Yet somehow, that oneness has stretched into a metaphysical eternity, a dilation of subjective time caused by expectation, hype, and a deeply unhealthy parasocial relationship with fictional content.

One. More. Day.

Just one. Not zero. Not now. But also not distant. The most cursed interval of all: almost.

An interstitial pause between the present moment and the culmination of built-up mental, emotional, and possibly spiritual investment in a piece of media content that, in the grand scale of human civilization, is meaningless — and yet, right now, means everything.

And so I wait.

A being suspended in time. A conscious entity shackled to the irreversible forward momentum of chronological progression, unable to do anything but observe the slow erosion of the remaining hours, minutes, and seconds separating me from That Which Is Not Yet Released.

And all I can say — all I have to say — is this:

One more day.

A single, finite temporal unit, universally acknowledged in most human calendar systems as a “day,” remains in the measurable continuum between the current moment in time and a specific, targeted future event whose occurrence has been scheduled, predicted, or otherwise expected.

The totality of this residual duration equals twenty-four hours, composed of one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, which themselves consist of eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds. Each second, as defined by the International System of Units, corresponds to the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of radiation produced by the transition between two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium-133 atom.

Thus, “one more day” may be equivalently described as the future passage of exactly 7.9 × 10^10 atomic oscillations, accumulated in a continuous, unbroken linear flow from the present instant to the eventual conclusion of the designated interval. No additional units are appended to this count, no fractional units exist beyond the totality of the aforementioned temporal subdivision. The number of days remaining is not zero. It is also not two. Nor three. Nor any non-one integer, non-integer, or imaginary unit. It is precisely and explicitly equal to one.

The word “more” serves as a linguistic marker of additive continuation — a lexical unit indicating an extension or residual quantity. Within the phrase, it functions as an intermediary component, signaling the presence of additional temporal matter not yet elapsed. “More” implies existence beyond the immediate, a delay not yet resolved, a segment still to be experienced. “More” modifies “day” in such a way as to communicate that at least one full diurnal cycle has not yet passed.

The final element, “day,” is defined astronomically as the interval required for a celestial body, such as Earth, to complete one full rotation around its axis. In civil timekeeping, it has been standardized to a uniform duration, regardless of orbital eccentricities or leap second adjustments. It is a fixed and rigid metric for the passage of time and has been subdivided into conventional portions such as hours, minutes, and seconds for ease of human comprehension and scheduling.

As a total unit, “One more day” represents the totality of time remaining before the conclusion of a specified countdown, sequence, or scheduled event. This linguistic construct may be used in casual, formal, psychological, industrial, or cosmological contexts to express a delay, a suspension of finality, or the inevitable transit of time through its final pre-defined unit.

At this stage in the countdown cycle, all previous durations — days, weeks, months, or years — have been nullified. The sequence has been reduced to its terminal interval. The culmination of waiting has been compressed into a single, indivisible temporal unit. The count, once consisting of multiple values, is now a single numeric figure. The qualitative difference between “several days” and “one more day” is profound, as the latter signals proximity, finality, and the immediate preface to resolution.

The psychological impact of the phrase increases disproportionately as the number approaches one. While larger numbers create abstraction, the proximity of one more day produces heightened anticipation. The density of expectation compresses into the final 24-hour span, creating a distorted perception of time’s flow. Subjective experience may record the passage of these hours as slower, more extended, more arduous, despite the objective uniformity of their length. Time, though consistent in its forward motion, appears malleable under the pressure of anticipation.

One more day may feel longer than several days. It may be observed in fragments — subdivided into hours, further divided into minutes, and further into seconds, each of which is observed, counted, measured, and recalculated in relation to the conclusion of the wait. The cycle of checking — clocks, calendars, timers, and notification systems — becomes obsessive. This reinforces the perceived expansion of time within the limited remaining span.

No force may accelerate this day. The mechanisms of the universe are indifferent to human interest. The sun will rise, transit, and fall at the designated times, determined by latitude, season, and axial tilt. Atomic time continues uninterrupted. Digital systems, independent of emotion, count each second with mechanical certainty. Human anticipation holds no bearing on the unfolding of the universe’s strict, unyielding rhythm.

“One more day” remains fixed.

A solitary cycle.

An indivisible interval.

An inescapable delay.

A singular step between now and then.

No methods, hacks, shortcuts, or appeals may reduce it.

Its boundary is absolute.

Its expiration, inevitable.

When it ends, it ends.

But until that moment —

Until that final transition —

Until the very last oscillation of the cesium-133 atom completes the eighty-six thousand four hundredth second of the final hour —

The accurate description of the temporal state is, and continues to be:

One.

More.

Day.

One more day remains.

Only one. Not fractional. Not partial. Not theoretical. Entire. Complete. Intact.

It exists as a container. A sealed vessel of time.

It cannot be opened early.

It cannot be skipped.

It must be waited through.

Every millisecond counts.

Every heartbeat within this duration contributes to its erosion.

And only upon the elimination of the last measurable quantum of time within this period can it be said, with full certainty and without contradiction, that the number of remaining days has transitioned from one to zero.

Until then —

The count remains unchanged.

The reality persists.

One more day.

Still.

Still.

Still.

---

One more day.

One. More. Day.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Body Electric

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader x Billy Taylor (The Halcyon) Warnings: Angst, mentions of PTSD and familial death, (consensual) infidelity, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: Tom's been sullen since returning from the Navy, and when his sister, Lois, moves from Longsight to London it heralds the end of the honeymoon period of his and his wife's marriage. Deciding a trip to the capital is just what they need to reignite the flame, Tom's wife gets much more than she bargains for when they check into The Halcyon, and she flirts with the handsome young bell boy to make her husband jealous.

Author's note: This is not a crack fic. I have warped canon (I mean, I had to get these two to exist in the same AU anyway), so Billy didn't die when he was drafted, and has gone back to his old job at The Halcyon. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Dappled sunlight plays upon Tom’s sharp features, the occasional shadow of a tree or building passing across his face as the train speeds through the British countryside. He’d look beautiful, bathed in golden hues, were it not for the pensive expression he wears, and the faintest of dark circles that linger beneath his eyes.

She can’t remember the last time he looked genuinely happy - perhaps it was their wedding day?

Her and Tom had met in secondary school, and she’d thought he was an idiot to begin with; handsome, but always mucking around in lessons, never able to take anything seriously. It wasn’t until they’d both left that they’d become an item. She’d go to the weekly dances at the Pavillion, and every week he would ask her out. The first three times she had said no, not wanting to get mixed up with a known troublemaker. On the fourth occasion she’d relented, simply in the hopes that if she said yes he’d leave her alone. But she’d found she enjoyed his company, he made her laugh effortlessly, and when his blue eyes gazed into hers it made her feel like the only girl in the world that mattered. When he had kissed her it had stolen all the air from her lungs, and from that point on she was smitten with Tom Bennett.

The night before he shipped out for the first time, she had thought he meant to slam the bed’s headboard through the brickwork of the wall with the force with which he took her. However, she had smiled to herself when she’d felt the pleasant ache between her thighs the next day.

“Something to remember me by,” he’d told her with a wink and that trademark smirk of his.

Something to remember indeed.

She’d barely recognised him when he’d returned. He was thin, tired, didn’t laugh as freely, and learning that his father had passed when the Bennett family home was shelled had darkened his mood further. He hadn’t stayed long, enough to argue with his sister, Lois, and enough to find his way between her thighs once more and make her swear to him that she’d marry him when he came back.

Of course she had said yes, there was no one in the world she could imagine wanting to marry more than Tom. But with how things are between them these days she is left wondering if he’d married her because he loved her, or because she was the one thing left in Longsight that he could anchor himself to.

They’d married quickly when Tom was discharged for the final time, the war at its end. It had been an intimate affair, and despite the toll his service to his country had taken on him, Tom still gazed into her eyes on their wedding night and made her feel like the only girl in the world that mattered.

But then Lois had announced she was taking Vera and moving to London - her and Connie had found a place they could share. A fresh start. She had hinted at wanting to move away from Longsight before, and Tom had dismissed it, insisting that the family must stay together. 

He was furious when she’d chosen to go anyway, refusing to be part of the send off party for her at the train station.

“This is where mum and dad are buried, how can she do this?!” He’d raged.

“They’re just headstones, Tommy,” she had tried to reassure him, “memories go everywhere with you.”

“You wouldn’t fucking understand,” he’d seethed back at her, “you’ve still got both your parents, what have I got?!”

“You’ve got me, you’ll always have me,” she’d said quietly.

He’d fallen silent at that, bowing his head and averting his gaze. It made her chest ache to see him that way.

It’s been close to a month since they were last intimate, and she has done her best to be patient and understanding. His time in the Navy has put him through a horrendous ordeal, coupled with losing Douglas, and his sister moving away, so she doesn’t pressure him.

However, she misses her husband. She feels that he is abandoning her each time he retreats into himself, going somewhere she can’t follow. Like two ships in the night, they pass each other by, laying in the same bed physically but emotionally never further apart.

When a letter arrives from Lois, letting them know she’s settled and would love for them to visit, she jumps at the opportunity. She has some money put aside from her job at the factory, and her and Tom never got to have a honeymoon, this would be the perfect way for them to rekindle the romance in their marriage.

She is shocked, yet thrilled, when Tom actually agrees to it, and the pair of them arrange a week’s worth of leave from their respective jobs, arranging to stay in a hotel rather than impose themselves upon Lois’ hospitality. There’d be plenty for them to do while they’re there, and she can’t wait to see the sights of Piccadilly Circus and Carnaby Street, she’s never been to London before.

Tom has stared silently out of the window the entire train ride from Manchester, though she knows better than to believe he’s taking in the scenery. It’s merely so he doesn’t have to make conversation. She can live with that, she is certain that once they’ve had their romantic week away that he’ll be much more talkative on the journey back.

Everything will be fine once we’re checked into The Halcyon.

It is early evening by the time they arrive, and Euston station is a crowded rush of people when they step onto the platform. She is fearful of it for a moment, never having seen so many people all in one place at once, until Tom takes her by the hand, guiding her through the crowds towards the taxi rank. Her heart soars at the gesture, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips over his protectiveness. Perhaps he is not lost to her after all.

She stares in wide eyed wonder out of the window of the black cab as it drives through the streets of London. It is similar to Manchester in its greyness and vastness, they both have all the trappings of big city living, however, the heart of London beats to an entirely different rhythm than that of Manchester’s. The capital seems harsher, more relentless than the northern locale that she calls home. She wonders if perhaps this is the right place to try to rekindle the spark in hers and Tom’s marriage after all.

That is until they step into the foyer of The Halcyon. Her heels click against the black and white tiles of the foyer, her mouth agape as she takes in the opulence of the huge pillars, the palm trees that flank either side of the entrance, and the yellow and orange hues of the stained glass panel in the ceiling. How could they not reignite their passion when they were going to live like royalty for a week?

“Billy!” The dark haired woman manning reception calls around the corner, once they’ve checked in. “Come and help Mr and Mrs. Bennett with their bags.”

A tall, lean young man, who can’t be any older than twenty, rounds the corner. He’s handsome, with bright blue eyes, and mousy hair that’s slicked back beneath the cap of his black and grey bellboy uniform.

He gives her a tight lipped smile, the tips of his ears turning pink as he looks at her and she can’t help the way she preens at his flustered state.

Still got it.

“Second floor, Billy,” the receptionist tells him as he leans down to grab their suitcases, “room twenty six.”

Billy nods. “Right this way, please, Mr and Mrs. Bennett,” he says, directing them towards the lifts.

She can feel the bellboy’s gaze upon her in the tight confines of the elevator and smiles to herself. At least someone was appreciative of her.

He takes his leave, bidding them both a good evening once their luggage is deposited outside of their room door, and her and Tom are left alone once more.

Tom whistles low as they enter, flicking on the lights, and she feels pride swell in her chest that he’s impressed by the lavish surroundings. A shiver of excitement runs through her as her eyes move over the crisp white pillows and crimson duvet that adorn the bed, thinking that this might be where they’ll finally make love for the first time in a month.

It’s a beautiful room; lace curtains hang in the windows, ornate floral wallpaper decorates the walls, there’s a writing desk by the window, and a yellow velvet armchair is placed off to one side by the bed.

Turning back towards Tom, she steps towards him, sliding her hands up his chest, over his jacket. She smiles demurely up at him, her voice a soft purr. “So, Mr. Bennett, what shall we do now?”

“It’s been a long journey, love,” he tells her, taking one of her hands and brushing his lips against her knuckles. “Let’s just get some rest, yeah?”

“Oh…okay,” she nods, stepping back and looking away. She feels like she might cry, as disappointment weighs heavily upon her chest. This is not how she imagined their first night here would go at all.

As she lays in the darkness, listening to the strange sounds of the city, motor cars and loud voices, all seeping in through the closed window, she can’t seem to fall asleep. She turns her face towards Tom, who lays facing away from her, wondering if he’s awake too.

“Tommy?” She whispers.

“Yeah?” He whispers back.

She pauses a moment, and when she speaks again she’s unable to disguise the tremble of emotion in her voice. “Do…do you still love me?”

He rolls to face her then, and the devastation of what she’s implying is evident in the arch of his eyebrows and parting of his lips, illuminated by the light of the streetlamp that pours in through the lace curtains. She feels a lump in her throat, regretting having asked.

“Course I do,” he says earnestly, tugging her towards him, and she buries her face in his chest. He presses his lips to the crown of her head, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’ve been letting you down.”

They stay like that for the rest of the night.

The next morning they sit in the hotel’s dining room for breakfast. Tom idly smokes a cigarette, a full English in front of him, while she butters her toast.

“Gonna go and see Lois today,” he tells her, taking a swig from his tea cup.

“I thought we’d arranged to visit her on Sunday?” She asks, frowning in confusion as she sets her knife down on her plate.

“We are,” Tom says, blowing smoke out through his nostrils - a gesture she has long since learned is a sign of irritation on his part. “But I’m gonna go see her today - alone.”

You’re going to start an argument, and then come back in a bad mood.

She sighs, folding her hands in her lap. “And what am I supposed to do?”

Tom shrugs. “Go to Carnaby Street, or whatever it was you were saying you wanted to do while we’re here.”

“Tommy, we’re supposed to do those things together, and I don’t wanna walk around London on my own!”

He nods, stubbing his cigarette out on the yolk of his fried egg, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. He had barely touched his food, he never does anymore.

“Alright, look, I’m only gonna be gone a couple of hours, then we can do whatever you want. Why don’t you order some drinks for when I get back, and we can start our holiday properly?”

“You promise?” She asks with a small smile.

“Cross my heart,” he says, taking a final swig of his tea. He stands from the table and presses a kiss to her temple.

“And promise you won’t be horrible to Lois?”

“I’m not promising anything for that mardy cow,” he says, giving her a wink, before walking off.

She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

Fuck’s sake, Tommy.

She goes back up to the room once she’s finished her breakfast, and takes a long, hot soak in the bath. Almost two hours have passed by the time she has her make-up finished and her hair curled. Dressed in lingerie and a satin robe, she is still deciding on an outfit when she realises Tom will be back soon and she hasn’t ordered their drinks.

Calling down to the hotel’s switchboard from the phone on the desk, she asks for a glass of white wine and a whisky to be sent up to the room. Ordinarily, Tom is a lager drinker, but she decides he deserves a treat as they’re on holiday.

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and the bellboy from yesterday stands on the other side, holding a tray with the drinks they’d ordered.

She smiles warmly, watching him blush as he bows his head and enters the room, setting the tray down on a nearby table.

“Thank you…Billy, wasn’t it?” She asks, cocking her head.

He presses his lips together in a tight smile, glancing at her before looking shyly away again. It’s clear her state of undress is having an effect on him. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett,” he says, clearing his throat and straightening, clasping his hands behind his back. “Will that be all?”

Excitement flutters in her lower belly. It’s been a long time since a man has reacted to her so bashfully, and she’s enjoying it. She isn’t ready to let Billy slip away just yet.

“No need to be so formal, sweetheart,” she coos, “you can call me by my first name.”

He shuffles from foot to foot, huffing a nervous laugh. “Sorry, Mrs…sorry…”

“How old are you, Billy?” She asks, stepping towards him.

“I’m twenty-one.”

Seven years my junior. Not as bad as I’d thought.

“Did you serve, Billy?”

“Yes,” he says with a proud smile. “I manned the anti aircraft guns at the barracks for three years.”

The sound of a key in the lock draws both their attention towards the door, as Tom walks through it. Just as she’d anticipated, his expression is sour. He’s argued with Lois. 

“I’ll leave you both to it,” Billy says, with a polite nod of his head.

She knows how this will play out. Billy will leave, and Tom will allow his bad mood to ruin their day, either by refusing to leave their hotel room, or simply sulking his way around London when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Opting to use the current situation to her advantage, she decides to be tactical, and give her husband a reminder of what he’s missing out on. If he sees another man flirting with his wife, perhaps it will snap him out of this.

“No need to be in such a hurry, Billy, we were just getting to know each other. Or do you have somewhere you need to be?”

Billy eyes Tom carefully as he walks past the both of them, taking the whisky from the tray on the desk and sipping from it.

“Well, my shift finishes in ten minutes,” he says distractedly, “so I s’pose I could–”

“Perfect,” she cuts him off, taking his arm and guiding him to sit next to her on the edge of the bed.

Tom remains silent, taking a seat in the armchair and placing his glass on the table next to it. His jaw is set, gaze dark. He only ever looks like this when he’s sparring for a fight, but if this is what it takes, then so be it.

“Do you have a sweetheart, Billy?” She asks softly, fingernails grazing his thigh, causing him to flush bright red.

“Er…well…” he removes his cap, keeping his gaze fixed on it as he turns it round in his hands. “There was a maid that worked here…Kate, her name was. I fancied her…really fancied her, but she moved back to Ireland to be with her family when the worst of the bombing hit.”

“Oh, you poor love,” she soothes, giving his hand a squeeze. “I expect a handsome lad like you has girls queuing up.”

The click of Tom’s lighter pulls their focus back to him, and he exhales a plume of smoke, staring intently at them both. “Do you fancy my wife?” He asks Billy, with a steely gaze.

Billy swallows thickly, eyes widening in panic as he opens and closes his mouth.

“It’s okay, Billy,” she says gently, “you don’t need to be shy.”

“Well…I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mrs…sorry…but I think you’re beautiful.”

This time it’s her turn to feel embarrassed, and she averts her gaze as she feels her skin grow warm.

“Yeah, she is beautiful isn’t she? Would you like to kiss her?” Tom asks, lifting his glass and taking a deep drink from it, his eyes never leaving Billy.

Her head snaps up, looking at her husband with wide eyed shock.

Why is he asking that?!

“Tommy…” she says hesitantly, an edge of warning in her tone.

“It’s fine, love,” he takes another drag of his cigarette, settling further into the armchair, observing the both of them. “Go on, kiss her.”

Returning her attention to Billy, he’s shuffled closer, looking at her questioningly.

“Is…is this okay?” He whispers, leaning in.

She nods, closing the gap and her lips meet his. He is hesitant at first. His kisses are not as forceful as Tom’s, his lips are softer. As she reaches up to cup his cheek, he seems to grow more confident, applying more pressure, a quiet hum of approval rumbling in his throat. It makes her core throb to be desired like this.

When they finally part for air, she is breathless and flustered. She looks straight to Tom. He sits, watching them casually, fingers wrapped around his glass in one hand, propped on the arm of the chair, his cigarette burning low between his forefingers in the other.

“Do you wanna touch her?” He asks Billy, a low, darkened edge to his voice.

“Yeah…yeah, I do,” Billy answers, sounding more poised than he had just moments before.

“Go on then,” Tom instructs, “brush your thumb over her nipple, she likes that.”

She gasps softly as Billy leans in again, capturing her lips with his own once more. A quiet moan escapes her as she feels his hand tentatively slip into the opening of her robe, his thumb swiping gently over the lace of her brassiere.

He is not as self assured as Tom, Billy’s touch is featherlight by comparison, but it’s been so long since someone has paid this kind of attention to her that she responds to it just the same. She arches against Billy, her tongue slipping into his mouth as she hears his cap drop to the carpet with a soft thud.

“You can fuck her, if you want to,” Tom rasps, and she glances over at him, as Billy’s desperate kisses move down her neck. His blue eyes are still dark, she’s no longer able to tell if it’s from anger or arousal, the two states look much the same when he wears them.

There’s a part of her mind that’s screaming at her that this is wrong, that they should stop. However, if this is what it takes to get Tom to notice her again, then she’ll do it, and selfishly she’s enjoying how it feels.

Billy pushes her back, and she goes willingly. “Are you sure this is okay?” He whispers, his voice betraying his nerves.

She nods, untying and opening her robe, to reveal the lacy lingerie set she wears beneath.

Billy draws in a sharp inhale, before hurriedly unfastening his belt and unzipping his trousers with shaky hands.

He freezes, looking at Tom. “I…I don’t have a sheath.”

“Don’t need one,” Tom replies nonchalantly, crushing his cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “Best not keep her waiting.”

She pulls the gusset of her knickers to one side as Billy hovers over her. She can feel she’s soaked already. Billy is not quite as girthy as Tom, but still an impressive size that causes her breath to catch in her throat as he starts to press inside.

Tom chuckles quietly from where he sits. “She’s tight, isn’t she? Tightest little pussy I’ve ever had. Go careful.”

His words cause her to ache with want, and she moans wantonly as Billy bottoms out with a grunt. He’s gentle, much more so than Tom would be, slowly withdrawing before pushing back in, a dusting of pink prominent across his cheekbones.

“You won’t break her,” Tom tells him, “can just imagine how wet and warm she feels. Fuck her harder, and wrap one of her legs around you. She goes mad for that.”

She cries out, white hot sparks of pleasure swirling in her gut as Billy does as he’s told, the shallow pants of his breath puffing hotly against the side of her face.

Turning her head, she looks at her husband and he smirks, eyes raking over the scene before him as Billy continues to rut into her.

“T–Tommy…” she moans.

With each push of Billy’s hips into hers, she can feel her climax building, she’s right on the precipice, but it seems Billy is too. He tenses, a groan escaping him.

“Don’t you dare come inside her,” snaps Tom.

As if on cue, Billy pulls out, making her whine at the loss, coating her thighs in his hot spend as his jaw slackens and his brow furrows.

Before she’s had a chance to recover, Tom is rising from his seat towards the bed. “You can go now,” he tells Billy.

Still struggling to catch his breath, Billy nods, clambering off of her and fastening his trousers and belt back up. He stoops to pick up his cap, before hurrying towards the door, followed by Tom.

She lays there, dumbfounded and breathless, through glassy eyes she watches Tom hand Billy a bank note. “You’ll not tell anyone about this, d’you understand?”

“Y–yes, sir.”

She hears the door click closed, and Tom walks back over to the bed. His pupils are blown wide with lust and it sends a shiver through her.

“Enjoy yourself, love?” He asks, grabbing her thighs and tugging her towards the edge of the mattress, making her squeal.

“Are you angry with me?” She asks quietly, feeling shame bloom heavily within her chest.

“No,” he says distractedly, attention focused on her core. His thumb swipes through the stickiness that’s been left on her thigh, spreading it slowly over her skin. “No, I’m not angry.”

“You’ve been so absent lately,” she says sadly, propping herself up on her elbows. “Just wanted your attention.”

He straightens, nodding in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. I’ve been neglecting you, and that’s my fault. But don’t worry, I won’t anymore. Now–”

She clenches around nothing as his hands move to his belt, and she hears the metallic clink of it opening. “Now you have my full attention, and I’m gonna make sure you get all of it.”

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[aether-night]

Jonatello au masterlist:

Literally trying to put every single au I have of these decade old gay boys into one place because I need to share my ideas with more people ASAP before my brain turns into rice pudding

Bimutated Donnie au: So anyone remember the TMNT '03 episode 'Good Genes'... basically that but 2012 show edition. While fighting the kraang, Leatherhead pushes (grabs him by the face) Donnie away from enemy fire but then Donnie sees a vat of mutagen about to start leaking and Casey is in the danger zone, but in his efforts to stop the spill he gets doused in mutagen and turns into an alligator-turtle hybrid, with his natural instincts taking over his rational mind and his body becoming warped. He hides away in the sewers for days until they find him and he can't even speak at this point but he's starting to come back to himself. He gains incredible strength and durability at the cost of his scientific mind, which is the key to creating a retromutagen that will return him to his previous state and not a regular turtle or gator or even a human. He feels ashamed around Casey, often hiding when the human stops by, but he knows that this person is someone special to him. Eventually enough time passes and Donnie starts to speak again, albeit very broken, but him and Casey rekindle their relationship (they were dating before the accident) and Casey thinks Donnie looks badass and would still love him no matter what he looks like. But Donnie is working on a mutagen in secret but if it fails he will either have to accept his life in this new form or as a completely different person altogether.

Demon slayer au: In Taisho-era Japan, Casey's mother was killed by demons when he was little. He makes a living killing demons but finds one in a swamp that is always outsmarting him. After weeks of cat and mouse between the two, he finally has the demon in his clutches but the monster begs for mercy which had never happened to Casey, so he decides to capture it and study the demon to learn more about them. But the two grow close, and the human learns this demon called Donatello is lost and looking for the rest of his family. Casey must chose to follow his heart or his moral code...

Vampire au: Hamato Yoshi, leader of a Japanese vampire clan, moves to America in the early 1900s to follow his sworn enemy The Shredder. He saves the lives of four turtle hatchlings but turning them into vampires and raising them as his own family. Casey Jones is the son of a city patrol officer who has taught himself how to slay vampires, but when he finds a clan unlike anything before he eventually joins them to help take down their common enemy in The Shredder. He quickly falls in love with Donatello, and after some early turbulence, the two form an unbreakable bond. But will their romance withstand the flow of time and make it out of the final battle with shredder unharmed? (I have a fanfic of this one published: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62065534)

Nightly secrets: Casey and Donnie have been school sweethearts for a year now, but Casey is determined to discover what secret his boyfriend is hiding. Turns out from sunset to sunrise, Donnie and the rest of his family turn into mutants at night. Afraid of rejection, Donnie doesn't tell Casey. But as their relationship becomes strained, will their love prevail?

Beauty & The Beast au: Donnie and his family were turned into mutants when they were young by the Shredder but they all managed to escape into the city. Donnie has been living on a block of abandoned businesses for 10 years now, but due to an unfortunate accident, Casey Jones now has to live with the mutant. While initially angry at the mutant, Casey warms up to Donatello after the mutant saves his life. He learns about Donnie's family (and helps to reunite them all) but Donnie is running out of time: the mutagen is causing him to turn feral and he's afraid not just of himself but of what he could do to Casey as well. It's up to Jones Jr to find a way to save his relationship and the Hamato family. (I have a fanfic for this one posted: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60383392/chapters/154121086)

League of Legends/Arcane au: Donnie and his siblings are turtle-like vastaya with spiritual powers and ninja training who have come to Piltover to learn about the rest of the world. Casey Jones works as a thief/informant for Silco, and runs into Donnie one day. They come from opposite worlds but the boys start to develop feelings for one another. But with war on the horizon, will it last?

Parents au: after years of marriage, Donnie and Casey decide to scientifically create their own kids. With two little girls, the two enjoy adult domestic family life together.

The Punishment of a Kiss: Casey begins to turn into a turtle mutant like Donnie after exposure to the mutagen in his boyfriend's blood. He spends his days in constant pain and has to say goodbye to his daily life as Donnie works on a cure. But the whole situation begins to strain their relationship. (I have a fanfic about this one posted: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49332091/chapters/124485970)

Vigilante and experiment: Casey is a self-proclaimed hero whole finds an underground research lab with human-animal mutant hybrids. He rescues one called Donnie who appears to have lost his memory and lets the boy live with him. But the road to recovery is long and neither of them know the truth of Donnie's identity: that he and Casey were childhood friends and lovers years ago... (I have a fic posted for this one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62259941)

Psyche and Eros: In his sister's place Casey is taken as a human sacrifice in his village, but he ends up in the loving care of a bunch of spirits. But he can only talk to them in the dark because they have been cursed with a horrifyingly ugly appearance and anyone who looks at them will be punished. But Casey begins to fall in love with the Spirit of Curiosity, Donatello, and breaks the rule and sees the spirit's true form. Betrayed and broken hearted, Donnie begins to fade away unless Casey can attone for his actions.

Tangled au: Shredder kidnapped the human prince Donatello as a newborn and raised him in secret, but Donnie and his siblings have a special power from the mutagen that saved their mother's life: they can turn into mutant turtles when they sing. Casey is a thief trying to get wealthy to provide for his family who finds and frees Donatello and leads the boy back to his kingdom, with the two boys falling in love in the process.

Little mermaid au: turtlemer Donnie has always wanted to go to the surface and he makes a deal with the seawitch Shinigami to get three days on land. But the foreign evil king Shredder is determined to get his hands on a mermaid, and it's up to the Hamato family and Prince Casey Jones to stop him.

Nymph au: Donatello and his siblings were cursed into mutants by Circe for protecting the one kindhearted man who came to the island, Yoshi. When Odesseus and his men show up, Casey Jones finds the nymphs and quickly falls in love with Donatello. But the Ithican crew won't stay forever and he must chose a life of paradise or returning home.

Symbiote au: created from a mixture of human, turtle, and alien DNA, Donnie is a science experiment taken into the care of Casey Jones after the lab exploded and his siblings went missing. Donnie often stays bonded to Casey and they speak telepathically, with Donnie giving Casey his strength and smarts and Casey providing him to love and friendship he never had living hidden away. But the rest of his family is in danger and there are people willing to hurt Casey to get to Donnie. Their love will need to power through all obstacles if they can stay together.

How to train your dragon au: Casey has always wanted make a living as a popular dragon slayer, but when he downs one that's always evaded capture he learns this turtle-like dragon can shapeshift into a human-ish form, able to talk and act like a person. The two form an agreement: the dragon will help Casey create inventions that will make him rich if he helps treat Donnie's injuries so he can leave. Feelings start to blossom between the two but they come from separate worlds, so how will it ever work out?

Gorgon au: in their sorrow at the loss of their sister Medusa, the two remaining gorgons created their own children with their blood. Bearing an appearance similar to turtles, all 4 have a head of snakes and while they don't turn people into stone their scales are just as hard as rocks, making them near impossible to harm. But Casey washes ashore and the gorgonettes decide to keep him around for fun, but Donnie has already had his heart broken by a human and doesn't trust this Casey. At least, not at first...

EPIC the Musical au: just jonatello as Penelope and Odysseus.

[toxintouch]

I heard it was angst time. CW: MC Death. About the level of graphic (gore/violence) description that is in the source material imo. Be cautious and prioritize taking care of yourself if you are unsure, please. ♡

Mhin can’t find you.

When you don't appear at the scheduled time to discuss the headway you’ve each made individually regarding your mutual goal, they walk away from your agreed-upon rendezvous point with an annoyed huff.

When the next night passes and you still don’t show, they become even more incensed.

It’s not until they head to the Wet Wick and Leander asks them if they’ve seen you that they become concerned.

They look everywhere.

Leander places posters on the corner streets alongside his usual advertisements and soon your likeness is plastered across Lowtown.  Large letters reading: “REWARD” peer down at Mhin reproachfully at every turn as they fruitlessly go about their own search when they can spare the time during their day to day fight for survival.  

Something nags at the back of their mind.  

Guilt, they think.  Self-loathing.  They should have tried to find you that night.

As the days turn into weeks, they give up on Leander’s methods and start asking their own questions. 

They do it under the guise of collecting another bounty, but the genuine, thankful relief they get from Leander, the sorrowful look they receive from Kuras–they're know they're wearing a shallow facade at best.

It leaves a raw taste in their mouth to do so, but they even ask Vere, knowing the fleabag has keen senses which they do not.

Their stomach drops when Vere laughs.  A harsh, cruel thing that has them brandishing their dagger, keen to gut him like a fish where he stands.  He reads their rage easily, assuring them that he’s innocent, that he had nothing to do with your disappearance.

Which is what a Monster would say–but then–

Vere would be at his most honest while gloating, wouldn’t he?  If the truth is a twist of the knife.

He tells them to check their own closet for skeletons.  Tells them to check for Monsters underneath their own bed.

The adrenaline hits them immediately.  They start to sweat and shake and feel nauseous.  For their body, the realization is instantaneous.  In their mind, it comes more slowly.  Like walking through a dream.

They try to reach back in their memory. Try to tug at that nagging thing.

Unspool it until they can determine where the emptiness begins, ends, anything in between.

And then they find it.  They don’t remember it, but they find it.  

In one of their many hidden shelters. The one closest to your rendezvous point–a small lacuna in the side of a crumbling building, a nest built into the flesh.

Spooling trails of entrails and ruined bandages.  Viscera and bones and gore.  Scavengers have gotten to you and contaminated the scene but–

The wounds are unmistakable.  Familiar to them, by now.

The soft parts of you that have been picked at and eaten.

The sinking feeling in their gut expands.  This type of scene doesn’t make Mhin sick anymore but they wish it would.  Wish they could retch and rid themself of this emptiness.  Wish they could expel the vision of you–

The remains of you, laid out before them. 

There’s something almost graceful about your corpse.  As if you’ve been drawn out of a fairy tale, your gruesome demise told as a parable for children.

They try to remember transforming.  Killing you.  

Your last words, if you could make any around the blood gurgling from between your lips like a fountain.

Maybe in the future your fairy tale will have a moral to it.  A reason.  Your death will be more than senseless, another body added to the pile.  

For now Mhin will have to live without that closure.

The grief drips off of them like blood off of black feathers. It can't permeate their defenses, advantages granted to them by an evolution that was not of their own volition. They can already feel their mind warping around their memories of you, dulling them lest they tear themself apart, fall down while climbing up the tower to meet you and dash themselves upon the rocks, sink into the water below and drown beneath the torrent. A younger version of them would chase after the memories, cling to the waning thought of you.

The person they are now lets it happen.

They turn their back, leaving the empty echos behind.

Bad Ending : "Reward"

[cupcakeslushie]

Hello,

HOLLY SH*T (about the last update)

When Leo gets his memories back does he also remember those (f*cking)400 days?

How would Leo have grown up to be like, if his memories weren't taken from him? (would he have become kind of like Donnie?)

will he ever open up to someone about this?

Does he have some kind of triggers left from the experience, even though his memories wee taken from it?

I adore your work and Have a great week 😁

1. 🤗

2. So, Leo’s issues are like a leak in a dam constantly trying to be held back. Kitsune’s magic can suppress or manipulate his memories, but a lot still manage to get through. Hence the need for the repeated sessions, and then later the Empyrean, to act as a booster to her magic—as Leo has built up a tolerance over the years, making it less and less effective. Leo does remember some things. Unfortunately, every time he starts to ask questions, he’s been so conditioned to seek out Kitsune to ‘fix’ his mind and suppress his emotions. But some of his memories were impossible to erase completely. They followed him around like little shadows, haunting him, and his choices. Leo is not stupid. He more discerning than he let’s on, and like Saki said, fear can be a powerful motivator. By the time Leo’s managed to claw his way up to a better position, he’s been fed so many lies that he doesn’t even trust his own reasoning. It’s just easier, and less painful to follow orders, no matter what his brain is constantly trying to tell him.

3. Tbh Leo probably wouldn’t have been very different from how he is. Shredder is a lot more…calculating in his abuse of Leo, than Draxum was for Donnie. Draxum was so unpredictable and volatile in his abuse. Everything that Donnie tried to do better, never seemed to help lessen his torture. It was just pain for the sake of pain. Shredder may be a monster, but his abuse had a goal—to make a warrior he could puppet into killing Yoshi. Saki didn’t just provide constant trauma, he gave positive reinforcement when Leo did something right, and used careful manipulation to bend Leo over to his side. All Kitsune’s spell did was make it easier and faster. If Shredder hadn’t had magic at his disposal, then it would’ve just taken more time and effort to break Leo and remold him, or Shredder might’ve just cut his losses and killed him.

4. Leo doesn’t want to burden his brothers with things that have already passed, and that feeling only gets stronger after he’s been saved from the Dark Armor. He’s constantly insisting that he doesn’t feel one way or the other from those days. It happened, but he says he feels so disconnected from it all. Leo’s earlier return to his family had already been filled with so much fighting, thanks to his withdrawals when he was first brought home causing him to act so erratic. Leo thinks as long as he’s not shouting at his brothers, or trying to attack Splinter, that he’s dealing with everything pretty well. Obviously that’s bullshit. But he’s gonna do a lot of healing during his trip with Usagi.

5. Leo’s worst triggers are when his family is in danger. Those times are when he falls back into either total bloodlust, or a more ruthless mentality, in order to protect them. Leo getting recaptured and thrown back into a cell will be like a wave of memories and trauma hitting him at full force. Like I’ve mention in point 1. He never totally forgot certain things, but the months spent free of Kitsune’s influence makes his second capture so much worse. He’ll be feeling all that fear and panic unfiltered, for the first time in years, and he’ll be able to recall the true horror of it—not the watered down, warped simulacrum Shredder wanted him to remember. Which loops back to point 4 about Leo’s lack of admitting his feelings being a coping mechanism. Once he gets rescued, unconsciously, he’s trying to mimic the dampening effect of Kitsune’s spell, by insisting through sheer force of will, that everything is fine. He can only convince himself that he’s unaffected by everything he’s experienced for so long.

6. Thank you!!! I hope you have an amazing week as well!

I’m sorry if this is kinda rambling, all these ideas be more clearly implemented in the comic, (at least I hope lol).

I also can’t remember how long ago I’ve even talked about Leo’s memory problems in one of these replies. I might be totally backtracking cause I think I’ve said before his memory was wiped completely, but I’ve been thinking it would give more complexity to his choices, if it was revealed his memory was actually more intact than Mikey’s this whole time. Mikey brain just needed a little boost from Raph, because his issue came more from him being so young that things faded over time. With Leo, it’s like a battle where his brain is trying to latch on to what it can to fight the effects of Kitsune’s spell. So his memory may be full of holes and beaten with a stick over and over, but it’s still knocking around in Leo’s head.