#cw slave mention

[campgender]

“Interlude 3” from The New Topping Book (2003) by Dossie Easton & Janet W. Hardy

A role-play scene, played by "Akasha, " a novice top friend.

I woke up with great difficulty and realized my mind was full of thoughts of domination, weird fantasies about devices that I did not own but wished I did. I thought of my friend Richard, and a wonderful night we had shared many months before.

I called him and found him still in bed. I said, "God, I am really having a problem today."

He shifted in his sheets, I could hear it, and said, "Hungry?"

I was doodling, cracking pencil leads and then throwing them away.

"Yes," I said, and I was sort of half shaking, just wanting to make him beg on the phone, make him get out of his warm bed and kneel down, make him whimper, do anything. But I wanted more, so I held back and asked him to see me.

He half moaned and sighed, yawned again, and told me he had class that night. I told him to meet me afterward. He paused, and I felt like I was going to die.

"Richard, please. I'm going crazy. Do this for me, OK?"

"You want to hurt me?" he said softly, making me face it. This was back when it was still hard for me to accept that I enjoyed making men suffer.

It's difficult to describe what a day like that feels like, waiting for the hours to go by, trying to concentrate on work, going one step at a time.

When I am in that mindframe I can smell everything in the air, I can feel mist against my face in the cold air. The moon is more illuminated, the sound of my feet in puddles as I walk somehow thrills me with a feeling of authority.

I arrived at the cafe a few minutes early and waited in the lobby. Richard arrived a few minutes late. When I stood up and hugged him he laughed softly into my ear, "How're you doing?" I just moaned and started fingering his hair, tugging at it a little. We parted and I looked at him again, blinking. I felt weak, numb. I wanted to take him by the hair and force him to his knees. Instead I said weakly, "You probably haven't eaten yet. Can I buy you dinner?"

When his food arrived I stole his silverware and he laughed. "I'm serious," I told him in a low voice. "I am feeding you this entire meal." His eyes searched around the room and he lowered his voice, "Come on, people will see. We can take care of you when we get home. Let me eat."

Any other night I wouldn't think twice about him eating dinner across from me. But in that mood, on that night, I wanted to be the one feeding him. I wanted to make him part his lips each time I lifted the spoon. I wanted to make him beg with his eyes for more, or look at me longingly. Or I wanted to force him to do it.

I leaned over the table and we argued a bit about it, finally compromising in that I would feed him the first few bites and then let him finish. Knowing that he hated doing it but would submit to it for a few minutes was enough for now.

When we got into my room he sat on the edge of my bed then finally lay down, spreading his arms out and sighing tiredly. I slid down and moved on top of him, moving my hands up to his wrists and holding them down there. His eyes flickered open and he stared at me expressionlessly, waiting.

I consider it true, deep headspace when I am capable, without hesitation, of exercising acts of cruelty or power as if they were second nature. These are things that I would never do in a normal state of mind. On that night I slipped into it relatively easily, maybe because I had been lingering around the edges of it for so long.

I set up a series of short scenes, because my appetite was varied and I wanted to satisfy it all. Sometimes I want total resistance, sometimes I want fear, sometimes I want pathetic, eager submission. That night I wanted them all.

I used every single restraint device on him that I had, in every position I could imagine. I kept a hand over his mouth most of the night and wrestled him to the ground three or four different times, ordering him to feign resistance until I hurt him into submitting.

I roleplayed kidnapping him, interrogating him, seducing him, and fucking him. I had an orgasm just from the way he felt against me as I took him against his will, one hand holding his head back by a fistful of hair and the other over his mouth to muffle his protests.

For the grand finale I put him in my chair and handcuffed his wrists behind his back, taking my wall mirror down and putting it behind him ,so I could see his wrists and enjoy the way they looked while still facing him. "I put water in his hair to simulate sweat and messed it up, tied his ankles together, and told him I was going to kill him.

He put his head down solemnly and I walked around a bit, touching his skin gently, telling him how pretty and helpless he looked. He shifted, and struggled uselessly, then lifted his head to me and looked at me with his teeth clenched, saying "You have to let me go. Don't do this to me."

I leaned down and held his face in my hands, putting my lips close to his, licking them gently. "Kiss me goodbye, my tortured slave." He shut his eyes and leaned forward to kiss me, hungry, passionate, as if to seduce me with his mouth and tongue. This kiss was long, desperate, and when I broke from it he was breathing hard.

His eyes were pleading, yet strong. "I'm not afraid to die," he said softly.

He always knew the things to say. He was begging, yet he was strong. He was submitting, but he was still powerful. He amazed me.

We had played these execution scenes before so I didn't need to give him any instruction. He was to pretend he had about three minutes left to live, locked in some airtight chamber or given some poisonous gas, and he was to struggle yet remain brave until the moment I came to save him from his fate.

And he really knew how to play it. Perfectly, yet differently every time. The way he pulled at the handcuffs, letting them cut into his wrists as if it didn't matter,. The way he threw his head back to breathe with such pained difficulty, the way he looked at me through wet bangs with desperation, his lashes damp with tears.

I felt so close to orgasm, but it was a different sort of satisfaction. I just watched, emotionless, as his struggles became weaker and his breathing more labored.

Then it hit me, at once, it was like a sensual overload, like an orgasm but of the mind. I shivered, I felt a cold sweat on my body and suddenly I wanted to cry, I thought, "God, what am I doing to him?" I unfastened him quickly and slid into his arms, shaking, telling him I was sorry. He laughed softly into my ear and told me it was okay, that he was acting, and that I needn't feel bad.

But feeling bad makes me feel better, so I spent some time crying, letting him reassure me. We lay down in the bed together and eventually fell asleep after I had sufficient reassurance.

Waking up the next morning I felt a different kind of exhaustion. It's impossible to explain how much dom headspace rips the energy right out of you. Sometimes it takes me days to recover.

[nukacourier]

Can I just say the Arcade slavery jokes make me super uncomfortable and I wish they weren't so common with other Arcade likers or tolerated by them in the fandom :/

[radicalrainbow]

Miracle [COTL Oc]

I didn't talk much about him no but here he is <3

Backstory below-

TW: Abuse, circus slavery, dangerous acts, mentions of suicide

Miracle was born into a world that wasn't too keen on his existence. His mother had been excited for his arrival, but his father less so, and in the end, the man was left with a bundled-up wolf pup to care for on his own.

Miracle's father didn't care for him too much, never even bothered to give him a proper name besides barking out 'pup' and 'boy'. Miracle was not safe under that house; his father drank, hit him, and hardly spoke to him if it wasn't yelling at him for taking away his wife. In the grand scheme of things, the abuse lasted very little under that household. Instead, Miracle was tossed into a new pair of equally cruel hands.

He didn't leave much behind in that place—no toys, hardly any clothes—and yet he still cried for his father to come back as he was forcefully painted and dressed as a small clown. In the circus, he was given his stage name, the only name he ever knew, Miracle.

The Ringmaster of the circus his father had sold him to was cruel, but at least the cruelty could be avoided for some time. If Miracle brought in enough money, he would get to sleep in the hay; if he brought in enough money, he would get to eat. It wasn't fun, but he had long learned that life wasn't supposed to be. The abuse was more far and few between until he became a teenager.

Turns out the masses that came to the circus to laugh at jokes and gasp at harrowing acrobatics were much less kind to a scrawny teen. When his cute face was no longer a selling point, the ringmaster pushed him to learn tricks—simple things at first, and even then his hands shook from exhaustion, and Miracle was constantly struck. His body slowly became a myriad of scars, crossing over one another until his fur refused to fully grow back in certain places.

As he aged, all the tricks only grew in intensity. One day, he was stuck atop a tightrope, being forced to walk a thin fine line with no safety net to catch him. Miracle hated heights, and his own terrified sobs were almost enough to send him tumbling, but he survived that night. Yet his brain snapped; he had constantly wished for death, but as he was shoved out of the tent for doing a poor job in his training, he decided that this time he was finally ready to die.

Circus tents were far more flammable than he thought. Fire was quickly encroaching up the wooden posts and up the striped cloth walls. The people he only vaguely knew from performances were screaming, trying to run out, many catching against a blazing piece of rubble and perishing with the others.

Miracle was ready to accept death, and for some time, he closed his eyes and let the burning heat encase him. Yet something in him refused, and the next thing he knew, he was stumbling outside of the tent. His fur was singed, his lungs burning for air, and he could only make it a handful of more steps before he collapsed outside of the inferno. The fire flickered off the surrounding trees, and Miracle looked up at the stars so far above and was content with it being his last memory.

Miracle woke up beneath a mass of purple bed sheets.

Elegant and smooth, and the room smelled of books and yet somehow also of blood. The bishop of war sat at one edge of the bed, and Miracle was far too exhausted to do more than cough.

Shamura, the bishop of war, the eldest of the old faith. He had heard of them on the lips of passersby.

Shamura explained to him how they had been walking along in the random unnamed woods, vaguely mentioning something troubling them. Miracle had found it hard to concentrate when their voice was so soft, and the bed so warm. He was not certain he had ever slept in a proper bed, and the thought captured his thoughts until Shamura explained what they would do with him. They intended to keep him here and nurse him back to health. He said nothing to them and refused until the day he successfully managed to escape.

Though he knew of Shamura, he underestimated the Silk Cradle and its brutish nature. Miracle was quickly captured by guards and sentenced to be sacrificed to the very god he had escaped from. Death would do well by him, death, pleasant, a bad life spiraling down the drain and forgotten to the earth. No friends, no family, nothing was left for him here.

Only for Miracle to be rescued by the very last Lamb. He begged them for death, begged them to kill him, but they refused. Instead, he was brought to their cult where they've kept a close eye on him and made sure he's as comfortable as a suicidal wolf can be.

[syn0vial]

so convenient for me that the bad guys in this game keep giving astarion perfectly IC reasons to murder their asses

[glacialswordsman]

GI!yaya: unafraid of mentioning his khaenriahn lineage especially if it's for his own benefit

HSR!yaya, staring at GI!yaya: ...

[mcondance]

while i love tct i will say that the criticism of it being quite close to trauma porn is extremely valid.

[hiodoshi-ao]

.

[bookandcover]

Octavia Butler’s Kindred was our family’s recent read (my choice!) for our Anti-Racism Book Club. I’m glad I read this book in a context in which I was able to discuss it, as the process of talking about this book with my family helped bring the themes and topics into different, and meaningful, focus. One notable example: Two-thirds of the way through our discussion, one of my family members pointed out that this book is called kindred. Our kin—those people grouped with us, sometimes seemingly so random and so different, still deeply, painfully connected with who and how we are in the world—who we can’t cut off, as much as we might long to at times, through whom we come to know and to understand ourselves…what does it mean to directly, personally confront our kin? What if our kin were not who we might wish them to be?

Through the magical conventions of time travel, Dana’s life is entangled with the life of her ancestor Rufus, who is able to somehow summon her to his side to intervene when his life is at risk. Without her intervention, it seems that Rufus would die. Dana’s first intervention seems a “no brainer”: Rufus is a small child who is drowning. But while Dana doesn’t overthink this first simple rescue, each subsequent rescue builds in context and complexity, so that Dana must repeatedly analyze her decision to save Rufus at each turn of his risk-ridden life. Alice is as much a part of Dana’s history as Rufus, yet Rufus is the one Dana is summoned back to save, the one ancestor whose saving is likely the most fraught, emotionally and ethically. While Dana would likely have saved a Black ancestor of hers—particular an ancestor like Alice, female and enslaved—with a similar conviction with which she saved the drowning child, Rufus does not remain simple and worthy as he grows into an adult, slave-owning white man in the antebellum South. It’s unknown why Rufus is the one who benefits from Dana’s magical link with him—although, of course, it is somehow the hapless young white man who cannot manage to stand on his own, and repeatedly inconveniences, interrupts, and risks the life and happiness of the Black woman on whom he depends—except that this is a dynamic that best reveals the complexities inherent in their kin connection. 

Throughout the novel, the character portrait of Rufus is well-crafted and complex, and—interestingly, troublingly—one of the most compelling aspects of this book. As Dana engages with him throughout about 20 years of his life, we the readers get to know Rufus as thoroughly as she knows him, understanding his softness that was absent in his father Weylin, as well as his inability to accept a “no,” to retreat, or to let go. Rufus is both compassionate and unable to override his own neediness when this conflicts with the needs of others. He exercises kindness, on his terms. He is capable of inhuman cruelty, but gentle when he gets what he wants. He is entitled, humble, depressed, spontaneous, deeply committed, unhealthily single-minded, surprisingly self-aware. All these complexities are contained within Rufus’s character portrait, as he is both the product of his times and uniquely shaped by his relationship with Dana. 

Alice is also three-dimensional and engagingly realistic in her inherent contradictions. Like Rufus, she is someone who Dana both tolerates and loves in spite of herself. Alice is hurtful to Dana, speaking to her with a sharp edge she doesn’t unleash on anyone else. It was striking to reflect that Rufus and Alice were equal parts of Dana, equal contributors to her genetic heritage. While other characters often point out how much alike Dana and Alice look, reinforcing this genetic connection, Dana’s willingness to keep Rufus alive as she awaits the birth of Hagar (her ancestors she knows is their biological child) keeps reinforcing both what Dana is able to tolerate for the safety of herself and her family line and the inexplicable connection she forms with Rufus. Both Rufus and Alice form uniquely dependent relationships with Dana—they are willing to lean on her in ways other characters, even her husband Kevin, are not—and this, I feel, also reveals them as kin. Kin are those who see the worst of us, who accommodate for our flaws, who open their deep insecurities to us, who ask more of us than we would accept from anyone else. 

The narrative choice to have Dana’s modern relationship be with a white man, and the characterization of Kevin as both “forward thinking” (for the 1970s) and inevitably shaped by his racial-gender privilege, throws the tensions of the past into sharp relief—as Kevin and Dana both choose to adhere to the conventions of the past (Dana, for her safety, needs to pose as belonging to Kevin, needs to speak to the white people around her in a particular manner), and they internalize these dynamics, to an extent, over time. While there is some exploration of the difference between Dana and Kevin’s experiences in the past and the roles they fall into (particularly in the scene where Dana and Kevin discuss their “playacting” involvement in the past after seeing young Black children playing at a slave auction), their “modern” relationship often felt outdated to me. When the story first moved back in time to develop the beginning of their relationship, I found myself to flipping to the front of the book to check the publication date (1979) and I felt I needed to repeatedly contextualize some choices about their contemporary relationship into the context of the publication date. 

I’m very familiar with Octavia Butler’s book Parable of the Sower (1993), as I’ve taught this in my 10th grade English class. Parable of the Sower feels shockingly prescient; one of those “dystopian” novels that feels sharply aware of its time-period and context, and painfully forward-thinking, speaking beyond the concerns of its day in a way that feels timely and urgent when teaching this novel in 2023. While aspects of Kindred felt dated, unlike Parable of the Sower, discussing the character development in this book and the theme of family connection helped me see a timeless quality of this novel. I saw how relevant this book would feel for any modern Black reader confronting the alarmingly common truth that their ancestry includes white slave owners who raped the women they owned. How can a Black person today—rightfully proud of the strong community of their forebears—understand the existence of these white ancestors? Must they also, with these people, feel some type of connection? What if that connection became actual, literal, and influential in their daily lives? How terrifying and troubling must that be. This book felt like a literal attempt to confront and reckon with the presence of white slave-owning ancestors in the ancestry of many modern day Black Americans. 

Protagonist Dana often felt to me more like a “stand-in for the reader” than a character, the vehicle through which we experience the world of the antebellum South. Perhaps this is due in part to the book’s effort to explore an applicable Black American experience, but this also reflects back on the observation that Rufus is—in contrast—such a well-drawn character. Like Dana herself, we readers are deeply involved in observing him (as observing his every move becomes the thing on which her life depends, whether through ensuring he stays alive, or ensuring he dies and cannot harm her). I wished, at various points, that we would see more of the impact these time travel experiences have in the “modern” day, that we would see more of how Dana was changed by these experiences, and how her relationship with Kevin evolved. I wasn’t sure if the “invisibility” of Dana as a character was partly due to my short-sightedness, or deeply ingrained racist thinking that perceives the supportive Black woman as placeholder rather than agent. Or was this proximity between Dana and the reader—the erasure of this common literary distance—a deliberate technique to plunge us fully into Dana’s world, to guide us to feel directly the experience of a supportive, yet morally conflicted, Black woman? 

The major evolution of Dana’s character, I realized upon reflection and discussion, is the change in her perspective about and emotional sense of responsibility for Rufus. It seemed inevitable, at a certain point, that this book would end with Dana killing Rufus—not just allowing his death through passive inaction to save him, but raising the knife herself. Yes, Dana’s character evolution is dependent on Rufus’s evolution, and the complex character portrait of Rufus developed across the arc of his life and the arc of the book, but her changing perspective on him is also a key evolution for Dana herself. (Interestingly, time moves independently for Dana and for Rufus, and years of his life pass during mere days of hers, which partially accounts for—or symbolizes—his change and her relative stasis). Yet, within this timeframe, Dana comes to the emotional place where she is capable of severing the tie with Rufus. Is this a metaphor for the ties of kin, which we cannot truly sever? Or that we can sever, but only at the extreme far reaches of emotionally-traumatizing distance? Her killing of Rufus, though, doesn’t feel quite like complete severing, but a kind of reckoning, a necessary (inevitable) leveling of a relationship, the only exit (for either of them) from this jarring collapse of distant time into immeshed fellowship. For Rufus, too, is as entangled with Dana as she is with him, and he knows this. He knows his life’s continuation depends on hers. That dependency was made clearer to me near the end of the book—when Rufus confesses his nightmare to Dana following in the wake of his realization (“…I realized you could help me or not, just as you chose” (pg. 255))—and I saw the reversal of the dynamic as we, and Dana, first understand it: that her life is “put on hold,” redirected, for Rufus’s needs. And while that, too, is true, the dynamic is not one-sided, as Rufus’s entire life is shaped by understanding that Dana could, at any moment, walk away from him—and, in doing so, let him die. 

The magical time travel in this book creates a dynamic in which a supportive Black woman is jerked around to save a hapless young white man AND a dynamic is which a white male slave-owner experiences living decades of life afraid that a Black woman will choose his death. The arc of this book follows that dynamic from its beginning until its conclusion, in which the Black woman frees herself by obliterating the white man, severing the tie. In this reversal of the more familiar power dynamic, we see a complex ethical exploration of what it means to not choose our own kin, and to still choose freedom. Octavia Butler uses the power of literary imagination to center the choices and agency of her Black characters, in a historical slave narrative set in the oppressive antebellum South. 

[loves4ge]

celebrity!au cw: swearing, gojo is disgustingly in love

gojo satoru is thoroughly and utterly fucked. there are only ten minutes left until he has to go live for an interview—promotional material for his new movie. the only problem is you, his sweet costar; you had him wrapped around your finger.

despite being each other's on-screen love interests, your schedules hadn't matched until now to do an interview together. and gojo fucking satoru, one of the biggest celebrities to ever set foot in the hall of fame, is nervous. because he knows when gets out there, you'll be waiting for him. you've always been early to places (not really, he's just late).

it's not just the thought of you that has his stomach twisting in knots, it's his obsessive—and frankly, scary—fangirls who hang onto his every look, every glance, every word. even if no one finds out about his itsy bitsy crush, they will. and they will ruin you.

and he can't do that to you! this is your big break after slaving away in minor roles with a no-name cast. you're in the spotlight too much after only have seen the light being shone on other people, there's already too much pressure on you. the sudden onslaught of fans can be overwhelming, but the critics? they're so much harsher than what you expected.

"gojo, get out." it's his manager. deep breaths, he advises himself as he lifts out of the chair and to the set. where you are. god.

"so, i hear the set can get pretty crazy?" the interviewer smiles as he says it. he has that mall santa vibe; a little bit jolly and just slightly discomfort inducing.

your laugh slips out and gojo swears he almost died there. but he makes a conscious effort to not look at your lips. he sneaks a glance anyway.

"that's right! you should see the mess this man makes," you say, nodding your head towards the white-blond man. he should've worn his sunglasses, at least that way he could've stared at you in peace.

"hey! i'm not at fault here," gojo defends himself, guffawed. he crosses his arms as if he was trying to protect his chastity. or defend his honor, i suppose.

"mm, that's what they all say." your playful tone has him weak in the knees and he's thanking the gods that he's sitting down otherwise he would've folded right then and there.

"so geto suguru was here earlier and he mentioned that there was some steam in the movie, eh?"

stay professional, stay professional, stay professional.

"oh yeah. there are a couple of scenes for sure. it wouldn't have turned out as well as they did if it wasn't for satoru. i've never done an intimate scene before and he was just so comforting and really, a strong source of support for me."

fuck.

gojo breaks into a grin, his hand platonically (he hopes) pats your shoulder.

"it actually wouldn't have gone so well if it wasn't for our earth shattering chemistry. and our intimacy coordinator. yep, you heard it here first guys. bridgerton isn't the only show that gets one!" he's not entirely sure if the comedic route was the one to take after your heartfelt confession but he can't seem to respond as sincerely as he wants on television.

your giggle makes up for it though. and the light slap against his thigh. god. he has to resist the urge to ask you to do it again.

---

10 MINUTE COMPILATION OF GOJO BEING DOWN BAD FOR HIS COSTAR (ft. geto)

[konigsblog]

expanding on this stupid idea...

two-dicked könig fucking your tight asshole and cunt at the same time.🩸

tw/cw; — non-con/dub-con, hybrid fucking, monster fucking, mentions of kidnapping. 18+

photo credits; x_bruisedpeach_x on x/🐦

you're not exactly sure how you got yourself into this mess. he's some sort of hybrid, with horns and dark eyes, gazing into your soul and possessing your body. he turns you into a fleshlight for himself and his own satisfaction, lifeless in his tight grip as he takes control over you every movement, pushing himself into your swollen folds, his other dick prodding at your tight asshole.

your back is against the wet grass, prior to a thunderstorm. it's still raining slightly, the light raindrops against your face, gazing dizzily into the night sky. your eyes look empty with no sign of life despite your beating heart, with könig pushing both of his large, hung cocks into you, his firm grasp only tightening when he slides himself inside, forcing your legs apart at his will.

it's a struggle, of course it is. being stuffed from both ends isn't exactly the comfiest thing ever, and you're sure as hell struggling to take every inch of his meaty dicks. your ass aches at the fullness, your stomach creating a bulge, disappearing and reappearing when he drives his muscular, sturdy hips into you. you're so small in comparison to the seven foot giant, his brute body hunched over yours to protect you from any other monster that lingers in the forest late at night, the smell of sweat and sex burning your nostrils. könig heaves and growls, a demonic and unholy sound emitting from deep within him.

your tight pussy clutches onto his heat instinctively, his heavy balls tight and full of load, that he'll shoot into both holes of yours. your body is weak with his thrusts only becoming more violating and humiliating, forced to be compliant with him as he takes over your mind, turning you into a set of holes simply for his own selfish benefit. the dark claws on his large, calloused hands dig into your flesh as he pounds into you, ploughing into your soft slit mercilessly, leaving marks that you'll remember him by, when you're locked away in a little cage for him, a captive in his grimey hands.

fuck, how is a tiny little thing like you supposed to takes loads of his milky, creamy semen? especially when it's fucked into your holes at a rapid and ruthless pace, leaving your form weak and defenceless beneath him, pleading for mercy through struggled whines and protests, his creamy stickiness oozing from the sides of your cunt, stuffed to the brim.

serve your purpose and become a slave for him.

[outofthedeck]

She's such a good great amazing character. She fought a fake war to annoy her parents because she didn't know how to talk to them that turned into a real war once she realized the people she was ostensibly fighting for were real poeple, and then she faked her own death to end the war which incidentally caused her parents to do a genocide that she spent the rest of her life trying to fix.

She trapped bismuth bc bismuth wanted to kill her alter ego, but bismuth didn't know it was her alter ego, so Rose ended up trying to stop her, and it turned into a fight. Rose ended up defeating bismuth and coma imprisoning her secretly, probably out of guilt. She also never told anyone about this (also probably bc guilt)

She left a person to stand forever in a rotting garden in the days before she realized people were people and had emotions and shit.

She fell in love with a bunch of humans, and made the same mistake of not realizing they're people for like thousands of years. She doesn't take the guy she has a child with entirely seriously because she doesn't think of a human as seriously as she would a gem. She realizes this is shitty of her when he tries to have a serious combo with her. She also almost kills a baby bc she doesn't know how babies work.

She then had a child. She died during childbirth, and she knew she'd die from the beginning. It's left completely up to interpretation whether this was used as a method of suicide for her or not. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I fucking love this show so much I'm literally writing my family systems term project about it. I could eat this show I love it so much

"i want morally grey female characters" you fuckers could barely handle rose quartz

[innerfare]

Nightmares - Part 1

Summary: What sorts of nightmares do they have about losing you?

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: Angst

CW: SFW // that being said, caution- contains mentions of death, suffering, and slavery

——— 

Luffy:

He grins at the sight of you standing on a cliffside looking out over the water, tranquil in the peace of night. He hurries toward you and puts his hand on your shoulder to turn you around, ready to place a happy kiss on your lips, only to stop short at the sight of your face. You’re completely devoid of joy, the life and will to live sucked out of you by a force he can’t control. You’re a husk, and he’s powerless against it. He realizes the darkness isn’t from night, that there are no stars glimmering in the sky, that the world has had the goodness sucked out of it, yours along with it, leaving you empty. He wakes up with tears in his eyes and buries his face in his pillow to muffle his sob. 

Zoro:

It was an accident, and he watched it happen. If he’d been just a little stronger, a little faster, a little better, it never would have happened. It was an accident, but it was his fault. He stared down at your lifeless shape covered by a funeral shroud, grinding his teeth in rage at the sight of all those flowers left by mourners. You would have loved to have seen those flowers, to have picked them up, buried your face in them, and inhaled deeply. You would have loved the weather that day, too, bright and sunny, as though the universe was taunting him. When he wakes up, he’s in physical pain from the amount of tension in his muscles. 

Sanji:

You’re in the clutches of his brothers while his father watches on in approval, and he’s trying to save you but to no avail. Suddenly, he’s seven years old again- too small, too slow, too weak to put up a fight, completely at the mercy of his brothers. Only, they aren’t tormenting him, they’re tometning you, and from the looks on their faces, they sure are enjoying it. The look on your face, though, is one of complete anguish. And then you scream in pain, and he’s awake again, sitting up in bed with a sheen of sweat on his skin, the image of your face in such pain burned into his brain. He doesn’t register that it was only a nightmare until he puts eyes on you, and even then, it takes him several days to recover from the nightmare. 

Ace:

It starts off normal, him approaching you on deck and wrapping his arms around you, intending to say a joke in your ear that will have you giggling and him grinning proudly. But then you shove him off and sneer at him. He doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t recognize the look on your face as you look up at him. You look disgusted, completely and utterly grossed out by the mere idea of his arms around you. You begin taunting him, saying all the things he’s used to others saying but never you. “You’re a monster. You were never supposed to be born. How could I possibly love someone like you?” When he finally wakes up, he doesn’t thrash around or cry. He’s completely paralyzed by the nightmare, by the fear, and accustomed to the feeling of rejection, even if it hurts more coming from you. Even when he wakes up, the nightmare isn’t really over.  

Sabo:

You’re on stage in an auction house being sold off to the highest bidder. He’s there, but he can’t get to the stage, as if he’s trapped behind invisible glass. He’s screaming his head off and throwing himself at the glass, but everyone just ignores him, the slave auction continuing as though he’s not even there, Sabo completely powerless against the injustice of it all. You’re crying and struggling in your shackles, but it’s no use. He wakes up thrashing, ready to fight anyone who stands between him and you. When he’s met only with darkness, he doesn’t relax but instead gets dressed and wanders off to find some work to do, the sound of your shackles clanking as you struggle against them stuck in his head like a sick song, the sight of Celestial Dragons bidding on you like an object lighting in him a fire that will burn down every auction house in the world. 

Law:

Bang! He never sees the nightmare, but he always hears the gunshot. He wakes up in a cold sweat, shivering beneath his covers, the taste of metal lingering in his mouth and the gunshot still echoing in his ears. He’s awake, but he’s back in that treasure chest, and this time, you’re the one laying dead in the snow. Alternatively, you’re in a hospital bed, writing in pain, screaming in agony, calling out his name, pleading with him to save you, and he’s in sea prism stone handcuffs, forced to watch you succumb to an illness only he can save you from. Again, he wakes up in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs, trapping him and making him feel like he’s still in that nightmare, completely and utterly useless. He has to climb out of bed and walk it off, might even train a bit with his sword to regain a sense of control. 

Kid:

It’s never like it happened with his first love, Victoria. And it’s always some way new. You fall overboard during a storm and drown, Kid diving into the water to save you but sinking due to his devil fruit ability, Killer diving in to save him but leaving you to die. You get deathly ill and he enlists the help of his ally, Trafalgar Law, to save your life, but he betrays Kid and kills you. He gets captured by a crew of enemy pirates, and when the crew comes to save him, you get killed in the crossfire. The nightmares just keep coming like this, you dying because he couldn’t protect you or expected someone else to do it for him. And each time he wakes up, it is with a renewed certainty that the only way to keep you safe is to do it himself.  

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[ink-n-shadow]

being a buckle bunny for outlaw!141

BUCKLE BUNNY

𝜗𝜚 the one where you're the new pretty little thing at outlaw!141's camp

𝜗𝜚 pairing: outlaw!141 x fem!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: briefest mention of smut (minors—DNI), mentions of oral (m!receiving), sleazy!141, they're all criminals, allusions to reader being "passed around", horribly unedited, bad ending

like they would find you in some podunk town out west, a pretty little thing born and raised on a farm and now trying to make ends meet working as a barmaid in a rundown saloon.

gang leader!price lays eyes on you first, noticing you as soon as he’s leading his boys inside the swinging saloon doors after a particularly successful heist. and he’s more than happy to hand over his gun belt to you once he claims his spot at the bar, barking out to the other boys to “listen to the kind lady, won’t ’cha?” he’s all “thank you, sugar” and “ain’t you a pretty lil thing” as you pour him glasses of whiskey, enough to kill a whole horse but not outlaw john price. he barely blinks as he drains his 3rd glass.

drifter!simon, who’s a long ways from his hometown and the life he used to live, is standing in the corner of the saloon, thick corded muscles nearly bulging out of the denim shirt he’s wearing as he keeps his arms crossed over his chest. he wears a thick black bandana around his face, up over his nose and completely concealing his face other than the honey brown eyes that peak out from his blond lashes. he has the hands of a man who has killed before, but his eyes are proof of the pretty face that lies beneath the mask.

gunsmith!johnny is roaming around with outlaw!kyle, one arm slung over kyle’s shoulders and the other gripping the mug of beer tight in his fist as they prowl the saloon for an easy target. it’s a usual routine for them: johnny distracts the target with his charisma and random weapon knowledge while kyle digs his sticky fingers into their pockets and robs them blind. and they usually get away with it, until price is tight scolding them from his spot at the bar and immediately turning back to you to apologize.

“m’sorry ‘bout them, sugar. been trying to train them, teach ‘em some manners—haven’t been very successful, have i?” gang leader!price would say over the rim of his whiskey, a wry smile plastered on his lips as his eyes rake over your body.

it would take some convincing from price and the other boys for you to follow them back out to their camp, promises of a little horse riding and a look at whatever knickknacks they had gotten (stolen) enough to have your arms wrapped around drifter!simon’s burly torso as his horse clops down the dirt roads and towards the woods.

and you just never left after arriving at their camp, comfortable being passed around and shared amongst the four men if it meant eating johnny’s hunted down and cooked deer meat and having price’s cock down your throat every night.

at least it's better than slaving your days away at the saloon day in and day out, right?

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[misserabella]

Filthy Rich

Spencer Reid x Fem! reader PT.1

pt2! pt3!

✧ Synopsis;; Spencer Reid was filthy rich, for he was royalty. Handsome, charming and a gentleman, a dream dressed in pure silk for any kind of woman. But not you.

✧ y/n is a mere slave of a nobel family who just turned 22. On the night of the prince’s royal ball she is dragged against her will to this dance just to be used as a coat rack for the purses and coats of the family ladies, who, of course, treat her like absolute sh’t, to the point where they could agreed to hand her over for a generous amount of gold.

“Just name your price, sweetheart.”

“Screw you, my prince.”

Just how lucky you were for had caught the

prince’ s attention!

< enemies to lovers 3

17th century royalty! inspired by bridgerton!

CW;; this series might include 18+ content (details will be given at the start of each new part uploaded) MINORS DNI AND SKIP!!!

WARNINGS PART ONE: mention of blood, abuse, cursing and slave trafficking.

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

WORD COUNT;; 2k!

Her faced seemed to tell everything: she hated it.

She hated everything. From the music, to the little stupid shoes that clacked against the floor. The floral scent, the wine, the giggles… She hated the ton*. Every single one of them,

Everything. It was a goddamn nightmare.

“y/n! You are letting my coat slip! Do i have to tell you how much it costs?! If you dare let it touch the floor I’ll take the money out of your poor allowance to pay for a new one!” one of the misses glared at you, hitting you in the face with her closed paper fan, its gemstones leaving marks on you cheek.

“We might as well do it anyways, since her filthy hands have touched them already!” her sister laughed, grabbing your face in between her gloved fingers and digging her nails in your skin. “Don’t you think so, y/n? What? Cat got you tongue?” they giggled.

“Children, children!” the woman of the house hushed them with a sweet smile. “You shall never touch her!” she said, taking of the gloves out of her daughters hands to give her a new pair, with a sweet smile telling one of the servants of the castle to burn them. “God knows what she might infect us with!” she laughed, her offsprings following her.

God, you hated her. Her and her stupid daughters. With their stupid dresses and stupid painted faces.

You glared at them, your grip tightening around their belongings, holding your stare and your head up even when the woman stared back at you, her face scrunching in disgust and anger.

“Who do you think you are staring at?!?!” she suddenly yelled, catching the attention of those who enjoyed drinks and company around her, not waiting a mere second to rise her hand and slap you to ‘show you your place’. You took the hits, the metallic flavor of blood filling your mouth due to the continues smacks and hits with the back of her fan. “You filthy ungrateful bitch, you dare stare at us, who give you food and a bed?! I should’ve let you died out in the cold, in the dirt, where you belong to!” you gritted your teeth, your eyes down to the floor as your free hand made its way to your bottom lip, where you felt the skin split, the crimson of fresh blood tinting your frail skin.

“Fucking fussock*.” you cursed her under your breath, loud enough for her to perfectly hear you.

“What did you say?!” her free hand gripped your long and matted locks, making you look into her enraged eyes, her other hand rising up to hit you once again.

Your eyes closed as you expected a new slap, which surprisingly enough never came. The sound of multiple gasps filled your ears and when you opened up your eyes once again, your stomach sank at the sight of…

“Your highness!” everyone suddenly diverted their eyes to the floor, including you, your mistress and her daughters bowed in his presence, the wrist of the first of them all gracefully and softly held by the prince’s, who let her go with a kind smile.

“Is everything alright?” his voice tested the waters, his tone low and soft as the silk he dressed in, his hands jeweled in golden rings joining and intertwining in an elegance you never had witnessed.

“Yes, your highness.” the woman stuttered, showing a nervous smile. “Our slave just seemed to…, misbehave, your highness.” your eyes travelled trough his tall and magnificent demeanor. His fern green suit matched perfectly with the caramel of his skin and his brown and perfectly combed curls.

Your eyes quickly darted always as he had caught you staring once he had turned to you. He fought the lopsided smirk that urged to grow in his lips, stepping closer to where you stood.

He took a glance at the ragged clothes that hid your bruised and malnourished body, probably due to the family’s treatment under your care, your matted hair, cut up hands…

His warm touch spread on your skin as he took your chin in between his thumb and index finger, softly trying to rise your head up, but you denied him, in a harsh turn of head freeing yourself from his touch before giving him a glare.

A new wave of gasps filed the air as you stared right into his eyes, him holding your glare.

You didn’t care if he was a noble or pure royalty. Those ‘pure blood’ were all the goddamn same. With their leather shoes and gold jewelry, fancy words and silk dresses and suits. Their appearance was only a pretty facade that hid the ugliness of their insides.

You hated all of them. Might as well just get your head off as soon as possible.

“You slave! How is it ye dare to stare at the prince, soon king?!” a brunette and tall man talked, you recognized him as the pince’s right hand, but only with a wave of this hand, he stood silent beside the prince.

“Huh…” the smile he had been trying to fight off finally took place on his gracefully sculpted face and full rosy lips. “Interesting.” once again he took a soft grasp to your face, this time not letting you go even if you fought him off. His eyes took everything your face offered him, from your perfect nose to you long eyelashes and your beautiful fierce eyes, which stared at him with pure hatred and anger. “How much?” he suddenly asked, still not drifting his eyes away from you.

The woman stood frozen in place, just like her daughters.

“What does your highness mean with…-”

“How much would you want for her?” he cut her off, the deadly silent that fell on the salon almost giving you chills.

What was he saying?

“Your highness, I can’t…” she was short of breath and words. “I surely doubt thee would want her under your care, she…”

“I don’t care about any of it. Name a price.” everyone was shocked by the situation. Buying and selling slaves was something quite common, that’s how your current ‘family’ have got you, but this…

The prince? Has he gone nuts?

“Your highness, I don’t think…” the prince’s counselor stepped in, shutting up once again as soon as he gave him a glance.

“50 gold coins.” the woman suddenly blurted out, everyone’s jaws dropping at the audacity of the woman and such large figure.

“Mother!” her offsprings whispered-yelled. Not believing her words.

50 gold coins?!

You scoffed, smirking at such nonsense, not noticing the staring of the prince due to your reaction.

She wished you were worth that much. He would never…

“Make it 150.” he closed the deal.

“Your highness!” the counselor exclaimed, completely alarmed.

“I don’t wanna hear it, Gideon.” he hushed the man with his soft hazel eyes.

You watched as the woman who once abused you and starved you for days fainted due to the prince’s words and his daughters kneeling down to help her followed by some of the nearby guests, fanning her pale sleeping face.

You too felt like fainting.

“Hey, eyes on me, sweetheart.” the prince caught your attention once again, when your eyes met a smile growing on his lips. “All you need to do from now on keep your eyes on me.”

“Get off of me!” you screamed at the servants that tried and strip you out of your clothes, pushing their hands away. “I said stop!”

“Miss, they’re orders from your highness.” one of them spoke, her blue eyes soft on you. “He wanted us to help you bathe and and get rid of your dirty clothes.” she explained.

“I don’t care about what he said.” you scoffed. “If he wanted me undressed so fast why isn’t he the one taking my clothes off?” they all gasped at your words and no respect to the prince.

You didn’t care though, they were all the same anyways. Always reaks* that just wanted to have women swoon at their feet. Maybe that’s why he had bought you, just to use you when his cock got cold.

Suddenly, the door on your back opened, the heads of the servants quickly lowering as your eyes met the prince’s.

“Oh, fantastic…” you muttered. Just what you needed at the moment.

“You heard her, ladies. You are all dismissed.” he smiled at every and each one of them, bowing and moving aside with a swing of his arm on the door to let them out, all of them bowing and giggling.

And weren’t you just right?

“Great. And what do I have the honor of your highness’ presence for?” you sarcastically inquired him once he had closed the door behind his back, noticing…, ‘Gideon’ outside. “Got too excited due your new acquisition to just wait?” you mocked him.

“I heard you were putting up a fight.” he smiled, ignoring your words whilst looking at you up and down. “Is there something not to your liking, perhaps?”

“‘Not to my liking’?” you scoffed. “I can’t believe you.” you shook your head, grasping at your locks as you stared at him in disbelief. “How about this whole goddamn situation? I mean, look at this!” you pointed out everything that surrounded you, the whole bathroom with a gigantic bathtub of quartz, marble floors and pillars… “A few hours ago I was being used as a coat hanger in your ball and now I’m in a bathroom with the prince, who, surprisingly enough, bought me for 150 golden coins god knows why?!” you exclaimed.

He stared at you with a funny look in his eyes. His back against the door as his eyebrows raised at you.

“What.” you spit out, a glare in your eyes.

“Nothing, is just that…” he stepped closer to you, his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t seem to…, respect me.” he frowned, his voice low. “Not like all of them.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, your highness, for not being another dog licking your leather boots.” you bowed, more of his steps growing closer to you until his thumb took your chin, rising your head up so you could meet his eyes, his face stood serious for a couple of seconds, before a downside smirk grew on his factions. “Why haven’t you cut my head off yet?” you inquired him, not really understanding his behavior. By the way you treated him, any other prince would have already gotten you to the guillotine.

“Why shall I?” he answered with another question, his thumb caressing the wound on your bottom lip, the still fresh blood that stood on it staining his thumb as you hissed in pain, getting away.

You stared at him in confusion.

Yeah. He was absolutely nuts.

“The water will go cold if you don’t get in soon.” he said, drifting off the matter while whipping off your blood from his thumb with his handkerchief. “Are you sure you don’t want to get off those ragged clothes?”

“This is the only dress I’ve had, sir.” you said, his eyes meeting yours.

“What’s your favorite color?” you frowned at his sudden question, which made absolutely no sense. He made no sense. “Crimson, like the purest blood? The forest’s green? The ocean’s blue, perhaps?”

“I’ve never seen the forest nor the ocean, sir. I’ve never left the capital. Though I find the sky’s blue on spring pretty wonderful, not sure it does justice to the ocean’s.”

“It doesn’t.” he said, sitting in the edge of the bathtub, his fingers taunting the warm water. “The ocean is cold, and fierce…, untamable. But it can also be warm, and calm, and soft.” he tried to explain, and from your point of view it didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense but you found it…

“It must be beautiful.” you said, him flashing you a soft smile before nodding.

“It is.” he got up clapping his hands together before looking back at you. “Well then, you should really hurry up, the water is perfect.”

“I already told thee, this dress is the only-“

“You won’t need it anymore.” he cut you off.

“And why is that?” you inquired, his steps growing closer to you.

“Because from now on…” he said, catching one of your locks in between his fingers. “You belong in this castle.”

To be continued…

*fussock; a lazy fat woman…, a frowzy old woman.

*the ton; the ton actually refers to English high society during the Regency era, and encompasses every aristocrat from the royals to the gentry.

*rake; ‘rake’ is used to describe an immoral, hedonistic young man circulating in high society.

[hana-no-seiiki]

ALL YOURS.

tw/cw: yandere (more on the soft side tbh, barely appears), mentions of slavery. Power dynamics are whack. AFAB! Reader but GN! Pronouns. Some Aventio sprinkled in there.

HAPPY AVENTURINE DAY!!! ( thank you @rninies / @teabutmakeitazure / @harmonysanreads for informing me cause I wouldn’t have known otherwise)

“Who is this?” His eyes ran through the sight of your body, a nice and controlled pace yet swift nonetheless. You looked like a dead leaf if he was to be completely honest. Covered in soot, malnourished, fragile. Like you’d disappear with the slightest breeze. Then, his eyes paused, a mark — a branding on the right side of your neck.

But still, he was confused. What was the point of showing yet another slave to him? Was it a thinly concealed, sadistic way of reminding him that he was still shackled? That his freedom was nothing more than a mirage? An illusion?

His benefactor — owner — slowly lifted the veil that covered your face. Beautiful. He’d seen many faces by now, his own among others. But strangely yours reminded him of his past. A wave of euphoric nostalgia almost overwhelmed him.

“Open your eyes, little one.” Jade said with a wicked smile on her face. “I told you I had quite the gift. I was actually hoping to keep them as a . . . collectible. But then I found quite an interesting fact.”

You looked at him with eyes far too similar to his own. Cold, dead, empty. He could think of many other terms to use for yours. One of them including home.

“It seems that the Avgin’s blood will not be running dry all too soon. They’re all yours.”

“Quit staring at them like that.” Veritas tapped on his book. His face morphing from disturbed to mild annoyance every few seconds.

“Like what?”

“Like they’re an oasis deep within the desert. And you, a man starved for eons, waiting to drink them up until they’ve ran dry. Stop it. It’s disgusting.” Dr. Ratio gestured at you. You were practically a walking ‘owned by Aventurine’ signal at this point. From head to toe, covered in expensive objects. It was a statement to say the least, a warning to those that looked closer.

“You exaggerate. I am simply . . . deliberating.”

“Is it really this one?”

“Hm?”

“This reality.” Dr. Ratio placed the corner of his book on the blond’s forehead, “The reality where someone like you actually had the mental capacity to deliberate.”

“Oh don’t be too mean at this hour, Doctor.”

“Or what? You’d force me to find and get you from whatever hole you got yourself drunk in? Unfortunately that is something you’ve already burdened me with far too long ago.”

“I can take care of Mr. Aventurine, Doctor.” You appeared from behind the two. Your signature monotonous voice in tow.

Plaster immediately covered the man in question’s head. “Did anyone teach you manners? You don’t just silently approach someone—“

“I’m sorry.” You replied. Your face empty as a canvas an artist was yet to touch. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

For once, Kakavasha took his time, let his eyes wander and behold your form. One feature at a time.

“All mine.”

a/n: this was rushed and written in one sitting, but i wanted to release something at least for our boi ! will be back to hsr fics once penacony’s entire story/lore is out. i miss aeon of dreams! reader so much…