#he brought it upon himself by being violent

[es-3]

book gabe was violent. he was awful and terrible and he died because of his violence

show gabe was intruding. he was disrespectful and ignored boundaries and he died because of his intrusion

[princessbrunette]

boxer!rafe had his anger mostly under control. thats what the boxing was for. but no one’s perfect. there were times he’d slip up.

he’d developed the knack for being able to ignore the other men in the locker room at the fighting grounds. he had his own upcoming fights to worry about, his own family to feed — whilst he used to be a sucker for a good argument, it had become the least of his concerns. they knew that about him, therefore they knew what would get under his skin.

“ayeee, it’s pretty boy!” one jeered as he stepped into the locker room — sore, toned body trudging over to his usual locker to retrieve his stuff so he could get out and go home to you. he was used to the nickname, infact it had even been self proclaimed at some points on the ring. girls held up ‘pretty boy’ signs during his fights, upon winning multiple fights and climbing the ranks he was gifted a chain with ‘pretty motherfucker’ engraved on the pendant. it was nothing new to him.

the chatter continues in the room amongst the men, and he figures he can let his guard down now, knowing they wouldn’t be testing him. they’d heard of his rage through stories, rumours that he’d been in jail for killing a cop in his past. it intrigued people, wanting to see how far they could push him. just as the cameron boy is getting his gym bag together to leave, he’s brought into the conversation once more.

“right? i wanna start seein’ some newer faces in the crowd i’m gettin’ tired of the regulars.” the same douche that addressed rafe when he entered speaks, eyes flickering over to the younger guy in amusement. “hey cameron, got anyone you can bring to spice things up around here? how ‘bout that pretty wife of yours? maybe she can motivate me before the fight—”

he doesn’t get to finish his taunt, before in a flash rafe had pinned him the locker with a crash, doors rippling and padlocks clattering. he presses his arm into the man’s neck, jaw clenched and vein popping out his neck.

“fuck you say? huh? nah, go ‘head repeat yourself.” rafe threatens, practically growling through bared teeth at the man. the other fighter goes to shove him back, but the cameron man is unmovable. if there’s one thing he doesn’t play about, it’s you.

rafe stumbles back slightly, but it’s only to wind up and slam his fist into the man’s face when he dared to smile. the other men start to get involved now, trying to pull rafe off but it only made him angrier. “think that’s funny? yeah?” he yells, and punches the man again, the time harder. his skin cracks and blood splashes onto his knuckles as he continues. he knew this was going to result in at least a week suspension from the gym, and that was with the gym owner being fond of rafe. he shoves himself off eventually, the man groaning on the floor in pain.

full of adrenaline, rafe picks up his bag and heads to leave, but not without spitting out a venomous “lemme hear you talk about my wife again. i’ll kill you. a’ight?”

he’s not proud of himself by the time he’s arrived home. it’s been a while since he’d gotten angry like that, violent outside of professional boxing. it’s so soft in your shared home when he arrives, and it makes him feel ashamed. it smelled like you’d been baking fresh cookies, the house clean just for him. it melts him, because sometimes he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still the monster he used to be. something that didn’t belong here.

he stops in the doorway to see you napping on the couch, looking delicate like a petal that had fallen off a flower, drifted in the wind and had just landed there perfectly. the small bump that had only just begun to show through your dress strains ever so slightly against the material and he scratches at his cheek. he shouldn’t be acting like this. not when fatherhood is approaching.

he busies himself off to the shower, hoping to wash the day from him. not long later, the sound of the water woke you — and you appear in the bathroom quietly, stripping yourself of your clothes and climbing in behind him. you press a soft kiss to the centre of his back because you could tell it’s tense, a telltale sign that he’d had a rough day. you don’t need to speak, not yet anyway as he relaxes slightly at your touch — feeling your tits press against him from behind and your swollen tummy when you lean forward. he lets out a long sigh, head running beneath the water.

hugging him from behind, you peer round to see his bruised knuckles. he hadn’t come home with those for a long time, he’d usually wrap them if he was going to spar or whatever.

“what happened?” you can’t help yourself, curiosity getting the better of you.

he presses his lips together, caught. he doesn’t wanna tell you what they said, make you uncomfortable. it’s not necessary and it would only make him mad all over again. he runs his knuckles under the water, ridding them of any of the left over dried blood that he wasn’t sure was his.

“ah i uh… i lost my temper… a little. s’not important.” he huffs, peeking briefly over his shoulder at you. you don’t question it, knowing it was potentially a sore subject. he feels another kiss on his back.

“s’okay.” you’re so nurturing, so gentle. your hands slide around his hip bones, caressing the veined skin on his lower stomach above his cock. the appendage jumps once realising what you were after. maybe it didn’t take long because of the soft kisses and your body pressing to his, paired with the day he’d had — but he’s hard in no time when you start palming at him.

he tips his head back under the water, the droplets racing down his toned back and shoulders as you slowly tug at him from behind, doing your best to relax him. “s’okay rafe.” you whisper once more. “you’re home now.”

he certainly was.

[benkeibear]

『 Their hand slips 』

☼ synopsis: Their hand (almost) slips and puts a strain on your relationship

☼ characters: Toji, Yuuta, Inumaki

☼ wc: 4.3k

☼ cw: dark content! fem!reader, Toji being a good husband and almost snapping, getting pushed by Rika and slapped (accidentally during a playfight with Inumaki), Toge using his technique on you, overall sogginess, hurt to comfort

☼ notes: I am by no means glorifying domestic violence - this fic is not about this topic. If you or a loved one experience abuse in a relationship please reach out to the police or a qualified counselor / hotline for help!

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Toji:

Being with Toji has always been a rollercoaster of emotions but you never doubted his love for you, despite him being rough around the edges. Yes, he might disappear for days, sometimes weeks after a fight but he never once lifted his hand or indicated that he would physically hurt you. If the fight was over something dumb you would usually end up in the bedroom to get his anger out in a fun way while making up again.

You don't even know what started the fight today, was it the dishes he didn't do? Perhaps he left the laundry in the laundry machine? All you know is that you've been screaming at each other for well over an hour, your throat already sore but you wouldn't stop now. Toji was just beyond annoyed at your little tantrum, at least that's what it was to him. “I said I'll take care of it, didn't I? The day isn't over yet” he tried the calm way at first, his jaw clenching in frustration when you screamed back how tired you are from work.

Things carried on like this for a while, Toji losing his cool after you screamed at him right away and he started to scream back until you were only throwing around profanities. At least until you said something you shouldn't have “No wonder your last two wives left you, you live like a damn pig”. It wasn't too bad but it was a sore topic for him and his hand raised… simply staying up in the air without ever connecting to your face but it was enough for you to flinch away. Toji's jaw tensed up further, his teeth almost cracking from the pure pressure when he realized what he almost did - crossing a boundary that should never be crossed and you looked at him like he's a monster now. Perhaps he was and you were right, make it three wives, it's deserved now that his hand almost struck you.

Ever so slowly he brought his hand down from its spot up in the air, trying not to startle you further when he reached to cup your cheek, the anger in his eyes turning to desperation. Out of reflex you flinched from his touch, your body still in flight mode from almost getting struck by him and Toji recoiled his hand quickly while nodding to himself. The anger flamed up behind his eyes once again upon realizing just how bad he had fucked up. Anger rose up and he couldn't contain himself any longer “FUCK” he roared, making you stumble backwards just to get away from him before he punched a hole into the wall. You barely recognized the man in front of you since he'd never been this violent around you or directed at you. The thought of drawing a single breath of air scared you with him raging around and you simply held your breath, your entire body shaking like a leaf in a heavy storm, but before you found your voice again he stormed out of your shared home, grabbing his coat on the way out of the front door.

Relief was the first thing flooding your mind when you finally felt like you could exhale once again, the air less tense with him out of the room and upon looking around your usually tidy kitchen, you saw the battlefield he'd left behind. The hole in the wall gaping and your favorite candle holder, the one he gifted you simply because you thought the cat warming its paws looked so cute, now on the floor and shattered into hundreds of small pieces. You didn't care much for the cushions laying around or the chairs scattered across the room but you cradled the severed porcelain head of the small cat to your chest as you fell to your knees when the first wave of shock wore off. Toji had left. He's gone now and given how both of you crossed boundaries and he almost hit you, didn't give you much hope for his return. A bitter laugh crossed your sobs when you thought of the small candle holder scattered and how it represented your broken relationship.

After what felt like an eternity on the floor you had the courage to get up once again, slowly putting things back to where they used to stand before picking up each and every piece of Tojis present. You needed to get your mind off of his departure, he sure would return - latest when he had to get his things- you told yourself, trying to calm the mess that was your head. Dedicated you brought he pieces to the living room where his show was running as always, your favorite background noise in your daily life and piece by piece you glued the little candle holder back together until it looked somewhat what it used to and it gave you hope - perhaps you could do the same to your relationship?

Once the distraction wore off you found yourself sitting on the unusually empty couch, sitting on his favorite spot and the silence was deafening, the show stopped playing a while ago, Netflix asking you if you're still watching and the tears started to form in your eyes once again. Perhaps he will be back soon? Your hope wore thinner with every hour that has passed, only hoping that he will come back eventually one day at this point. Sure, you've had worse fights with him but it never got physical, this one felt much more charged and intense than all the others before so perhaps he's sick of the constant fighting, sick of you…

Slowly you sunk your face into the pillow on the couch and brought your knees to your chest as you wept, his show now playing once again to bring you at least a little comfort as you drifted off into a restless slumber, the moment where he almost struck you replaying in your head over and over again.

Toji wandered around the Block at first, contemplating to get drunk out o his mind and simply disappearing out of your life forever since he has nothing to offer to you but his heart and body, but now he wasn't sure if that was enough - if he was enough and he hated these thoughts. He could have any woman he wanted so why is he so damn attached to you? Answers didn't come by as he sat down in the park and gulped down a cheap beer but the longer he sat there the more reasons he found just why he was with you and how you made him feel things no one managed to ignite in so long. It was clear to him that he would need to go back, that he would need to fix things with you, for his own sake because he'd be lost without you once again.

By the time Toji got up from the old bench at the park it was almost morning already, the bird chirping softly in the trees and he took a deep breath in, preparing himself to lose you once and for all since he couldn't force you to forgive him after ever but he would promise to be better, he vowed to be a good partner and later on to be a good husband to you and not once did he make you regret trusting him since he was always nothing but good to you. His posture was slightly slouched when he entered the apartment, ready to find the mess he left behind in the kitchen but it looked as if nothing ever happened here - aside from the hole in the wall that felt like a plow to his guts. That could have been your face, realization setting in once again over what happened and how badly he damaged the trust in this relationship with his cowardly reaction.

Shaking his head at his thought he made his way back to the front door, only to be met by your weak voice somewhere behind him. “Toji?” was all you asked, your voice sounding tired and so fragile from hours of crying and he flinched, dreading your next words. “Don't leave… please,” You continue and sit up now to look at him. “I'm just here to get my thi- you want me to stay?” He sounded rather surprised that you didn't send him out, cussing him and his entire bloodline out as he got his things. Toji was so prepared for rejection he didn't even consider you would want him to stay, but you did, so he dragged himself over to the couch where you sat, waiting to face him. Your bloodshot eyes shocked him, have you been crying all night over him? Over the situation or perhaps the divorce you'd surely want?

“I'm sorry,” was all that he croaked out, his ego crushed and the confidence that usually radiated off of him was entirely gone, he was nothing but a miserable pile in front of you in this moment. It took you a minute or two to fully register his words - his apology and you simply nodded, knowing he wasn't great with words and especially apologies. Silence fell upon both of you once again, unsure how to go on from here, both of you uncomfortable with the situation. You were the first to find your words again, having spent the night thinking about what you wanted and ultimately what you will say to him but right now this was all thrown out of the window when you looked at him and reached out for his hands, trying to show that you're no longer scared.

“Listen to me. If you ever raise a hand to me again, Toji Fushiguru, I will cut out your heart and eat it for breakfast, do you understand me?” You asked with a much more secure voice and it almost scared him because he knew you took that threat seriously, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips now. “That's my wife,” he chuckled a little, wondering if he extinguished your flame with fear but you weren't one to crumble, not from him or his foolish actions.

Unasked Toji whisked you up into his strong arms and carried you to the bedroom, refusing to let go of you for even a second as he smothered you between his arms and chest. Things weren't okay and they won't be for a while but at least you knew that he was willing to work on himself and you were willing to stay, so things could be alright again one day.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Yuuta:

You were always Yuuta's first priority and he never failed to make it clear that you knew that there's no one and nothing that's more important to him than you. Yet he had to save the world as usually, exorcizing a curse here, helping out there and more often than not you found yourself alone in your shared home, talks limited to texts and phone calls. He tried his hardest to make sure you're always on his mind even if he's not physically with you, especially then but you slowly felt like this wasn't the case. It felt like he was running away from home, from you to be alone, to be with Rika rather than you for the old days sake.

This gut wrenching thought became especially painful when you ran into him in the grocery store when he claimed to be on the other side of the world and not in fact in the same grocery store or even the same city. You didn't want to cause a scene, not there out of all places so you abandoned your shopping cart and walked out, ignoring the hurt puppy look from your boyfriend. Dropping the chocolates he held previously he charged after you “Wait, please. Let me explain!” he called after you and caught up with your rather fast pace but you didn't pay any attention to him, fearing the worst.

And sometimes your own mind can be the worst enemy as you now convinced yourself that Yuuta was leading some sort of double life, a secret life hidden away from you and you didn't want to see his face for a second longer. When the young man held onto your wrist to get you to stop running from him it felt as if your skin was burning, quickly tugging your hand out of his grasp and glaring at him. “Stop causing a damn scene, Okkotsu” you hissed under your breath and Yuuta knew he was in trouble by the way you only used his last name, so much venom behind your words. All he wanted to do was surprise you with your favorite flowers and some sweets since he was home almost an entire week earlier and he didn't understand the tantrum you were throwing at that moment. Yes, he did lie to you and told you he won't be home for at least another 5 days but he was already on his way back to you, his home. Was he wrong that he wanted to surprise you just to have you jump into his arms five days earlier than initially planned?

The walk home was awkward and silent, the air around you two charged with strong emotions and unspoken words - words none of you dared to speak until the front door to your apartment was closed and you whipped around, facing him with an expression full of anger and hurt. “Why did you lie to me? Am I not good enough for you anymore?” You immediately asked, letting your inner fear take over instead of trying to think rationally but Yuuta immediately shook his head. “It's not like that, I promise!” His voice was rather submissive, hating to have fights with you, especially out of the dumbest reasons but you couldn't contain your anger, your presence alone making him take a step back. He knew you would never lay a hand on him but the air around you was so thick he feared to suffocate if he couldn't keep some distance. “Don't come at me with that bullshit, Yuuta. You promised not to lie to me and here you are… avoiding me despite being back. Do you have someone else? Do you miss Rika so much you can't bear to be with me?” You questioned, taking steps towards your boyfriend despite his silent plea to keep distance. It's unfair of you to bring Rika up in this situation, both of you knew this but you didn't care. The way he was always talking about her started to gnaw at your heart, slowly building a deep insecurity that you're just someone he settled for because he couldn't have the one he wanted. Perhaps he found a better replacement? That was your initial thought when you saw him smiling to himself at the grocery store. Little do you know he was thinking about your gleeful smile when he came home early.

Yuuta barely opened his mouth after what felt like an eternity of silence when he reached for your hands, hoping you let him explain, hoping you calm down enough to start thinking rationally. “Please, just listen, okay?” He started, his voice small since he didn't want things to escalate, fearing to lose you as much as you feared the same. You were his anchor, his safety vest out in the ocean that kept him afloat when everything was against him. He made the mistake of touching you, trying to get closer to you when you were so charged and it made you feel crowded, pushing him off of you so he let go of your wrists. He would have let go if only you asked, showing him he made you uncomfortable but before he could stop it, it was already too late.

Rika pushed you away from him, much harsher than he would have ever allowed and he recoiled, backing away from your curled up body after you were sent flying against the wall, several feet behind you.

The sight of your body on the floor and the little noise you let out upon the collision shattered his heart. Sure, Rika just wanted to protect him from harm but you would have never seriously hurt him and he was in shambles, trying to figure out what to do now that one of his biggest fears became reality. It took you a few seconds to realize what had just happened, just sitting up and blinking at Yuuta who looked paler than usual, his body frozen to the spot as he watched you with wide eyes. The way you looked around made him aware of how dizzy you must feel since your head hit the wall - at least there was no blood on your hands when you checked the back of your head reluctantly.

“Yuuta?” You asked him as you teared up, knowing that it was just an accident. The young man snapped out of his trance-like state upon hearing your voice, softly asking him for comfort but he couldn't give that to you, not if he was the one who hurt you in the first place.

His head snapped around, looking for a way out of there, perhaps he could jump out of the window or would it be too high? The sound of his heartbeat picking up was deafening, the only thing he heard in that moment and it only fueled the anxiety further. But it was your utterly desperate voice calling out to him once again that snapped him out of his fight or flight reaction, panicked eyes finally looking at your teary ones and his body reacted on its own. Without a further moment passing he dropped to his knees beside you and cradled your body in his arms, holding you close. You knew he didn't hurt you and it was just a reaction of Rika so you weren't angry, but your body still hurt as you wept into his embrace, body trembling with each sob that wrecked through it. “I'm so sorry my love” kept falling off his lips like a whispered mantra as he gently rocked you back and forth in his arms in hopes that it's enough to calm both of you down - even if it's just a little bit.

Hours later and neither of you had moved. You were still cradled in Yuuta's lap, arms wrapped securely around you and he still looked at you as if he just broke the most valuable thing he ever owned. “I’m sorry that I made you angry,” you eventually broke the silence that just felt heavy to you but he quickly shook his head “don't… it's not your fault I lost control,” he began and kissed your temple, his lips resting against your delicate skin for a moment before you felt them move as he continued to speak. “I should have told you I'm home earlier, the flowers would have been a surprise regardless, I'm sorry I made you doubt my love for you.” He whispered against your temple, earnest regret in his voice. Yuuta knew he was gone too much lately and if the roles were reversed he would have had doubts as well so he couldn't blame you.

Unsure how to answer, you nod softly and your hands clutch onto him just a little tighter. “We will make things better,” you eventually mumble, reassuring the both of you that despite what has happened, things will be okay again and you can work past this accident.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Inumaki:

You never felt scared or threatened by Inumaki, he was always more than sweet to you and despite his cursed speech you never feared anything. He fell in love with you the day he found out you learned sign language for him and hasn't left your side ever since. You two were inseparable to the point of his friends automatically speaking of the both of you instead of just an individual and it was you who understood his few words better than anyone.

Laughter echoed through his small apartment when he pinned you to the bed with just one hand, the other traveling down to your sides to tickle you. Your laughter was one of his favorite noises, your smile his favorite sight and he wished he could tell you, scream out how much he loves you but he would never dare to say such things out loud, scared it manipulates you somehow and you're with him against your will. That was his worst nightmare, one that often haunted him at night and he woke up distressed while frantically searching for his phone. It's the same over and over again “You're with me because it's what you want, right?” He texts and awaits your answer as he picks the skin on his fingers anxiously. “I’m with you because my heart chose you” you tell him every time before his phone even unlocks - already knowing what plagues his handsome head.

Your sweet giggle brought him back to the little play fight you two just had and the way you were trying so hard to overpower him despite knowing you would never succeed. This thought never scared you, since you knew he would never use it against you or hold you down when you wouldn't want it. It was all just playful banter until he wanted to catch your wrist after you freed it but miscalculated, sending his hand right against your cheek with such strength the slap echoed off the walls followed by your whimper. You didn't need to push him off of your body, Inumaki got up right away, the tears that started to form in your eyes causing him to panic slowly. He frantically tried to sign “I'm sorry it was an accident” over and over but it felt like his hands knotted up by the speed and you didn't look at him, turning away as the tears started rolling down your cheeks. You weren't mad at him, knowing it was an accident but it still hurt you - the tears only a reaction of your body to the stinging pain that traveled through your face.

But the way you refused to even look towards him frustrated the young man and despite his efforts to get your attention you simply rose from the corner of the bed and left the room. Of course he was chasing after you, tapping you, holding your wrist, whining… he tried so hard to get just a sliver of your attention when you clearly didn't want to give that to him right now and he felt wrongfully punished. “Stop crying and come here” these words slipped past his lips with such desperation, he couldn't even stop himself before saying them out loud and his hands slapped over his mouth the second he realized what he'd done.

No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, your body acted on its own accord as the tears dried and your feet walked over to him. Your face was one of utter shock and betrayal that he would do this to you, accident or not.

Inumaki pulled your body close and held you in a tight embrace despite every fiber in his body screaming not to do it, it felt so wrong to him but he needed you to forgive him, for accidentally hurting you, for putting you through manipulation. When he pulled back he was met with your face full of hurt and anger, which he deserved. “Please hit me back. We can be even” he signed once, twice… but you looked away, pinching the bridge of your nose as you took a step back to put some space between the white haired man and yourself. You wanted to scream, to explode at him but you collected yourself and looked at him with a cold expression. “Can you just stop?! I don't care that you hit me,” you started but lost your cool quickly and it came out more snappy than intended “we were play fighting, it happens. But you can't just crowd me and demand me to do things… and you surely can't fucking manipulate me!” Your voice rose in volume at the last part since this hurt you more than the accidental hit to your face.

Inumaki looked at you like a kicked puppy, eyes big and his face sinking into the collar of his sweater further so he can hide. He was beyond ashamed for his actions and didn't want to speak, the desperation clouding his mind and forgetting for just a split second that his words have immediate consequences and despite his best effort of not speaking, he can mess up.

With trembling hands he started signing apologies, begging for your forgiveness over and over until his shoulders started trembling and in a last effort he signed words unclear but you knew what he meant “please hold me” You whispered as he signed it and sighed. Realizing that he's more affected by this than you were and that he really had no malicious intentions you pulled your lover close, comforting him and yourself as his arms wrapped around you tightly, hands clutching to the fabric of your shirt. “Love” he mumbled out aloud, knowing this one word won't make you do anything but it was the first time you heard him say that he loves you out aloud. “I love you too” you whispered back, cheek still aching from the way his hand slipped but right now your heart needed healing from the betrayal of getting manipulated. Both, you and Toge were sure that this was a cut in your relationship but the bond you shared will act as a bandaid and you will be okay again, especially since he will be more careful now.

Networks: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @houseofsolisoccasum

[dilftaroooo]

Request: True form Sukuna claiming his offering in front of her village.

im gonna write this as a drabble :3

★tags/tw: uhh implied cannibalism + cervix fucking + sukuna is pretty misogynistic + fem!reader + discrimination against humans(?) idfk + true form!sukuna + loss of virginity

You delicately sit in the middle of the stage, introducing yourself to the slew of men and women scattered about like spilled salt on a kitchen table. Your legs are spread to present to them your blooming flower--still pink and untouched. It twitches under the many watchful eyes of diverse emotions--horror, confusion, lust, envy. They all poured down on you amid a lethal storm, droplets pounding your skin and soaking you thoroughly. You turn your head to avoid the plethora of wicked gazes. The feeling is overwhelming.

Behind you lies a demon. A great being, an entity that holds more power than anyone close or far. His teeth are sharp, his eyes are beady, and his stomach is hungry for the innocence of a fresh maiden. The people of your village brought you here. They made sure your scent was pleasant and that you were garbed in the cleanest of silk--your uchikake was adorned in floral patterns reminiscent of the trees that bloomed near your home.

They knew you'd be deemed a perfect offering for Sukuna-sama, the King of Curses--you're a sweet girl with a pure body, your breasts are full and your thighs are plump. They were sure if their King ever grew bored of you, he could easily dispose of your youthful frame by savoring your flesh and keeping your skull as a precious souvenir. Innocents always taste sweeter than most.

Though your legs were spread, they weren't spread enough for Sukuna as he already gripped your thighs with a strict pressure you weren't unfamiliar with. The squelch that leaves your pussy parts as he further widens your limbs was a sound everyone managed to capture. You're wet and slimy and maybe somewhat aroused. Your King is an attractive beast with a chiseled chin and a beguiling grin. Intricate, onyx lines surface the apex of his taut muscles and the sight makes you clench around thin air. You ponder on what he'd look like if he were a mere human such as yourself.

"All of you!" He starts, his voice booms through the premises and you're surprised by how powerful the echo is despite not being in an enclosed space. As expected, everyone gears their eyes toward the four-armed monster in preparation for his next words. "I want you mortal freaks to watch me fuck this girl you were so kind to offer me. If it hadn't been for this young duckling I would've already slaughtered this putrid village and watched my militia of curses swallow you whole."

He's quick for his size as he brings you onto his hefty lap, and from there you already feel one of his cocks coat itself against your wet slit. He's huge and lingering at the back of your mind, you wonder if you would die at first thrust. His tip is an angry red, livid from the languid teasing performed by its heaving owner from rubbing it across the length of your weeping cunt. It isn't long before his playful ministrations are seduced into slamming inside you.

You weren't even spared a moment of reconsideration for your hymen was already snapped into two, disintegrating upon impact. It would have been a shame to experience your deflowering with a prominent tummy bulge if it wasn't for how much your mind and soul revere the beast overlapping your weak presence.

You were his and he was his own as he violently hammered himself down to the hilt. You bathed him in the blood of a former virgin while he hits that bruised cervix within you. Your back is against that sculpted chest you worship dearly and his sweat rubs off on you is strong with his pheromones.

"Sukuna-sama," You mewl because he's so deep in your pussy that you can't fight back the urge to call out his name. He responds with a finger to your clit and a hand on your breast, making it his duty to circle a thick finger around your nipple.

"I don't remember granting you permission to speak now, did I?" His tone is dark enough to make you believe you've done something utterly wrong but your apology comes out in a series of wanton moans. He chuckles at how the pathetic always act so miserably.

"But since you're clasping around me so tightly," Burgundy red orbs glare at the side of your left cheek, previously moistened with tears of pain and gratitude. "I'll let your sheer idiocracy go. I don't think any of the past wenches you humans throw at me grip my dick this hard. I assume they were used up til they were nothing but a gaping hole." Then he frowns.

"They must think poorly of me."

Sukuna cherishes the screams rushing out of your throat as you take him inch by overbearing inch, stretching you out to accommodate his length and girth. You're nothing but his plaything.

You practically forget the crowd casted in front of you once you hear subdued chattering coming from multiple voices, all laced with different tones with different perceptions. You feel like a common whore.

Throughout, Sukuna never kissed you. He believes he should not taste the lips of a revolting human for it'll taint his palate. He just fucks into you as you bounce like some ragdoll abandoned by a little girl. But if life has fated you with the opportunity to become Sukuna's, your King's, toy, then may you not change the inevitable.

[4unnyr0se]

❥ tsukishima plays the waiting game - part two

warnings: post-timeskip tsukki!, fem! reader, unrequited love(?), rough sex, doggy style, grinding, hickeys, spanking, unprotected sex, degrading, tsukki and his bandaged hands, he's an asshole but we love him in this house

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 970

Not only were you gorgeous, Tsukishima thought you were good conversation as well. You brought up news articles from several weeks ago and made incredibly compelling points and criticisms. He rarely got to speak intellectually with someone about things he read. Yamaguchi didn’t read what Tsukishima did, and his teammates weren’t really the brightest bulbs (especially Mad Dog.)

The two of you sat at his desk and ate a pizza, and you were eating considerably messier. He smirked and chuckled at your untidiness, often wiping crumbs or sauce from the corner of your lips. Your perfect, plump lips shone with strawberry gloss. 

God, he really fucking liked you. 

He couldn’t take it anymore, you were just too pretty. Pretty, smart, and not afraid to humble him. Tsukishima liked that. He pushed his lips against yours, unsure of what to do. He had never kissed anyone before. Tsukishima never wanted to until you slapped him across the face that May afternoon. You giggled into the kiss, sitting in his lap and cupping his blushing cheeks with your delicate hands. You guided him through the kiss, ensuring the tempo was right. He got the hang of it quickly enough, as he did with most things. 

Tsukishima took control quickly, grasping onto your hips to pull you further into his lap. The pressure from his strong hands caused you to grind down onto his strong and muscular thighs, the sensational friction causing you to moan into his mouth. He took this opportunity to slip his tongue past your teeth, exploring your mouth briefly before pulling away, a thin string of salvia connecting your lips.

The middle blocker had the biggest smirk on his handsome face. His golden eyes were filled with desire and sinister ideas. Tsukishima easily picked you up, tossing you onto his neatly made bed. He didn’t look like it, but Tsukishima was incredibly strong and muscular. Playing D2 volleyball yielded incredible physical results.

You squealed in joy as you landed on his fluffy comforter, quickly being silenced as Tsukishima crushed his lips on yours once more, pulling down the neckline of your tank top so your breasts would spill out. God, they were so fucking pretty to him. His calloused hands massaged the supple mounts whilst he kissed you so passionately, his taped thumb rolling over your nipples. Tsukishima’s chapped lips trailed down your neck, peppering the sensitive skin in kisses before landing on the spot just above the clavicle, his mouth unforgiving as he sucked a violent purple circle onto the flesh. He relished in your soft moans, adoring the feeling of your legs wrapping around his thin waist. Were you really that greedy? That was so fucking hot. So greedy, greedy for him and his touch. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He purred in your ear, his hands slipping past your jeans to massage against your clothed core. You were dripping; he felt it on his bony fingers. “Fuck, you’re so filthy for me.” He groaned, taking off your jeans and panties within seconds. Tsukishima took off his pants and boxers in tow, his girthy length slapping onto his stomach. He grinned smugly as he saw your pupils shrink upon seeing how big he was, were you afraid of him? That was so fucking hot, holy shit. He needed you. Tsukishima needed to bury himself inside your sobbing cunt. 

Tsukishima’s fingers plunged into you, bullying your cunt open. The tape on his fingers created a new sensation that you’ve never felt before. His ministrations in your core were calculated and desperate, finding that perfect spot within seconds. His taped thumb rubbed against your throbbing clit, soaking his digits in your slick. “Fuck!” you cried out, your hair forming a halo around your head. “T-Tsuki!”

“Hm? I can’t hear you, pretty girl. Speak up.” His voice was dripping with mockery. He tore his fingers out of your core, despite the fact you were sucking him inside like a vortex. “You want me to fuck you, is that it?” He grabbed onto your jaw and forced you to meet his gaze, his fingers squeezing your jawbone snugly. “Beg for it.”

“P-please fuck me Tsuki! Wanted you for so long, p-please!”

That was all Tsukishima needed before he flipped you over, ass on the air and on display for him. His hand guided his girthy length in, hissing as you imprisoned his cock so well. God, how were you this tight? He just fucked you with his fingers. “God, you’re tight. Fucking how?”

His hands grasped onto your hips as he fucked you mercilessly, the sound of his balls filling his dorm room accompanied by your wanton moans. Tsukishima’s calloused hands smacked the fat of your ass, squeezing the flesh in his large palm. “All fucking mine,” he grunted out, feeling your walls tightening around his cock. “You’re close, aren’t you? Good fucking slut, cum on this cock. Fucking cum on this cock, shit.” He grunted, feeling his own climax approach.

And you came, you came on his cock so fucking hard you thought you would black out from the sheer amount of euphoria coursing in your veins. You let out the most beautiful and pathetic cry that sent Tsukishima over the edge, spilling himself inside you.

“God,” he grunted, pulling himself out to be greeted with the sight of his seed spilling out of you, beautifully running down your thighs. “I wanted to do that since you smacked me.” 

You flipped yourself over on the bed and smiled at him, rubbing your ass to cushion yourself. “Me too, I know that’s kind of silly.”

“Shut up,” he kissed your cheek, blushing at the affection.

“You seriously just fucked me and you’re blushing over a cheek kiss?” you giggled, rubbing the back of his bandaged hand. “That’s adorable.”

“I’m kicking you out.”

“Wait no-”

part 2!! hope u guys enjoy hehe

[satorusugurugurl]

Fierce

Summary: The King of Curse, Ryomen Sukuna, has grown tired of villages offering him their virgins. Until you came, violent, bloody, and precisely what he wanted.

Pairing: TF!Ryomen Sukuna x AFAB!Reader (Heinan Era!)

Warning: language, mentions of violence, misogynistic tendencies, blood, murder, death, oral sex (F receiving)

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N Kinktober day three: monster smex! This prompt was cum eating monster Kuna! And I was craving my badass curse! (Here's a fun fact: Sukuna is my hubby’s favorite character! 🙂‍↕️)

Ryomen Sukuna was feared across the land. No one dared to defy him. But being feared also came with certain downsides. One of those downsides included villages near him offering their women as trophies for him. Humans made him sick sometimes. The women were being dragged into his throne room, tossed to the ground, and offered as a bride. They always had a pathetic look on their face.

If he were to take on a wife, he wanted them to be strong. Not some insignificant insect. He had no use for women like that.

Until he met you. Sukuna was sitting on his throne, eating some delicacies Uraume brought him, when there was quite a commotion from outside in the hall. He glanced up, watching as the door to the throne room was flung open. And he was half expecting another woman to be thrown to the ground before him. Only it was a man. A beaten and bloodied man who pushed himself up so fast to get away from the woman who was trying to be held back.

Upon seeing you, Sukuna’s four eyes went wide. You were pleasant to look at. Your body was to his liking, and there was a certain rage in your eyes. One that had him feeling hungry for more than snacks. Hungry for you.

“Insolent woman!” One of the men who was griping you yelled. “Cease this violence; Lord Sukuna will not approve!”

“I do not care what this Lord Sukuna thinks of me! You stripping me down and dressing me with sheer fabrics and trying to determine if my maidenhood is still intact is none of your damn business!”

The men holding you tried dragging you back into the hall, pulling you out of the throne room. “Lord Sukuna will want nothing more than a virgin!”

Sukuna watched with amused eyes as you yanked your arm from one of the strangers before punching them directly in the nose. Blood spurted out, staining the white fabric you wore that did very little to hide your body. The man reeled back in pain as you continued fighting against them.

“That should be between Lord Sukuna and me!” you snapped as the men struggled to hold you.

“I couldn’t agree more.” The room was suddenly very quiet as the men that surrounded you and yourself slowly turned, watching as the curse himself trod down the large staircase leading to the floor you were on. “I would like to discuss this with you in private.”

You inhaled deeply through your nose, sticking your chin high in the air as you looked up at the man you were offered to. The men who had taken you from your home to offer you to the demon king backed away like the cowards they were. Sukuna paid them little mind as he reached down with one of his four arms, grabbing your chin. His black pointed nails dug into your soft skin, not hard enough to hurt you but firm enough to prevent you from moving. Holding your chin, he tilted your head from one side to the other as he examined your pretty face.

“You’re bruised; tell me, was this some clumsy accident you had imposed upon yourself? Or was this done to you?”

The trembling cowards behind you shook as the dark essence of the Lord Sukuna spread throughout the room like a shadow. The air was tense as you slowly turned your head, looking back at the men who had dragged you here. Fully intending on selling you to the Lord, to offer you like some sacrifice to win favor with him. They were the ones who had the bruises that littered your face and your arms. They were the actual monsters of this story.

“Woman, answer me.”

You shot your eyes back up at the man staring at you with an almost unreadable expression on his face. “I have a name; do not call me woman.” You then promptly provided your name to the Lord, King of Curses himself. Fully intending that he knew you would not tolerate being called anything else.

If it had been anyone else, Sukuna would have sliced them down for talking to him in such a way. However, he was intrigued with you. None of the other women that had been brought to him had caught his attention. They were such fragile, weaklings, and no use for women like that. So, instead of using them in the way men intended him to do so, he had them work as servants in his palace. And if any of them were to piss him off, Uraume would know what to do with them.

“You have a sharp tongue and claws like a cat; I like that about you, Kitten.” His attention returned to the men inching closer to the door towards freedom. “Now answer my question. Who did this to you?”

For a moment, you were confused by the gesture, but it wasn’t until you heard the wet, squelching sounds behind you that you realized what had been done. Sukuna had used his technique and slaughtered everyone who stood behind you. No bile rose in the back of your throat; you instead turned, looking over your shoulder at the heaps of bodies and blood that stained the floor. Instead of disgust, you felt a certain sense of satisfaction from witnessing their demise.

“They bruised you, the one that they offered to me.” Sukuna grabbed you, lifting you off the ground and throwing you over his shoulder. “I do not like people bruising my meals.”

Panic, raw and true, settled in your chest; you had heard the rumors about Lord Sukuna eating people. Were you his next meal? Is that what you were offered to him in such a way? It wasn’t like you could run away from this curse. You had seen what he was capable of, and you knew if you tried to escape, certain death would follow.

Much to your surprise, you weren’t taken to some torture chamber or a kitchen. Instead, Sukuna took you to a chamber filled with plush pillows and blankets; he threw you down onto the bedding before dropping to his knees, forcing your legs. You gasped, biting down on your bottom lip as Sukuna positioned himself between your legs.

“I hate when others touch what belongs to me.” There was a certain arousal to his words. You found yourself longing for more. To see just how he intended to treat you now that you ‘belonged’ to him. “Foolish humans, they should’ve known better.” His eyes make yours, and much like his words, his eyes were filled with arousal and need. “I can smell your arousal. You want this, don’t you?”

There was no denying that you wanted this man before you. This powerful King of Curses. Fuck that, it wasn’t so much as I want to, but a need. You swallowed at your suddenly dry throat before you gave a curt nod of your head.

“Say it.”

“I-I want it, Lord Kuna.”

“Good.”

The beast above you wasted no time; two of his hands ripped apart the sheer fabric you were wearing, and the other two groped your breasts, massaging them as your nipples hardened against the ruined fabric. All you were capable of doing was gasping as he forced your legs apart, dropping his head down and hailing as he kissed up your thighs.

“Oh my gods.” Your withered body shakes against the flush pillows underneath you.

Sukuna growled as he chuckled, nearing closer to your aching cunt. “You were so violent earlier, throwing punches and fighting against all of those weak men. I knew I had to have you.” Suddenly, a mouth appeared in the palm of his hand that was copying your breasts; a tongue darted, swirling around your nipple, causing your back to as you arched into it, chasing the sensation of his tongue all over you.

The teeth nipped and sucked at your flesh, leaving marks that were due to him and him alone. This monster, curse, god, fully intended to mark you up in a way you had never been. You shuddered and whined, shutting tight as the sensation of his tongue rolling over your sensitive skin became almost overwhelming as his mouth sealed around your clit, licking and sucking at the bundle of nerves.

“Ah!” The sounds you made pleased Sukuna, and he fully intended to draw out more of those delicious sounds from you. “L-Lord Sukuna!” Your hand came down, grabbing the locks of his hair, tugging at it as he shut all four of his eyes while he focused on drawing circles around your clit.

He made quick work of all of his mouths that were on you, drawing circles and nibbling at your skin as he slid his tongue up and down over your slut, spreading your wetness all over that pretty pussy of yours. You were a mess, shaking like a fallen leaf in the wind as he devoured you. He was quite skilled with his tongue, so it didn’t take long for you to lose yourself crying out as you buck your hips against his face, chasing your orgasm that coiled tight in the gut, causing your body to shake violently as Sukuna continued his assault with his tongue.

“K-Kuna!” You cried as he continued to lick and suck at you, not stopping at all. “M-My Lord!” He continued, ignoring your cries, feasting on the way you squirmed and tried to pull away from him as he licked and sucked at your oversensitive pussy. He had already gotten a taste of, and he was not going to stop until he tasted you again on his tongues.

The room was spinning, and the smell of incense was almost overbearing as the pleasure continued to roll through you like waves on the water. Drool began to seep out of the corner of your mouth as you came a second time, squirting all over the tongue of the King. But he still wasn’t done; he sat up, lifting you so you were off of the pillows, body held in the air, your shoulders resting against his knees as he brought you up to his mouth, continuing his feast.

“M-my god!”

“Yes~” he agreed against your sex. “I plan on eating this pretty pussy, eating all of the you have to offer for me.” The growls that sounded in his chest told you to run that this was a beast you could not face, but your body had already been conditioned to love and crave the caress of his tongue against your sex. “For once, I’m actually pleased with the offerings these pathetic villages have brought me.”

His words were barely audible to you as your heart pounded inside of your eardrums as you approached yet another orgasm. This man was a cum eating monster, and he was addicted to you and your taste. You weren’t sure if you would be able to handle more of this. But you sure as fuck we’re eager to see how much more you could handle.

All of a sudden, a finger was slid inside of your tight, wet heat. You inhaled sharply at the sudden intrusion that wasn’t at all painful due to how wet you were. Your pussy greedily sucked his finger in deeper. You didn’t want him to leave. You wanted more of him, all of him. You would take everything he had to offer for you.

“More!” You begged, not wanting his tongue any longer. “Please, my Lord!”

It was tempting to deny your request to continue the feast. He was so greedily eating as if he was starved. Sukuna could not deny the throbbing within his pants. He growled, dropping you back onto the Plush pillows, enjoying the way your tits bounced as he pressed you against the pillows lifting your legs over his shoulder and dropping them there.

“I have a feeling you're going to be my favorite.” he tugged his robe's part, freeing both his erections. They throbbed, leaking pre-cum, and his eyes lingered on your face, enjoying the shocked expression that crossed your features. “Think you can handle them?”

What kind of question was that?! He was asking if you would be able to take both of his cocks, ones that were thick and long.

Of fucking course you could.

“I would do anything for you, my Lord.”

Sukuna smirked, leaning over you, kissing and sucking at your neck, marking you up in the only way you should be marked. “That’s my Kitten, fierce determined. I liked that and a woman.” he pressed both his cock heads against your entrances, slowly trailing his tongue over his lips. “You’re going to be a fine wife.”

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@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918

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[neyafromfrance95]

my thoughts on haladriel in ep8:

they chickened out a bit bc they 100% wanted to convey that sauron loves galadriel and she is the only light in his life, the light that he in fact worships, but it was maybe too subtle, too subtextual. and if this ending meant that galadriel suddenly fully overcame her darkness, well, that'd be a very rushed, weak development.

let me explain why i believe they wanted to show sauron's feelings for galadriel bordering love and obsession:

during the fight, sauron says that not all of it was an illusion. the expression on his face as he says it is genuine and melancholic. his longing is clear. and right after he says it, we see him as halbrand repeating that he felt connection with her, meaning that it was the truth.

he looks hopeful when he says that her door is still open to him and loses it when she tells him it's shut. now i don't think that it's actually shut yet as he talks to her through their mind connection as he asks for the ring (whether her fall meant shutting the door is going to be answered in s3).

"the door is still open" also suggests that his proposal is still active, and the hopeful, almost desperate look on his face as he says it, tells us a lot. it also recontextualizes what "the door" means in their relationship.

he plays with her, showing her illusions of her dark self, reminding her how alike they are. illusion!celebrimbor's line "are they not the seeds you've planted" proves that it was him who sent her those visions in the beginning. again, guilt-bonding her to himself.

"i would have placed a crown upon your head. i would never have rested until all middle-earth had been brought to its knees, to worship the light of its queen." he is earnest when he says it, and then there is this feral predatory look of want. it shows how he covets whatever he sees in her. i really loved the wording of "worship the light of its queen" as the shippers have been describing his coveting as the "worship of the light".

AGAIN, HE WANTS TO BRING ALL MIDDLE-EARTH TO ITS KNEES TO WORSHIP GALADRIEL, THEIR QUEEN EQUAL TO SAURON, AS HE WORSHIPS HER LIGHT HIMSELF. this part is essential in understanding sauron's feelings for galadriel and it's straight out of our fanons.

after she jumps, he loses it again and takes it out on his poor subordinate orc. rip. we can see him standing there and looking down while breathing heavily for longer than necessary.

yeah, he wounds her with the crown. but we don't know what he would have done with her had she given him the ring. honestly, if it was anyone else, they'd be dead the moment he saw nenya + the nine. the chickening out element plays in the way his intentions are vague, as he clearly doesn't want to hurt her and wants her to willingly give in, but ofc the evil sauron can't be too gray, he has to be dark dark.

subtextually, nenya is galadriel, him being transfixed with nenya tells us of his obsession with galadriel's light. i love when the stories employ subtext to say what the text can't eloquently, but in this case, they're employing it bc they got no guts.

his whole demeanor with her is completely different from how he presents himself with others. he plays with her as a predator with its pray, but he is being honest and raw. his anger is personal and the hints of delight when he greets her for the fist time - sincere.

the fight itself was as hot as it was violent. sorry not sorry. true dead dove enemies enjoyers still won. i stand by my opinion that this fight scene is the hottest thing in this show. when he pins her and pierces her with that crown, penetrating her flesh, and keeps pushing in as he tells her he wanted her as his queen to worship with a soft expression painted over his face, and then he looks at her as if he wants to violently devour her, eat her whole? yeah. that was er0tic.

i honestly am not sure where they will go with this. will the audience demand for more haladriel influence s3? it depends on whether the door is still open, and i think it is, and maybe sauron is going to get even more obsessed with possessing nenya(=galadriel)? i'm more worried that they will give in to the incelbro demand of watering galadriel down and simplifying her. so i hope her struggle with the darkness is not over yet. it felt like it was but if sauron starts to break into her mind more frequently, then it might not be the case. the fact that galadriel stops attacking him when he transforms into halbrand also indicates that she loves halbrand, and maybe will always love him no matter how she feels about sauron.

[imagionationstation]

Today on the Mikey Is Not Abused news

Research shows that 78% of the “Poor Mikey” fanclub claims that Mikey is incapable of standing up for himself, whether that be because he fears further abuse, fears his brothers in general, suffers from intense depression, an abuse sort of conditioning, or *insert other incredulous views here* (Statistics may not be entirely accurate and should be used with caution).

Unfortunately for them, Mikey does knows how to stand up for himself and it has been shown that he can speak his mind to even the main abuser, Raphael, and walk away unscathed.

Astonishing claim, I know, but the facts prove themselves.

Mikey has brought up beliefs on several occasions, but his lack of awareness outside his own mind often disproves his own claims.

Years of leprechauns, cream cheese demons, and certainty in cupcake uprisings have worn down his brothers’ trust in his word on many different subjects. This is not his brothers ignoring him out of spite. This is merely because he has proven himself to be an unreliable source when it comes to reality.

His lack of interest in taking most battles and training sessions seriously grate on his brothers’ nerves and often lead them to doubt his prowess and abilities on the field. Mikey being the youngest and earning all of their must protect with life instincts doesn’t exactly help his case. He knowingly brings much of their wrath upon himself- with tauntings, and purposefully infuriating acts, and the constant reappearance of Dr. Prankenstein.

When Mikey doesn’t go gun-hoe or call Raph out for a whack on the head, it’s probably because he’s conscious enough to know he likely said/did something stupid, or because he purposefully did something annoying.

However, if he sees an injustice affect another by his brothers’ hand, he will be the first one to stand up and correct it.

Mikey is proven to be more likely to speak his mind when it comes to others around him getting retribution that he deems underserved.

IN FACT, a few of the only times fans actually see an aggressive argument/challenge poised to a brother is to Raphael, often in regards to his crass judgement.

Take Fourfold Trap as an example:

“I got the answer for you! Karai’s a lost cause!”

“Don’t say that, dude!”

Mikey shoves at Raph’s shoulder to make him face him and they both begin yelling/bickering/roughly gesturing. Mikey is in no way scared of how Raph will react to this and is immediate in getting physically aggressive and speaking his mind.

Not normally how someone who’s been abused all their life would act towards the main abuser, I think. Not convincing enough?

Well, The Curse of Savanti Romero is another:

In it, Renet is seen admitting to her mistake of letting Romero loose. Raph responds by immediately coming down on her for it, even though she understands and regrets her mistake.

Mikey has zero hesitations about jumping into the picture.

“You really are the worst time traveler ever! The worst!”

“Back off, bro! She needs our help!”

Psychology of most abusers would not point to this kind of situation going well. If this were the case- in no universe would Raphael have relented under his brother’s glare and stepped away, especially not after being shoved and yelled at in front of someone outside the family. That would be seen as a calling for punishment.

Moving away would be letting the abused assert dominance and think that they’ve gotten away with a win.

If this were really an abusive relationship, then Raphael would have had a far more violent reaction to his youngest brother butting in.

Instead, he growled, glared, and then relented. He could tell this was not an issue that could be further challenged. Mikey was standing his ground, intensely meeting his glare, and so Raph stepped away.

Now, have there been times where Mikey felt like he was left out or being ignored and that made him feel insecure?

Yes. Absolutely. Mikey Gets Shellacne is a prime example.

But, have the abusers, his older brothers, been made to share similar feelings of being unable to rely on their brothers at one time or another? Perhaps due to his direct or indirect actions? Why, yes.

Because, as hard as it is to believe, every person in that family has made mistakes when dealing with another family member. Relationships are hard. Not one person, or mutant, is perfect, and facing or accepting insecurities is always a fact of growing up.

Is this to say Mikey never stands up for himself?

No. Not even close.

Is it ever portrayed as something big and dramatic as a focal point of an episode? No. Because it doesn’t need to be.

If Mikey holding onto resentment and depression from how his brother abuse him was meant to be part of his character, it would have been a plot point in the episode where they’re literally in his brain. There would have been the slightest hint of something going on somewhere in that chaotic realm.

Instead, Mikey’s brain welcomed all of his brother with open arms.

And the true, inner Mikey runs ecstatically toward his brothers and into Leo’s open arms for snuggles, no more scared of his brothers inside his mind than outside of it.

The only time that he has thoughts of “my brothers are so mean to me I should run away” is the episode The Croaking, where he takes accountability and has the realization that his brothers aren’t the jerks that he thought they were when he ran off…

“Dude. Your brothers sound awesome.”

“Yeah. They are… Even after I trashed the house.”

Mikey doesn’t often react violently to his brother’s teasing because there’s not a reason too. He understands that his brother’s pick on him, but in reality, he picks on them too. It’s not a big enough deal to point out unless an evil planet is letting Angry Mikey consume all of his thoughts and then everything is terrible.

Mikey can stand up for himself. Mikey will always stand up for others.

And that brings this article to an end. Subscribe for more!

Next time, we’ll discuss why Parasitica May or May Not have a worse reputation than it truly deserves. Cowbunga!

[nvuy]

poor provincial town — il capitano

summary. your father disappears suddenly, so you set off in search, and discover something much worse than the monsters you were warned about in your quiet little village.

notes. nvuy actually writing something holy shit we lost. it’s a beauty and the beast spin off. i want this man so badly i will trudge across the sahara desert just to lick off his sweat to cure my unbridled thirst.

warnings. 16+, mature themes, you can interpret capitano as yandere but he’s also implied to not be human (riding on the draconic capitano headcanons here) so in general he’s just a weirdo, he’s probably ooc because yeah, gn reader (any usage of the word ‘man’ is just another word for ‘human’), mentions of violence, threatening, violent threats can also be interpreted as sexy i guess, mentions of death, AU sort of because beauty and the beast spin off.

Your father had gone missing.

The news had shaken you to your core, and despite the wrangling on from the poor terrible and boring provincial town that you hailed from, you planned to set out almost immediately in search of him.

The people had warned you of wolves in the forest, flesh eating bugs that crawled in the winter snow, and men with pointy sharp teeth and large claws that could slice you to ribbons. All horror stories from children’s books; the same nightmares you had when you were little. Raging beasts within the trees to make sense of the shadows that moved strangely in the night.

You were warned, denied, almost locked away in your home for protection. But, you moved. You set out, for your father was already old and frail as he was. You couldn’t imagine him being lost to the woods. Not your father. He was wiser than to step out by himself, and especially so deep within the trees.

“It does not make sense for you to venture by yourself. Trekking through the woods is not for people such as you.” The older lady of the town library told you one day. “What lies out there… I could not tell you.”

You took the book from her hands and pressed your fingers into the hard cover. Your nails left a permanent dint in the laminate. “I do not fear death.”

“Not death,” she corrected. “Death is not what lingers.” She then glanced up at the ceiling, thoughtful. “Death is beautiful. What you should be afraid of are people.” She looked back down at you before a sad grin grew onto her lips. “Speak not to strangers, for you may provide dinner for the beasts that roam the woods.”

She did say beasts, you know. Monsters with fangs and fur and hooves that knew nothing but to bite and eat, eat, eat.

But there are various sorts of beasts. Charming, handsome quiet beasts. Kind and polite and patient.

“It is the gentle beasts that are the most dangerous of all.” The older lady sighed deeply, perturbed. She fidgeted in her seat behind the counter. “If you do leave, bring a weapon.”

You cannot fight, though you did pocket a small dagger.

And then you set off. Through the woods, down hills, across rivers, trying to piece together a narrative as to why your father had disappeared. It was winter — though, it did always snow here — and the winds were much more biting than usual. Thankfully, you had brought layers, and the thick hood that wrapped over your head did its job in banishing most of the cold.

It did not stop the lingering gazes of the creatures that crept along the trees, and lingered within the shadows.

You are soaked in snow and wind and cold, but you press on.

You eventually stumbled upon a castle. A grand one, with cracked and broken windows, thorny leafless bushes that surround the forked fencing, and a door so giant your hand can barely wrap around the handle. It is the only source of shelter for miles.

He must be here. Your father was ill. He needed a roof to sleep under. And possibly, despite its state, the castle could have food hidden away if looked for thoroughly.

You push open the doors, wincing from the loud creaking that alerts your presence to anyone residing inside. It looks abandoned. The once polished floors and mangled and ruined, and it a single candle flickers with life. The chandelier sits on the floor, smashed to pieces, and glass spills from every corner.

It is dark, and cold, but it is shelter.

So, you search.

High and low, wandering through the endless halls, trying to trace your steps. You search upstairs first. There are many levels, perhaps maybe five or six, and as you look, you find different rooms. Grand empty ballrooms, bathrooms that once had plated gold edging to every corner and crevice, bedrooms with torn sheets and broken wardrobes. Most rooms were empty — you cannot imagine being able to fill every single one.

Then, you search downstairs. You hadn’t wanted to go below the ground, but your father did not answer to any hushed whisper you called, and you were beginning to lose hope.

The deeper you go, the more you feel trapped.

There are cellars down here, and they stretch on beyond what your eye can see.

The cellars are dark and twisted and cold. It smells of mildew and mould, and every step you take emits a splash from the puddles. The walls are brick and cracked and covered in moss so old it has turned black with time. There are no little white flowers along the vines.

You step further along the wet stone, feeling along the wall blindly. Your nails scrape along, and you try to even your breathing. It’s cold. It’s cold. Frost and snow still clings to your clothes.

That’s when you spot your father rotting away in a cell, and you quickly take his hands through the bars. He’s frail and older now, and so much sicker from being locked away for so long.

You cry out pathetically when he struggles to curl his fingers around yours. Frostbite has taken the tips, and his skin has morphed to an ugly purple and black.

“You shouldn’t have looked for me,” he tells you. Then, he glances down the dark hall. He cannot see anything, for shadows linger across the walls like spiders crawling upon silvery silken webbing, but he knows there is something out there. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

You dismiss his concern. “You’re freezing.” You squeeze your hands tight over his thin skin before you shed off your hood and hand it to him through the bars. “Who did this to you?”

“You need to leave,” your father pleads.

“‘Leave?’” you echo. You try to see through what little light there is for a keyhole. You do not have a key, but the iron is rusted and weak, and you’re sure you can find something to smash the door through with. “I cannot leave. Not without you.”

You search around. You try to steady your racing heart, breathing deeply through your nose. Fog passes from your lips with each breath. Water drips from somewhere, and the constant ticking and creaking of the old bricks make you nervous.

You’re concerned the entire floor will collapse, so you work quick.

The cellars are empty and abandoned. Most of the doors are open, and there’s no keys in sight. There are no weapons, either, nor any long poles to smash the door down.

You panic.

It’s hopeless.

This place is completely empty.

You turn back to your father and try weakly pulling at the door. It does not budge. “Who locked you in here?”

“A beast,” he replies. It is said in a whisper, as if he’s afraid of even uttering the word. “It tore me off my path and brought me here.”

But beasts can’t be real. They’re just fairytales; stories your mother told you when you were little so you wouldn’t wander off by yourself. “Did it hurt you?”

“No. Not yet.” He glances down the hall again. “But it may hurt you.”

“I am not leaving without you. I have searched for days.” You stand up to search for something again, but you know deep down it is futile.

There is nothing.

There’s nothing here.

You want to weep, but that will not help.

It’s hopeless. It’s all so twisted and horrific. There is no beast here. There cannot be. You would have stumbled upon it by now. It would have sliced you to ribbons by now. It would have locked you away with your father by now.

“Listen to me,” your father whispers. “Return to the village and call for the soldiers.”

You shake your head.

“They will not listen to me. They think I’m crazy.” And they do. You briskly wipe at your tears and kneel down in front of the bars again. Then, helplessly you bash at the bars, and the sound echoes down the halls. “How do I get you out?”

Your father tries to quiet your sobbing. “Go back to the village. Find General Zasha, speak with the soldiers.” He grabs your hands through the bars. “The General will listen to you.”

“He will not.”

“He will.” Your father nods once, confident. “I know a man in love when I see it.” Your father kisses your knuckles once before he lets go. “I will be alright.”

He will not be, but you stumble to your feet and back away from the cellars.

And then you leave. You say not a parting word to your father. You pray and hope he remains alive for another few days. You can do nothing else but trek back up the stairs and return to the main halls.

You know they must have been beautiful once. Now everything is old and withered and etched away.

In another world, another life, just maybe, you would have loved to roam the halls of a castle and spoiled endlessly.

You walk slowly, beaten down, cold and alone. Your bones ache with exhaustion, but you will not rest here. You are determined to return to the village and speak to the general, even if you despise him with every inch of your heart.

Your hand reaches for the door handle.

“What’s this?”

And then there is a blade at your throat.

“Another thief roaming my halls?”

You swallow, but all that does is press the blade further into your skin. The discomfort sends you into a panic, and your breathing stutters. Your hand remains wrapped around the handle, but you cannot will yourself to move.

Escape is futile.

You should not have come here.

The blade is removed swiftly. So swiftly that the sharp end glides along your throat and leaves a shallow cut. It stings, and you try not to cry out in fear. Sweat pools down your neck and twists into the new cut. You hiss silently at the pain.

“What did you steal?”

You do not turn around. “Nothing. I am no thief.”

“Then you know the man I locked away.” His voice is deep, and it echoes in the hall. “Otherwise, you would never have come at all.”

You turn slowly, aware he is still armed.

It is a sword he holds, though it is hidden away beneath a large feathered and fur coat that rests upon his shoulders. Long black hair falls from beneath a mask that covers his face, and the shadows below disguise his skin, and anything that can identify him.

He is taller than you. Much taller, and much bigger. You cannot fight him.

“Why did you lock away my father?”

“Your father is a thief,” he replies easily. “And thieves remain thieves until they rot.”

There is no noise. It is just you, and him, and the constant dripping of water from your hair.

“My father is not a thief, beast,” you argue. “You are locking away a sick man.”

“I am no beast,” he denies. “I am man.”

“A man with a blade is no different to a beast.” He must be a beast. There is no reason as to why he would reside in a place such as this. “I will bring back an army.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you will.” It sounds condescending, and you scrunch your face up when he leans down to scrutinise you. “That is if you can leave my grounds alive.”

“You will die before you lay a hand on me.”

You pull out the dagger residing in your pocket. It is a desperate attempt to create space between you, but the knife only manages to garner a simple tilt of his head.

It’s small, barely deadly, but if angled right, you could take out an eye. But the thought of that makes you crumble; you don’t fight.

The man simply tuts. “You are not even worth a chance to spar.” He simply plucks the weapon from your hands. “How you survived out there is both a mystery and a miracle.”

“I am not weak,” you say. You don’t feel it’s true.

“Stubborn. You are stubborn.”

Your finger twitches in frustration. “Free my father from his cell.”

“Bring your army,” he answers. “It has been a while since I’ve been faced with a challenge.”

“You will lose your head before you even unsheathe your weapon.” You’re not sure if it’s true, but you have to trust yourself. Just this once. “You cannot take on one hundred men.”

“I have once. I will do it again.”

“I will be honoured to have your severed head hanging as decoration in my bedroom,” you sneer. “You will not win this. Your arrogance will be your downfall.” You try to twist and make for the door again, but he holds steady on your wrist. “Unhand me.”

The man, or the beast, or whatever he is, does not falter.

“You are small. Whatever army you bring will be smaller.” He pulls once at your wrist and that silences your struggling. It hurts and stings in warning. “Puny. Is this the best you can do? What if you were to run into a real beast?”

“Let go of me!” you try.

His grip tightens. You fear your bones will snap into pieces. You’re unsure if the skin beneath his gloves belongs to a man or a beast. The tips are sharpened and metallic, and you’re sure they can pierce into your flesh.

He leans in close. Too close.

Close enough you can barely identify the outline of lips drowned out by the shadows that swamp his features. A big man, much too big for you, and he terrifies you beyond your nightmares.

You will dream of him.

Terribly.

“Let go of me,” you plead quietly.

“Let us strike a deal,” he whispers.

“I will make no deals with any man,” you defy.

You see a smile and a flash of sharp teeth.

“I am no man, nor beast,” he responds. “Send your men. Send one thousand. Send every man that has ever walked this plain.” He grabs you even tighter, and if the mask did not obstruct his face, your lips would have touched his, and the scar that runs across the vermillion. You share his breath, and you smell blood and ash. “I will kill them all.”

You feel he tells the truth.

Still, you insist. “You will die.”

“If I do so perish, then the wager is in your favour. Have whatever you wish from this place. Destroy it, restore it, it is yours.”

You want to tell him you do not want this terrible castle. You want your father home, but you are aware he knows this. You open your mouth to speak, but a hand abandons one of your wrists to grab your face and squeeze just enough to keep you quiet.

His claws press into your flesh. You try to wretch yourself free and rake your nails down his arm.

“And if I kill every man you send, I will return your father.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“I will have you instead.” He twists you further towards him, and your lips touch. “I will decorate these halls with the heads of every man of your village, and I will ruin you.”

That is a promise. You know it is. You can tell from how he whispers it, and how his grip has slackened into something more gentle than it was before.

“You cannot–” Nothing comes forth from your lips.

“I can.” He lets go of your other wrist and twists his claws into your hair. “It has been so long since I have tasted the flesh on mortal bone.”

The man, whatever he is, releases you finally, and you startle backwards against the door. Blindly, you feel for the handle behind you, trying to keep your breathing even as you finally grip onto the cold metal.

The door swings open behind you and you step outside of the castle. The cold hits you instantly, and you double over in the icy strong winds. You abandoned your hood to your father, and have nothing to shield your eyes. They sting with tears and snow.

Something drapes over your shoulders, heavy and warm.

It’s a coat. The same feathered and furred coat, though it is not laid onto you out of concern or politeness. It is possession, and complete control, ownership when the beast grasps your chin from behind you one last time.

You stare out in fear into the forest ahead.

“Flee, little one.” You feel his lips on your ear. “Time slips away as the clock ticks forward. The world will stop for you, if I so choose it to wait.”

He is warm. Warm against your back, and it provides temporary, ill-fitting relief into your skin.

“I await your return, blade honed, and hungering for your skin.”

You slip from his grasp. “If I don’t return?”

“Your father will draw his final breaths in my cellar,” he tells you, “and once he does, I will chase you to the ends of the earth to deliver the good news.”

[wordstome]

symbiote König x reader

I'm not allowed to start any new aus/stories until I finish a few, but I need to expel these worms from my brain. (also remind me to write something about Eddie Brock/Symbiote Ghoap x reader later)

I don't know if you guys know much about Venom lore, but symbiotes don't have a default system of morality: they take on the same traits and moral values as their hosts. They were created as a sort of world-conquering mindless evil force, but when symbiotes bonded to hosts who wanted to do good, they took on those moralities and became ashamed of their purpose. After they imprisoned the dude who made them to be evil (Knull, btw) they just made up a lie that their species was naturally benevolent.

So picture this: symbiote König who's been captured alongside several others of his kind and brought to Earth by the Life Foundation to study their abilities. I like the idea of symbiote König being similar to Eddie Brock's Venom: he's had bad and good hosts, but the bad ones fucked him up really bad, so now he's the König we know: arrogant and confident in his proficiency in violence, but deeply awkward, lonely, and lost. Getting kidnapped and taken to yet another foreign planet to be poked and prodded and experimented on is just his luck.

But then there's you. A pretty little scientist, not much more than a lab assistant, really. Your first encounter with him consists of you touching a finger to the glass of his prison, and him, curious, moving himself to press his inky dark goop where your skin presses against the glass. You giggle before quickly remembering yourself and skittering away. Symbiotes aren't fond of sounds, but he wouldn't mind hearing that one again...

It's little encounters like that that endears you to him. It didn't take him long to decide he hated humans: they're slow and unintelligent and nowhere near as elegant of a killer as he is, and yet they've managed to trap him and torment him. He's quickly noted as being the most unpredictable and violent of the captured symbiotes. But he likes you, who visits him and talks to him. To you, it doesn't mean much: you may as well be talking to a lab rat, finding an outlet to vent your frustrations about your insane work hours, demanding managers, and meagre pay. To him, he's absorbing everything you tell him, longing to touch you without glass in the way. What would it be like to bond with you, he wonders? To merge symbiote with flesh, and become two moving as one?

He'd like to be inside you, in more ways than one perhaps.

He may have fucked that up, though. It wasn't his fault, that day. They were starving him, these idiotic humans, starving all of them. He had no choice but to eviscerate and wholly consume the poor man sent into his glass cage. But you had been watching, eyes wide in terror, as blood and viscera burst everywhere. If he had a heart, it would have ached as he watched you skitter away...

And yet...there may be something deeply wrong with you, just as there is something wrong with him. Because you're back the next day, a new fascination in your eyes. Instead of talking at him, you talk to him now, asking him questions he only wishes he could answer. If he could just reach you, he could communicate...

König gets his wish the day it all goes awry. A whistleblower breaks in and makes off with one of his breathren, and the next person to stumble upon the scene is his little scientist, who doesn't hesitate to start smashing the glass of his prison. "It's not right," you mutter over and over again. "It's not right..."

He can detect your heartbeat speeding up as he drags himself across the floor to reach you. You shy away out of instinct, and he pauses. There are alarms ringing out now, awful terrible loud sounds, and he would prefer to get out of here immediately, but he refuses to do anything that would drive you away for good. He watches as you heave a deep shaky breath, then reach out a hand to him.

He glides up your hand and wrist, working his way into your body, the symbiosis instant and easy. You're a perfect match. He knew you would be. The armed guards burst through the door, but you have nothing to worry about as he envelops your body. You become a six foot ten behemoth, face hidden by what almost looks like a veil—something he picked up from a former host. You're barely aware of what's happening, too overwhelmed and confused to parse what's going on. But he knows what he's doing.

After he gets you to safety, the two of you will have all the time in the world to get to know each other.

[redhoodinternaldialectical]

Every time I learn something new about Batman: War Games I lose my mind a little bit more cause just, just fuckin, look okay so here's the thing:

Stephanie Brown tries to implement a contingency plan of Bruce's just after he fires her from being Robin and because of that gets tortured to (almost) death and no one knows she survived.

THIS STORY RUNS IN THE NEWS:

So, you know, anyone who might be paying even half a fucking ounce of attention to news about ROBINS would definitely absolutely notice this!!!

And then very very soon afterwards Jason comes back and specifically targets Black Mask to ruin the criminal empire he tortured Stephanie to get

As a way to torment Bruce about the fact that he doesn't take care of the nastiest criminals and they continue killing people

And how Jason should have been the last to die

and SOMEHOW

these two things are in no way related and Jason has nothing to do with or say about Stephanie Brown, fellow Robin, fellow martyred soldier, fellow child dead due to Bruce related villains.

HOLY DEAD SIDEKICKS BATMAN, DO YOU COMPREHEND THE MAGNITUDE OF MISSED OPPORTUNITIES HERE????

please walk with me down a timeline in which:

Lost Days Jason at first just tries to go after the Joker and can't because who he's really mad at is Bruce.

Then he sees Who Really Killed Stephanie Brown and the utter horror of another Robin dying on Bruce's watch (not just dying, but tortured to death!) is what convinces him to try to straight up kill Bruce via car bomb

Roman Sionis is no longer merely a tool against Batman, but another figure to demand vengeance be brought upon, another attempt to give Bruce a chance to right his wrongs and do what needs to be done

The confrontation with him and the Joker being all the more tragic due to how obvious Bruce's answer would have to be once Jason knows Bruce isn't going to avenge Stephanie either

Does Jason, once he escapes the rubble after UtRH is over, kill Black Mask anyways? Does he decide to avenge her himself? Or does he think that she too would demand that of Bruce, and find his death by a different hand unsatisfactory?

If he doesn't kill Black Mask, then when Steph is back, I feel confident he approaches her, tries to reach out to the other dead Robin, almost certainly makes the offer now that he can ask her. Does she take him up on it, gaining an ally and slipping into a far darker role? Does she instead refuse, either appealing to forgiveness or far more interestingly refusing both vengeance and forgiveness? How would Jason handle a refusal, which I gut instinct feel is more likely?

If he does kill Black Mask, then when Steph is back Jason drops his corpse at her feet like a loving housecat with a dead lizard and she has to grapple with her feelings about having someone really and truly avenge her!!! Like how DO you react to someone who you have been warned is wildly dangerous and mentally unstable coming up to you and saying, "I'm glad you're back, like me. I'm sorry you're back, like me. I made sure you could rest knowing he was dead, because I know what it feels like."

Like no matter how each character reacted to this happening there would be so much high stakes emotional shit to explore with both of them!! Revenge I feel like is such a pivotal thing for both characters, they mirror each other in so so many ways, they could be really interesting together if DC would just fucking let them!!!

Jason had a criminal father who he missed and wanted to avenge. Stephanie had a criminal father who she wanted vengeance on.

Jason started off as a fairly gentle soul who progressively became more violent and more hopeless as he was exposed to genuine horrors during his time as Robin. Stephanie starts off violent, angry and rash and finds her own courage and hope through her time as a crime fighter despite of the horrors she's been through.

Jason went to Africa and died there after Bruce failed to save him. Stephanie was taken to Africa via a fake death in order to save her from Bruce and the vigilante lifestyle.

I just...

There's just...

There's SO MUCH HERE I am genuinely fucking confused as to how this is not all deliberate?? And it's all just left on the cutting room floor because for no reason apparent to me they all just decided Stephanie and Jason were not gonna interact!

AAGHHHH!

[yinyuedijun]

end notes for 'translation' (spoiler warning!):

hello <3 if you're here then it means you read my cursed aventurine fic about cultural loss and the fear of being understood. thank you for sticking it out with me! much appreciated.

i wanted to add some notes here to explain my intention with some of the details in this story, because it touched on some very sensitive subjects and I don't want to be misread:

I do not believe that dialects or any type of language variant born from displacement, genocide, or diasporic communities are somehow lesser than the “original” dialects. However, I do think first/second gen speakers that lose their language (especially for political reasons or displacement, etc) can experience a lot of anguish over it, and that’s reflected in Aventurine’s narration.

Aventurine did not believe the racist Avgin stereotype he brought up (nor would I write a narrative where such a stereotype were true). However, the stereotype happens to overlap with some of his survival traits that he hates about himself, hence he used it as part of his power play. The interaction also has some relation to the way that marginalised persons sometimes weaponize or internalise the stereotypes they need to endure, as well as what it means to be the only representative of your race, but that's a whole other subjectivity in this narrative that I will choose not to discuss.

I think this will be obvious to multilinguals so this is a note directed at monolinguals: I don't think enduring abuse in a formative language necessarily “ruins” the language and turns it into a “dialect of abuse” in the way that having a second language being violently forced upon you will. In my experience, a mother tongue is a mother tongue, and it will always hit you in a sensitive way, particularly if you are experiencing cultural loss—which the MC has, in the context of colonialism and displacement (only vaguely implied in the story but it's relevant context). Nevertheless, the MC has a much more complex, adult native-speaker relationship to their mother tongue than Aventurine does with Avgin. This is what those ending passages were getting at.

Finally, I am aware the relationship between the MC and Aventurine is unhealthy, and I hope that this would have been obvious from the narrative. I don't condone relationships like this and I think both characters should get some therapy instead of routinely gaslighting gatekeeping girlbossing each other (and themselves). But for better or worse, that is a narrative I will not write for this couple.

[themidnightcrimson]

palette ࿏ wm

summary: in which your mother commissions a renowned painter to paint your portrait.

words: 6.0K

warnings: top!wanda, fem!reader, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), lots of tense gay ogling, so much sexual tension, minor use of paint in sex, very victorian era girlie themed, mentions of men (scary!)

this post is for 18+ only. minors dni.

masterlist.

Your mother was being incredulous about the situation. Time and time again, you tried to convince her that you were not the marrying type, that she need not go to her extreme ends to find you a husband. Whether it was showing you off like show cattle at parties, offering to pay men to marry you with money or titles, or throwing you at the nearest man around, which one time ended up being the innocent post boy, she was relentless in marrying you off.

Any time a man did take an interest in you, which was not unreasonable due to your fair beauty and youth, you hated and despised him and dwindled down his integrity until he ran away like a dog clutching the remnants of his masculinity between his legs. Relief was momentary, for once you ran one off, she only brought around another.

Her new tactic that she invented in that stubborn little head of hers was to commission a renowned painter to paint your portrait to be hung in the halls of your wealthy home. With all the parties and dinners she hosted so desperately often to cling to her respected name in society, she thought that surely a young man would see the portrait of her jeweled and beautiful daughter and demand to own her. Of course, your mother demanded the best, so she hired the infamous Maximoff artist to paint your portrait.

“He will be here any minute,” she whispered behind you as she violently tightened the strings of your corset until you felt your stomach was tucked inside your ribcage.

Taking a shallow breath, the deepest one you could breathe, you looked down at the emerald green dress. It was a beautiful dress, sure. Gold lace crawled over the green corset at your waist, and the green parted at a low point in your bosom, opening wide to reveal your entire chest, metal wires ensuring that your breasts were pushed up and on full display. One thing about your mother was that she hid no tricks. You were her trick, and you were sure she would have you painted naked like a whore if it meant having a son-in-law and grandchildren.

“Mother,” you gasped when she tightened the corset even further, struggling to breathe. “Do you not expect a common man to want a wife who breathes?”

“Hush,” she snapped as she tied off the strings at your back. The dress’s intricate under-weavings made sure that your hips looked wider than your own intellect. Most of the time, you liked to prance around in delicate underdresses in which you could breathe and move freely. This dress, with its constricting corset and heavy hips and layers upon layers of white underskirts, made you feel like you were standing with your head in a noose.

“If he’s such an excellent painter, can’t he just use his own imagination about what I’m wearing? That’s what most men do in their heads, anyway.”

“Mr. Maximoff is the most respected artist in the country,” she breathed, circling you to look you once over. Her hands went to the breast of the corset, trying to lower it down even more.

“Mother!” you shrieked, widening your eyes at her and tugging the fabric back up. “Why are you trying to make me look like a whore in front of who you say is the most respected artist in the country?!”

“He’s Sokovian,” she argued. “They’re exotic.”

You rolled your eyes at her bitter distaste for foreigners, and if you could breathe, you would have let the venomous words roll off your tongue.

“Besides, even if he doesn’t paint you as a doable wife, perhaps he would graciously take you himself.” Her eyes flickered up to your hair which was swooped high up on your head, a few curls of your hair hanging over your cheeks. The earrings on your ears were heavy, and the jewels on your neck were even heavier. You felt like your outer bearings weighed a thousand pounds and were crushing your frail body with every passing second. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to die in that moment, you certainly did, but you would be damned if it was in such a ridiculous outfit.

A housemaid rushed into the room suddenly and declared, “The painter has arrived.”

Your mother nearly slapped you across the face with how fast her hands went to fixing your hair. “Send him in!”

There was a hesitant look on the maid’s face, but she left with her hands fumbling together. Your mother turned your shoulders towards the door, harshly slapping your lower back to make your back straighten. You sighed, feeling anxious at how little you could breathe. You grabbed at your neck as if that would help you breathe, but your mother slapped your hand away. “Don’t fidget.”

She stood next to you, her hands posed at her front, a wide smile on her face. You were pretty sure that she wanted her men to desire herself as much as they desired you, and sometimes you wondered if you might marry a man just so he could fuck your mother and get her out of your own ass.

“Smile,” she whispered, but that was one thing she would have to slap across your face before you ever would.

The door to the library opened slowly, and you could feel your mother’s excited breaths beside you. A booted foot stepped into the room first, your eyes following the body that stepped through. A leg clothed in wide grey trousers, a frilly cream blouse tucked into the pants. You were offput by a mane of long, wavy brunette hair, though your first instinct was maybe Sokovian men donned long hair as a cultural preference. But when you saw the face that glowed into the room, those viridescent eyes, sharp cheekbones with a feminine curve, supple pink lips, your own lips fell open as you realized that Mr. Maximoff was, in fact, a woman.

You thought your mother was going to spontaneously combust in a theatrical display of steaming, rageful sparks. You looked over at her—her eyes were glancing down the woman over and over again, trying to figure out how in the world this person could possibly be a woman, this person who she had built up to the be the key to breeding her own daughter.

You couldn’t help but gleam at the impossibly devastated look on her face. This painter was a woman standing here in pants, holding an easel with a canvas under one strong arm and a bag full of paints in the other.

“Mr. Maximoff?” your mother gasped stupidly.

By the look on the woman’s face, you could tell this wasn’t the first time. “Ms. Maximoff. Wanda.” She stepped forward, setting her supplies down on the floor. “It is a pleasure to meet you and have the honor of being commissioned by your name.” Her Sokovian accent was thick and velvety. She came closer, holding out a hand to your mother. She eyed it like it was a snake, but took it, and Wanda shook her hand like a man.

Her snakelike eyes flickered to you. “I presume this is your daughter—my subject?”

“Uh…” Your mother began, her eyes focused on the shape of Wanda’s breasts under her shirt as if in disbelief. “Yes, this is my daughter, y/n.”

Your eyes were trained on Wanda’s. They were looking at you pointedly, a little wide, soaking up every inch of your presence as if you were the only source of light in the room. Her lips curved into a coy smirk. “Pleasure,” she gently spoke, reaching for your hand. You gave it to her, expecting her to shake it, but she gently turned your palm over, her thumb tracing the soft skin on the back of your hand, before she lowered down and pressed her lips there.

It became even harder to breathe as the woman rose back up, the feeling of her lips still tingling on the skin of your hand. “You are as beautiful as your mother spoke of you.”

For once, you actually smiled without your mother forcing you to. Wanda stepped away, looking between you and your mother expectantly. “Well, shall I get to work? I do charge by the hour.”

Your mother was in some sort of trance. “Oh, um… Sure—well, you see Mr.—Ms. Maximoff—”

“Wanda.”

“… Wanda. I was, admittedly, under the impression that the painter I commissioned to paint my daughter’s portrait would be a man. Are you sure that you do not have a father or brother by the same name, or even a husband, who can come instead? You see, this portrait is going to be very important to me. I intend to show my daughter’s beauty and wealth so that I can find her a proper husband, and given that is such an important cause, I need a painter with the highest skill and artistry to do it properly.”

Wanda only blinked. “There is no other Maximoff but myself. I understand your concern about this portrait, but I ensure you that my skill and artistry will serve the best purpose for your daughter, though her beauty so obvious that even a street painter could convey it.” Her eyes flickered to you again, drawing up another smile on your face. It was funny how she was painting your face without even holding a brush.

Your mother’s eyes danced around uncomfortably. “Well…” She paused, looking over Wanda once again. “Alright.”

“Shall we do it here?” Wanda asked, pointing towards a sofa that sat in the corner of the library against a beautifully wallpapered wall.

“Alright,” your mother said reluctantly. Wanda instantly went to work, setting up her easel and canvas in front of the sofa. She then turned to you, holding out her hand with that sort of smirk on her face. “Come.”

Hesitating, you stepped forward, sliding your hand into her soft, gentle one. She led you over to the sofa, gesturing you to sit, holding your hand until you were fully seated. You squirmed a little as she looked down at you, her eyes appearing darker now that she was turned away from your mother who stood watching with nervous eyes and fidgeting hands. Wanda was staring down at you with an unreadable expression, and when your mother cleared her throat in the silence, it seemed she almost forgot she was there.

Wanda turned to look at your mother, clasping her hands behind her back and taking a few steps towards her.

“My lady, I do find my creative focus more intent when in the presence of only my muse and myself,” Wanda spoke confidently. Your mother was obviously taken aback by this, as if she had expected to watch the entire process, her hand of control over every little thing. She liked to think she was God, or at least God of your world and everything that had to do with you.

“Oh—are you sure?”

Wanda smiled graciously and nodded.

Your mother looked between Wanda and you reluctantly before finally nodding and stepping away. “Well, if you need me, you can ring the bell for the maid.” She paused again, waiting to be told to stay, but Wanda only stared at her, so finally she left, closing the door gently behind her.

You could breathe a little easier now that your mother wasn’t in the room. Wanda sighed and turned on her heel to face you. Your back straightened instinctively under her prolonged stare, your eyebrows creasing to try and figure out why she was staring at you with her head tilted as if you were already a painting hung in a gallery.

“Confusion doesn’t look good on you, darling, and it surprises me so that anything could not look good on you,” she smoothly murmured, taking slow steps parallel from you. She disappeared behind the easel before reappearing on the other side of it, her eyes still trained on you.

You shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “You’re staring at me.”

She blinked, a smile widening on her face. “I’m supposed to paint you. How can I do that without ever looking at you?”

Your face warmed a little, eyes darting down to the floor. She made a noise with her tongue before she went over to the large window of the grand library, pulling on a chain to close the thick, heavy curtains until the room was blanketed in darkness. You could hardly see anything now—you heard the fumbling of things and the striking of a match before a golden light emanated from the table nearby. Wanda had lit a candle, bringing the match near her lips and blowing on it to put it out.

“What are you doing?”

She walked to the other side of the sofa where another smaller table was and lit a candle there too, so that now you were blanketed in a soft, orange huge.

“This painting is to attract men to you for the purpose of marriage, correct?” she asked as she blew the second match out. “What’s more attractive than dim lighting under the intimate glow of candles?” Her eyes, darker now, flickered to you as she walked back to her easel, dragging a nearby stool to the easel and lighting one last candle there so that she could see her work.

“How sensual,” you remarked, to which a hidden smile curled on her lips, shadowed by her hair.

Wanda reached into her bag and brought out a palette, a tin can of brushes, a jug of water, and several bottles of paint, placing them all on the stool beside the easel. You expected her to just be quiet and start painting, but she walked towards you. Your chin rose to keep your eyes on hers as she neared you, looking down at you analytically.

“Sit back a little,” she said softly, “So your back is against the cushion.” You did as she said, scooting back until you could sit up straight with the support of the cushion. “Good. Now, your hands…” She looked at where you had placed them, lying mindlessly on either side of your lap. “What are we going to about those?” She smirked again.

“What do you mean?”

“Hands are as integral part of a portrait as is the face,” she tilted her head and leaned back, imagining your visage as a whole. “Cross them over your lap.”

You plopped them over each other on your knees, expecting that to be good enough, but when you glanced back at her, she was trying not to laugh. “What?” you asked defensively.

“Nothing,” she said, her Sokovian accent edged with amusement. “Here.” She knelt down in front of you, gently taking your wrists into her hands. You held your breath as she positioned them very particularly over your lap, trying to ignore the way her fingertips grazed the fabric of your skirt and left wrinkles in the fabric there, indentions of her touch. Her hands touching yours so delicately was sending jolts of electricity up your spine. You blasphemed yourself for being so shy of a simple touch, from a girl, nonetheless.

Once she had your hands positioned the way she wanted, she stood back up and assessed your top half. You caught the way her eyes fed upon your chest for a brief, startling moment before she looked up to your face. “Sit up a little straighter.” She put her hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you to sit up, her fingertips sliding to your upper back. You grew bothered at how handsy she was being. Her hands moved to your face, adjusting the curls of hair that were left out of your updo. Her face was close to yours now, her cool breath fanning across your mouth and leaving you no room to breathe, a heat forming under the skin of your face.

You recoiled suddenly, and she looked at you with unnerved eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

Her sudden change of confidence at the thought of somehow paining you by moving your hair eased your discomfort a little. “You’re reminding me of my mother. Always picking at me, fixing me.”

Her lips pursed together. “Your mother fixes you to her liking. I’m fixing you to yours.”

You eyed her suspiciously. “I haven’t said a word to you about any of my likings.” You noticed how quiet you were speaking, how quiet the room was, how close you were together in the corner of the large room.

“You don’t have to. I can tell,” she whispered with a crawling smile, adjusting your hair one last time before finally moving away from you. “Now, just sit.”

“Seems simple enough,” you breathed once she was finally behind her easel, trying your best to stay still.

She picked up her palette and started mixing paints and water, tussling through some brushes before finding one she wanted, and you finally heard the scraping of her brush on the canvas. You would have much rather been behind the easel with her, watching with as much curiosity and intrigue as you had then as she worked, than be sitting still like a lifeless doll as her eyes stared at you.

After several minutes of having her look between you and the easel, you started to get uncomfortable. The corset was still restricting your breath, and it felt impossible to keep your hands completely still. The dress was making your back hurt, and the painful silence and the feeling of Wanda’s eyes constantly on yours was enough to make you go mad. You hadn’t even realized that you were starting to squirm, accidentally moving your hands and your position.

You heard a sigh which led you to look back up at Wanda. She set the palette down, along with her brush, and stepped out from behind the easel, pacing back and forth with her eyes set upon you in a sort of disappointed and confused stare.

“What?” you blurted, feeling offended that somehow she thought you couldn’t even just sit to her liking. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re fidgeting,” she said with more seriousness, her artistic focus shining through.

You looked down and realized that somehow over the course of a few minutes you had completely lost the original position she had you in. You sighed, deflating as sharp pains ran up your torso. “I’ve never been painted before.”

“Well, it’s an honor to take your portrait virginity,” she countered with a little smirk, ceasing her pacing to stand staring at you with a tilted head.

A searing hot blush fled to your cheeks. “You speak like a man.”

“You’re sitting like one.”

You realized you were lounging disgracefully on the sofa with your back hunched and legs open. Snapping your legs shut, you groaned and laid back on the sofa dramatically. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t want to be painted?”

“No! And I don’t want to be married off to some bastard and bred like swine until I die. I cannot breathe without her trying to stuff me into a man’s side like an armpiece. I cannot breathe with her constantly in my ear speaking to me how I should talk better, walk better, sit better, stand better, look better. I cannot breathe—I just cannot breathe!” You leaned forward suddenly, feeling faint and gasping for air, clawing helplessly at the front of your corset whose fabric was stuck to your skin.

Wanda neared you calmly, holding out a hand in front of your face. Still gasping, you looked up at her, eyes falling to her hand. Feeling helpless, you slid your hand into yours and stood to face her. You realized then suddenly just how beautiful she was, with her full mouth and sharp eyes that were always piercing into you. Without speaking, her hands slid over your shoulders and smoothly turned you around. You froze, confused about what she was doing until you felt her fingers at your back and the sound of strings being undone.

“What are you doing?!” you exclaimed, knowing how long it took your mother to zip you up in that dreadful thing and how, if she knew you had undone it, she would tie it up even tighter.

“I cannot paint you like this,” her husky voice spoke close behind you. “You look dead in this dress.”

“God,” you breathed as she tugged at the strings, causing your body to move with her force. “That’s an interesting way to call someone ugly.”

“You are not alive like this,” she explained, “I can tell that this is not you. This is only a shell, a makeup of your mother. I am not here to paint your mother—I am here to paint you. My muse has to be completely herself, with no facades or lies. I need to see you as you are, truly and honestly. And also, you do look two heartbeats away from death by asphyxiation in this damned thing.” With a forceful tug, she ripped the back of the corset open so forcefully that your body was yanked backwards towards her, but she caught you, hands firmly on your waist.

You gasped in a full breath of air, and although it was a dusty library, it was the freshest breath of air you had ever taken. You were leaning back against her chest now, strands of her brown hair over your chest. Her hands holding your waist slid upwards a little, your body shivering at the feeling.

Her mouth was close to your ear as she whispered, “I’m going to undress you as gently as I can…” As her breath fanned against your ear, alighting all kinds of nerves in your spine that you’d never felt before, her hands slid around the front of your abdomen. “But forgive me if my creative expressions make me a little…forceful.”

She punctuated her words with an aggressive tug on your corset, which made you gasp sharply. She peeled it off your upper body, grabbing at the hips of the dress and tugging it down, also, bending and pulling all the green off your body until it was pooled at your ankles in a pathetic lump of fabric. You turned your head, looking down at Wanda who was crouched at your calves and staring up at you with parted lips and seductive eyes.

Wanda’s hand snaked around your smooth ankle first, cupping your shin as she started to rise, moving back around to behind your knees, lifting up your layers of underskirts as she went. She rose up behind you now, dragging her hand all the way up your leg under your skirt until it was on your hip, centimeters away from your bum.

Your heart was beating fast in your body that was growing warmer even without the top layer of clothing now. All that was left was the white slip that covered your body and the second underskirt.

“I need to see the real you, detka,” she spoke, Sokovian accent think and sensual in your ear.

You could smell her strong perfume of fig, her soft hair tickling your shoulders. You couldn’t believe that this woman had just ripped your dress from you and had you standing in barely any clothing that you wouldn’t even let your mother see you in.

“How can I convey you on canvas if I don’t know you?” She whispered, and the slightest graze of her lips against your ear sent a jolt down your body.

Her fingertips went to your shoulders, tickling your skin as she guided the thin strap of your slip down your shoulders, bringing you to shiver.

“Wanda,” you breathed, unsure of what you wanted to say. Sliding her hands over your skin, keeping her touch on you, she circled you, coming in front of you to look into your eyes.

“Trust me, detka,” she whispered, “I’m a master of the arts. I know what I am doing.”

That she did, with a smirk as she slowly pulled your slip down. You tried to stand confidently under her gaze and touch, but when you felt the silky fabric catch over your breasts and then fall below to reveal them, you gasped desperately for air. Her eyes flickered down, feasting upon the sight of you with utter desire and sensuality. Her mouth was open, lip nearly trembling as she pulled the slip down over your intimate stomach, and then pushed it along with the second skirt off your hips so that you were standing bare and entirely naked in front of her.

“Beautiful,” she breathed with ragged voice. “So… fucking beautiful.”

The vulgar word pierced your spine and made your body heat even more. Your skin was flush and pink under the close, golden hue of the flickering candles, that same unsteady light revealing Wanda’s bulging pupils and darkened irises. She was devouring you with her eyes, and through the lust you saw the creative plates molding perfectly together in her mind.

“Lay down,” she said with faltering voice, clearing her throat as she guided you to the sofa.

No one had ever seen you naked before, and you kept that thought in mind as you carefully climbed onto the sofa, her hand on your lower back leading the way. “On your back,” she demanded, but suddenly she caught you before you laid down, reaching into your hair and undoing it with one pull of a pin. Your hair flooded down your shoulders messily, and you gasped, knowing just how undone you looked. Was she going to paint you like this? In the nude? You knew that was far from what your mother wanted in the portrait, but your mother was even farther away from your thoughts as the Sokovian artist’s hands guided you to lay on the sofa.

“Move on your side slightly,” she instructed, voice taught with many different emotions you couldn’t completely discern. You were halfway on your back and halfway on your side, some of your hair over your chest and some of it cascading down the arm of the sofa above your head.

Finally, she stepped away from you, and you thought you would feel cold without her touch, but her eyes were enough to keep the fire broiling in your stomach alive.

You were sprawled out on the couch like a whore. One leg reaching over the other end of the sofa, the other one halfway off the edge of the cushion. One arm laying on the cushion lifeless, the other one reaching across the top of the sofa. You were wearing nothing but the thick jewels on your upper chest and the earrings hidden behind your hair except for a few twinkles where the light shone through the strands. The golden light of the candles sparkled on the erected rosy peaks of your breasts, flickered off the skin of your stomach.

“Perfect,” Wanda said, grabbing a towel that she had laid on the stool and casting it over her shoulder, her ravenous eyes not leaving yours as she picked up the palette and brush, beginning to scratch across the canvas madly, hardly tearing her eyes from yours.

Your chest rose up and down with the tension in your lungs. Something within you was throbbing at being laid out like this, having this sensual woman tear you apart with her eyes as she painted your likeness on the canvas.

The tension did not die with the silent minutes. It grew and built with every stroke of Wanda’s brush, with her every darting, overfilling look, with your every weak breath and throb of the multiple heartbeats throughout your body. It grew to a head until you felt like you were going to burn right through the cushions of the sofa like a soaring comet.

Every time her hand left the canvas to roll her brush into the pools of paint on the palette, her rings sparkled under the candlelight. There was a gleam on her skin, a craze in her eyes, a moistness to her lips that she repeatedly licked and bit. She was driving you mad without even touching you, and you could tell that you were doing the same to her with the way she painted the canvas so hard that it trembled on the easel.

Finally, without you having to even say anything, she dropped the palette and brush on the stool and dragged the towel away from her shoulder, eyes trained on your body. She had painted so wildly that there were smudges of color on the white sleeves of her blouse and covering her hands. She came to you so quickly that you didn’t even know she was there until she was knelt beside the sofa, placing a hand on your lower stomach.

Her hand sent a streak of color up your skin as she slowly slid it up your abdomen. Red, yellow, green, blue, all streaked together from her hands as she touched the smooth expanse of your skin.

“When I first came in,” she began in a tremulous whisper, “I knew it would be impossible to hold my focus while I painted your portrait.” Her hand swiftly curved around your breast and cupped it, relishing in the supple feeling of your flesh. Your eyes fluttered closed, legs mindlessly moving as she touched you shamelessly, and you let her. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I don’t even have to paint you to make you a walking piece of art.”

You didn’t know what to say as her compliments landed on your skin like warm raindrops and evaporated into your pores, seeping into you and imbuing you with warmth. She bit her lip as she looked down to your breasts which she fondled, rolling her thumb over your hardened nipples. Your skin there was covered in her paint now, colors mixing and melting on the warmth of your skin.

“Is this your creative expressions speaking?” you whispered to her, and she smirked and tilted her head.

“No, it’s just me.” Her eyes flickered to your lips, and without hesitance she leaned forward and kissed you hungrily. You moaned, and with your lips parted she dove her tongue into your mouth. Her other hand found your delicate neck and squeezed it, the cold paint smearing on your skin as her tongue explored your mouth with utter force and desperation, like she needed to know every single corner and texture of your mouth and tongue.

She clambered on top of you, pinning you down on the sofa beneath. Her hands went mad across your body, squeezing and rubbing you everywhere she could, memorizing every single curve and sweet spot that made you arch up against her. Her kisses trailed down your skin, sucking and biting harshly until she made bright red and purple spots that blended in with the paint she had already left there. She made a painted mess of you right there on those cushions, mercilessly sucking on your nipples and pinching them until you were squirming beneath you with desperate need, grabbing at her soft hair and shoulders.

“Wanda,” you moaned as she lowered down your body, leaving wet kisses down your painted stomach until she was at your hips. She growled, glancing up at your bare, marked body before her, lowering herself down between your legs.

“You’re the sort of art that needs to be worshipped,” she grunted as she ran her hand over your thigh, swiveling around it to yank it up over her shoulder. Crouched down, she parted your legs open, moaning at the sight between your legs. She had dwindled you down into a wet mess, and the feeling of her warm breaths fanning against you there did no good for how much you wanted her to touch you.

Most of the paint that was on her hands had been transferred to your body, so she brought her fingers to your slippery folds, groaning at how soft and wet you were. “No one has touched you before?”

“No one,” you whispered, looking down at the lewd sight of this woman between your legs, even her slight touch on your folds making you jolt.

“Let me be the first.”

“Please.”

She wasted no time in lowering her head down and placing her mouth over your slit, running her tongue up your folds and to your clit, circling it with exact pressure. The moan that escaped your mouth was foul, and you bucked your hips towards her face as she started to lap at your clit, pausing every now and then to purse her lips and suckle at it.

“Oh, Wanda!” you exclaimed, forgetting that your mother could be right outside.

Reaching her hand up your belly, she clasped it over your mouth to silence your moans. You held her wrist, nails sinking into her skin as you trembled beneath her.

“You must be quiet, detka. What happens between an artist and her muse, stays there,” she whispered thickly, her mouth glistening with your own juices. She brought her fingers to your clit, pushing into it before lowering them down to your slick entrance. She watched your every expression and movement of your body as she slid two of her fingers inside you slowly, stretching your virgin hole around their length and width.

Your muffled moans were under her hand as she pumped her fingers deep inside you, curling them to graze the inner sweet spots inside you. Your hips jerked as she lowered her mouth again to suckle at your clit while her fingers thrusted into you.

“You’re just as perfect inside as you are on the outside,” she moaned into your clit as she spread her fingers inside you, moving them more to just feel you than to pleasure you, but it certainly pleasured you all the same.

“Fuck, Wanda,” you cursed under her hand, feeling a coil spring tight in your lower belly. She trailed her kisses over that part of your belly, as if she could feel the tension there.

“You’re being such a good muse, such a good girl for me,” she whispered, rubbing your clit with her thumb as she squeezed a third finger inside you. “I’m inclined to take you away with me and make you the muse for all my work. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Living with me, a slave to my touch and my kiss, a wet little hole for me to fuck when I’m creatively and sexually frustrated. Wouldn’t you?”

Her thrusts were hard now, her voice snaky and thick. You whined and moaned pathetically under her hands, bucking your hips wildly off the sofa. You nodded to her question, burning at the way she laughed. “My little whore, letting me fuck her right here on the sofa, all naked and covered in paint.”

Wanda’s words twisted in your ears and wound you up even tighter, your inner walls squeezing around her fingers that pushed through them. She bit the skin of your belly hard, and with a few more pumps of her fingers, she wound you so tight that you snapped, the coil in your stomach breaking and unleashing screams and shivers of climactic pleasure and euphoria that blinded you. She talked you through it, praising you for being such a good muse, kissing your stomach and rocking her fingers more gently inside you.

You finally came down from your orgasmic high, knees trembling around her shoulders as she crawled up you, giving you a multitude of calming kisses all over your face. You sighed and looked at her with a shy smile, still struggling to catch your breath.

Grinning, she stepped back and looked at you. Your face was bright red with pleasure, a gleam shining off your skin, your body looking even more relaxed with the post-fuck glow that she had been craving to carve out of you from the very beginning. Grabbing her palette and brush, she eyed you from behind the easel, smirking under the candlelight that remarked her viridescent eyes.

“Stay just like that.”

[poiisson]

Remedy would first meet Tarn amongst the snow banks of Messatine. While the Tank would be attempting to decipher what had happened to the Delphi outpost, Kaon would alert him to a single remaining life signal, and upon further investigation, would find a familiar looking jet staring off into the endless white.

The melody of his spark would immediately alert him to Remedy’s identity, and although it would take Remedy a moment to properly focus and look at Tarn, his own outlier would similarly give him the same information. Although Remedy, in a state of distress and panic, would attempt to flee due to this new revelation being too overwhelming in the moment, he would be quickly forced unconscious by Tarn.

Small, and in no way a physical combatant, Remedy would be unable to resist the Tank, and would very quickly find himself aboard the Peaceful Tyranny, being introduced to its violent cast of occupants. Though Tarn would not detail exactly who Remedy was, Nickel would be the only of the crew to realize something was off, weird, feeling a touch of sympathy for the clearly upset jet.

—-

Anyways, love the peoples princess Nickel she is just the absolute cutest and deserves the world. Tarn is still a nightmare to draw. Of everyone on the ship, Remedy would definitely have the closest relationship with Nickel, though, he would remain closed off to some extent, and although she would try to pry to find out why Tarn suddenly brought a random new medic onto the ship, it's the one thing he’d remain incredibly tight-lipped about.

Don't ask me why but something about this song is what inspired the vibes.

[gregorysarmy]

“Another David” FNAF Theory (scroll down for TLDR)

The premise of the “Another David” FNAF theory is the belief that Gregory (otherwise known as “GGY”) was SELECTED purposely and made into a mimic follower to replace “David Murray” from the Tales of the Pizzaplex.

To understand why this is the case, a short summary of the relationship between David Murray and the mimic is required. To put it simply, David Murray is the mimic’s purpose. We learn this through the main conflict of the book, “the mimic”, when Edwin Murray (the creator of the mimic and father of David) made the mimic in order to keep David Murray occupied in his father’s absence. This allowed Edwin Murray to neglect him in order to favor his work at Fazbear entertainment and provide for the both of them as a single father.

After Edwin created the mimic, David immediately fell in love with it, playing with it every day. Most notably, David would draw with the mimic and even taught him his own form of sign language as Edwin didn’t give it a voice box. During this time, the mimic did not display any violent behavior towards anyone, in fact, it only reflected David’s compassion. The mimic would even make childish mistakes like going into Edwin’s study to steal costumes to dress up with David.

However, this all came to a halt with David’s sudden death. The boy was struck by a vehicle when he chased a ball into the rode. As a result, Edwin fell into a depression and the mimic became confused. The mimic, that was created to take care of a little boy, suddenly had no one to entertain.

One day during Edwin’s mourning, the mimic came up to him timidly. It brought its robotic arms to its face and ushered a scooping motion. Edwin recognized this as David’s invented form of sign language and understood the mimic was asking for ice cream. A treat both the mimic and David adored. This lead Edwin to become enraged upon seeing the mimic copy his late son, and unintentionally taught it its first seeds of violence by bashing it on the ground with a metal pipe.

Because of this, the mimic becomes infused with Edwin’s agony as well as his violence. While the mimic learned the seeds of cruelty that day, he never truly forgot the love that David taught him.

As the first paragraph states, Gregory became a follower to replace David for the mimic. This is implied heavily throughout the books and items in the games. First and foremost, I’d like to make it clear that the mimic is capable of experiencing emotion. We see this in the sticky note room where he indulges in playful drawing as well as learning.

In binary code, the mimic asks why he exists. This is a clear example of his consciousness developing through interactions with humans, and in turn, it’s an example of him developing feelings and emotions. One prime example of this is when he associates words like “goodbye” with being sad (he draws a sad face next to the word) and “Hello” with being happy (happy face next to the word). He also has a strange sense of possession, using words like “mine” and “my” in many of his drawings.

It’s also important to note that he only does this when his handwriting gets better, meaning that, like a child, he is slowly assigning meanings to these words instead of just writing them. He is able to establish scenes, and images, depicting what simple vocabulary truly means to him in his own creative way. This is unlike an emotionless AI.

With that established, we need to compare David’s characteristics with Gregory. David, while being four, is described as being tall for his age (a little over 3ft). Additionally, he has fair skin, brown messy hair, and dusty freckles on his face. He loves to play and rough house, leading him to sometimes get himself in trouble because of how reckless he can be. For his age, he’s extremely intelligent as he manages to develop an entirely separate language to communicate just for the mimic.

When compared to Gregory, their personalities are basically the same. The same can be said for their appearances too as, while Greg is canonically 15 years old, he’s 3ft in the code. The TFTP books even point out that Gregory is unusually short and childish in appearance. During the chapter “GGY”, Tony makes a point to describe Gregory as being a “wide eyed kid” and the smallest in their class.

Gregory too also displays energetic behavior and he’s artistic similar to David. He loves to draw and we see some of his pieces throughout ruin. It is also implied that Gregory did some of the graffiti in ruin as one of the vandals signed their name as “GREG” on a garbage bin.

(Side note: I don’t believe Gregory is the only graffiti artist here either. The mimic also had an interest in drawing and there is a suspicious graffiti art that reads, “He was OUR superstar.”. Perhaps this was made out of anger towards Freddy as Freddy was the reason Gregory escaped (discovered by @dasketcherz on twt and tumblr))

It’s not just their likeness that is important here either, rather, the way Gregory is treated by the mimic is way different. Vanessa as a mimic follower was acquired through connivence. This basically means she wasn’t targeted, but she put herself in a position that made her a viable target.

However, through conversations in the Scott games files, we can see that Gregory was chosen and intentionally targeted. While originally the Scott games conversation was thought to be Vanny and Afton communicating, we know now that it was the mimic asking Vanny to choose a target to kidnap and convert. This target was revealed to be Gregory later on in the book “GGY”

Logically, there is no good reason to purposely acquire a child to serve you when you can instead acquire adults who will have an easier time following orders due to their dominant role in society. Truly, there is zero benefit in possessing a child purposely to gain knowledge unless gaining knowledge isn’t the mimic’s only goal. If anything, having a child obey you would be a hinderance due to the hoops you would have to jump through in order to keep them (law enforcement, parents, more resources dedicated to helping kid). However, obviously, this was a hindrance the mimic was willing to take.

Once you make the connection between Gregory and David, all of the mimic’s planning makes sense. He never intended for Gregory to be a normal follower, he wanted Gregory to be his friend. This is even directly stated in the books when, The mimic, disguised as Gregory, edits Tony’s paper about GGY. He changes it to state that “GGY” was “the wizards most favored apprentice” with the mimic being the wizard and Gregory being his favored apprentice.

So many illogical happenings become solved by the mimic loving Gregory, like, why did he allow Gregory to attend school? Why did he let Tony and Ellis be his friends for 6 months? Why did he let Gregory go to therapy? All these questions can be simply solved by the fact that the mimic is trying to care for Gregory, but he has never been taught how.

We can also confirm why the 8 missing kids (excluding Gregory as he is the 9th) died. We know that Tony Becker is one of them, and considering the fact that any therapists who got close to the truth of Vanessa and Gregory got murdered too, we can say with close certainty that these children were friends with Greg. Similar to Tony, they got involved in situations they weren’t suppose to, and the mimic decided they needed to be eliminated to protect Gregory. This might also be why Gregory was a fairly new kid in “GGY”, he may have been moving schools to conceal his identity.

On top of Gregory’s friends and therapists, thanks to the last therapy session, we know that Gregory’s parents are dead. The details of their deaths are vague but they are referred to in the past tense, meaning they are no longer in the picture. Obviously, their deaths have something to do with the mimic as Gregory was forced to cover them up. With Vanessa, she was allowed to tell the truth about the abuse by her father as well as her mother’s death because it didn’t relate to the mimic. Seeing as Gregory’s sessions aren’t similar means that the mimic obviously had something to do with their demise, implying he went further in isolating Gregory so the boy became complicit in his role as David.

That’s not even all, we actually find Gregory’s bed in the pizzaplex and it’s literally in the same room as the mimic’ lair. To emphasis why this is important, Vanny’s room is in Fazerblast. She’s way farther than Gregory to the mimic, like the mimic didn’t care to keep a tight leash on her like he did for Gregory.

(Side note: Gregory’s bed is personalized , unlike Vanny’s, he has little stars on his and it’s blue. Almost like the mimic took the care to try to find him a blanket he would like.)

There must have been a reason the mimic wanted Gregory’s bed so close to him, like he was terrified of Gregory leaving his sight. David died because he wasn’t supervised properly, perhaps the mimic is directly learning from Edwin’s mistakes. Additionally, BB’s world (the arcade machine theorized to be Gregory’s princess quest keeping him trapped) is also in the mimics lair.

Despite being dead for over 40 years, the mimic still remembers David. This is made clear in the burntrap ending when the mimic curves his arm as if he was holding a plushie. This was noted as copying David’s behavior in the books as he too curved his arm to carry his tiger rock plushy. This means that the mimic still remembers AND copies David, meaning it’s not impossible for him to copy David’s love still.

With that established, we can even answer some unanswered questions about ruin. There would finally be an explanation as to why Vanessa brought Gregory down to the pizzaplex and how they didn’t die trapping the mimic. Instead of coding MXES, Gregory was likely used as bait. He, being small enough to crawl through vents, lured the mimic into an enclosed area and when Vanessa finished setting up MXES, escaped through the collapsed vent that leads to the MXES system room.

We see that the mimic struggled to let him go due to the large claw mark on one of the vents walls, like he was reaching for the boy as he scrambled away. This vent is also conveniently where Gregory’s backpack is.

What likely happened is that after the vent collapsed, the mimic became trapped but Gregory was so spooked by the event he immediately ran off, forgetting his backpack in the process. We also know for a fact that Gregory was in the mimic’s prison at one point because the mimic has Gregory’s faz-talkie. There would have been no other way for him to get one of those besides Greg dropping it out of haste/fear.

Additionally, we can deduce that if the mimic dropped the elevator, he did it to lure Gregory back down into the pizzaplex. Once Gregory heard the elevator drop, it’s likely he would attempt to save Cassie, falling into the mimics hands once again.

To end this off, I’d like to emphasize the mimic’s purpose. Yes, he was made to copy, but that wasn’t his JOB, his job was to love David. We see time and time again in the epilogues that the mimic follows his “break heads and limbs “ orders to a T, so what makes his debt to David less valuable. In the end, the mimic seems to be attempting to create what he understands as a family, and that includes David, his most favored apprentice.

Edit: additional information has been found pertaining to Another David theory

In Security Breach, there is no mention of killing Gregory. In fact, any lines that state Vanny intending to kill Gregory, were removed. I assume this was due to a miscommunication in the story between Scott and SW, but we can use it as evidence to assume that none of the animatronics actually kill Gregory when they find him.

Additionally, Chica has a lot of lines pertaining to family. She beckons Gregory to come out multiple times with the promise she would escort him to his mom and dad. As we already know, Gregory no longer has a family, so this attempt to persuade him to come out would be futile; however, what chica is saying makes way more sense when you look at it from the mimic’s perspective. The mimic truly believes that Gregory is his family. Whether he believes Gregory is a brother, a son, or just a really good friend, the mimic treats him as if he was his. As such, he would obviously believe that Gregory would want to come back to him instead of hiding.

We also see this construction of a family life in the sticky note room too, as the mimic attempts to create a perfect household with staff bots. He wants Vanny and Greg to have a family dynamic with him and is imitating that through his art.

Additionally, we can see Gregory mimic characteristics of David in SB. One of Gregory’s main tools in SB, the fazwatch, causes Gregory to curve his arm in a similar way to David when he’s holding his tigerrock plush. This is how Gregory is depicted in the game’s poster, as well as in a lot of the promotional art, meaning this pose is significant. Curving his arm, just like David did, and just like the mimic taught him to.

THE CANDY CADET STORIES AND HOW THEY RELATE:

I’d first like to mention that there are TWO candy cadet stories and under this theory, BOTH have importance. I’ve seen a lot of people simply ignore the first one as they cannot connect it to anything/believe it is a joke, however I interpret it differently.

The first candy cadet story talks about a family that “missed a once in a lifetime opportunity” through an analogy about pizzaplex food discounts. This is the mimic talking about how Gregory and Vanessa left him, abandoning the makeshift family the mimic was creating. Additionally, the story states that since the family did not take the once in a lifetime deal, they all died. As we already know, the mimic tends to act like a bratty child occasionally, and this story would be a reflection of that. He is imaging a world where Gregory and Vanessa are punished for leaving him instead of being finally being free from his madness.

In the second story, it talks about a woman who defeats a witch. This one is a bit more complicated so I have to copy and paste the script to analyze each line.

''Now let me tell you a story,

a young woman who, when she was little, was led into a dark forest by a witch and almost eaten

She had escaped before being thrown into the oven but would have a **scar** for the rest of her life.

When she had grown, she sought revenge on the witch and entered the forest again willingly, this time with the confidence of age and experience.

She was greeted at the mouth of the forest by a young boy who offered to help guide her through the darkness

“Come,'' the boy said, ''rest here before killing the witch.''

The young woman was tired and would kill the witch in the morning.

She followed the boy into the house.

The oven door closed.

The witch would finally have her meal.''

For the first 2 lines, it talks about Vanessa creating MXES and trapping the witch. While this sounds like she defeats the witch, she doesn’t. In ruin, the mimic is still alive and waiting for her and Gregory to return.

In the third line, it talks about Vanessa entering the pizzaplex again to stop the mimic after Cassie is dropped in the elevator and the mimic is free, this time, she intends to kill the mimic.

Gregory waits for her at the door, offering to guide and protect her in the pizzaplex. She accepts this help and they venture down to finally get rid of the mimic.

When they get inside, Gregory tells her to rest. When she finally sleeps, Gregory is taken/controlled by the mimic and the mimic deceives Vanessa into thinking they are still together.

Under this belief, she continues to follow Gregory further down not knowing he has been compromised.

The witch having her meal would be Vanessa’s death; this story is predicting her fate. While it may seem unbelievable at first, when combined with the fact the Mrs Hippo is an important character in HW2 that also intends to predict the protagonist of HW2’s fate, it becomes less superstitious. This is not the first time candy cadet has predicted the future. He does it in ruin too, before Cassie frees the mimic. Candy Cadet is telling the events of Vanessa and Gregory’s last mission together

TLDR: Overall, to summarize, the mimic either believes Gregory is David, or is attached to him because of his resemblance to David, and hence forcing him to become a follower against his will.

[mushynka]

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ. ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ!

Yeah another sick-fic this time with Leo bc I'm living my best life in sick-fluff-care fantasy. Don't wake me up, please! I tried my best to make it look good. Using "old" english while writing Leo's dialogues was exhousting fr... 😮‍💨

【Ｓｕｃｈ　Ａ　Ｄｒａｍａ　Ｑｕｅｅｎ

Ｐｒｉｎｃｅ？】

Sick Leopold Mountbatten x Caretaker fem. reader

Leopold, the Duke of Albany, was sitting on couch inside your apartment, surrounded by a growing mountain of crumpled tissues. His impeccable posture was slightly slouched, a telltale sign of his dire condition—at least according to him. He sniffled dramatically, clutching a woolen blanket around his shoulders like a royal cape.

“Y/N” Leopold croaked, his voice tinged with a blend of aristocratic gravitas and pitiful despair. “I fear the end is near. This malady, this plague—shall be my end.”

You just returned from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea, rolling your eyes as handed it to him. “Leo, it’s a cold. You’re not dying.”

“A cold?” he repeated, his tone incredulous. “Do colds cause such unrelenting misery in your era? This is far beyond the sniffles. I must have contracted some modern pestilence brought upon by your... technological age.”

You smirked, sitting down across from him. You watched as Leopold held the tea gingerly, as though it were a potion from some dubious apothecary. He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a tentative sip, his face scrunching up.

“Chamomile” You said before he could complain. “It’ll help you relax. You need rest.”

Leopold set the mug down with exaggerated delicacy. “Rest, you say? How can I rest when my body is besieged by this infernal ailment? My head throbs, my throat burns, and my nose refuses to cease its treacherous leaking.”

“Treacherous leaking. You’re so dramatic. Honestly, I’ve seen toddlers handle colds better than you.”

Leopold glared at you, though the effect was somewhat diminished by his red, puffy nose and the tissue clutched in his hand. “In my time, we would not mock the afflicted. We would offer them respect and sympathy.”

“In your time, people probably thought sneezing was a sign of plague and death.”

As if on cue, Leopold sneezed violently into his tissue, the force of it startling even himself. He groaned dramatically, slumping further into the couch. “You see? This is no ordinary affliction. This is surely a punishment from the heavens. Or perhaps it is your climate—so polluted and unwholesome—that has ravaged my constitution.”

“Right. Because the world you were living in was such a bastion of clean air and hygiene.” You said, leaning over to grab a stray tissue from the coffee table and added it to the growing pile in the trash bin. “You’re not being punished, Leo. You’re just… adjusting.”

“Adjusting?” he echoed. “To what? A world where one must endure such indignities as this?” He gestured vaguely at his blanket-swaddled figure. “I am a Duke, Y/N. A man of noble blood. This... this indignity is beneath me.”

You couldn’t hold back laughter anymore. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Leopold frowned, clearly not appreciating your amusement. “Adorable? I am not a puppy, madam. I am a man in the throes of mortal peril.”

“Mortal peril. You’re going to be fine. Here.” You reached for a fresh tissue and held it out to him. “Blow your nose.”

He took the tissue with an air of reluctant dignity. After a hesitant moment, he complied, the sound rather un-Duke-like. You bit your lip to keep from giggling.

“You find my suffering amusing,” Leopold accused, though his tone lacked real venom.

“No, I find your over-the-top reaction to a cold amusing. If you’re this dramatic over a runny nose, I can’t imagine what you’d be like with the flu.”

Leopold’s eyes widened. “There is something worse than this?”

You sighed, reaching out to pat his knee reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’re not there yet. Just let me take care of you, okay? You’re going to survive this… plague.”

Leopold sniffled again, looking up with an expression so pitiable that it tugged at your heart despite his theatrics. “You are certain of this?”

“Positive. Besides, if you were really on death’s door, I don’t think you’d have the energy to argue with me so much.”

For a moment, Leopold simply gazed at your face. “Your care is… most appreciated, Y/N. Truly. Even if your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

You reached for another tissue, dabbing at the edge of his nose with a tenderness. Leopold’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was a warmth in his gaze that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re welcome, Leo. Now drink your tea before it gets cold.”

Leopold sneezed once again.

"Bless you" you said, then a look of contemplation appeared on your face. "Hey, Leo. Is it true that saying "bless you"comes from the belief that every time you sneeze, the devil try to enter your soul-"

You stopped mid-sentence when you realized what you had just said. Leopold's face was pale. "No, no, no..Leo! I was just-"

"Oh my god... call an exorcist!"

Thanks for every reblog/like/comment - means world to me. Lemme know if you liked it ❤️ Have a good day/night and stay healthy ❤️